South, West and North

 Extracted from Adventure magazine, 30 Oct 1924, pp. 1-74. Cover by . Eltonhead; title illustration by George M.Richards.

⁠"Lower California—the 49’ers wished they’d listened to Hampton's warnings."

A complete Novel by H. BEDFORD-JONES

Author of “The Star Goes North,” “The Star of Dreams,” etc.

BOUND SOUTH

I

RICHARD HAMPTON, until an hour ago first mate of the brig Acadian, stared across Boston Harbor, and under his fingers the broad gold pieces in his pocket gave off a dull clink. He was aware of a man coming down the wharf, but he did not look around until the stranger addressed him affably:

“A brisk day, sir, a brisk January day! You are a seaman, I take it?”

Hampton turned and coolly surveyed the speaker. A swift flash of interest glimmered in his gray eyes; he had not thought to see such a man in all Boston, and particularly on Lewis' Wharf, this cold afternoon of January twenty-third. It was not the affluent external aspect of the man that interested him; he passed over the silk hat and rich broadcloth, the velvet collar, the heavy gold fob, the handsome ebony stick. It was the face of the man that held his gaze—a bronzed and high-boned face, full of weather-wrinkles like his own, whose dark eyes gave him look for look and in their arrogance held a peculiar glassy appearance. The face was assertive, self-confident, insolent in its expression of superiority and its air of experience. These two men were much alike, not in any facial resemblance but in a certain mutual self-reliance, a cool aloofness from all around. Each was stamped as a man of positive, downright action, able to take care of himself under any conditions.

“Why take me for a seaman, sir?” demanded Hampton, with no softening of his bleak gaze.

“Because of your interest in the Capitol yonder,” and the other swung his stick toward the ship moored at the wharf, just beyond them. “You regard her with a seaman's eye. And you have rubbed off the corners in a way that sets you apart from these poor greenhorns. An officer, beyond doubt. My name, sir, is James Day.”

“Mine is Richard Hampton, and you are right. I am a ship's mate, and would have had command next voyage had not the Acadian, across the harbor, been sold to a California company.”

The two shook hands. Hampton encountered a strong, energetic grip, and a much hornier palm than to be looked for in so well-dressed a man. Day chuckled, and pointed again at the ship close by, and now ready to cast off.

“From your air, you seem to know her, sir.”

“Aye, and heaven help the poor fools!” said Hampton, with cynical eye. “Her skipper is a hard one; old Proctor is the worst manhandler afloat, and a stubborn, opinionated man to boot.”

A burst of yells and quick voices aboard the ship interrupted them, and suddenly her decks were alive with men. All were staring up toward the town, such as were not at work; Hampton and his companion likewise turned, as to them drifted the lively strains of a fife-and-drum corps, and gazed up the street.

“Gold and Bibles!” said Hampton, with a curt laugh. “It's a little gold the poor fools will ever see! They've been up at the Tabernacle Church listening to a sermon. They might better have been down at the docks listening to the truth about what's ahead of 'em.”

Day gave him a shrewd, sidelong glance, but kept silence. This was the gold year, the year of '49, and few men in all New England would have agreed with the voiced sentiments of Richard Hampton. Certainly those sentiments were shared by none of the approaching mob, whose shrill clamor of voices was sweeping down to the wharf and echoing out across the water. The Capitol was the finest ship yet to leave for California, and the Naumkeag Company of Salem, now embarking, was the largest and best-equipped organization that had so far left Boston for the gold-diggings.

“There goes 'Susannah!'” and Day chuckled. “By the time they've rounded the Horn they'll be singing a different sort of tune, eh?”

A roar of voices swelled out, after the fife and drums, in one of the countless variations of the great song which was sweeping the country from Maine to Mexico. The fifes skirled high, the drums rolled, as down to the wharf came the head of the procession—the Naumkeag Company, two hundred-odd strong, armed to the teeth with rifles, pistols, bowies, each man carrying a large Bible, gay banners flying in the cold wind. Behind and around trooped a great mob of friends and relatives, curious townsfolk, envious neighbors. Salem men and Boston crowd all joined in the roaring chorus that went lifting across the bay:

“I came from Salem City
With my shovel on my knee,
I'm bound for California
The nuggets for to see!
'Twas bitter cold the day I left,
Ahead 'tis warm and dry,
And gold-dust for the picking-up—
Oh, brothers, don't you cry!

“Oh, California,
That's the land for me!
I'm bound for Sacramento
With my shovel on my knee!”

Out on the wharf poured the wild throng, women weeping, boys yelling, men shouting wild farewells and wilder prophecies of a wealthy return. Salem folk poured down to see the company off, just as folk were pouring down to many another New England wharf to see such companies depart—just as, in those first frantic golden days, other companies Were being seen off from many a wharf in France and England and Germany, and even in distant Australia.

Richard Hampton and his companion drew well over to one side, out of the rush of folk. All the Salem men knew Dick Hampton, however, and he was promptly recognized. As the company trooped past, a storm of excited shouts and greetings was hurled at him, eager flashing faces were turned to him, for he had been three months away from home this voyage.

“Join up, Dick, join up! Good ship, good seaman—come along!”

“There's Dick Hampton, home from sea! See you in Sacramento, lad!”

“Gold ahead of us, Dick—pitch in and get your share before it's all picked up! Eli's gone to the diggings, Dick! We're out to beat the Salem Mechanics' Company—cap'n's promised to pass 'em this side Callao-”

Hampton waved his hand as the company stamped past, and his cool exterior showed no sign of the sudden heart-leap within him at Eli's name. Eli gone! What did that mean? Then, as he listened to the excited cries, the wild promises of gold, the farewells, he drew out a hand from his pocket and began to juggle a number of broad pieces.

“Gold!” he muttered. “Better look at it now, for it's all the gold you'll see!”

“Right,” acclaimed a voice at his side. Half-startled, he turned to meet the dark and glassy eyes of James Day. “You're no fool—saw that at once, Mr. Hampton. Know the game, eh?”

“I know the sea,” said Hampton, “and I know what these poor are up against at the end of the voyage. Yes, I know the game.”

“Right. Come along, if you're free. I want a quiet word with you.”

Day took his arm, and they worked along the edge of the wharf, out of the tide of crowding humanity. The business of the harbor was in full blast, for on every side other ships were fitting out in mad haste—the brig Almena was sailing in a day or two with the Bay State Mining and Trading Company, and others were getting ready in a frenzy to reach California before all the gold was gone. Reaching the head of the wharf, beyond the throng, Day halted and gave Hampton a friendly smile.

“These New England farmers and whalers and army men don't know the game, but you do; show that in your phiz, you do! At the same time, go slow in your notions, sir. I'm vice-president of the Beverly Panama Gold Company. You know how much better the Panama route could be, if there was any one along to show the way and to pull ropes. I know all those countries down there. We've organized a company, keeping our plans dark; we've got a brig chartered for Chagres and have arranged for passage from Panama to 'Frisco. It's no poor man's party, either. Shares cost five hundred, the Panama passage north is extra. You're a good man, and I'd like to have you with us. I'll offer you fourth mate's berth to Chagres, your wages to be remitted as passage money, and the company will pay your way over the Isthmus. We want one or two men who know how to handle themselves and others. Think it over, sir.”

With this rapid speech, Day produced a cheroot, strode a few paces away, and began to watch the departing ship.

Hampton jingled the gold in his pocket, then thoughtfully got out his pipe and lighted it. He was quite aware of the high compliment that had been paid him, and found it puzzling. Any company could open its books, and have every berth, every bit of stock, subscribed in a day's time. There was no trouble about men wanting to go—the difficulty lay in getting passage. If, as men did, a man were to lay the keel of a schooner or brig on the ocean-side of his farm land, he could have an entire company formed and paid up before the ship's timbers were in place. Military companies were forming and drilling—companies of wealthy men, of mechanics, of college men, were all in a mad rush of preparation, competing for ships. The fever had gripped deep and promised to drain New England of its best blood. If Day had really secured a brig for Chagres, his company was in luck.

But—why this offer? Hampton was forced to take the explanation at face value. He knew that few of these companies, except possibly one or two from Nantucket way composed exclusively of whaling skippers, contained men who were leaders or who knew what they would face in California; while the Panama route was a chronicle of horror for all who had taken it, although as yet none of those at home would believe the fact. Men like Dick Hampton or this Day, older or steadier men who had keen ability and the strength of character to meet peril by sea or land, were not easily picked out. Greenhorns were many, experienced hands were few. Thus reflecting, Hampton walked up beside Day, who turned to meet him.

“I haven't the California fever, Mr. Day——”

“Precisely why I want you, sir.”

“Well, what about you?” demanded Hampton. “You're not a New Englander. You're not a Beverly man, or I'd know of you. I'd like to know with whom I'm working.”

“Right,” Day nodded quiet acceptance of the demand. “I'll tell you frankly, Hampton, that I'm in this game to make money. A chap in Panama put me on to it, and I came up from Mexico for that purpose. Companies are pouring across the isthmus—and what happens? Even if they get across the isthmus, which most of them don't, they reach Panama and stick there. They can't get passage north to 'Frisco for love or money. The coasters are filled up with South Americans bound for the diggings, and the other ships can't hold a tenth of the greenhorns; even when passage is arranged in advance, the contracts are broken.”

“True enough,” said Hampton. “I've heard all about it.”

“Right. Here's the lay, now! I've got two schooners at work, carrying passengers north from Panama. I come up here, organize a company, guarantee 'em first-class passage through, and no delay; and keep my word. Why, some of those poor have been in Panama for months, and die like flies from fever and plague! My company has none o' that. They get across the isthmus in my care, step into one or both o' my schooners, and off they go—slick! Also, they pay for the privilege, and pay high. They ought to. They'll be picking up nuggets in Sacramento before these folks here today will round the Horn! They're willing to pay extra, and I want only those who can afford to pay well for value received. I make money, and it's fair and square.”

Hampton nodded. “Fair and square, sir. Well, I'm free of the gold fever, and I'm called home to Salem on an errand I can't postpone. At the same time, I'd like to think over your offer, if I may.”

“Right. What's your experience?”

“I'm just home from first mate aboard the brig Acadian—she's across the harbor now, bought and fitting for 'Frisco with the Hampshire & Holyoke Company. I've not been around the Horn, but I've been every where else; across the isthmus and up the west coast, too.”

“You'll do,” said James Day decisively. “I'll keep open the berth for three days—until an hour of sailing time. By the way, we have a family going from your town—Jedediah Barnes and his daughter. Do you know them?”

Hampton slowly turned and looked at the speaker. He was an inch shorter than Day, yet tall enough, and wider through the shoulders. His face was thin and almost too harshly curved; one guessed that he could be a hard master, and so he was, though seamen liked him since he knew his business thoroughly. What spoke most from him was the poise of his head, the quiet tensity of his eyes, the deep firmness of his facial lines. Now, as he looked at Day, his gray eyes were level and hard, showing no emotion, but for an instant his teeth clenched on his pipe-stem. His chief business at home had been with Nelly Barnes.

“Jed Barnes? Yes, I know him. But he has—why, it's impossible! Nelly can't be going.”

“She is, though.” Day chuckled. His eyes were on the crowd, not on the man beside him. “Both going out. They're the only Salem folks with us.”

“Why? Barnes has plenty of money.”

“Like every one else, he wants more. He's sold out everything and is going to California to stay. Nice girl, Nelly! We've several married women in the company, and she'll be taken care of, you can be sure.”

Hampton did not answer. He dimly realized that speeches were being made down the wharf as the lines of the Capitol were cast off, but the voice of Day rung in his brain. Nelly Barnes going to California! It seemed preposterous. He had not been home for three months, and much might have occurred in that time—his own brother, apparently, had gone. Yet Nelly Barnes, of all people!

“Three days, eh?” he said slowly. “Thanks, Mr. Day. I'll let you know.”

“Right.” Day nodded. “And keep your mouth shut, sir. It's known that we're going, of course, but we want no talking about our plans and so forth. We've made up our company quietly, picked the best men we could find, and are getting off for work, without any flourish of trumpets. Banners and Bibles are barred. So are pistols.”

Day chuckled, but Hampton did not respond. With a curt farewell he turned and strode away. He had some accounts to settle, had to arrange about his chest and belongings; he could not get off for home before the early morning.

As he reached the head of the wharf, a sudden whirl of fifes and a lifting roar of voices from the crowd behind him burst into song. Hampton found himself keeping pace to the air, and then cursed it with sudden bitterness as the words impacted upon his brain.

Oh, California,

That's the land for me!

I'm off for Sacramento

With my shovel on my knee!

II

DICK HAMPTON, swinging along the frozen snowy road, came to the crossing of the little-used hill road from Lynn, and paused. He was four miles from home. One way lay South Salem and Marblehead, while on ahead lay Salem and Beverly. At this last fork, Hampton stood still and gazed a long while, and at last decided heavily that he must turn to the left for his father's farm and Peabody; and there was no joy in him at the decision.

So he turned—then he paused and stood motionless again, with dark premonitions stirring bitterly in his heart as he stared. For, coming from South Salem way, a loaded wagon was hard upon him, with two figures perched atop of the barrels and boxes; and Hampton recognized those figures at once. One of them had been heavily in his mind, the other joyously, this long while, and he did not know whether to bless or curse the fortune of this meeting. He knew the fine Havana shawl which was about the shoulders of Nelly Barnes as the gift he had brought her, his last voyage from the south. And, seeing that these twain were on their way to Beverly, he knew that James Day had spoken truth.

Jed Barnes was a hard, ruthless, utterly honest attorney who had never prospered at his profession. Fortunately he had farms outside Salem which paid him good money. Between him and Dick Hampton was no lost love. Barnes regarded all seamen as roaring runagates certain of eternal damnation, and Hampton in particular as a bucko mate, a killer of men; for this jaundiced regard there was a reason, though it lay not in Hampton's keeping. Years ago Jed Barnes had lost his only son at sea, murdered by the brutality of one yet unknown to fame—one “Bully” Martin who was to be infamous enough in later years. This loss made Jed Barnes curse all seamen impartially.

“Back, are ye? Back again, eh?”

Barnes had perceived Hampton, and pulled up his team as the wagon reached the crossroads. His stooped figure, his thin and lined features, loomed up above his daughter. Nelly gave Hampton a smile that was half-frightened, tremulous, wholly sad. Something terrible and unuttered lay in that smile, comprehending both greeting and farewell.

“Aye, back,” said Hampton. “I stopped in Boston to see some of those poor —— starting for California. Well, Nelly, how are you? Where bound?”

Before the girl could reply, her father broke in sharply.

“What d'ye mean by that?” he demanded nasally. “Poor ——, huh?”

“Just that,” said Hampton, meeting his bleak gaze. “Oh, it's pitiful enough! They're going out to face conditions they know nothing about——”

“How d'ye know so much about them, huh?”

“I've heard direct. They all dream of gold, and it's little they'll ever see. And if I knew any one going by the Panama route, I'd beg them on my knees to stay home.”

“Why?” snapped old Jed angrily.

Hampton hesitated. Well he knew that his words were all hopeless, yet the sight of Nelly's eyes drew an ache into his heart. He had to say what he could to stop this folly, even though it were futile.

“Why? Because of lies told 'em, and what they don't know. The rotten food, the awful trip over the isthmus, the robbery and extortion, the impossibility of getting beyond Panama even if they get that far—they don't know these things! The fever that runs like fire through second-growth, the scores and hundreds living in tents, camped about the blue bay, waiting for ships that don't come—or, if they come, are full already——”

“Yah!” Jed Barnes drawled out the word nasally, scornfully. “Well, we're goin', and we got no time to waste yammering neither. Ye'd better git on home, Dick. Eli's gone, and I hear a letter has come from him. Might int'rest ye some. Gid'ap, there—gid'ap!”

He shook the lines, and the horses heaved at the traces.

“Goodby, Nelly,” said Hampton, and the words stuck in his throat. For a long moment he met the eyes of the girl as he looked up at her—met her brave, clear, fine-hearted eyes which were fastened upon him so wistfully and longingly, sending him a tacit message which made the heart leap in him for sheer astounded wonder.

“Goodby, Dick,” she said simply, and her voice drooped.

Then the horses were dragging the load forward, and the wagon creaked on. Dick Hampton stood gazing after it, but Nelly did not turn again.

His hammering pulses ached. A younger man would have leaped after that wagon, would have uttered madly impulsive things; but Hampton stood silent, chilling his inner eagerness, cruelly master of himself and his emotions. After all, there was nothing between them! He read love in her eyes now, this minute, as he had wakened to love in his own heart, but it had not been uttered.

Presently he turned and trudged along toward home; not that he wanted to go there in the least. His will drove him onward, while his emotions flayed him without mercy. The adventurer and lover in him was crying out for Beverly, thirsting for that brig bound south to Chagres, and now more than ever in this terrible moment when he knew definitely that Nelly Barnes would be aboard her. Hampton knew only too well to what a hell the Beverly Panama Gold Company was departing, and in James Day he had singularly little faith—for some very obscure reason. It meant nothing to Hampton that the stooped man on the wagon hated him; he felt curiously above Jed Barnes. It was of Nelly that he thought. He might be of service on that voyage, he would surely be of service on the journey across the isthmus and beyond!

Nonetheless, there burned in his brain the words of Jed Barnes, forcing him to his duty. He must get news of Eli—that was imperative. A certain duty had come up. It drove him on, and would not be denied. Twice he had heard of Eli, and his heart was heavy. Nor had he missed the acerbity in Jed Barnes' tone at mention of that letter. And what now awaited him, with Eli gone, at the place he called home? His mother dead, his father a hard, bitter hard man, stern and cold as granite, narrow of vision and biting of tongue. Only too well did Dick Hampton feel that his own destiny lay well away; conflict with the cruel green meadows of the sea was sweeter to him than conflict with the implacable stony meadows of this land. He looked around at the snow-clad fields, the bleak stone fences, and cursed—yet he went on and on. Beverly must wait. Nelly must wait. First of all came duty, hard though it might be.

As he strode on along the road, a sudden laugh twisted his lips mirthlessly. What would Jed Barnes say, did he know of the invitation from James Day? Enough and to spare, no doubt. Barnes was like all the other greenhorns, taking a wagon filled with flour-barrels and other truck to ship to Eldorado. Flour! Why, there was a street in 'Frisco town paved with that useless stuff—spoiled and laid to fill the sand. Hampton had met a man in Havana, just back from Chagres and the other side, who had cursed the golden land most horribly, telling bare tales of its realities. Here, however, no man would believe these things, at least until another year or two; until letters came back and the broken tide of men began to straggle home once more to the New England hills—broken seamen and gentlemen, farmers and merchants, lure of gold gone glimmering from their hearts.

As he strode along, thus thinking, Hampton came suddenly to a halt; he stood listening, head cocked to one side, nostrils sniffing the cold air. No house was near at hand, yet he caught the sweet odor of wood-smoke, and with it the scent of meat at broil. Then he made out a thin thread of gray smoke, ascending from the heart of a bare and leafless thicket which stood close to the road; and, next moment, the voice of a singing man came from that same thicket, causing Hampton's eyes to widen in astounded recognition. It was a song that he knew, and a song he had heard many a time under grayer and sunnier skies, in long watches of the night or when men were clawing aloft and fighting the wind to reef the struggling canvas. He had never heard it except on the lips of one man—and now it came cheerily, like a ghost-song to numb his astonished senses:

“A little black bull came down from the mountain,
Ri tura lingtum, ri tura lay!
A little black bull came down from the mountain,
Ri tura lingtum, diddle diddle aye!”

Hampton wakened to life and action. He went crashing forward through the thicket, until he came upon an opening and stood there staring. Over the tiny fire was set a plucked fowl on a spit, and above the fire, gaping amazed at the intruder, was Job Warlock. Broad and squat and dark was Job Warlock, a man with Ojibway Indian blood in his veins, a man who had sailed the seven seas and bore the marks of them all; his face flat and heavy, his light blue eyes all alive and glowing like jewels, his reefer jacket and trousers of fine cloth, with flat gold hoops dangling from his ear lobes.

“You!” cried Hampton.

“You!” echoed Job Warlock in equal astonishment, then leaped forward, yelled joyously, and struck hands.

Dick Hampton was taken back by this meeting, back across a year's time to that terrible winter's voyage from Bristol to Rio—an ice-sheeted ship, hammering through gales on gales with storm jib and to'gallant close-reefed barely keeping her but from under the roaring seas, and green water rolling waist-high across the decks. There men suffered or died, worked, sang, kept the ship going, saved each other, laughed or whimpered. Those tremendous arms of Job Warlock had saved Dick Hampton more than once, and more than once had Hampton's wide shoulders and lightning agility repaid the debt. Somehow the two men had grown close in those days, talking often of home and what lay behind them; the powerful half-Indian from Michigan forests, the keenly efficient New Englander from his rocky hillsides, found between them singular bonds of liking and friendship. Bosun and mate, they were both far above the forecastle level, holding glimpses of higher things than grog and women; they comprehended each other's barely hinted dreams and found strange, queer tales in the stars by night.

“You, by the crooked tree!” exclaimed Job Warlock, though only a Michigan 'Jibway could have told what that expression meant. “You, Dick!”

“You here, of all places!” cried Hampton, astounded. “What does it mean, Job? I thought you'd gone into the Melbourne packets——”

Warlock grinned widely. He had a wide, toothful grin, not reserved for mirth alone.

“Sit ye down, Dick—the world's a good place, so hurray! Bird's done and I'm hungry. Why, it means that I came to get news of ye, what else? I've waited for the day I could come to the home ye told me of, lad, and ask word of ye.”

“But—here in this thicket?” Hampton sat down on some spread evergreens, and glanced around. “Why in these trees, Job Warlock? The farm's not far away——”

“Not far is far enough, as the Injun said when he rubbed his belly.” Warlock, stooping over the fire, looked up and chuckled. “Your daddy, bless his soul, wanted no heathen foreign man wi' hoops in ears to be hanging about his door, and said so. Bless him, what a tongue! Well, I went away and sneaked back again, stole one of his hens, and here I be. And luck brought ye to me, lad—the world's a good place, so hurray! All's well and lights burning.”

Dick Hampton compressed his lips. Yes, he might have known what reception his father would give this man—a dour and bitter one! Astonishment at their meeting died out, giving place to harsh anger. He could imagine what long travail it had cost Job Warlock to reach this spot on friendship's errand—only to get a sanctimonious curse and a godly reprimand!

But now Warlock took the fowl from the fire, slipped out his knife and placed half the bird in Hampton's lap.

“Injun does it!” said he cheerfully. “Have a bite of your own meat, lad! Injun does it, and a bit o' salt might help, but here's rum to wash it down. Come now, come now, ain't the world a good place? Hurray!”

From beside the fire he took a half-filled bottle of warm rum. Hampton bit into the meat, warmed himself with liquor, began to enjoy life. Here was a friend, here was a man never at a loss in any emergency—Injun blood indeed, true blood, true man!

Job Warlock ate ravenously, tearing at the meat, gulping it, washing it down with swigs of rum, until his share was gone and Hampton not half-finished. Then he leaned back and stuffed a pipe.

“Little black bull came down from the mountain,”

chanted he, and grinned. “Ho, lad! Jumped ship at New York—came over in her to get here, and a wonder ship she was, with Bully Forbes drivin' her! One o' them new Bluenose ships, and a holy ——, I can tell you. Bless me, how we did go! Never seen such a ship before. All stays and backstays of eleven-inch Russian hemp, tawps'ls roped from clew to earing, Bluenose ship and Glascow gear—and lokee, lad! Dry as a bone, yet running fifteen knots on a bowline with yards braced sharp! Ye hear that! And sail—bless me, but ye should ha' seen Bully Forbes crack on! Going into the Melbourne trade, he is, next v'yage. Running west'ard, we'd sight 'em with double-reefed tawps'ls, and we'd be doin' our fourteen close-hauled, wi' three royals and main-skysail booming! I came to bring ye the news o' them new ships, lad. You and me, we'll work back to England and ship wi' the Blackwall frigates, eh?”

Hampton lighted his pipe, smiling at Warlock's wild enthusiasm over these new ships and even sharing it in a measure.

“What about California?” he asked.

“Hey?” The other gaped at him for a moment, open-mouthed, then made a grimace. “Arrh! D'ye mean to say ye've bit that bait? Should h' known better, Dick Hampton! I was there three year back—d'ye mind me telling you about it? Aye, gold there may be, but it's a bleak, drear land, and heaven help the poor rogues ashore there!”

Hampton shook his head. “No gold bait on the hook, matey. All ye say is true, and more; by what I hear, there's many a man there wishing himself back home again. Ye remember I told ye of my younger brother, Eli?”

“Eli, eh?” Warlock nodded, his queer light-gray eyes glittering. “I seen nothing of him about the farm, Dick.”

“He's gone to California, I hear, and word has come back from him. I'm going home to see what's to be done. Somehow, there's a feeling on me that I must go there, and 't's pulling cursed hard at me. Not that I want to go, mind! If I had my own way about it, I'd go on past the farm with never a word, on past Salem, and over to Beverly. There's a brig waiting, bound for Chagres.”

Warlock groaned. “Chagres and hell is the same place—but ye know that, matey. I'spose you've been offered command of her, eh? What's the likes of you doin' as cap'n aboard a dirty little Chagres brig, when ye might be walkin' the deck of a fine packet wi' skysails and studdin's'ls blowing her over, a hundred days to Mel bourne? Arrh! I'd sooner be a Blackwall packet-rat than skipper o' the best Chagres brig afloat! And so you would, too.”

“I'm not offered any command—it's fourth mate's berth.” Hampton pulled at his pipe. “There's more things in life than fine ships, Job.”

“Hm!” Job Warlock studied him reflectively, then his swart features puckered up in shrewd surmise. “Ye've gone the way of all men, then; that's clear. There's a girl in it somewhere. —— the women! Aye, there's a lass in it. Ye've too much sense to ship for Chagres, otherwise, for ye know that hell-hole well enough. Still, the west coast's not so bad. I was drogin' hides up there in the Californias, as I've told ye before, under the San Juan cliffs and beyond, and I know it. Down below there it's a queer land, that west coast—Baja California they call it—all desert and Injuns and lost old missions and the bones o' white men. So it's a woman, eh? Well, the world's a good place——”

Hampton puffed at his pipe, sat silent for a little space, tempted sorely. A mile or so distant was the place he called home, with a jeer in his heart at the word. He had no affection for it, or for the man who lived there; none received, none given. If he went on, he anticipated biting words, harsh words, a flame of anger rising in him against the dour and godly man who lived by the letter of the Scriptures and knew not the spirit which lay behind them.

Of his own will, Hampton would have avoided all this. He would have gone on to Beverly, where he knew that, welcome or not, certain work awaited him. Yet duty impelled him home. He had money, and his father might have need of it; then Eli was gone, and this hurt him sorely. He must find out about it all. If he did so, he might never get to Beverly—this same duty to his younger brother might well turn his steps into a far different path. The thought brought sore hurt into his soul, yet he could not deny what must be done.

“Woman? More than that,” he responded at length. “You were on the west coast three years ago, eh? Did ye ever hear of a man named James Day out that way, Job?”

“Day?” Warlock bit at his pipe-stem, shaggy brows down-drawn, and finally his ear-hoops shook in slow negation. “No. And yet, somehow, I mind the name——”

“He has two schooners running north from Panama, or says that he has.”

“Bless me, here we are—aye, there it is! The world's a good place, so hurray! Day's the name—a privateer out o' the Argentine, they said, but more like a pirate, and had a fast schooner, heavy-armed. He looted here and there along the southern coasts. I heard talk of him, but that was back during the war. It was him helped our troops conquer Baja California, and the —— politicians gave it back to Mexico afterward. Aye, some said a scoundrel, some said a proper seaman and a good chap. I mind the talk now. Long time ago, as the Injun said when he rubbed his belly.”

Hampton frowned. This might be the same man, and certainly fitted the personality of his recent acquaintance. It was no disgrace; in those waters odd things were done, and if Day were now in honest business, so much the better. Perhaps the man could keep his promises to the Beverly Panama Gold Company—it was a good way to make money, since he could charge high and give good value.

Hampton rose.

“Let's go home. Then I'll know what I have to do——”

“Nay, nay!” Job Warlock came to his feet. “I see breakers ahead for ye wi' that man, and I'll not stand by and hear the row. No pleasure in it. Set a meeting place and I'll be there, when and where ye will.”

Hampton nodded.

“Beverly is a town north o' Salem. You can find Foster & Levett's wharf easy enough. Meet me on that wharf tomorrow night—say, eight o'clock.”

“Right, matey.”

“You have money?”

“Plenty. The world's a good place, so hurray! See you later.”

Hampton turned toward the road. Even if his worst fears were true, even if duty led him by the hard path, even if one had gone out of his life for ever—here another had come back into it with warmth of friendship. He was not minded to lose Job Warlock, as he had probably lost Nelly Barnes.

III

EPHRAIM HAMPTON was chopping up old poles between house and barn, when he saw his son coming in from the road. He went on chopping, methodically, that big splay-bladed ax of his driving down into the white wood, snapping and crashing, splitting with fearful force into chunks set on end, shivering the poles, white chips flying all about in the trampled snow.

A terrible man, this, not for his great stooped body, but for the stark thing which was frozen in his gaunt face—the cold, chilled life which looked out of his eyes. No human affection lay there to see. All was naked granite, like the bleak hills rising dark upon the snowy horizon. When the time was come, this man drove his blade into the chopping-block, turned away toward the house, and before the doorway met his son. He gave no word of greeting, and ignored the half-questioning, half-wistful look of the younger man.

“Come inside,” said he, and led the way into the cold house.

That was enough for Dick Hampton, who followed and looked with narrowed eyes of hatred at the clean and chilly parlor, at the fearful mockery of the mottoes and pictures on the wall, at the big Bible resting on the center table. If only a picture of his mother had hung here, all might have been different, but there was none.

“Sit you down,” said his father, stiffly lowering himself into a chair at the table.

The cold voice and the colder heart be hind it drove an icy knife through Hampton's spirit. He was afraid of this man, he had always been afraid of him as his mother had been afraid. Not at all a physical fear; only a desperate and frantic shrinking of the warm soul from this abnormal thing in the guise of a man.

In sudden panic, Hampton longed to be out of here and away. Home! The word was mockery. He had found a better home than this in the squeaky forecastle of ships, with rats astir in the dark, with brine working in past strained bowsprit and leaking over the peak bunks, with the reek of sweat and steaming clothes closed in a week on end; more home, more human affection, in that place with its wild oaths and lewd talk than in this horrible abode of cleanliness and sanctity. No wonder Job Warlock refused to return here! Stout old Job had foreseen hell in prospect for the friend he loved. No wonder poor Eli had fled from this to the lure of golden California, as Dick himself had fled from it years before.

Hampton looked at his father, met those icy eyes, a colder gray than his own, and wondered. No pity lay in him for this man deserted in old age by both sons, for the man needed none. No emotions appeared to lie within that heart of granite—only stern duty. Ephraim Hampton was fiercely sufficient unto himself; he had grimly fought off the world until now it lay clear outside him, ignored, and he hewed only to the line of cold duty as he saw it. Dick stiffened a little, began to throw off his awe and fear, in a bitter rush of remembrances and memories; the man was no longer the child. Five words thus far, and not a word of greeting—while Job Warlock, who loved him, was tramping alone over the snow ruts toward Salem!

Still, the mere coming here had required an effort of will, and the effort must be maintained. Perhaps some spark of kindness might yet be struck from that flinty heart—perhaps it was the older man who was awaiting some sign of affection, of warmth. Dick put hand to pocket and drew out some of the loose gold there, and smiled.

“Well, father, I've not done so badly this trip. We turned a good trade at Havana, and I had a share in it, so here's a roll of the yellow boys that'll put new paint on the house and keep you in comfort——”

“I'll have none of your ill-got gold,” said Ephraim Hampton coldly. “Put it away, for ye'll have need of it if ye do your duty, and more beside.”

Dick reddened under his bronze, and anger leaped in his unrestrained.

“Ah, this is more like it!” he said, coolly unsheathing the one weapon which never failed to drive home and infuriate his father. “You've sent out to all the neighbors?”

“And why?” demanded the other, deceived by that casual tone.

“To bid them to the feast, o' course. I suppose you've killed the fatted calf, and have decided to get out a jorum of rum for dinner ——”

“Ye sacrilegious ruffian!” snapped his father, then checked the outburst and sat with big gnarled hands clenching and unclenching. The weapon had failed this time.

“Not a bit of it,” said Dick lightly. “Sorry I didn't bring Micky with me. He's an Irish chap, came up from the Havana with us. He says that the Irish believe hell to be a cold place, not a hot one—he'd have been confirmed in the belief if he'd come home with me. Yes, this is a grand reception and I appreciate it. Let's have Eli's letter, eh? Trot it out, and then I'll be running along on my way.”

The older man had a weapon, and a more terrible one, which he did not disdain to use.

“While you're in this house,” he said in a cold voice, biting off his words, “ye'll not fail in the duty ye owe the man who begat ye, Richard. Aye, that's your mother's impudence in ye, showing up! A wild heart she had and——”

This weapon did not fail. Dick Hampton flushed, then a livid pallor crept into his face, and his lips parted in a snarl.

“You lying dog,” he said, leaning forward in his chair, “put your —— tongue to my mother again and I'll drive your teeth in! Duty to you? Bah! I've had enough o' you!”

Ephraim Hampton put out a hand to the great Bible lying before him, and the knotted fingers were trembling; but his granite face did not change expression. Only a subtle tone of his voice showed his gratification at having pierced his son's armor.

“There's a verse I have to read ye,” he said. “It has to do with Eli's letter, and the duty that's upon ye.”

There was a moment's silence. Dick Hampton drew a deep breath and relaxed, while his father donned spectacles and turned pages, mouth set in a harsh and unyielding line of thin red. Dick strove for calm, knowing that he had let himself be trapped into an outburst which he now regretted. Home! He cursed the place bitterly. If he had ever had a home to come back to, as other men had, a home to linger in and leave with loathing, a home to welcome him, all would have been different. Then he would have seen more of Nelly Barnes. Then he would not have stood at the cross-roads today and been forced to see her going away, with only one look from her eyes to leave an ache in his heart and an emptiness in his very soul.

It did not occur to him that in all this there might be the writing of destiny's finger. He looked upon it as one mischance after another—his loss of a berth, due to the sale of the Acadian to a gold company; his meeting with James Day, and the bitter news that man so idly gave him; his meeting with Nelly at the cross-roads, and now this scene of hideous cruelty, this travesty upon a home-coming. He could not see the thin red thread of connection running through it all. As he thus sat waiting, a woodpecker began to tap somewhere about the roof; and in a flash he was out at sea again, the cold wind pouring down from an icy sky, and somewhere overhead the tap—tap—tap of frozen reef-points smacking the hard, full-bellied canvas. Although the vision was gone instantly, that slight recurrent sound had called up all the manhood in him, so that then and afterward he was full master of himself, with never another burst of the red fury. Indeed, this scene in the farmhouse put a final seal, a finishing touch, to his character which it badly needed, since the spiritual body can grow only through suffering of the spirit—a prime argument, this, against a solitary hell of fire and brimstone.

Ephraim Hampton looked up and spoke, finger heavy on the Bible page before him.

“Here we are. Listen, now, and ye needn't get out that smelly, vile pipe. Take heed! 'And this commandment have we from Him, that he who loveth God love his brother also.' Let those words sink into your dark heart, Richard, while I find your brother's letter.”

With this, the man began to search through the pages, in which he had evidently laid away that missive. Dick Hampton sat watching, pressing back an ironic smile at the twist of those words in his father's mind; here before him was one who could read only the letter of the law, denying in his whole life its spirit—and now preaching that same letter to the son for whom he bore no love.

“Aye, here 'tis!” Ephraim Hampton picked up a folded sheet of paper and began to uncrease it—a dirty, torn, stained sheet. “Read! See for yourself the mercies vouchsafed the runagate prodigal. Then hear what I have to say to ye.”

Hampton leaned forward, took the paper, spread it out on his knee. Two words of that wretched scrawled writing met his eye, brought a thin smile to his lips. Even poor Eli, then, omitted any least word of affection in writing this man! Then he read on, and the smile vanished from his face, and storm gathered in his eyes.

My Father:

If this reaches you, I charge you give it into the hands of Dick when he comes again. I have been through fever and suffering and horrible sights. A week ago I won ten thousand pesos in the lottery. Today I lie in the Panama jail in rags. Tomorrow I set forth upon my bondage, a two years' slavery somewhere up the west coast. Yet my lot is better than others. Some Vermont men have been here six months and exist only on charity. Two companies arrived from New York last month and are now three-fourths dead from plague and fever.

My fate is due to a man named Dias or Diaz, who sometimes uses the name of Winslow and tells his victims he belongs to a New York company. He is not a Mexican, but a renegade Englishman or American. A plausible scoundrel. He wheedled me out of my money, then had me flung in jail here until I would consent to go into two years of slavery. He robs men bound for California.

This man has given me to his wife as a slave; the señora aids him in his dastardly work. She is very beautiful, but a hundred times worse than he. This sounds incredible; it is the ghastly truth. Other poor men go with me, several Frenchmen. Outside my barred window is my only friend, a poor Indian named “El Hambre,” who will send this letter. He hates Winslow or Dias. They would kill him if they knew, for no letters are allowed. Dick, my love to you if you get this, and goodby.

Eli Hampton.

The letter was not dated.

What struck swiftest to the heart of Dick Hampton was that his brother made no direct appeal. There was the situation—take it or leave. No help was expected. Probably the boy thought none could be given, deeming himself beyond help. And by this time, he very possibly was beyond help.

As to the renegade Winslow or Dias, the tiger preying on the gold-seekers, Hampton gave him little thought. The man was one of many. Those who started for California met with no pity or mercy; they were fair game for all human tigers, and were robbed, plundered and murdered right and left.

“Poor Eli is better off than most of them,” said Hampton aloud. “As a rule, few manage to write home. A man in Havana told me that he had seen the Panama beach covered with corpses every morning—new bodies each day. And this was only a few weeks ago.”

His father's stony silence and stonier eyes made no answer; and as he re-read the letter, his heart sank. What could he do, even if he should find this man Dias—kill him? That would not help Eli. Ransom the boy? No such luck. Men forced into slavery would not be let free at any price. The sending of this letter itself was a miracle. The name of that Indian—El Hambre, or “Hunger”—looked very singular. The whole thing left Dick Hampton feeling helpless. Then, as he thought back to what must have happened in the beginning, he lifted bitter eyes to his father.

“Your fault,” he said, with intent to make his words bite. “You always loved Eli a little bit—and kept him here in your private hell. If you'd given him a chance, he'd have waited and asked me about going. I suppose you had words, drove him to it—eh? And you preach brotherly love! You ought to take that text of yours out West to the Sioux and Blackfeet, along with a keg of rum; they might understand it! So poor Eli is rotting somewhere in Mexico now—and all by your fault.”

The hard words hurt, and Ephraim Hampton winced, and his high chin sagged a little. At this, Dick stared curiously; it was the first time he could remember seeing that man of granite betray any sign of emotion. Yes, there must have been some bitter storm when Eli fled forth. Perhaps the father had let his tongue slip on the dead woman—only this would explain the two cruel words opening that letter.

“Ready to listen to me?” asked Ephraim Hampton in a dead voice.

“Fire away,” said the son, and leaned back. He got out his pipe and stuffed it. “If you don't like my smoking, be —— to you. I'm not in slavery, at least.”

This brought another wince; but Dick, thinking of his mother who had died before her time, and of his brother, only laughed cruelly.

“It's this,” said the older man. “Your duty is to go and look for Eli. It's your bounden duty, Richard; I say it. I, who begat you, lay that duty upon your conscience.”

Dick laughed again, and now spoke words that he did not entirely mean, as men do when the white heat of anger is in their brain.

“Who are you to lay a duty upon me?” he said, meeting those icy eyes squarely with his own gaze, and speaking quite coolly. “Did I ever have a friendly word from you in my whole life? Not one. Many a dutiful word, but never one of affection or love. You hate all the world, including yourself, and always did. You're a narrow-minded old man, and I thank heaven daily that I've mighty little of your mean disposition in me. What I am, I owe to mother—and the same with Eli. You needn't lay any duty on me, because I don't give a hang for your laying; I see things with my own eyes, not with yours. If you'd given me one gentle word when I came in this house today, I'd have met it half-way—but it's not in you. You've made your bed and for all of me you can lie in it. What good could I do poor Eli? He's gone.”

His words met with no anger, only with an intensified coldness. Ephraim regarded his son grimly for a moment, then made response.

“True enough, Richard, all very true; but let me finish. You are, and always have been, a headstrong and unregenerate limb of the devil. Love? No. You've given me hate for hate, and yet I cannot say that I hate you at all. You've given me grief and pain with your ungodly ways, and yet I never put you from my roof. If you were in Eli's place today, I'd do for you what I shall for him.”

This gave Dick pause.

“Duty,” he commented, and uttered a scornful laugh. Yet he began to see that while he and his father were poles apart, every question was bound to have two sides.

“Aye, duty,” said the older man. “I think more of Eli than I do of you, yes. Why not? He stayed here with me while you ran away to sea, to wallow in the iniquities of godless men——”

“Aye,” and Dick broke into a laugh, then began to chant the words:

“As I was a-walkin' up Paradise Street,
Way, hay, blow the man down!
A pretty young gal I chanced for to meet,
Give me a hand to blow the man——”

“Silence!” snapped his father. “Will ye listen to me out or no?”

“If ye have anything better than sermons to deliver. As for going after Eli, why not go yourself? It was you sent him out, not I—and I can imagine the words on your godly lips that drove him to take flight.”

Then Dick Hampton was astounded; for his father, sitting there so grimly, lifted a hand as if to ward off a blow.

“Don't. Don't! That's true enough.” He held the gnarled hand over his eyes for a moment, and then the thin lips were compressed. Then he relaxed, sat back, looked at his son. “I've sold the east forty, Richard, and the money's here in the desk. It's been waiting for you. Take it and go, find Eli, and tell him that—that I've repented the bitter words I said.”

This came hard enough, and fairly smote Dick in the face. He could not believe his own senses. None the less, he kept up the game he was playing, for now he found it leading him into astonishing ways. He had meant first to torment and taunt the man, yet now he meant quite otherwise, for it seemed that he had at last found a means to pierce that cold armor.

“Not I,” he said. “I've money of my own, and enough. Take your own money and go, if ye want, for I'll have none of it. Blood money, that's what it is! I'll not touch your thirty pieces of silver——”

Ephraim Hampton leaned forward, his great fingers twisting together.

“Richard, I'll not last long,” he said quietly, earnestly. “I'm to die any day, they tell me. I want you to do this thing. Oh, my lad, is all your soul a hardened thing? Is there no love in you for your brother? Granted I've not been what I should—there's yet your own duty. I'll not last long, Richard. Will ye go and take my blessing, or will ye have my curse on you?”

“Little enough your curse would worry me, and that's flat,” said Dick. Then, as he met his father's eyes, he checked himself. He felt himself staring into those eyes, felt all his world rocking to chaos around him—for in those bitter and intolerant eyes there was a glistening that he had never seen there, even when his mother died—the glisten of tears.

Dick put his thumb on his pipe-bowl, pressed down the gray ash, shoved the pipe into his pocket. Then he thrust himself erect. He made his decision swiftly, on the instant, as it must be made when the wind shifts about if the ship is not to be stripped bare.

“Your money,” he said slowly, deliberately, “I don't want and sha'n't touch. Lay a duty on me? I'll cheat you even in that—aye, cheat you even in that! It's little you know of the man who's awaiting me at Beverly, or the girl who's there, or the friend I have on the road—little you know or would care if you knew. But never mind all that. Father, I'm going to Panama, going a dozen errands in one—and one of the dozen is Eli's. Tell me this. You love him?”

The stooped figure stood before him, staring at him mistily.

“Aye, Richard. And if ye'd not give me hate for hate—I don't know——”

Dick Marsh took a step forward and caught the other man by the shoulders. Then all that was repressed leaped into his face, and he looked at his father as he had looked at Nelly Barnes that morning, with things in his eyes too deep and great for words.

“Father,” he said in a low voice, “I'm going, and I'm going now. I don't give a hang for your curse—but, father, I—I'd give you a kiss on the lips for your blessing——”

The-woodpecker tapped along the eaves, like the tap-tap—tap of frozen reef-points slapping a bellying sail, but Dick Hampton did not hear the sound.

IV

BEVERLY was like other seaport towns up and down the Atlantic seaboard; like seaport towns in Europe, from Vigo Bay to North Cape; like towns in Australia and China, Peru and Russia, in this marvelous winter and spring of 1849. All seaports were alike, those days, busily pouring men down to ships, and speeding ships forth for Eldorado; not for another year or more would the sickening realities be brought back to them by those few who struggled home.

Here in Beverly as elsewhere, the ebb tide of ships and men was now well under way, shipyards ringing, vessels building in the bare woods, on the naked rocky shores, wherever men could swing adze and plane to cut softwood timbers. At night the harbor was still and cold, star-blink glittering over snowy streets, houses agleam with lights where men packed and made ready. Tales of gold were carried from hearth to hearth, gaining fresh accretions with every telling, and the cold winter's night was all athrill with subtle vibrations from an excited populace, raw red gold lending a warm glow that softened the frosty air and brought a flame across the horizon as men looked westward over the bleak hills and visualized California.

Dick Hampton had timed his coming well and carefully, since he had particular reason for not wanting to be recognized at the present moment. He did not want Jed Barnes to know of his presence until Baker's Island was left behind and the pilot dropped; otherwise, he could scent trouble brewing. If he could find where Day's brig lay and get aboard her, he would be safe enough. The lading would be a thick job at the last and the other mates would be glad men to let him stick below and handle stowage.

It was just eight of the night when he came striding down Cabot Street, past the white cottages and the shuttered shops where men sat reckoning their books by tallow dips and sperm lamps, past the war houses and silent marts of trade, to the long reach of Foster & Lovett's wharf, black against the blacker water and the riding lights of ships. He saw that some ship hung there against the wharf, lined fast, a glow coming from her fo'csle hood and a glow from her cabin skylight, and aloft a yellow star that lacked the cold glitter of the white stars of heaven. Then he heard the hum of a voice, keeping time to the frosty crackle of his own steps on the cold boards:

“A little black bull came over the mountain,
Ri tura lingtum, ri tura lay!
Oh, a little black bull came over——”

“Bless me, it's you!” Job Warlock lounged forward from the shadows of a high freight pile. “And here's a swig o' rum to warm your bones, matey. The world's a good place, so hurray!”

Hampton took the proffered bottle gratefully, and a gulp of Jamaica drove the chill from him. Job Warlock chuckled.

“Well, what luck wi' the old man, lad? Ye still look alive and well.”

Hampton expelled a long and frosty breath.

“It won't bear talking of, Job. What news?”

“None.” Warlock grunted. “All the folk hereabouts are crazy for California. It's as much as your life's worth to tell 'em the truth o' that passage. News from your brother?”

“Ill news enough.” Hampton got his pipe alight. “He's in trouble—robbed and bound over to practical slavery. A man down there named Winslow or Diaz makes business of robbing greenhorns and binding them over to work for him as peons. No Glasgow packet for me, Job; our ways part here, I'm afraid. I'll have to take a berth in this Chagres brig, wherever she is, and see if I can find Eli.”

“Huh! Then you'll go across the damned isthmus to die o' fever.”

“That's as it may be. On to Acapulco if I can't get news of Winslow or Diaz at Panama. Ever hear of such a man down there? He has a Mexican wife.”

“Diaz? That's like askin' for a man named Jones in a Welsh port. Diaz! Millions of 'em. But hold on—there it is, aye! I mind such a name in Acapulco. Chap called—no, it wasn't Diaz neither, but a name like it. Spanish chap showed me the difference; one has a lisp, the other hasn't. Aye, here's the name! Dias.”

“That it. Eli said the name was Diaz or Dias.” Hampton drew a quick breath. “Ha! What d'ye know of him? He was in Acapulco, ye say?”

“No—heard of him there.” Warlock spoke thoughtfully. “What was it, now? Nothin' good—huh! Just a bit of it comes back. It was a wild story we heard, that's all. He had a place on the California coast, over near Loreto; pearl fisher, he was, who had looted some churches in Mexico. Nobody knew exactly; all sorts o' stories went around. Somebody wanted us to jump ship and go over there and shoot him up. That's all I remember. Just a story, it was.”

“Story enough, by gad!” exclaimed Hampton. “Now I've got something to go on, at least.”

“Hold up there! Me too, as the Injun said when he rubbed his belly.”

“You? I thought you wouldn't go to Chagres?”

“Who said so? Not me. I'm with you to Chagres or ——, matey! Injun does it. Now, then, what's the name o' this blessed Chagres bark?”

“I'm glad, Job—you don't know how glad I am!” said Hampton, and his voice showed the quick leap of friendship in him. “Her name? I don't know. She's a chartered bark and sails in a day or two. Easy enough to find her——”

Job Warlock grinned, and pointed with his finger to the ship lying at the wharf, her spars outlining a slim dark tracery against the star-studded carpet of the sky.

“There she is, then. The Hannah. Off tomorrow afternoon, with luck.”

The Salem man stared at the dark shape of the vessel, half-concealed behind the waiting piles of freight. He was thinking less of her than of his friend, however. He had not doubted that Job Warlock, despite protestations, would stick with him; yet it was a stern test of friendship, since Job knew well enough what awaited them in the south, and shrank from it. For the rest, one place was as good as another to the dark man, and no doubt the quest after the missing Eli fired his Indian blood.

“I've had my eye on her,” went on Warlock, “and there's going to be doin's——”

“Go slow,” said Hampton. “Talk Spanish.”

They both saw a figure crossing from ship to wharf—a large, dark figure, with the red glow-point of a cigar burning and dying; one of the officers going up to town, no doubt. Warlock continued in Spanish, which he spoke with Mexican purity, for in Mexico has survived the old gracious Castilian that has been lost among the lisping dialects of Spain.

“Doin's aboard her, I can tell ye! Terrible long royal yards and stiff wi' new canvas; an old softwood ship and hell to pump, and Yankee mates. Whew! But that's not the worst. All these here,” and Job swept his arm out to indicate the freight piles, “are stores goin' aboard, some for the voyage, some taken by the company. New York stores, and you know what that means.”

“The gulf sharks will eat full, eh?” said Hampton. The tall dark figure was coming past them, cigar point glowing, booted heels crackling on the frosty planks.

“Aye.” Warlock laughed harshly. “Old condemned army rations, old salvaged tinned stuff, full o' poison. Bless me, you'll hear the popping begin before we're off Hatteras! Still, she has good lines and a Yankee crew, and they'll drive her. I expect she'll see Chagres River in well under twenty days, barring bad luck.”

“May the saints grant it, señor!” said a voice in Spanish.

The dark figure halted, and now came around a pile of boxes toward them. Hampton, instantly recognizing that voice, turned.

“That you, Mr. Day?”

“Aye. Who's this, then?”

“Hampton and a friend. You recall our meeting in Boston?”

“Oh! Hampton from Salem—well met, sir, well met! I wondered who on earth could be speaking Spanish here; not a man aboard knows a word of it.”

Day put out his hand, a warmth of quick cordiality in voice and grip. Hampton, wondered whether Day had caught the disparaging comments about the ship and stores, but did not ask.

“You've come to ship with us?” said Day.

“I'd like to talk it over. I've run into an old friend, Job Warlock, bosun out of the Blackwall Line and a sound seaman. What are the chances for him to ship, too, as far as the isthmus? He doesn't care for California, but we're old friends and would like to ship south together if possible.”

Day laughed at that. “D'ye know we could ship ten men for every berth for'ard? But come aboard with me—I was only off for a stroll. Come aboard and have a drink and a smoke in warm comfort. So you both speak the Spanish, eh? That's good. We'll talk things over.”

“Right,” said Hampton. “Come along, Job.”

The three walked up the wharf and came to the ship, going aboard by a gangway of planks laid to aid the freight stowage. Even in the starlight Hampton could note the prim neatness of her decks, lines coiled and flaked, everything shipshape; her officers knew their business. Aft at the companionway, Day chuckled.

“Good thing you came along—this is my last bit of comfort. Tomorrow we turn over most of these cabins to the ladies, and the officers will berth in the for'ard house abaft the foremast. Cap'n and passengers take the cabins. Well, here we are!”

They descended into the cabin, where a gimbal-slung lamp dispensed light and warmth, and made themselves comfortable. Day appraised Job Warlock with one keen glance, and nodded without hesitation.

“You'll do; we'll make room for you, bosun. Some of our thrifty company members are working to Chagres as crew, and we'll need a good helmsman. Well, Mr. Hampton, you've decided to come?”

“I think so,” returned Hampton, puffing at his pipe and accepting the mug of grog that Day poured for him. “However, I don't understand what my position is to be—after Chagres. Do we go up the river by boat?”

“Aye, across try boat and trail to Panama.”

Day stretched out his long legs and doffed his hat. Bare-headed, he showed thin of hair, his skull knobby and with the ears set high; so high, indeed, that they gave him a singularly wolfish appearance. Hampton had ere this met men with high ears, and had found little good in them, so that this troubled him.

“Here's the lay. I've made all arrangements for boats and mules; and, as I told ye, for a schooner at Panama. If I could be there in person to fulfil my obligations by taking the company across in person, all well and good; but I've business interests, and at Chagres may be called aside. Then what? You to take charge. Those rascally natives will need the strong hand of authority. This man Warlock can speak Spanish, so let him come along. Both of you on wages to Panama, and there, Mr. Hampton, take your choice! Go your way if you like, or I'll make you captain of one of my schooners.”

“Hm! Then you're taking me along merely to run things in case you're called away?”

“Right—and because I like you.”

“Fair enough. It's agreed.” Hampton knocked out his pipe. “Now I'll tell you why I want to go. Did you ever happen to hear of a renegade Englishman or American down there, who uses the names of Winslow or Dias?”

The effect of this question was astounding. Day started, and his glassy eyes gripped on Hampton, while a queer pallor stole across his face; then, suddenly, there came a little click! and a cocked derringer showed in his hand.

“Explain those words!” he snapped harshly. “What do you know of that man?”

“I mean to find him,” said Hampton, astonished. “He is a rascal——”

“He's my bitterest enemy on this earth,” said Day, then drew a deep breath and relaxed. He thrust away his pistol, took out a fresh cigar, lighted it. “Your pardon, your pardon—the very mention of that man's name was a whiplash! He has injured me sorely. Why seek you him?”

“Then you know where I can find him?” demanded Hampton.

There was a momentary conflict of will, here in the cabin, while Job Warlock sat back and sucked his pipe, shaggy brows pulled down over steely eyes that looked from one man to the other. Day had asked a question, so had Hampton; for a moment it seemed that neither would yield to other in stubborn determination to be answered. In Day's powerful features those glassy eyes were glittering and flaming, betraying a savage exertion of the will, but Hampton met and answered the look with eyes cold as gray ice. He was, in fact, wondering why Day was so desperately intent upon being answered first, and a flashing, momentary warning was implanted in his mind by the glimmering dark gaze. Then Day shot up his brows and yielded.

“That is something no one knows,” he answered slowly. “The man is no better than a pirate. It is said that he is established somewhere in Baja California, on the gulf called the Vermilion Sea or Sea of Cortez; still, nothing is very certain down there. I have old scores against him, but lack the strength to cope with him openly. If this expedition goes through successfully, I shall have money enough to work against him. Then I shall hire men and go after the rascal.”

“Good,” said Hampton. “I got home yesterday to find a letter from my brother Eli, who went to California and got no farther than Panama. This man Winslow, or Dias, bound him into slavery. You and I might pursue our mutual end together, if it pleases you.”

Day started slightly.

“Oh!” said he. “So that's it, eh? Yes, Mr. Hampton, your proposal appeals to me. Hm! Well, we shall discuss the question later on. I am glad that you have decided to go with us. Our company numbers forty-three in all, and most of them come aboard in the morning, since we sail tomorrow afternoon. The officers and many of the crew are ashore, so I had better go and look up your quarters, if you'll excuse me.”

Then Day rose and left the cabin.

For a little, Hampton and Job Warlock sat together in silence, until at last Warlock cleared his throat and then grunted.

“A penny for your thoughts, matey,” he said in an odd voice.

Hampton looked up.

“Eh? I was thinking that Mr. Day will make money by this trip,” he said reflectively. “He'll charge them a flat five hundred dollars a head to Panama, and will clear a tidy sum by that alone; while the passage to 'Frisco will be as much more, on his own ships.”

“Hm!” Warlock grunted again. “Mighty queer that he'd need us, Dick. Aye, it has a queer look, and so has the man himself! He was mighty anxious to know why you wanted to find Dias. So the two are enemies, huh? Well, we'll see what we'll see. It's in my mind that our friend here will be a hard man in action, aye, a stiff 'un and no mistake!”

In a few minutes Day returned, calling Warlock, and motioned Hampton to remain. Job Warlock, who had left his duffle ashore, went to see his quarters and go after his things. Hampton sat over his pipe until Day returned to the cabin and carefully shut the door. He quite understood that the man wanted a private word with him, and looked up to meet the piercing gaze of those glassy eyes, and spoke first.

“One thing, Mr. Day! Arrange, if you can, that I take over the cargo stowage tomorrow. I'd like to keep out of sight until we're at sea; one of your company has no love for me.”

“So? And who is that?” asked Day, his brows lifting.

“Jed Barnes.”

Day's eyes narrowed for an instant, and then it was Hampton glimpsed for the second time a swift vision of dark things in the man. When Day laughed, it was gone quickly.

“Oh! The little lass, eh? Right, right; I'll see to it. Now, a word with you! What aim in life have ye, Hampton?”

“Eh?” Hampton was puzzled by the sharp, direct question. “How mean you?”

“Aim, end, objective!” Day waved his hand. “D'ye want to get on, make money?”

“Aye. All men do.”

“I told ye I had interests down below. I know a number of men there—not good or godly men, mark you! If you and I go together and seek this man Winslow or Dias, if we combine against him, it's fight fire with fire. Are ye willing to join with these other friends o' mine, let me give you letters to them? There's little law down in Mexico, you understand. In a year you can make your fortune, gain your revenge, and all's clear.”

Hampton, astonished as he was, did not miss the dark hint. He understood perfectly that Day was allied with filibusters, privateers, pirates, smugglers; that these were the other interests of which the man had spoken. Here was a chance being offered him—a chance which would not come easily a second time. He hardly hesitated in his reply.

“No, Mr. Day. With all thanks to you, I say no. I comprehend your meaning, I think, but I can't fall in with it. Not that I love the law, but I don't care to go about things in just that way.”

Day regarded him steadily, his bronzed features quite expressionless; somehow, Hampton distinctly gained the impression that behind the man's words there had been many and deep things unuttered—that this proposal had been a feeler, as it were. There was no disgrace in being connected with privateers or filibusters or smugglers; to contravene the law, especially in Central American waters, was quite fashionable. Gringo and greaser were bitter enemies, both open and covert.

Hampton's refusal sprang, rather, from a growing distrust of James Day. Something in this man had begun to grate on him, though he could not account for the feeling. In that steady and inscrutable gaze he fancied that he could discern a singular impatience of control, a lack of all scruple, a stirring of dangerous things. Further, Job Warlock's swift judgment of the man lingered in his mind.

“You're quite sure?” asked Day slowly, and Hampton realized that in some sense the question was an ultimatum.

“Quite,” he responded cheerfully.

Day again waved his hand, and showed his teeth in a quick smile.

“Right! Every man must choose his own road. For your own sake, I'm sorry. Now, if you'll come with me I'll show you our quarters. Have you a chest?”

“No, I brought nothing,” and Hampton rose, with a feeling of relief. “I'll draw on the slop-chest for oilskins, or buy them.”

“Right,” approved Day, and they left the cabin together.

V

DESPITE threatening weather, every tide counted in the race for California and gold, so that with the last of the cargo stowed, the brig Hannah stood out on the afternoon ebb while the hatches were still being battened down.

Hampton, hard at work below, saw nothing of the ceremonial departure. The brig's crew was a miserable lot, since most of the good seamen had already gone to the golden land; they were a bad mixture of city boys, Liverpool packet rats, and farmers, with not four good men in the lot. As Hampton labored to get the last of the provisions stowed, he was dimly aware of cheers and speeches and songs from the wharf above, heard the familiar chorus of “Susannah” ringing out to improvised words, and came scrambling up to the deck to find the ship standing out, the canvas shaking out, and all hands aloft except his own gang at the hatches. Now the last of the cheers from poop and wharf gave place to the hoisting chanty that Job Warlock started, and on which the packet rats and others fell in with a will:

“Oh, fare you well, I wish you well,
Good-by, fare you well! Good-by, fare you well!
Fare you well, my pretty young gal,
Hurray, my boys, we're outward bound!

“Our anchor's weighed and our sails are set
Good-by, fare you well! Good-by, fare you well!
The girls are leaving, we leave with regret,
''Hurray, my boys, we're outward bound!”

Hampton saw nothing of the Barneses, for he had to jump from the hatches to his station at the mainmast, relieving the chief mate of this job and giving his attention to the canvas. The afternoon was dark, with snow in the air and gray scud in the sky. All the Beverly Panama Gold Company were crowded aft, still waving last farewells to the despair of the second officer, who tried in vain to make himself heard at his station above the din. At length Hampton started the haul-away, and all hands joined in roaring out the words as the yards were braced home:

“Once I had an Irish gal, and she was fat and lazy,
Away, haul away, Oh haul away together!
But now I got a nigger one, she nearly drives me crazy,
Away, haul away, Oh haul away jo!”

No sooner was everything belayed than the captain, a peppery old Beverly salt, emerged from the cheering, waving crowd of gold-seekers and came forward, driving all hands with him.

“All hands, all hands!” pierced his stentorian voice. “Pick watches, mister—hey there, mister! Wake up for'ard! Weather coming along fast, mister!”

The mate hastily abandoned the forecastle to Hampton and joined the skipper and the men. Caustic comments on the appearance of the hands were exchanged as the watches were picked, then the captain sent his starboard watch to get the gold company and their baggage stowed, and left the deck to the mate. Hampton had a glimpse of Nelly Barnes, standing with the other three women passengers, before they went below, as soon as the bar was crossed and the roll called.

Within half an hour only six of the company remained on deck, and these lined the rail together with most of the crew, for the Hannah was pitching and rolling in a choppy head sea and the wind was shrieking out of the northwest. By the time the pilot was dropped and Baker's Island left behind, snow was in the air and the wind was howling and shifting. All hands were called, sail was taken in to lower topsails and forestaysail, and when the wind settled in the north the reefed foresail was set and she began to scud madly in the gale. The only one of all the gold company who remained on deck was James Day, and he did not approach Hampton.

During the next two days, in fact, Hampton saw very little of the passengers, for the gale drove down unceasing and the few sea men aboard had their hands full. Job Warlock had gone into the starboard watch and the two friends had scant opportunity to glimpse each other. It was a wild time, huge seas battering the old brig, and the officers attempting nothing beyond getting some Scotchmen rigged to keep the rigging from chafing. Then, on the third day out, when the blow had moderated to a brisk gale and things were a bit settled down, came that which Dick Hampton had both hoped and feared. He had just turned over the deck to the second mate and started forward, when at the after companion he came face to face with Nelly Barnes as she emerged from the ladder-way. She was coming on deck, alone.

Her hand flew to her throat and she stared blankly at him, all amazed, and the flush that leaped into her face died away in pallor.

“It's not you—it can't be!” she exclaimed softly.

Hampton doffed his tarpaulin hat and stood smiling at her.

“But it is, Nelly, it is!” he cried, and as her hand came out to meet his, all restraint suddenly burst within him, and eager words rushed to his lips. “Did you think I could leave you so easily, Nelly? Dear girl—dear heart—I had to be with you, to watch over you——”

He stammered and fell silent as he held her hand. Under his eyes and words, her pale face crimsoned again in its frame of brown hair, and in her wide hazel eyes he read only too surely the answer to his impulsive utterance.

“I'm glad, Dick, I'm glad!” she said simply, in that low, rich voice which so reached into his heart and soul. “Oh, Dick, I've cried to think of that morning at the cross-roads—I never thought to see you again! And now to see you here seems like a miracle—but my father, my father! What will he say?” Sudden fright leaped into her face. “Dick, he mustn't see you—it will be terrible! You know how he feels——”

Hampton laughed and closed his fingers more tightly over hers.

“We're at sea, Nelly, and what can he do? Make the best of it. He won't let you see much of me, but don't worry. I'll be close at hand, dear heart; I'm to leave the brig at Chagres and go along with the company. You don't know or dream what's ahead, but I know——”

Just then two officers of the gold company appeared behind Nelly Barnes; old Eliphalat Nickerson, the president, and with him spruce Adam Johnson, the secretary. Both of them knew Hampton and greeted him with surprize and satisfaction, and after the handshaking he exchanged one look with Nelly and then went his way forward. Recollection of his own impulsive words left him tingling, for now he knew that his secret was no longer a secret, and that Nelly Barnes had welcomed him with all her heart.

That very morning the bosun tumbled down the ladder into the forepeak and broke his leg, and Job Warlock was put in his place. Since the bosun stood no regular watch but all watches, snatching time off when he could, this threw the two friends together at times. That afternoon when Hampton had the deck, Job Warlock came up to him and touched forelock with a grin.

“Bless me, what's come over ye, Dick? There I be, forgetting all proper respect! Beg pardon, sir. What an unholy old packet she is, and a crew o' greenhorns! What makes ye look so wondrous joyful, eh?”

“Reason enough, Job!” Hampton laughed cheerfully.

“Aye, the lass i' the brown hair, eh?” said Job shrewdly. “I noted her, and a fine lass she is. Well, journey's end makes lovers' meetings, they say, but we're not at Chagres yet, mark it well! Tomorrow will be a fine day, and then ye'll hear things go popping down below——”

“Belay and stand by,” said Hampton suddenly, looking down the deck. “Here's the —— to pay now, Job. Stand by.”

He saw Eliphalat Nickerson approaching, and beside him, still rather sickly in looks but grim and harsh as ever, Jed Barnes. Among the many gold seekers who were now on deck, Hampton saw nothing of Nelly, and was glad. Jed Barnes came on with determination in his manner, while old Nickerson pulled at his whiskers and looked confoundedly ill at ease. Straight up to Hampton they came, and Jed Barnes fastened upon him a narrow-eyed regard of suspicious hatred.

“So you're here, are ye?” he spat out. “Mighty slick galoot, ain't ye? I know why you're trailin' after me, Dick Hampton, and I warn ye here and now that I'll have none of it. Any of your antics around me or Nelly, and I'll give ye a larruping! Understand? Not a word to her, ye graceless whelp, ye runagate, ye no-account rascal, or I'll lay a stick over your shoulders! You leave our company at Chagres, understand?”

Hampton looked at him and laughed.

“Jed, you're an old fool. I could break you with one hand—and will do it yet, if you don't watch your eye. D'you think I care a tinker's dam for you or your threats? Not a bit. I'll marry Nelly, and if you don't like it you can lump it. For the rest, you're talking to a ship's officer before members of the crew. One more word out of you and you go in irons. One word!”

Jed Barnes gasped with fury, and would have spoken not one but many words—save that old Nickerson dragged him away by main force. Warlock, looking after them, rolled his quid from cheek to cheek and then grinned.

“There go two prime fools, and another two-score like 'em aboard! D'ye know that they've got all their hard cash with 'em? Aye, every cent. Some keep it in their pockets, but more ha' pooled it in a strongbox, and that box is in the keeping of our friend Day. At Chagres he'll jump ship with it. Heap good work, as the Injun said when he rubbed his belly.”

Hampton frowned over this item of news.

“So? I doubt your prophecy, friend Job. True, Day may not accompany us all across to Panama, but he'll be there with the strongbox. Though I don't like him, I don't figure him as any petty rascally thief. Still, we'll see.”

“And bless me if I take a notion to your godly New Englanders, any of 'em! What's this ugly old stone-face got against you?”

“He doesn't like seamen,” said Hampton, and smiled.

“But his daughter does, eh? A fine lass. Bless me if I can't read the end of this trail! Howsomever, I'll go with 'ee to the parson's door, Dick, and then to Glasgow packets.”

The news of what had passed between Hampton and Jed Barnes speedily ran through the ship, gaining much in the telling, so that by evening both the crew and the staggering but slowly recuperating gold seekers were half-convinced that the two men had fought that morning. Though he saw her down the deck once or twice, Hampton had no further speech with Nelly Barnes all day; at the same time, he began to realize that the gossip must be hard for her to bear, since it filled all the ship and was swift to create dissension. His brother officers and many of the Beverly men who knew him, were warm to back his love-match; but the older men among the gold seekers, all of them hard-headed New Englanders of some position and means, were as swift to back up harsh Jed Barnes.

Thus stood matters when, next morning, Hampton found the warm sunlight, a steady wind, and a running sea aiding the Hannah on her passage. All hands were about, high good spirits were in evidence, and the morning opened briskly to popping of rifles as the younger men opened fire on porpoises or shot at marks. After breakfast, however, the skylarking was halted and the company officers assembled the gold-seekers on the maindeck for prayers and divine service. Then, after calling the roll, a meeting of the officers within ten minutes was announced, to be held in the main cabin, and the decks were once more flooded with laughing, eager men who indulged in sports and feats of strength amid the new banging of rifles and drift of powder reek down the wind.

Hampton, off duty and enjoying a pipe near the scuttle butt, was looking on when he heard his name and turned. Approaching him was the trim and dandified secretary of the company, Adam Johnson, with Nelly Barnes on his arm.

“Er—ahem, sir! Morning to you,” said Johnson affably. “I was asked to tell you, Mr. Hampton, that Mr. Barnes would like the pleasure of your company for a few moments. He is in his cabin below—Number Three of the after cabins, sir. A fine day, eh?”

“Very,” said Hampton, and found Nelly's hand in his for a moment. Then he realized what had just been said, and looked at Johnson with a slight hardening of his eyes. “What's that? Jed Barnes wants to see me? Then let him come——”

The pleading look of the girl checked his words, and Adam Johnson chuckled.

“Upon my word, sir, I think you'd do well to obey the summons! We must all be friends aboard; it won't do to reach the gold fields with dissension in our midst. United we stand, divided we fall—an excellent axiom for our company, sir! I may drop the word in your ear that I've had a talk with Mr. Barnes, and I think you'd find it to your interest to see him.”

Nelly smiled.

“Indeed, Dick, Mr. Johnson is a very good friend! If you'll only be a little patient with father——”

Hampton laughed, and clapped the spruce Johnson on the shoulder.

“My compliments to you, sir, and thanks! Indeed, I'll go to the slaughter as patience personified, I assure you! Quite right, Nelly; I'd do more than this for one smile from you, and you may depend on it I'll meet your father half-way in the effort to get along peaceably.”

With her smile to reward him, Dick Hampton started aft. He was both astonished and highly gratified by this occurrence; Adam Johnson he knew for an honest, forthright man and a good friend. How Jed Barnes had been prevailed upon was a mystery, but no doubt several of the gold company had argued him into some appearance of decency.

“For Nelly's sake I'll do more than my part,” resolved Hampton, as he came to the ladder and started below. “Perhaps the old curmudgeon has been made to see reason after all, though I doubt it. He'll probably make certain terms with me—no doubt has been forced into it for the sake of general harmony aboard.”

Glancing into the main cabin, where old Eliphalat Nickerson and one or two other officers were stuffing their pipes in readiness for the meeting, he turned into the passage and paused at the door of number three cabin, ordinarily occupied by the third mate. He knocked, but had no response. He knocked again, more loudly, since all the stern timbers were creaking and groaning, and feet were pounding the deck overhead, but still there was no answer. With that, he tried the door, found it unlocked, and stepped into the little cabin.

For a moment he was absolutely paralyzed with horror at the sight which greeted him.

Jed Barnes, clothing in wild disarray, lay on the floor beside the bunk, feebly gripping the blankets and trying to pull himself up. From his torn shirt erupted a slowly welling stream of blood, and the haft of a knife stood out from his breast. He had been stabbed, not once but several times, and the agony of death was in his wrinkled face. A sobbing cry burst from him.

“Help! Help, ye rascal——”

Hampton sprang forward, leaned to help him—and Barnes died in his arms, murdered.

VI

DICK HAMPTON tasted one of those queer, only half-realized instants which come like a flash from the blue to many men. Whether to be explained by supernatural causes as some hold, or as others deem by a working of the sixth sense or the subconscious mind, they do come. They are seldom understood until later, so that men rarely act upon the message, but interpreted by events they are remembered as fearful and wonderful flashes from the great soul of the universe. And now, as Hampton stooped over and held the dead body of Jed Barnes in his hands, he experienced one of those singular and dreadful instants.

He could hear the tramp of feet as men came running from the main cabin, drawn by that one dying cry, yet time seemed suspended. A voice yammered at his inward ear—a spiritist would have claimed it the voice of the escaping soul, but Hampton was too stunned and spellbound, too paralyzed, to explain it or even to comprehend its meaning. None the less, he seemed suddenly to hear it distinctly, to catch it tugging at his soul's elbow, startling and terrifying him with its cry, accompanied by a flash of binding light.

“He did it! He did it! Now you are lost and damned beyond recall—caught in a net too widespread for escape. No time to move, to act, to think; there is the secret of it under your very hand—and he did it! Had you come a moment sooner, you'd have caught him at work; too late, too late! Now your life is only beginning, your task lies all ahead—and he did it!”

Thus the flash of comprehension came and passed, and Hampton failed to catch it as most men fail until too late. He stood up, feeling warm blood on his hands, and stared blankly at the gaping, horrified men crowded about the doorway—Eliphalat Nickerson and the others. A shrill shout leaped to the deck above—

“Hampton's murdered Jed Barnes!”

That wakened him—roused him to startled alarm. He saw the thought echoed in the faces around him, and passionately disclaimed the fact—

“A lie! I came in and found him dying——”

The words fell away. Into the throng and through it burst the old skipper, taking in everything at a glance, facing Hampton in cold, sorrowful accusation.

“What's this, sir? What is it, I say? You did this?”

“A lie! I did not,” declared Hampton vehemently. “Adam Johnson said the man wanted to see me, sent me down to him—I found him dying. I saw no one leave this cabin—before God, that is all I know of it! Would I have murdered the father of the woman I love? And look at the knife. It's not mine. I have none with me. Mine is in my own cabin, hanging on the peg.”

It was nonsense to suppose that the crime could be fastened upon him, yet none the less Hampton had to face the possibility. The passage and companion were jammed with men; loud voices threatened the murderer; the confusion was uproarious. The skipper turned to Nickerson and the other company officers.

“Exert your authority, gentlemen. Every man aboard to be mustered in the waist of the ship. At once! All hands on deck!”

Then, stooping, the old skipper grasped the knife still buried in the ribs of Jed Barnes, and with an effort removed it.

“A devilish blade!” he muttered. “No honest sea-knife. And the man that used it was disturbed at his work—had no time to pluck it free. Mr. Hampton, by my side. Leave this poor clay to be mourned by his daughter.”

Gradually the flood of men receded, and the passage was emptied. As Hampton followed the captain on deck, Nelly Barnes and one of the other women came down the ladder, rushed past them, and disappeared in the red-smeared cabin.

When Hampton emerged on deck, one shout of anger went up from the waist, then was quelled. The gold company was mustered there on the starboard side, the ship's company to port. Hampton stood as in a dream, waiting, listening, watching. He perceived that in all eyes he was the murderer, and cold anger settled on him. Still, the affair was far from finished, and the owner of that knife must be discovered. He met with one cheerful grin from Job Warlock, but no other face offered him any hope.

The captain stood knife in hand at the wheel, summoned the gold company officers and his own mates, then addressed the assembled men solemnly:

“Friends, some one among us has murdered Mr. Barnes. Whether the murderer is one among you, or my third officer, remains to be seen. First of all this knife must be recognized. Let every one come aft, one at a time, and inspect the weapon.”

Gravely, Adam Johnson called the roll of the company, who filed aft, followed by the crew. One by one the men came and viewed the reddened weapon, a most singular and unusual sort of knife, and denied ever having seen it before. Hampton caught the eye of James Day, who stood at the side of old Nickerson, and Day made an almost imperceptible gesture of assurance.

When it came the turn of the crew, and man after man swore that the knife was unknown to him, dismay came upon Hampton. It seemed impossible, for once seen that knife could not easily be forgotten. Vainly he searched among crew and passengers for any man who might betray signs of guilt or fear; vainly he tried to fasten on any man who might have been an enemy to Jed Barnes. Job Warlock came and stood beside him stoutly enough.

“A bad business, matey!” he said, and Hampton nodded slightly. “Bad and no mistake.”

The ship's Bible was brought up, and the skipper, hearing a low mutter from the ranks in the waist, turned to them grimly.

“None o' that, my men! There'll be justice done, but it'll be mine. I'm in charge here, and Mr. Hampton is my officer—so mind that. Now, who among ye had any quarrel wi' the dead man? Come, speak up on it! Step up and swear to what ye know, and watch your words. Somebody here is a liar already, on the knife.”

None moved for a moment, then old Eliphalat Nickerson came forward, pawing his whiskers, and laid his hand on the Book.

“I'll have to say what I heard yesterday,” he stated solemnly, and went on to detail what had passed between Jed Barnes and Hampton. Before he finished, Nelly Barnes appeared on deck again, tears on her face, the other women comforting her. The captain turned to Hampton.

“Do you deny this testimony, Mr. Hampton?”

“It's quite true, sir,” said Hampton steadily. “There is nothing to deny so far.”

“Then, sir, kindly state just what happened below. On your oath, sir!”

Gravely assenting, Hampton related his entry into the cabin and what had transpired there.

“You saw no one about before you entered?”

“I saw no one leave that cabin. A good many persons were about, but I observed no one man in particular. Most of the company officers were gathered in the main cabin.”

“Then who can throw light on the last person to see Mr. Barnes alive?” demanded the skipper, and repeated the query. None answered, until at last Adam Johnson stood up. He told how he and Barnes had been talking, and how Barnes had agreed to dismiss his vindictive hatred of Hampton; how Nelly had joined them, how he and Nelly had then gone on deck in search of Hampton and had found the latter.

“At the outside,” he concluded, “not more than ten minutes could have elapsed since we left Mr. Barnes, to the time Mr. Hampton found him.”

“Do you confirm this, Miss Nelly?” asked the skipper. Nelly Barnes lifted her tear-wet face, threw Hampton one look, and nodded.

“Yes. And I want to say here that I know Dick Hampton never murdered my father!”

“Then,” said the captain, “can you suggest any one else as the guilty person?”

Pallor swept into the girl's face.

“No,” she said, and abruptly fainted.

“Poor girl! Take her below to my cabin,” said the skipper, and the other women obeyed the order.

When the stir was over, and Nelly gone from the deck, Hampton felt quick relief. Her brave stand-up for him, her belief in him, had effected nothing at all. In the eyes around him he perceived that he was doomed. Day was speaking earnestly to Nickerson and Adam Johnson, and he wondered what this bronzed and vigorous man was arguing.

“Now, friends,” said the captain, “can any of ye throw any light on this affair? Can ye throw any suspicion on another man—if it be my own self? Speak up!”

There was no response. Men whispered together, stared aft, moved uneasily. James Day went on talking with Nickerson, as if urging some course of action. Hampton looked about from face to face, that cold anger settled upon him, wakening all his false pride, stirring a fierce resentment that these men should deem him guilty on such evidence.

Suddenly one or two men amidships, who had earlier in the morning been shooting at marks, whipped up their rifles. Instantly the captain leaped in front of Hampton, and his voice cracked:

“You, there! Down with them guns. Mister, hey, mister! Disarm every mother's son aboard and chuck the guns down below. Leap alive—go with him, bosun!”

There was a growl, a sullen bandying of words, but the mate obeyed and came aft with the rifles. Then men stirred, and voices leaped up tumultuously.

“Because he's a sailor, ye'll do naught to him! Ye'll shield him! Are we to be murdered by your seamen and nothin' done?”

“Belay! Silence!” roared the skipper furiously. “I'll do no such thing. Mr. Hampton, will ye stand trial here and now?”

Hampton started.

“Trial! Yes, I will; but no such trial can be legal. What do ye propose to do if I'm found guilty—hang me?”

The captain turned to him and spoke in a low voice.

“It's touch and go—if they rush me, they'll murder you!” Then, raising his voice, “You four Nantucket men in the sta'board watch, lay aft here! Mister, you and the second mate join 'em. Now, Mr. Nickerson, pick six of your own men to make up a jury. Make a record o' this, Mr. Johnson.”

Nickerson began to pick his men, with some protest as to the legality of the affair, and Day crossed the deck to where Hampton and Job Warlock stood.

“Sorry, lad,” he said quickly. “They're ripe to mob you, and we must hold 'em off. I've put a flea in Nickerson's ear. Accept the judgment of the court, savvy? It's the best I could do for ye. Otherwise it means ye go into irons and back wi' the brig to Beverly to stand trial, and some of the company with ye. Remember, now.”

Day turned away, and Hampton perceived the singular nature of the dilemma which faced all hands. The logical thing, indeed, was to throw him in irons if adjudged guilty and this meant that he would lie a prisoner until the brig returned north; it also meant that some of the gold company must return, to give evidence. The prospect suited him no better than it did them, yet he could not tamely accept any verdict rendered in the forming sea-court. Or could he? Day had been at work. Day urged him to accept what was given—had no doubt suggested something.

“I'd do it, matey,” said Job Warlock soberly. “It's a —— of a pinch, but that chap has his brains at work for us. Cheer up! The world's a fine place, so hurray!”

The jury now picked, and ranged on the quarterdeck, the captain took charge again.

“Gentlemen, you're here to render a verdict in this matter. You've heard the evidence, you know what's happened. Somebody aboard here has lied about that knife. Now, Mr. Hampton, if you can bring up any evidence in your own favor, the deck is yours.”

Hampton smile darkly.

“Who accuses me?”

“I do,” said old Nickerson, but without heat. “The dead man cried, by your own statement and ours who heard it: 'Help, ye rascal!' Explain that away if ye can.”

“There's nothing to explain.” Hampton regarded the jury steadily. “I've told what took place; my own knife is hanging in my cabin; I brought no baggage aboard, and have never seen this knife until today. I was not below with Jed Barnes long enough to struggle with him, much less inflict several wounds. That's all I have to say.”

“But I've a word, if ye please,” spoke out Job Warlock stoutly, and stepped forward. The captain nodded to him. “I've sailed wi' Dick Hampton afore this, and know him. He's no man to use knife. Why, ye lubbers, he can sail a ship better than all of ye put together! I've seen him lay out stu'nsails when every other ship in sight was under lower topsails——”

“That's enough,” snapped the captain. “If ye've no better evidence to offer than friendship, my man, keep quiet. Anything more, Mr. Hampton?”

“Go on with the farce,” said Hampton, and began to fill his pipe.

An angry murmur greeted this, then Nickerson spoke out:

“Cast your vote, jury. No prejudice for or against. Vote on the evidence alone.”

Adam Johnson provided scraps of paper and a pencil, which went from hand to hand. Watching it as he puffed, amid a dead silence, Hampton had no need to ask what was written down; the swift and nervous gestures, the one word scrawled on each bit of paper, told their own story. When the first mate, acting as foreman, had collected the papers, he looked them over and turned.

“Guilty,” he said in a low voice.

There was a stir. The crowd in the waist surged forward. Nickerson checked them with hand uplifted, then spoke to the captain, by whose elbow James Day was now standing.

“This is no legal court, sir. We can take no action on this verdict——”

“But ye can, if Mr. Hampton will abide by it,” said the skipper quickly. An ominous growl from the crowd of men emphasized his words. “What say ye, mister?”

There was another silence, and in it Hampton caught a mutter from Job Warlock:

“Bless me, if it ain't all cut and dried!”

Cut and dried indeed! Hampton smiled, and his anger broke out coldly.

“If you expect me to accept hanging from such a court, you're mistaken,” he said. “Anything short of that will serve well enough, until I can make appeal to the law.”

“Good enough, then,” exclaimed the captain hurriedly, and exchanged a word with Day. “Mr. Nickerson, I call upon you to give sentence.”

Cut and dried! Hampton felt curiously detached as he listened, and watched old Nickerson pawing his whiskers nervously. What was it that Day had arranged? Whither was this whole farcical business tending? Then he heard Nickerson's voice, and in shocked silence realized what words were being spoken.

“—that the murderer's weapon be slung about his neck, and he be placed adrift in an open boat to await the judgment of heaven.”

Upon the silence that ensued, burst a torrent of oaths from Job Warlock.

“It's murder, I tell ye!” roared the bo'sun profanely. “Before it's done, I'll knife any man that tries—why, ye villainous rascals! Mutiny or no, I'll——”

“Be silent!” cried Hampton, waking to the situation. “This can not be done, men! I refuse to accept such a sentence!”

Day was swiftly at his side with anxious words:

“Quiet, quiet! D'ye not see there's no danger in it? A day or so afloat, and the glass well up, and in the ship lane too——”

Hampton brushed him aside impatiently.

“I refuse!” he cried, above the rising storm of voices. “It shall not be done——”

True, he was thinking more of Nelly Barnes than of any possible danger, but had small time to reflect on anything. With a rush and a storm of shouts, the crowd in the waist broke over the after deck. Captain and mates were swept aside, and the maddened torrent poured down upon Hampton. The first who leaped at him fell under the fist of Job Warlock, who whipped out his knife and began to drive it home, but to no avail; the mob hemmed in the two men at the rail, and tore at them.

Hampton's fists lashed, and Job drove with knife and boot until some one fetched him a crack over the head and knocked him senseless. Then Hampton, alone, went down under main force of numbers—was dragged to the deck, felt himself smitten, kicked, finally bound hand and foot.

Through all this a voice pierced to him; it was a new and vibrant voice, the echoing brazen notes of a seaman, but one he had not heard previously.

“All hands to stations!” he heard it ring forth. “By the braces, there, stand by! Down stu'nsails—down, I say! Now, then, helm—hard down, hard down! Lean to it—down! Up with your braces—brace up, brace up! That's the way of it—shiver her, now! Hold her so——”

The yards backed, the ship came up into the wind. Over the whole deck prevailed fearful confusion, the seamen not knowing whence came that strange voice, yet obeying its commands, the captain and mates hemmed in at the rail and fighting to control the crowd, others rushing forward to where the boats were slung. These carried with them Hampton and the senseless bosun. Once more that strange but authoritative voice pierced above the din.

“Ready? Lower away—away!”

There was a squeaking of turning sheaves—Hampton felt himself flung into a boat, felt something slung about his neck; he could see nothing for the blood that ran into his eyes and blinded him, and realized that his senses were slipping away, for he had endured much. The boat truck the water. From above still came a confused din of voices, shouts, execrations, wild threats and wilder orders from the helpless officers; and through them all one piercing scream in a woman's voice. Then the shrill tones of Eliphalat Nickerson quavered high.

“We'll not pay for the boat!” the old man was crying. “Ye need not charge that to the company, I say—boats come high, and we'll not——”

“Cast off, cast off!” rang out that strange new voice, and the falls were cast off.

Hampton, with a quick movement, recovered himself for an instant and shaking his head dashed the blood from his eyes. For one moment he had clear vision, and looked upward. There he saw the face of James Day thrust over the rail, looking down at him—and a wild, cruel laugh was on that face. Then Hampton realized whose voice had been giving those orders.

“Cut and dried!” he muttered. “Aye, cut and dried——” and so muttering fell unconscious.

VII

AFTERNOON, and the empty, open boat rocking to the long swinging swell of the seas; empty, save for the two men who sat in her, alive once more in the warm sunlight. No mast or sail or oar was in the boat, no water or food, not even a tiller.

Battered and bruised, the two men had used teeth and fingers to get free of their bonds, and after bandaging each other sat smoking thirstily, silent for a long while, their eyes roving about the empty horizon. Job Warlock had a swollen jaw and a black eye, Dick Hampton had a slashed scalp and a dozen minor contusions, and about his neck still dangled the knife by its lanyard. Gradually their thoughts were gaining coherence, gradually Hampton was remembering everything of that wild and fearful scene aboard the vanished Hannah. He broke the silence at length, with slow words!

“Cut and dried, you said, Job. Did ye catch that voice giving orders?”

Warlock shook his head in perplexity.

“Aye, but I was a bit hurt and dazed. 'Twas no voice I had heard before, Dick. Could swear to that. A proper seaman's voice.”

Hampton's puffed lips curved slightly in a smile.

“Day's voice. I caught a glimpse of him at the rail above, as we were cast off. All cut and dried.”

Job Warlock stared, and presently uttered a slow, thoughtful whistle.

“Whew! Queer enough, matey, queer enough. It's all a riddle, and where's the key?”

“It's to find,” said Hampton grimly. “If you'd seen Day's grin, you'd understand; it was malignant, bitter, venomous. There was hidden poison in the man, but why? I've never done him harm.”

The brown, squat face of Job Warlock wrinkled up, and he puffed hard at his pipe. Dick Hampton was searching for some reason behind everything, but could find none. The whole thing seemed outrageous, without explanation. He was still slow to realize that from the moment of Jed Barnes' murder, his fate had been decided—there had been a slow culmination of events, yet everything had been cut and dried, planned out to the last detail. Who and why? If by Day, then for what reason? With a shiver, Hampton loosed the knife from about his neck and flung it into the stern of the boat.

Warlock straightened up suddenly on his thwart.

“By the crooked tree—let's trace the riddle, and seek the key afterward! So it was Day as done it, eh? It was him directing things?”

“Aye,” said Hampton. “He suggested the sentence to old Nickerson, and it seemed all fair enough. Otherwise, d'ye see, I'd ha' been put in irons for trial on return to Beverly, which would have suited me poorly indeed, for I have work to do. But let's work back slowly. It was not in Nickerson's mind, of course, or the skipper's either, to set us adrift without food or sail; with them, we'd not be badly off. As it is now——”

“It's nothin' short of murder,” said Job Warlock, “and it's Day's doin', too. It was him caught the crowd all aback, drove orders at 'em, cast us adrift; so that's settled. Aye, we did wrong to trust the rogue! Was it him murdered the old man?”

Hampton shook his head.

“Wait; come to that later. Why should Day have gone out of his way to take us aboard ship, only to work this game on us? It looks queer, Job. He'd have murdered me instead of setting me adrift, had he dared do it. Why, then, would he want me killed, after taking me along and promising me command of a schooner?”

“Hm! Where was he when the murder was done?”

“I don't know—ah!” Hampton checked himself, recollecting. “He was in the after cabin with the other company officers—I remember seeing him there as I glanced in.”

“Could he have done the job, then slipped into the after cabin?”

Hampton shrugged, frowned, puffed for a moment at his emptied pipe.

“Hard to say; it's possible, of course. Yet, why would he have killed Jed Barnes?”

“Well, work it out and we'll find a key.” Warlock slipped off the thwart, settled himself in the bottom of the boat, bracing himself to the swing and the fall. “Where'd ye see him first, and how?”

“By chance. Pure chance.”

Hampton recounted in detail his first meeting with James Day. For both of them, this effort to pierce the mystery not only had its own end to be attained, but served to relieve their thoughts. They were already suffering from thirst, because of their hurts and because of the lack of water itself affecting their imagination; both men realized clearly the peril of letting their minds dwell upon their almost hopeless circumstance.

“First meetin', then, all pure chance,” commented Job Warlock. “Fair enough; he had need of you, like he said, so set that down to his side of the ledger. He took me on for the same reason, and that's all square. Now, then, what was it come up to change him——”

“Ah!” Hampton's gray eyes lighted with a sudden flash of recollection. “That night, after he took you to your quarters, he came back and offered me introductions to friends of his in the Panama country—filibusters or pirates, no matter which. Said I could make my fortune in a year, throw in with him! When I refused, there were no hard words, but there was a look in his eye——”

“Too fast, too fast, matey! Take in a reef,” cried out Warlock in swift animation. “D'ye remember how he jerked out the little pistol on us? How it was that story of your brother—oh, I see it now, the trail's all clear! The world's a fine place, so hurray!”

The half-breed's swarthy features were agleam with exultation, with wolfish eagerness. He was scenting out this mental trail as he would follow any forest track, and seemingly he had now found the hidden clue. He leaned forward, dark eyes blazing.

“Listen, matey! Oh, it's clear as day now, aye, Day!” His lips drew back from his teeth in a snarling grin, and he checked himself to find the right words. “That letter from your brother—why, news of that hit him between wind and water! Caught him flat aback. What a shift o' wind it was for him! Stripped him to bare poles, and out came the pistol!”

Hampton caught the implication.

“Go on,” he said grimly. “You've hit it. Next?”

“Little black bull came down from the mountain,” sang Warlock, and laughed. “Oh, aye, clear as Day himself now! That mention of the letter, of your errand, of the man who had caught your brother atrip—Winslow!”

“His bitterest enemy,” said Hampton, and frowned. “Yet how that could have changed him toward me, made him hate me, I don't quite see! The man Winslow——”

“Not Winslow, not Winslow!” cried out the other eagerly. “It was a false trail, and it threw us all off! Not Winslow at all!”

“What are ye driving at, man?”

“Dias! What's that but Spanish for Day? Why, there's the man himself ye were seeking! No wonder he demanded why ye sought Winslow or Dias, was afraid to speak out——”

A groan of mingled fury and bitterness broke from Dick Hampton, as across his mind burst realization of the truth. Dias—James Day in person! No wonder Day had said that Dias was his bitterest enemy; true enough in all conscience!

Hampton waved his friend to silence, lowered his face into his hands, sat gripped in furious and futile quest of memory. One thing after another flooded in upon him, now that he understood the truth. This adventurer must have operated under a dozen names; no wonder that Job Warlock had heard of the filibuster Day, and again of the supposed Mexican Dias. Hampton saw that from the moment he had told James Day of his errand, he had been marked for death. At first eager to enlist a lieutenant and assistant, Day had then become more desperately eager to get rid of a man who might surprize his secret at any time.

And with this, abruptly, the whole affair began to broaden out in the light of that letter from Eli Hampton.

“If we'd only learned all this a day sooner!” and Hampton lifted his head, with another groan. “Now we're helpless.”

“Better late than never,” said Job Warlock cheerfully. “We've done well to find this much of a key, matey; it don't take many words to understand the game friend Dias is playing now, eh? No wonder he wanted to be rid of us. No matter what happens now, he's won his game.”

This was horribly true. It stood out clearly that Day, or more truly Dias, was one of those vultures who were now preying upon the flood of gold-seekers pouring across the isthmus or working up the west coast—not Americans only, but men of all nations. Owing to the expense of the journey, the average gold-seeker carried enough money to get him to his destination, and this was no small sum.

Dias, then, was not only a vulture, whose activities were clearly exposed in the letter from Eli, but was carrying on his activities on a large scale; Hampton stood aghast at the man's incredible audacity. Coming to New England, Dias had swiftly organized his company, with very plausible secrecy, from picked men of means. Perhaps the wealthiest in that company had been Jed Barnes, and none of them were poor men. Lured by the prospect of an assured and swift California passage under experienced auspices, they had trusted themselves to Dias—and what would be the end of this affair?

“Damnation, damnation!” cried Hampton, as the prospect burned into him, torturing him with the anguish of his own futility. “Those whom he can't rob and strip along the isthmus, he'll pack into his schooners at Panama and rob on the way north—they'll never see California at all! He'll land them somewhere in Mexico, penniless and broken—he's not a man but a devil! If we were at Chagres——”

“Take it calm, matey, for it can't be helped,” said Job Warlock coolly. “If we were at Chagres this blessed minute, waiting for him, what could we do? Nothing. You're a convicted murderer, I ain't nothin' but a common A. B., more or less. Depend on it, he's greased them dago officials to the limit. And who'll listen to us aboard ship? Nary a one, be sure of that. He's got them poor fools eating out of his hand, matey. Now listen here! Has the rascal got his eye on the lass, think ye?”

Hampton started, then shook his head. He had with his seaman's papers that letter from his brother Eli, and got out the oilskin packet. He showed Warlock the letter, which sufficiently removed any such conjecture as the bosun had put forth.

“Well, then, you and me better go to Chagres and look up this here Injun, El Hambre,” said Warlock. “Bet you a plugged two-cent piece we can work fine with him. Injun does it, every time. But if Dias ain't stuck on the girl, you can be sure it was him knifed the old man; sure as shootin', matey!”

Hampton nodded thoughtfully.

“Yes, but it can't be proved. And he's probably scheming for all the money Jed Barnes had. What will become of Nelly, then? That devil won't spare her——”

The blood rushed to his face. Warlock laid one powerful hand on his arm, restrainingly.

“Steady, matey! Brace up the yards and sheet home; she ain't goin' to suffer in a hurry. She's safe enough far's Chagres, and likely them other women will look after her to Panama. It's there that Dias will work his deviltry—there and after, up the west coast. Now come back to the job which we ain't finished. Where's that knife?”

Hampton retrieved the weapon from its position in the stern and they examined it for the first time, with quick interest.

The blade was not extraordinary, being of that universal and deadly fashion known to the whole frontier, north and south, as a Bowie. The handle, however, was most peculiar; Hampton recalled the skipper's comment that the murderer would never have left such a knife had he been given time to withdraw and remove it. The haft, with its short cross-guard, was of solid and heavy silver, intricately fashioned in the shape of an angel whose wings formed the guard, a hole between the feet carrying a stout ring through which the lanyard ran.

“Spanish or Mex work,” observed Job Warlock, “and durned pretty work, too. What's them figures on the back, matey? Mean anythin' to you?”

Hampton shook his head. On the back of the angel were graven, or chiseled, two characters, running deeply into the metal, one above the other. To Hampton they meant nothing:

“All Greek to me,” he responded. “Are they Mexican Indian?”

“Don't look like it, only I'm no judge,” said Warlock. “Well, the knife don't tell us much—but hang on to it. Better lay off smokin' that 'bacca and chew it. Good for what ails us both right now. Hard times ahead, as the Injun said when he rubbed his belly.”

Hampton occupied himself with cleaning the knife, and presently slung it about his neck once more, beneath his shirt.

The afternoon was nearly gone, and the sun went westering with never a fleck of sail to break the rim of the horizon. The boat rose and fell monotonously to the lift of the long seas, and as the slow darkness drew down the two men who sat in her were fully aware of what future they faced. The crafty guile of Dias, who had so cunningly twisted to his own advantage all the little happenings aboard ship and so masterfully dominated the sequence of events, had doomed them. They realized that without food or water they had practically no hope, for the chance that any ship would pick them up within a week was negligible in the extreme.

Yet, as they sat and rocked to the motion of the boat, they talked of Chagres and Panama, and of the future.

BOUND WEST

I

WHEN the Veronique of Bordeaux cast anchor in the shallow harbor of Chagres, there was no ship in port except one steamer of the Atlantic Steamship Company; the Hannah of Beverly had come and gone again. The company of gold-seekers aboard the French ship, who called themselves the Compagnie de l'Ouest d'Or, now experienced the same adventures which met all companies, of whatever nation, landing at Chagres.

The inimitable “Doc” White, an enterprizing Yankee, was first aboard the ship, and with praiseworthy energy contracted for delivery of all freight and luggage across the isthmus—half the payment in advance. He then rushed ashore to get his lighters out to the ship, and that was the last seen of the gentleman. Meantime, the harbor sharks were enjoying huge feasts, and constant explosions were taking place in the bowels of the Veronique as rotten tinned meats and provisions let fly; a stream of tins were going overboard. No one got ashore from the French ship that evening, except two castaways who had been picked up at sea—two dark, bearded, silent survivors of a foundered American fishing smack. These two, who spoke Spanish fluently, and who were well provided with money, greased the palm of the port officer and went ashore with him.

Eagerly enough, the Frenchmen piled ashore next morning, delighted with the golden oranges and bananas, the green jungle, the gaily colored birds and the chattering monkeys; sight of the crumbling and dismantled fortifications wakened their romance, which did not wane at closer view of the thirty miserable huts which made up the village, and the two wretched hotels. Romance presently gave way to more prosaic feelings, however, when they left their luggage piled along the beach and set out to obtain passage to Panama. Voluble Frenchmen engaged in high talk with silent, shrugging peons, obtained interpreters, arranged for boats and mules, paid over money on account, and then returned to the beach to find most of their luggage stolen. Lusty Gallic voices arose on the morning air, there was shrugging and shouting and swearing on all sides; brown men gazed placidly at the excitement; the Frenchmen, each of whom had brought huge quantities of baggage, rushed madly to the town again to find their carriers, only to discover these missing; then back to the beach, to see that a good half of the remaining goods had mysteriously disappeared. Grinning Indians and mestizos regarded the confusion with appreciation.

The two castaways stood on the hillside above the river, surveying the boats and the wild turmoil along the beach. One of them, whose cool gray eyes gleamed like ice above his half-grown fair beard, turned to his swart companion.

“Let 'em work out their own salvation, Job. They'd never be able to get all their stuff to the isthmus, anyway; the less they have to carry, the better. Had we better look up our boatman and get off? Wish I could shave these whiskers.”

Job Warlock tucked a big quid of tobacco away and grinned.

“Never mind your hankerings, matey—stick to business! Our job is to get to Panama and pick up news of the company. If that Dias is what we think him, you may be sure he has posted men here to watch for us, and our only chance is to slip along unknown. Yes, we'd better find that Indian and get moving.”

“There's the fellow,” said Hampton suddenly, and pointed. “Bargaining with those three Frenchmen. I'll go and attend to him—you grab his boat, that big canoe with the second man in it. We'll take along that French chap who was white to us, eh?”

“Right,” said Warlock, and swung off down the slope.

Dick Hampton approached the group of three gesticulating men who bargained with the swarthy half-Indian boatman. The latter had on the previous evening agreed to take the two friends up to Gorgona for eight dollars per head, and had been paid half the sum in advance; he now totally ignored Hampton and attempted to wave him away.

“So that's your game, eh?” said Hampton in Spanish, and reached out.

A howl broke from the boatman. Hampton gripped him by his long, greasy hair, bent him around, and kicked him vigorously, then, using the hair as a bridle, guided him toward the boats, amid fervent wailings and protestations. Job Warlock, meantime, had taken possession of the big canoe in even more vigorous fashion, and the astonished crowd of Frenchmen beheld the “savages” subside into meek and frightened obedience. Hampton summoned a bearded son of Bordeaux who had given them many kindnesses aboard the Veronique, got him stowed in the canoe with his luggage, and in five minutes the long craft swung off upstream. Catching the idea of how to handle the natives, the French Company at once went to work, and Hampton looked back to see carriers at work and boats being laden. He laughed grimly, serene in the knowledge that their kindly guest knew no English.

“They've lost their awe of the bare-footed soldiers in the ruined fort—well, we've a good start on the crowd, Job! We'd better rush our friend here right across to Panama, and pass for Frenchmen.”

“And meantime,” added Job sagely, “do our durndest to get in touch with El Hambre.”

Very cautious inquiries, the previous night, had elicited the information that the Hannah was a week ahead of them; and, apparently, Dias had made good his promises as to transport, for the company had gone forward without delay. Delays at Chagres were not desirable, as Hampton had already discovered, for the two wretched hotels were filled with non-paying guests, while native huts or tents were rendered terrible by clouds of mosquitoes, together with scorpions, snakes and millepeds. The old town abounded in all manner of insect life, and there were no sanitary conditions whatever.

All this, however, now mattered nothing to Hampton, as the canoe slid up the river at good speed, and the jungled walls on either hand opened up new vistas with every-moment. Like Chagres itself, the river was at first glance beautiful, with its vivid green walls, its numberless monkeys, darting toucans and parrots, splashes of gay flower growths. It soon palled, how ever, for mosquitoes swarmed in clouds, there was no breath of wind, and a miasmatic vapor clung to the edges of the stream.

The Frenchman was supplied with rifle and shotgun and several small arms of various makes, including two revolvers; and late in the afternoon he succeeded in bringing down two wild turkeys. Hampton forced the boatmen to keep at work, instead of landing immediately, and not until the sun was nearly down did he let them seek a camping place, for he was determined to make Gorgona by the following night. With the turkeys cooked as only Job Warlock could manage, the discomforts of the night camp were forgotten—but Hampton slept in the canoe, to make certain that the boatmen did not decamp.

With a bonus promised for making Gorgona, the two mestizos worked more cheerfully the next day, and managed to accomplish the usual three-day trip before the second night set in. The sun was not yet vanished when the canoe drew in to the bank and the voyageurs stepped ashore at Gorgona—a large place containing nearly a thousand souls, nestling under a hill. Here began the trail to Panama, twenty five miles away.

By the time the three paid off their men, hired a hut for the night and cleaned it, and got something to eat, darkness had fallen. They were sitting about their fire, smoking furiously to daunt the mosquitoes, when an American voice lifted out of the night:

“Hullo thar, pards! Heard a boat had come in, and come along to pay a visit.”

Into the firelight emerged a thin scarcrow, shaking with fever, a ragged serape flung over his shoulders. He shook hands delightedly, with a storm of questions.

“Where ye from? What company? Another ship come in? My gosh, now thar'll be another —— rush acrost to blue water and more tents on the Panama beach! Me, I'm just back. Goin' home, you bet. Been over thar three months and nary a berth to be had. Got enough o' pelicans and bugs and niggers. Where ye from, anyhow? Tom Smith, Hartford, is my handle.”

Hampton explained in Spanish that a French company had arrived, and Smith was properly disgusted at finding no English speech among the three. He understood and spoke a little Spanish, however, and informed them that Panama was crowded with gold-seekers, and the only chance of getting to California lay in shipping south to Callao and catching a north-bound ship there. Every such ship was crowded by the time it touched at Panama.

“The last company acrost had a tough time,” went on Smith, in a mixture of Spanish and English. “Beverly men, and most of 'em are stuck in Panama now. I hear somebody ran off with their money, left 'em stranded here at Gorgona or in the jungle beyond. Some got through and went along in a schooner that was waiting for 'em——”

“Were there any women in the party?” demanded Hampton, catching a swift look from Job Warlock. Smith nodded.

“Si, señor, some few. One señorita, muy hermosa, you bet! About thirty of them poor —— are stuck in Panama now. The others got off all right. Say, could you señores lend me enough dinero to get me to Chagres?”

Warlock produced a gold coin, Hampton another, and Smith was overjoyed. He gave them advice on securing mules here, and on behalf of the Frenchmen who were following, Warlock undertook to arrange for these. Their French companion was only too glad to stay in Gorgona and keep the muleteers under constraint until his friends arrived. So Job went out with Smith, and in half an hour was back with a number of peons. Matters were arranged promptly, and after shaking their blankets for stray scorpions, the three rolled up for the night.

“You and me,” said Job softly, in Hampton's ear, “can light out in the mornin' afoot, since we ain't got no luggage. Smith give me a tip. All these greenhorns are bound and determined to ride, on account of snakes; but it's a heap better and quicker to go afoot. Them mules are razor-backed, savvy? Mostly half-dead, too. All the carrying is done by peons. We can pack our blankets and make Panama tomorrow night with luck. Ain't that news about our Beverly company, though?”

“Bad news,” said Hampton. “Just as we thought. Dias robbed and left most of them, and took the others along. I'm beginning to think that if he'd brought me and placed me in charge, I'd have suffered for it.”

“Sure—he'd have left you to swaller the blame, and most likely the police at Panama would have jailed you, while that skunk slid off with the loot. But say!” and Warlock's voice became suddenly tense and eager, “I got a line on that Hambre Injun! He's comin' in from Panama tomorrow, and we'll meet him sure. Heard a couple o' dagoes talkin' about him. Dias didn't know it was him sent that letter from your brother?”

“No.”

“That's why he's alive. Get to sleep, now, and be up early.”

Sleep was slow in coming to Hampton, for his thoughts were all with Nelly Barnes and the men from Beverly, and he was confronted by a new perplexity. It was easy to see just how Dias had played his bold stroke; he had gone on to Panama with the officers and those chosen few whom he had not cajoled into parting with their money, and had loaded them aboard his schooner—simply abandoning those who had entrusted their funds to him. It had been done plausibly, of course, and the dozen who had embarked with Nelly were still probably unaware of their leader's perfidy. Since that schooner was certainly not bound for California, whither was it taking them?

“Perhaps up the coast, perhaps to that hidden place Dias has built,” thought Hampton. “But—we can't be seen in Panama! Some of those Beverly men would be sure to recognize me, despite this beard. Well, wait and see. They might have me jailed as a murderer, and they might not. First thing is to meet El Hambre.”

With daybreak, the two were up and preparing their packs of blankets and food. Upon parting, the Frenchman insisted volubly that each should take a derringer and a revolver from his ample store—indeed, he opened a trunk to disclose a small arsenal, which now he sadly realized was destined to be of no particular use to him. So, thus armed, Hampton and Warlock bade him farewell, and got out of the town quietly enough.

No guide was necessary; before them opened up the narrow, rocky trail that wound over the mountain flanks to the jungle beyond, and they struck off briskly. Once well on their way, which promised to be deserted until noon at least, Hampton voiced a thought that had been troubling him.

“Job, are you sure you didn't misunderstand what you heard last night, about El Hambre?”

Warlock showed a flash of teeth through his whiskers.

“You bet, but I didn't want to do too much talkin' in the hut. Somethin' mighty queer about that hombre, by the way those peons were talking. I couldn't get it all, but gathered he was a bandit or somethin' like that. Anyhow, we're sure to meet him—one good thing about this trail, a body can't get lost on it. Like goin' to the main royal yard; there's only one way to do it. How are you and me goin' to show up in Panama City, though? Some o' them Beverly men are sure to spot us, beard or no beard.”

“I was thinking the same thing, Job. We'd better lie low when we get there—go out only at night. Luckily, we had our money with us when Dias set us adrift; so we can buy ourselves Spanish outfits. Might be a good notion to call ourselves Basques, too, since we talk Spanish.”

Presently the sun was up, and they paused for a bite of breakfast, then on again. The road was no more than a trail over rough rocks, half-cleared and by no means easy to negotiate even without loads; how porters carrying two hundred-weight could manage it, Hampton failed to see. Repeatedly it led through deep sunless chasms in the side of the mountain, barely four feet wide and with precipitous walls on either hand, where seepage and travel had created patches of apparently bottomless adobe mud; and remembering the emaciated, staggering mules they had seen at Gorgona, Hampton quite approved Tom Smith's tip that they go forward afoot.

The sun was high overhead when they left the first portion of the trail behind and entered into the jungle. Here the trail wound with many meanderings through high walls of green, whose interlaced vines and branches overhead completely shut out the sun and formed a hot and steamy obscurity below. Here and there, beside the trail, was set up a crude native shrine to commemorate some deed of blood in times past. On and on they pushed, and by midday they had encountered half a dozen bloated or half-stripped carcasses of mules, over which hung clouds of loathsome vultures and other carrion birds.

It was quite high twelve, and a little after, when they came to a sun-bathed opening, where a trickle of water and a wide mud flat marked the course of a rivulet across the trail. On the near bank was set up a shrine, tattered and despoiled by weather, and Job Warlock proposed that they halt for a rest and a bite to eat. Hampton assented gladly—both men were dripping with perspiration and exhausted by the intense humidity of the jungle trail, which was far more tiring than any acutal exertion. When Hampton would have flung himself down carelessly, however, the crafty Warlock intervened.

“Hold on! The less we show ourselves the better, matey; lay up to one side, off the trail. We're liable to meet carriers comin' from the west 'most any time now.”

Hampton nodded, and followed his companion in behind the screen of brush. Here they hacked out a small cleared space with their knives and settled down to eat and smoke and drink of the clear cold water furnished by the rivulet. Hot as was the jungle, this one spot was washed clear of humidity by the intense and burning sunlight, and afforded vast relief. When they lighted their pipes, it was almost in comfort.

“This is a right smart spot to lay up for anybody comin' from Panama,” said Warlock in a low voice, pointing to the opening in the sunlight. “They got to cross the crick and that there patch o' mud, which is sticky as glue, then they got to come right up the trail to here, opposite us. If we step out, then what? They sure can't go back in any hurry.”

Hampton gave him a curious glance.

“Eh? What's in your mind?”

“I dunno, for a fact,” said Warlock, “but I got a feelin' that somethin's on the way to us—you needn't laugh, neither. Remember that time aboard the Watersprite, when I felt like that, and we got a durned quick shift o' wind that stripped us off bare and sent 'Nigger Joe' to glory? I got the same feelin' now. If anybody shows up, douse that pipe.”

Hampton nodded and waited frowningly, his eyes peering through the leafy screen and watching the opposite side of the opening, across the mud flat, where the western end of the trail debouched on the creek. He had none too much faith in Job Warlock's premonition, yet he knew that the man had sometimes an uncanny ability to sense trouble or peril.

Then, abruptly, there came a breath of motion among the bushes on the farther bank, and a moving object appeared.

Hampton laid down his pipe suddenly, pressed the tobacco into the bowl, and lay motionless. Warlock followed suit, squinting. A mule, heavily loaded, was descending the creek bank, and now began to pick his way gingerly across the rivulet and the mud flat beyond. The mud clogged him, holding him to a slow and sucking pace. He struggled forward to firm ground and stood there waiting. Behind him, a man, appeared descending the bank, then a second man.

Hampton's eyes widened. The first man was a Chinaman, heavy-set and burly of aspect, with black silk coat and trousers but wearing a belted horse-pistol. The second man was an Indian, very swarthy, very tall and lank; a plaited grass sombrero hid his features and a scarlet serape was swung across his shoulders. The two men were talking as they came into sight, and stopped for a moment to watch the mule, while the Indian lighted a cigarito. Then the Chinaman came on across the rivulet, showing high boots beneath flapping trouser-ends, and began to pick his way across the mud.

The Indian followed more leisurely, yet with a certain cat-like grace of movement. He caught up with his companion when the latter was nearly through the sticky adobe mud, and made some remark, to which the yellow man returned a grunting response.

Then the Indian flung away his cigarito with a wide sweep of his arm. His hand darted beneath his serape, plucked forth a flashing blade of steel, and drove it forward into the back of the Chinaman. The act was deliberate, deadly and swift as the lashing stroke of a fer-de-lance, and as murderous. The yellow man emitted one agonized gulp, and pitched forward dead. The mule reached up his head to tug at some leaves, and his bell tinkled on the hot silence. The Indian stood motionless for a moment, thrust away his knife, and calmly began to roll another cigarito of tobacco and thin paper.

Hampton, paralyzed by the swiftness of it all, turned blazing eyes to Warlock, who gripped his wrist. The same thought was in the minds of both men.

“We got him,” murmured Warlock. “Ready? Up and out——”

They burst out together, then Warlock leaped into the trail, Hampton waiting on one knee, revolver steadied. The murderer was caught indeed, and realized it; he stood staring at them, his smoke half-rolled, the menace of their weapons holding him immobile.

“Los manos arriba!” snapped Hampton, and the Indian lifted his hands.

“We got him,” said Warlock, “and got him red-handed! He was guiding this chink, savvy? Planned to murder and rob him.”

The Indian stood like a graven image; under the wide brim of his hat, his flashing eyes drove from one to the other of the two men. Hampton rose and stepped forward. He could not understand the stolid immobility of the murderer, whose attitude held no cringing fear, and who gave expression to none of the usual plaints and wails of a frightened mestizo. He seemed, indeed, to stand there in proud scorn of the two men who had surprized him, nor did he move when Job Warlock stepped around to his other side, quite cutting off any retreat.

“So you thought you could murder that man and rob him in a lonely spot, eh?' said Hampton in Spanish. “Well, now you can turn around and go back to Panama with us——”

“Hold on, Hampton!” exclaimed Warlock. “It ain't our job, and you know it's plain —— to get tangled up with them dagoes——”

The Indian started suddenly. His eyes fastened on Hampton with a peculiar look; his lean and cavernous features seemed suddenly amazed, astounded.

“Ham-ton!” he exclaimed. “No es possible—no, no! Señor Don Ricardo Hamton——”

“What's that?” exclaimed Hampton. “You know my name——”

“Are you that man, señor?” Excitement blazed suddenly in the brown face. “Are you the brother of my friend—he who wrote a letter——”

“My gosh!” broke from Job Warlock. “It's El Hambre, Dick!”

“Si—El Hambre!” cried the Indian. “Señores, I kiss your hands and feet—we are friends! I have been looking for you a long time, Don Ricardo.”

Dick Hampton lowered his revolver, stared amazedly into the suddenly friendly, laughing face of the Indian, and wondered if he were dreaming. What a fashion in which to find El Hambre, the man whom he had come so far to seek!

Then his eyes fell to the dead Chinaman.

II

THE Indian laughed.

This lean, almost cadaverous man whose appearance sufficiently explained his name of “Hunger,” uttered, a low, harsh and dissonant cackle of sheer mirth. He perfectly comprehended the consternation of the two white men who had apprehended him red-handed in murder—a feeling which Job Warlock expressed disgustedly.

“Durn me if he ain't took us flat aback, matey! And now what?”

Hampton hesitated, then slowly shook his head and put away his weapon. Murderer or no, this Indian was the man he had come so far to seek—and now it was not the fate of his brother alone which hung upon the event, but also that of Nelly Barnes. Reading the message of his gray eyes, El Hambre made a swift gesture, indicating the corpse.

“Señores, you do not know why I have done this? Here, I will show you.”

He turned and stooped over the body of the oriental. Ripping asunder the black silk garments, he examined them, searching carefully with deft fingers. A grunt broke from his lips, he brought out his knife, and from the lining of the coat he extracted a letter, well sealed. This he shoved into the hand of Hampton, then darted to the mule, slashed at the thongs binding the load, and showed that this consisted of two stout Mexican trunks, gaily adorned. These he hurled into the jungle, then slapped the mule and sent it off up the trail.

Warlcck came to Hampton's side and stared at the letter.

“It's addressed to a New York bank,” said Hampton, frowning.

Then, as he turned over the letter, he started slightly. The seal impressed in the red wax was composed of two strange characters—the same two characters graven in the silver haft of the knife that had smitten Jed Barnes so murderously! Hampton looked up, encountered the eyes of El Hambre.

“What's this—a letter from Dias?”

The Indian gave him a slow, astonished look, then nodded.

“Yes, señor. This yellow man was taking it to New York with him; he is a trusted servant of that devil Dias! How did you know?”

Without hesitation, Hampton tore at the letter, forced it open, and found it to contain a number of bank drafts, each payable in New York or San Francisco and endorsed over to James Day. One glance at the names was enough.

“Some of his loot from the Beverly company,” said Hampton grimly. “No doubt these men are the ones now in Panama. This money must go back to them—it'll mean everything. What a crafty —— Dias is! El Hambre, is he in Panama now? Can we have him arrested?”

The Indian only laughed at that—the laugh was sufficient answer. He shook his head and began to roll himself another smoke.

Hampton understood clearly enough. Dias was quite immune from any local law, and his victims could not reach him. He had made a rich haul, had undoubtedly gone away in his schooner to his secret hold, and by the time he returned to Panama the city would be flooded with crowds of fresh victims. It was a safe and sure game.

Suddenly, when he had lighted his cigaret, El Hambre came to Hampton and touched his arm.

“You are looking for your brother, Don Ricardo, yes? You want to find this man Dias?”

“I came from the north in the same ship with him, and didn't know it until too late,” said Hampton bleakly. “Yes. Now I mean to find him, and my brother too.”

“Bueno!” The Indian made an imperative gesture. “Then come with me. I am alone, and it is not safe; the men of Dias would kill me if they knew that I was an enemy. We shall hunt that man together, we three. But come quickly, for others are on the trail. We cannot talk here.”

He leaned over the body of the yellow man, lifted it without apparent effort, and sent it after the boxes, hidden by the close-crowding jungle. Hampton and Job Warlock got their packs, and the cadaverous Indian beckoned them to the rivulet, which had a good sand bottom. Stepping up the stream, he shoved aside the tangle of vines and creepers, and the others followed him closely for a hundred feet, crouching close to the water and avoiding the heavy mass of foliage overhead. Then, unexpectedly, they emerged into another clearing, and a trail appeared going into the jungle. Job Warlock laughed:

“Injun does it, matey! Now we're goin' to get somewhere, soon's we can swap yarns with this chap. Looks like he's out to stick a knife in Dias, eh? Durned good thing we didn't put a bullet into him for knifing that chink! The world's a fine place, so hurray!”

Hampton made no response, devoting himself to keeping up with El Hambre, who advanced rapidly along the narrow trail that penetrated the jungle. When they had gone half a mile the trail began to mount and the trees thinned out, until at length the three men emerged upon a hill side, close to a trickling waterfall and a thatched hut. El Hambre gave a call, and from the hut emerged a wrinkled Indian woman.

“Mi madre,” he said to the white men in explanation. “Señores, my house is yours. Here we can talk in peace, for there is much to say.”

The old woman produced food, which neither Hampton nor Warlock desired. After a long drink from the pool under the fall, they lighted their pipes and joined El Hambre in the shade; for Job Warlock, having given up trying to masticate the local tobacco, was compelled to stick to his pipe. After having finished their brief repast, the Indian rolled a smoke and addressed Hampton:

“Don Ricardo, your brother was my very good friend; he was kind to me. I am sorry that I could not help him, yet I am one man and Dias has many men. Three years ago Dias took my wife, because one of his men desired her; since then I have killed his men, and he does not know how they have disappeared. More, I could not do. I am alone, poor, unable to do much. Twice I have tried to kill him—the last time, only a few days ago in Panama. I failed.”

“Where is my brother now?” demanded Hampton.

“Across the sea.”

“What?”

“Si, señor—across the Vermilion Sea, the Gulf of California—there is a place south of Loreto, in Baja California, where Dias has settled. He takes his slaves there.”

“Oh!” said Hampton. “Then you know the place?”

“I went there three years ago, señor,” said the Indian simply, “but my wife was dead. I could not stay, lest they discover me and kill me, for I wanted to kill many of them first. So I came back. It was a long way.”

“This man, Señor Job, is my friend,” and Hampton indicated Warlock. “He comes with me to find my brother—and another. Did you see Dias and the people with him, in Panama?”

“Si; his schooner was there.”

“Did you see a señorita with brown hair, who was alone?”

Warlock caught the eye of the Indian and winked significantly, and the brows of El Hambre went up.

“Ah, yes! Yes, señor. She went on his schooner, with others. Some of them he will put ashore at Mazatlan, others he will take home as slaves.”

Hampton produced the envelope which had contained the drafts, and pointed to the two mysterious characters on the wax seals.

“What does this writing, if it is writing, mean?”

The Indians shrugged.

“No si, señor! It is a mark, a brand, used by Dias; all his men know it and respect it.”

“Perhaps this is the same thing,” said Hampton grimly, and produced from beneath his shirt the silver-hilted knife. He indicated the characters graven in the haft.

A gasp broke from the Indian. He leaned forward, took the knife, examined it with awed and incredulous eyes. Then he gazed wolfishly from Hampton to Job Warlock.

“It is the knife of Dias himself,” he said.

“Hurray! That settles who is the murderer!” cried Job Warlock, and grinned. “'Little black bull come over the mountain'—Hurray! Now we can go ahead, get the consul to have Dias stowed away in the calabozo, and go investigate his joint up the coast!”

“Not so fast—explain the matter first.”

Between them they sketched for El Hambre what had taken place aboard the Hannah, and how they had been providentially picked up by the French ship. The lean Indian listened, his eyes flashing, a keen intelligence evident in his features. He was by no means handsome, since his face was scarred and pitted by smallpox, but both men warmed to him.

“Now,” concluded Hampton, “here is what must be done. We must go to Panama and return the money that Dias stole from those men, and you whose knife this is——”

El Hambre intervened.

“A moment, señor! It is impossible to go to Panama.”

“Why impossible?” demanded Hampton, reading much behind the words.

The Indian laughed in his harsh, chuckling way.

“I was there last night, bargaining with that yellow man to bring him to Chagres, that I might kill him; unluckily, there was another yellow man——”

“Another?” struck in Hampton. “Another Chinaman?”

“Dias is served by many of them,” explained the Indian. “Most of the yellow men are his friends; why, I do not know. Yes, there was another. I wanted to make sure of him also, and last night I followed him to the place, where he lived, in the street of the shoemakers. There was a baile in that street, and just as I was killing the yellow man, a fight arose between Americanos and police; so it happened that, as I was leaving the house, police seized me as a thief. They let me go when they recognized me, for it is known that I am no thief; but when they find the dead yellow man this morning, they will search for me. They may be searching now—quién sabe? If I go to Panama, they will take me.”

Hampton marveled at the cool and imperturbable manner in which this man spoke of his killings. It was unreal and ghastly, almost inhuman; nothing could have so bitterly emphasized the Indian's ferocious and deadly hatred of Dias as his matter-of-fact recital. Under the circumstances, it was of course impossible for El Hambre to venture into the city by day.

On the other hand, Hampton was resolved to get the murder of Jed Barnes cleared up and thus procure his own absolution from the crime. The opportunity which was now his might never come again, and he was savagely determined not to lose the providential chance. Yet, for a moment, he could find no way out of the impasse. Upon the silence rose the voice of Job Warlock, humming his interminable ditty:

“A little black bull came down from the mountain,
Ri tura lingtum, ri tura lay!
A little black bull came down from the mountain,
Ri tura lingtum, diddle diddle aye!

“Oh, the little black bull he was feeling frisky,
Ri tura lingtum, ri——”

Hampton cut short the chant.

“What sort of place is the stronghold of Dias?”

“Puerto Escondido? As the name says, señor don, it is a little hidden haven, inside a barren and rocky island. All around the haven is ancient desert. There is a long, deep valley with a rivulet, and a tiny harbor. Dias has ships which prey on the pearl fisheries or come down to these coasts and do other things.”

“A pirate haven?”

“By no means, señor; his two schooners hold the direct commission of Santa Ana.”

“How can we get there from Panama? Are you willing to go with us?”

El Hambre grinned.

“Si, si, señor! I go gladly. But to go is another matter—it is not a trip to make in a fishing boat. There is a schooner in port now, a Mexican schooner bound north to Acapulco and Mazatlan. Her captain hates all gringos and will take no passengers; but if he thinks you are wealthy Basques or Cubans who can pay, and me your servant, he will agree. He is to sail tomorrow night or the next day. Still, it is not a boat with a good reputation, señor.”

Job Warlock chuckled, reading what was in Hampton's thought.

“Looks like the beards stay, matey! The world's a good place, so hurray!”

Hampton ignored him. “Very well, we go by that boat, El Hambre, if it can be managed. From Mazatlan we can get across the gulf easily enough. Now, have you any idea where we can find the Americanos from whom Dias stole this money?”

The Indian, who was now aglow with eagerness, shrugged.

“Dios sabe, señor! They are camped along the bay by the hundreds; already the hotels are crowded to the doors. One must search.”

“Well, then, we shall search. Can we reach Panama without going by the main road?”

“Yes; by trail to the plantation Mendoza y Mueges, then by road to the city.”

“Then I suggest this,” said Hampton decisively. “You lead us there first thing in the morning, and leave us. We've both been in Panama before, and know our way around. Then, after dark tomorrow night, you come along and join us. When my business is settled, we can see that Mexican skipper. Are you afraid to enter the city after dark?”

El Hambre shrugged.

“I will risk it, señores; besides, I can enter even if the gates are shut. I will do it, because we are amigos—but,” and here he looked at Hampton in a singular manner, “there is something you do not yet know.”

“There's a good deal I don't know, but I mean to find out,” and Hampton laughed. “Well?”

El Hambre began to fabricate a smoke, with meticulous care. He did not reply until he had scratched a sulphur-match and was puffing gently. A strange expression lay in the regard that he fastened upon the two white men.

“Yesterday,” he said, “a schooner arrived in Panama, landed a passenger, and went on to the south. It was one of the schooners belonging to Dias—he has two. Evidently that passenger came to meet Dias and did not know he had already arrived and gone north by his other schooner. That passenger is still in Panama City.”

“Well, what of it?” asked Hampton. “Who's the passenger?”

“A very beautiful woman,” said El Hambre, and smiled thinly. “A most beautiful and cruel woman, señores, with the heart of a tigre. It is said that her father was a wealthy merchant of Manila, and her mother a yellow woman—no one knows. It is through her that Dias is served by the yellow men—that is, they serve her, and hence serve him. That woman is more dangerous than many men.”

“And she is——”

“Señora Dias.” The Indian spat in the sand. “Or, as men call her, Doña Hermana.”

“Doña Hermana?” Job Warlock scowled puzzled. “That is no woman's name. It means sister.”

“Si,” and El Hambre showed his white teeth in a flashing smile. “Doña Hermana del Diablo—Sister of the Devil.”

“Oh!” said Hampton thoughtfully, and fell silent. He remembered what his brother had written about this woman, and wondered if poor Eli were now slaving away to build a palace in Baja California for the wife of Dias.

“Well,” he added presently, “we have nothing to do with her.”

“But,” said El Hambre, “she is in Panama, and she is a terrible woman. I am afraid of her, Señor Ricardo, and that is one very good reason why we should not go there.”

Hampton looked at the man, met the glittering eyes, and his lips set ominously. Then, after a moment, he spoke——

“We are going.”

“Bueno.” The Indian shrugged and smiled. “Yo también.”

“And I also,” repeated Job Warlock, grinning. “All three together, and —— the odds! Eh, matey! But I think that, instead of finishing our job, we have only begun it!”

El Hambre, who was still fingering that knife with the silver haft, ran his thumb along the razor-keen blade.

“I would give much for a knife such as this,” he murmured.

“Keep it,” said Hampton indifferently, “but be sure to bring it to the city with you tomorrow night!”

The Indian uttered his harsh laugh. “Good! Good!” he exclaimed. “There will be men with the Doña Hermana. Yellow men!”

Job Warlock grinned understandingly, but Hampton was slow to catch the implication.

III

HAVING made a start with dawn, three hours of hard travel by jungle and hill trails saw the three companions within five miles of Panama City. Passing the Mendoza y Mueges hacienda, they emerged upon a very fair carriage road which, as El Hambre informed the other two, joined the Chagres-Panama high way two miles from the latter city, and which would be practically deserted. The hour was too late for peons to be going to town with produce, and too early for the average city dweller to be outward bound.

“Here I leave you, señores,” said the Indian gravely. “Where do we meet tonight?”

“That is for you to say,” returned Hampton.

“Very well. Go to the inn of the Golden Pomegranates, in the Calle de los Hermanos, and ask for the owner, Juan d'Aquila. He is my father's brother; say that you come from me. I'll meet you there at nine tonight.”

“Agreed,” said Hampton. “Hasta la noche!”

“Until tonight,” repeated El Hambre, and was gone among the green foliage.

Hampton and Warlock struck out together along the road, which wound apparently through open jungle, though at times patches of cleared and cultivated land appeared beyond the bordering trees and vines, and twice they passed imposing haciendas. They had evidently been brought into one of the fertile vales which supplied the ancient richness of Panama.

“Looks to me,” observed Warlock, “as if we'd better raise an army before we go after Dias! Either that or a navy. What's your idea, anyhow?”

“You and I and El Hambre can do more than any army,” responded Hampton.

“All three of us together and —— the odds! Hello—squally weather ahead——”

From a bend in the road just ahead, masked by trees, rose a shrill yell, followed by the roar of a gun. Then, almost upon them, dashed into sight a carriage drawn by two plunging horses. Another shot smashed out, and one of the horses pitched forward, bringing down the second and flinging a groom to the road, where he lay senseless. In the halted carriage appeared a woman, whose bright gown and gay parasol made a brilliant splotch of color.

As the two men stood staring, a group of figures broke into sight, running at the carriage; there was a flash of knives, and a yell shrilled up.

“Hold-up,” exclaimed Job Warlock, snatching at his revolver.

Hampton's weapon was already out, and he fired twice. The carriage was not twenty feet distant; the bandits, half a dozen ragged peons, were checked by the sight of two strangers, and one of them fell to Hampton's shots. An escopeta roared, and the slugs whistled overhead, as Warlock's weapon cracked—but instead of breaking, the bandits yelled and leaped forward, thinking that they had to deal with pistols now discharged and empty.

When Hampton dropped the leader, and Warlock winged another, cries of dismay burst from the remaining men, and next instant they scattered and were gone into the jungle, leaving a wounded comrade to drag himself after them, and two bodies sprawled grotesquely in the sunlit road. Warlock sprang to the reins of the unhurt horse, which was on his feet plunging in mad fright, while Hampton, removing his wide hat, turned to the occupant of the carriage.

Somewhat to his astonishment, he perceived that not only was she quite composed, but was smiling at him in entire absence of fright or alarm. Also, he noted that she was a rarely beautiful woman, with darkly vivid Spanish coloring and a peculiar golden glow to her skin which might have come from the sunlight splashing through the interstices of her dropping Leghorn hat. Jewels flashed on her fingers.

“Muchas gracias, señores!” she exclaimed, not in the long Mexican drawl but in the more precise and lisping accents of Castile. “I owe you more than thanks; I am in your debt. Those bandits shot one groom and the other went down when my horse was killed—you are not hurt? Praise to the saints!”

Hampton bowed, not forgetting that he must play a part.

“Señora, the opportunity of serving you is its own reward. With your leave, I will help my friend revive your groom——”

He rushed to the aid of Warlock, who had quieted the horse, and between them they got the stunned groom revived and on his feet. The latter, his fears appeased, looked at the dead bandit leader, and crossed himself.

“It is he, El Tigre, the dreaded outlaw. But who will pay for my horse——”

“I will pay, fool,” came the woman's voice, with an authoritative ring in it. “Go and see whether your companion is alive—though I think he was shot in the head and done for. Then return and hitch up the remaining horse. Señores, to whom do I give my thanks? Are you travelers, as your appearance would indicate, or paladin knights sent by the saints to aid me?”

Job Warlock, bowing, grinned widely and made answer.

“Neither and both, señora. Being Basque, we are noble, since every Basque gentleman is a noble by ancient rights; and having tired of plantations in Cuba, which we have sold, we are now traveling to the land of Eldorado, to seek California gold. I am Hernan d'Etchevain, and my friend here is Antonio Estramure. Señora, we kiss your hands and feet.”

To all this stately Spanish speech the woman paid little heed, save to one word, for her eyes were devouring the two men. Hampton found those dark and liquid eyes unaccountably piercing, and behind their beauty was a poise and quiet control unusual in such a woman.

“Basque!” she repeated. “That explains the accent, and also the swift action. Señores, since you are bound for California, it happens that I may be of aid to you. Come to my house at five this afternoon—the House of Yellow Tiles, in the Calle de los Hermanos.”

Hampton bowed assent, and at this instant the groom returned, with word that his fellow was dead. Hampton and Warlock helped him get the remaining horse patched up with the harness, and in another five minutes the carraige moved away toward town, with a last farewell from the unknown lady. When the equipage had disappeared, Warlock dug his friend in the ribs.

“Ha! 'Little black bull came over the mountain'—did ye note the hit ye made, Dick? She has an eye for wide shoulders, eh? I'll bet she'd like to see ye show up without me! And no name mentioned, neither—she's some fine lady. Look out ye don't get a knife from her husband tonight. A knife's a poor dinner, as the Injun said when he rubbed his belly——”

“Shut up,” said Hampton, but frowned as he spoke. “There's something about her what I don't fancy.”

“Then I'll keep the appointment, and glad to leave ye behind!” Warlock chuckled. “Let's be moving, for we have work to do. Aye, her house is in the same street with the inn—you stop behind, and I'll go meet the lady, right enough!”

“We've other things on hand than playing fast and loose in Panama City.”

“Aye, but she can help us get north! That's a shot in your locker, matey.”

Hampton returned no answer, but struck into a rapid stride. He was not so pleased with the adventure as might have been; beautiful as the woman was, something in her face chilled and startled him; he could not forget the singular poise of those dark eyes.

However, he made no comment as they continued their brisk pace, and Job did not again break in upon his silence, Suddenly the road which they were following made an abrupt turn, and then emerged without warning upon the highway, two miles from the city—a wide road here paved with cobbles, chain gangs of convicts at work installing the stones farther on. The towers of the cathedral glistened in the sunlight, and to right and left were handsome suburban residences and gardens, the morning air sweet with the scent of flowers and oranges.

Another mile, and they came to the huge arching span of the stone bridge, and went on past the tower to where the road narrowed between walls to the moat and gate, where barefoot soldiers, clad in dirty white, uniform caps of blue and red, sustained the dignity of the sovereign republic of New Granada. The gates were open and the soldiers more interested in dice than in entrants, however, and no question was asked as the two friends passed through to the narrow streets of the city.

Here the tremendous influx of foreign elements was at once evident. There seemed to be only a sprinkling of little brown men, most of them barefoot, and native women cloaked in rebosos; everywhere were foreigners, with Americans predominating. The majority of these were swaggering about, enjoying themselves and spending money in great style; but from comments he caught in passing, and a few emaciated skeletons whom he observed, Hampton concluded that the camp on the beach would tell a different story. Neither he nor Warlock saw any one whom they knew, and having first to find the Inn of the Golden Pomegranates, directed their inquiries to this end.

The Street of the Brothers proved to be a tortuous and narrow lane behind the plaza, and not far from the ramparts where the brazen Spanish cannon glittered in the sunlight. Passing down this lane, the two men came presently to their objective—a small and unpromising fonda which was obviously given over to the peon trade, with numbers of Indians and mestizos sprawling about. Finding himself confronted by a wrinkled little old man, Hampton asked for Juan d'Aquila.

“I am he, señores,” said the other, with a serape, and a half-scowl.

“We are from El Hambre.”

Instantly the demeanor of their host passed from suspicion into hurried affability. He conducted them to a door, which led into a passage, and so into a very clean room with pink-painted ceiling and enormous netted bed. Relieving them of their packs, d'Aquila set out chairs and bowed.

“Señores, my house is yours, and all in it. Shall I bring food and wine before talking?”

It was by this time noon, and Hampton assented gladly. D'Aquila left, speedily to return with cakes, fruit and wine. Then, while they ate, he rolled cigaritos for them and talked. He was a little, gentle old Indian, full of wisdom.

“You are from that nephew of mine, and therefore it is a matter for discretion,” he said smilingly. “I suppose he knows that the police are seeking him?”

Hampton nodded. “Yes, but he is to meet us here at nine tonight. Can you supply us with a room that will be private?”

“This is my own room; it is yours.”

“Good. We shall return here, and tonight two or three men may come asking for us, at nine o'clock. They will ask for me, Don Ricardo; admit them, for they are friends. That is all.”

“Except,” said Warlock, “to tell us where there is a house in this street called the House of Yellow Tiles. Who lives there?”

D'Aquila shrugged:

“It is an old house at the farther end of the street, señores, and once belonged to the family of Guzman; now it is rented to no one knows whom—a family from down the coast, some say. They are rarely seen, and are not here often, though I heard today that the house was open.”

Disappointed in this, Hampton rose, for he meant to waste no time getting in touch with some of the Beverly company men; so, bidding d'Aquila adios, he returned to the street with Job Warlock, and they began to make inquiries from the obvious Americans sauntering past.

They discovered that their search must depend upon luck alone. The various companies reaching Panama tried to keep together, but it was impossible. The hotels were crowded, rooms of all sorts were at a high premium, and hundreds of men were camped out along the beach, while those who could afford to do so had gone over to Tobago Island to get out of the Panama fever-zone. The two friends consulted, and decided to separate.

“We've no time to lose, and one of us will be sure to get results,” said Job Warlock. “Whichever one of us finds the crowd, tell 'em to be at the inn at nine—that right? Then, where will you and me meet up?”

“At the inn, or failing that, at the señora's house at five.”

Warlock grinned.

“Ain't going to give me a show alone, eh? All right. So long.”

So they parted, at the plaza, each going in a different direction along the crowded streets.

Hampton, bound in the general direction of the beach, could not miss the uproarious spirit of those around him; for here about the plaza centered the cockpits and gambling halls, where monte was the chief diversion, and the pulquerias where every kind of drink from Peruvian pisco to Irish whisky could be obtained. For the gold-seekers there was no siesta hour, yet Hampton observed that the Americans in general, and above all the New Englanders, were under far greater restraint than the Europeans. Everywhere whanged out “Susannah,” from voice, accordion, violin or banjo; the swinging lilt of that air, which could be plaintive or roaring according to the tempo, filled everything.

“If it's like this at noon, what is it at night?” said Hampton to a Yankee standing in the street industriously chewing tobacco.

“Plain —— at night, pardner,” was the response, “with them niggers keepin' knives sharp.”

“I suppose you don't happen to know where I could find a Beverly company I'm looking for?”

“Them Beverly men? Sure—the poor —— are camped down to the beach, just the other side them fishing shacks. Half of them down with plague or fever, I hear tell.”

Hampton turned away and started for the bay, keeping time to “Susannah” as a party of bearded Hamburg men roared it out to German words of their own. That was practically the only tune heard in Panama, even when the military band played in the plaza; there was something in its lilt, in its sharply accented rhythm, which captivated the fancy of men.

When he was nearing the beach, along a hot and deserted little street with overhanging balconies and closed shutters, Hampton descried a figure approaching him with staggering step. This gaunt, emaciated creature, with ragged beard and tatterdemalion garments, he knew at once for an American, and eyed the man with pity. Then, upon drawing closer, dim recognition of those disease-smitten features leaped within him, and he halted staring; abruptly, with a gasp, he realized that this reeling scarecrow was the erstwhile dapper Adam Johnson, secretary of the Beverly company! Johnson came closer, fastened haggard eyes on Hampton, and came to a halt.

“You!” he croaked. “No, it can't be you, Dick Hampton—it can't be you——”

Hampton sprang forward and caught the man as he reeled.

“Dick Hampton it is, old fellow—here, brace up! You're sick!”

“Sick and starved.” A hollow groan burst from Adam Johnson. “Nickerson died yesterday—he stayed with us. The other officers went with that scoundrel James Day. We're flat broke. No money, nothing except what we can beg—dysentery, fever——”

“Thank God, man, I found you!” exclaimed Hampton fervently. “Coming across from Chagres I intercepted a message from Day. It contained a lot of your money—he was sending it to be cashed in New York. Here, look at these——”

He produced the drafts, and Adam Johnson looked at them with distended eyes, then put his face in his hands and cried like a child. Hampton drew him into the shade of a doorway.

“You can't know what this means to us all,” gasped Johnson at length. “Thirty of us were here; ten are dead. Three more won't last until tomorrow. But now we can get food, everything! A lot of the other men have helped us, but most of them don't care. Now we can get back home—man, this is too good to be true! Thank the good Lord for you, Dick Hampton.”

Hampton took Johnson's arm and turned back toward the plaza.

“Here, I have ready money,” he said quietly. “While you're getting one of those drafts cashed, if you can do so, I'll be buying up some stuff and engaging a carrier. We'd better take a load down to camp. And tonight I'll be able to give you proof, Johnson, that I was innocent of the murder of Jed Barnes. Dias was the guilty man—James Day.”

“I don't doubt it now,” said the other bitterly. “After the way he robbed us all, we'll believe anything of the scoundrel. And, Hampton! Nelly Barnes must have gone on the schooner with him and our officers. Ezra Howe and his wife were to look after her——”

“Never mind; I know,” said Hampton. “Come along, now. We've work to do.”

There was no difficulty in getting some of the drafts cashed, as many a man had more ready cash than he needed and was glad to convert some of it into less dangerous paper; moreover, Adam Johnson was a man well known to others from Boston or near-by parts. So, in half an hour's time, the two approached the terrible waterfront, with two staggering peon carriers behind them, and others on the way.

The scene along the beach, where each morning a dozen or two bodies were washed out to the sharks, beggared description; the Beverly men were no worse off than other parties. With food, drink, medicines, Dick Hampton and others who were sound fell to work among the sick, injected some atoms of order and decency into the miserable shelters of blankets and old garments, and finally moved the entire company to a spot farther down the beach where the sand was at least a trifle cleaner. The gratitude of the destitute men to Hampton was pitiful, for scarce one of them but had obtained a portion of his money back.

This work of mercy took time, however—most of the afternoon, in fact, and there was no sign of Job Warlock on the scene, so that Hampton had the chief burden on his own shoulders. One or two men from other companies pitched in and gave a hand, but the majority only marveled. The shouts of joy from the Beverly men, their devout prayers of thanksgiving, had attracted attention, and the news of their retrieved fortunes had been swift to spread abroad through the multitude.

Hampton was far from suspecting any danger from this fact; he had no time to think of anything until the camp was in shape. Then, in a drip of perspiration and feeling nearly exhausted, he joined Adam Johnson over a pipe and a bottle of wine. It was nearly four o'clock, and he had little enough time to get clean clothes, return to the inn and bathe, and keep his appointment with the unknown señora. Still, it was necessary to confide in Johnson to a certain extent, and he did so, but found that Johnson could give him no further information.

“Say the word,” said Johnson, “and we'll all join you in following that rascal Day!”

“No, thanks,” returned Hampton bluntly. He could not explain that these retired farmers and New England merchants were not the type of men to go on such a quest. “What you can do is to have three or four men with you at the Inn of the Golden Pomegranates at nine sharp tonight. I want you to be able to take word home that I'm innocent of murdering Jed Barnes”

“We'll do it, and gladly,” affirmed Johnson. “We'll send off letters tomorrow, to make certain, and will carry the word ourselves. We're all going back home, I think, as fast as we're able to travel.”

Hampton looked across the sand, attracted by a sudden motion. A peon had been talking with a group of the Beverly men, and now rose and departed. Moved by a sudden impulse, Hampton hailed the men.

“What was that fellow after, boys? Look out for thieves, now!”

“You bet,” came the response. “He'd heard about your finding our money, and was just asking who you were.”

Hampton sprang to his feet, but the peon had disappeared.

“Anything wrong?” demanded Adams Johnson.

“No,” said Hampton slowly. “No. I'll have to be moving, though. See you tonight, sure!”

“Nine sharp.”

Hampton returned to the plaza thoughtfully. It seemed hardly likely that Dias should have left men to look out for him and Job Warlock—that they should ever reach Panama must have appeared improbable; yet ever since their rescue they had been anticipating some such possibility. Dias had too much at stake to take chances. If that peon had been a spy of Dias, then the fat might be in the fire—or it might not.

Returning to the inn with a bundle of clean clothes, he went to the room d'Aquila had put at his disposal. Job Warlock had not returned. Hampton trimmed his half-grown beard, washed and dressed, and slightly before five o'clock started down the street toward the House of Yellow Tiles. All in all, he felt highly satisfied with his afternoon's work.

The house in question, one of the many half-ruined structures which filled the old city, was pointed out to him, and as he approached, he sighted the figure of Warlock coming toward him.

“Where've you been all afternoon?” demanded Hampton.

Warlock grinned, and opened his hand to display a mass of gold coins.

“Playing monte—and winning. Likewise, I been playing with that Mex skipper the Injun told us about. Filled him full o' lies, and we can have passage if we want. His schooner leaves in the morning. Have any luck? All spruced up for the lady, ain't you?”

“Found Adam Johnson; everything's settled. Here's our house.”

They paused before an archway, which gave access to an old carven black-oak door. Job Warlock pulled the hand bell, and Hampton let the heavy knocker fall—then he found the hand of Warlock gripping his arm.

“Look there!” exclaimed Job, pointing, a sudden glitter in his eyes, and Hampton turned to look at the stone beside the doorway, on the inside of the arch. There, painted in blue on the stone, were the two characters which had appeared on the knife and seal of Dias.

“Good gosh, matey!” breathed Job Warlock softly. “Know what this is? Now we're up against it and no mistake—that there señora was Doña Hermana herself—the wife o' Dias!”

The door before them opened, and Hampton swung about to face a Chinaman.

IV

“YOU are expected, señores,” said the yellow man in bad Spanish.

“Say quick!” snapped Job Warlock in English. “In or out, matey?”

“In,” said Hampton, stepping forward. There suddenly came to him the realization that if this woman really were Doña Hermana, she could of course assist them on their way—not to Upper California, but to Lower California. If she could be wheedled into assisting them, so much the better.

Then, while he stood beside Warlock in the hall for a moment, as the Chinaman took their hats before leading them on into the patio, Hampton could have groaned aloud. The woman took them for Basques; but if his suspicions were correct, Dias' spies already knew their true names—or that of Hampton, at least. Perhaps, after all, Dias had taken for granted that they would never reach Panama; yet he was not a man to take things for granted. Hampton gripped Job Warlock's shoulder, as they crossed the threshold.

“I've mixed things horribly, Job,” he said quietly. “Careful, now!”

“Injun does it,” said Warlock cheerfully, not understanding yet accepting the words. Then they were following the yellow man into a hidden but magnificent patio, sweet with the spray of a large fountain, the air heavy with flower scents, orange trees and blooming beds all around.

The Chinaman led to an awning spread near the fountain, where Doña Hermana awaited them. Now she was clad in a shimmering brocade of dark-blue shot with silver, which richly accentuated her startling beauty, and enhanced the slight oriental effect of her features. Yet for all her beauty, for all the smiling warmth of her greeting, Hampton could not feel that he was dealing with a woman, as he knew women; in her seemed no depth of emotion, and the liquid tenderness of her eyes rang false, though her welcome appeared sincere enough.

“So my paladins could leave the delights of Panama to come and see a poor woman!” she exclaimed, holding out her hands to them. “Señores, I am honored; this house is yours.”

“Señora, my friend here has been moving all day in a dream,” put in Warlock slyly. “He has talked only of you—by the saints, each hour has been a century for him! I do not know whether he more desires to proceed to California, or to stay in Panama!”

At this audacious speech, Hampton flung his friend one angry glance, but the señora laughed merrily and directed the full battery of her eyes on Hampton.

“Well, señor, has your desire for California in truth grown so weak?”

“Not at all,” responded Hampton, resigning himself. “But what is there in California except gold?”

“That was a much nicer compliment, señor,” she returned, and for a moment Hampton read singular and disquieting things in her eyes. “I like you both, my bold Basques! Here, sit by me and I shall roll you something to smoke, and you shall taste my sherbets while we talk.”

They seated themselves, and two native women appeared, placing sherbet and cakes on the table and supplying the señor with smoking materials. When she had deftly rolled cigaritos from tobacco and the fine thin paper that the ricos used, she struck a sulphur match, lighted her own first, in the courteous Mexican fashion, and then when the sulphur had burned off held out the match to Hampton.

“Now tell me of your affairs,” she said, watching the two, although her eyes rested more upon Hampton than on Warlock. “How did you happen to be on the road this morning?”

“We were lost, coming across from Chagres, and followed jungle trails,” said Hampton.

“You have money? You have arranged for a passage north, perhaps?”

“Money, yes, but money will not buy a passage north,” returned Hampton. “A ship from Callao is expected next week, every berth is sold, and a bonus of five hundred dollars is being offered without a taker. We have no hope of getting a passage for some months.”

The señora smiled.

“Then I can in some slight measure repay your service, señores! My husband's schooner is now down among the islands, and will return here in a week, to carry me north to Mazatlan. May I offer you a passage to that port? There I can help you arrange for a passage to San Francisco, or my husband can do so. Would this suit you?”

Her gaze dwelt upon Hampton's face, and he endeavored to assume a joy that he was far from feeling. It was ridiculous to think that this woman was deliberately flirting with him, yet he read curious things in those dark and liquid eyes.

“Señora, the thought of that voyage in your company overpowers me with happiness!” he made answer, and thanked her with the stately Spanish phrases that could mean so much or so little. He was uncomfortably conscious of Job Warlock's grin.

“Bueno. Then it is arranged,” and the lady waved her cigarito grandly. “Come, tell me about yourselves and your adventures in Cuba! Every one knows that Basques are adventurers and men of great deeds-”

“But, señora,” protested Hampton, “we do not yet know whose hospitality we are so happily enjoying!”

The señora opened her dark eyes.

“What! Have I not told you that my husband is the merchant Juan Avilar y Sortes of Mazatlan, and that I am Inez de Sortes? You must pardon my omission, then, señores! Come, what of yourselves?”

Hampton made haste to forestall his companion in replying. Now that he definitely knew the lady for a liar—he was convinced that she was the wife of Dias—he did not hesitate to deliver a bold stroke. In any case, she would know soon enough that he was not what he represented himself, but an American; and if Dias had left any word of Hampton, she would quickly know him for whom he was. Perhaps before the night was out.

“There is little to tell, señora,” he replied swiftly, building on the lady's evident failure to meet her husband here. “We obtained passage to Chagres from the Havana with a most charming gentleman, a North American, whom we expected to meet here, but so far we have not found him. He came ahead of us from Chagres, you understand.”

“His name?” she murmured. “Perhaps I could help you in the search.”

“His name,” said Hampton, while Warlock gave him an oblique glance, “was Señor Day—James or Diego Day. You have heard of him, yes?”

By the brief narrowing of her lids he knew the shot had driven home. She only picked up a fan, however, and began to move it lazily.

“I regret not to have heard of him, señor,” she said. “I shall have inquiries made.”

“That will be most kind,” said Hampton earnestly. “This Señor Day must certainly be in the city; had we not become lost in the mountains for several days, we should have met him, though by now he may have gone to Tobago Island. He was much enamored of a lady aboard the ship, and has perhaps taken her to the island to await a north-bound vessel.”

Now was reward, certain and prompt, for the eyes of the lady flashed with a sudden and fierce glint, as the eyes of an angered tigress, and her long fingers checked the fan for an instant. Then it passed, but Hampton knew that he had scored a hit. Job Warlock by his silence betrayed his perplexity, so Hampton swiftly ordered him to tell the señora of their adventures, and Job wakened into action. He had a seaman's gift for using his imagination, and now he used it to a remarkable extent.

The lady listened to the recital with only perfunctory attention, however, lazily using her fan and watching Hampton rather than Warlock. The brain behind those dark eyes was busy, and Hampton, realizing the fact, was only too glad to seize the first opportunity of rising and taking leave.

“We promised to be at the Astor House by dark, and it is nearly sunset now,” he said. “We have arranged to get a room there, or else at a small tavern in this same street; so we must be on hand to secure it. Also, we must look for news of Señor Day.”

The señora did not protest, and rose to say farewell first to Job Warlock, smiling into his eyes as she did so. Then she struck a gong on the table, and the Chinese servant who had admitted them made his appearance.

“Señor,” she said to Job, “you expressed your admiration of my tobacco—I shall have this servant give you a packet of it, with my compliments. I trust that I shall see you very shortly; perhaps at the comandante's grand baile on Sunday night, for which I shall secure you invitations. Hasta la vista!"

Warlock, finding himself dismissed, winked over the lady's shoulder and moved toward the patio entrance. The señora turned swiftly to Hampton, as the latter bowed over her hand, and clutched his fingers. He felt something shoved into his palm.

“Here, señor! Take this, and in time of trouble it may be of use to you. Preserve it carefully; you will find that I am not ungrateful to my gallant Basque adventurer! You will return—when? Tomorrow evening when the moon rises?”

“Señor, if I am in this city tomorrow evening,” responded Hampton, forcing a smile to meet those disquieting eyes, “the power of Señor Diablo himself shall not keep me from looking into your eyes! Hasta la vista.”

“Hasta la noche,” corrected the señora, and smiled after him as he departed.

Five minutes afterward, the carven doors closed behind the two friends, and they were in the almost empty street, the heavens above and the ancient stone walls and houses tinctured with the red glare of sunset. Hampton wiped sweat from his brow.

“I said it,” observed Job Warlock whimsically. “These Spanish girls all look twice at a fair-haired señor whose gray eyes——”

Hampton's fingers closed on his arm.

“Stop it! Job, you have plenty of money? Then get off in a hurry and find that Mex skipper of yours; tell him we're in danger of our lives from Americans—any story you like. The point is, we must get out of here at the earliest possible moment. Bribe him to sail at dawn, if you can.”

“But—” began the staring Warlock. Hampton checked him energetically.

“No time to talk now; explain later. Arrange for ourselves and our Indian servant, and do it at any cost, savvy? If we're here tomorrow, we'll catch it hot and heavy. Get along with you, now, and back to the inn on the jump. I'll have dinner waiting for you.”

Comprehending that some urgency threatened, Warlock paused not for more argument, but departed at a run. Hampton, drawing a deep breath, started more calmly for the inn.

“That was a stiff job, and a mighty mean one!” he reflected uncomfortably. “But she asked for it, and she got it. How far she meant well, heaven only knows, and I'm sure no judge—she lied like a good one, though, and if I can get her started on the trail of her precious spouse, so much the better. All's fair in war. Just the same, I want to be out of town when she wakes up to the truth.”

Feeling the lady's parting gift in his sweating palm, he looked at the object. This proved to be a small flat tablet of ivory or bone, in which a gold ring was inserted for suspension by a cord. Upon the tablet were incised those same two characters which Dias used as a seal or brand, and the incisions were filled with blue paint.

Hampton was swift to comprehend that this was a token which would be recognized by any of Dias' men; the señora had not spoken falsely in describing its potential value. He thrust it into a pocket and turned in at the tavern entrance. D'Aquila, wrinkled and gentle, met and led him through a crowd of peons to the passage, and in a few words Hampton arranged to have dinner served in their private room in an hour's time.

Alone, he stretched out, lighted his pipe, and rather gloomily reviewed the events of the afternoon. He was beginning to feel afraid of Doña Hermana; he felt more afraid of her in kindness than in anger. This, in fact, was one reason for his words to her. He felt very certain that within a few hours she would know much of all of the truth about him, and he desired to leave her in no doubt of his own position.

His pipe was not yet finished when Job came into the room, shut the door, and then dropped into a chair.

“Done it! Found him still at monte and in a run of bad luck,” Warlock announced without preamble. “He's agreed to sail at dawn, and will have a boat waiting for us then; we're to flash a light twice on the beach. Passage to Mazatlan will cost us two hundred each. I paid him half down, and it cleaned me out. Lord help us if he discovers that we're Americans and not Basques! He hates gringos like poison. Well, matey, what's the good word?”

Hampton knocked out his pipe, and recounted his experiences of the afternoon. When he told about the inquiring peon, Warlock let out a whistle.

“'Little black bull came over the mountain'—oh, I savvy plenty, Dick! Old Dias left word to look out for us if we ever did show up, and you can gamble on it. But why tell the señora all that stuff?”

“If the peon was a spy, won't he report to her—probably this evening?” countered Hampton. “Job, there's only one word to apply to the lady; she's plumb bad! She'll find soon enough that we've skipped town—then what?”

“—— to pay, I reckon.”

“Sure; but we'll be heading north and she'll be laid up here until her schooner comes back in a week. Meantime, she'll be boiling about her precious husband. Also, the chances are she'll know that we've started north, and she'll drop in an Acapulco and Mazatlan to look us up. All in all, she'll waste a lot of time before she gets home, and we'll have a chance to work at Dias. I don't mind saying that I'd like to leave her out of the scrap; at the same time, I'd sooner have her enmity than her friendship.”

Warlock grinned at this.

“Injun does it, matey! You played her, all right—and I don't know as I blame you for being scared of her. She has her eye on you, right enough. Still, that tobacco was pretty good stuff. What was it she slipped into your hand during that affectionate adios you exchanged?”

Hampton grunted disgustedly, and produced the bone tablet. Warlock examined it, and frowned over the characters.

“I'd like to know what this writing means! Well, take care of the thing; we may need it yet. Now, see here—what about guns? We can't get any more ammunition for these durned French revolvers; but if we look sharp, we can rustle up some real American style pistols and rifles tonight. The town's full of would-be Injun hunters, and there's plenty of men will be glad to cash in on the guns they can't use. Guns ain't grub, as the Injun said when he rubbed his belly.”

“Good idea,” approved Hampton, and got out his money-belt. “Suppose you attend to it right after dinner, will you? Here's enough money to see you through; we'll reach Mazatlan with a slim purse, but I think we'll scrape along all right. Here's dinner now.”

Their host entered, himself bearing the meal Hampton had ordered, and the two friends discussed a simple but excellent dinner. When he had finished, Job Warlock girded up his loins and departed on his errand. Hampton, finding himself with half an hour to spare, donned his hat and went out in search of a razor, for he was determined to be rid of his beard before the next sun.

He sauntered up toward the plaza, and found the gay night life of Panama in full blast—the streets thronged with natives and gold-hunters, music-halls and drink-shops riotous with loud voices, palaces of chance crowded to the doors with seekers after sudden wealth at dice or cards. Guitars thrummed and voices thundered “Susannah” with every known variation, for here were the men with money to spend, the still eager and hopeful ones—that horrible camp near the beach was far from this bright scene. Hampton saw nothing of his French friends, who had probably not yet arrived from Gorgona.

He wandered on, and behind the cathedral found a shop where he purchased a razor and other toilet articles. Then, retracing his steps toward the plaza, he came to the squalid little tavern known as the Astor House, and was passing it when he caught a sudden shrill shout from close at hand. He halted, and the next moment found a dozen little brown soldiers all around him, rifles up and an officer pushing to the front.

And, beside the officer, pointing him out eagerly, was the peon whom he had noticed in the camp that afternoon—the spy of Dias.

TOO slow to waken to his danger, Hampton perceived that he was surrounded beyond hope of escape. There was no local ill-feeling against Americans, for Panama was too far from Mexico to share in the hatred engendered by the late war; but the brown soldiers took no chances in dealing with their brawny transients, and the steadiness of the rifles around him apprized Hampton that he could not attempt to break clear.

“It is he, señor capitan!” cried the peon to the officer, pointing to Hampton. “That is the gringo, the very one! It was he who robbed and murdered my brother, coming from Chagres! Warn your men to be careful, for he is a very —— in strength and alertness——”

The officer, planting himself before Hampton, lifted his sword.

“Señor, it is my duty to arrest you,” he exclaimed dramatically. “Do not force my brave soldiers to use their weapons——”

Hampton caught at a desperate chance. It was still possible that this spy had been too busy seeking for him to communicate with Doña Hermana—if this were so, then he had a chance to get clear.

“Señor capitan,” he said gravely, with a bow, “I fear there is some mistake, since I am no gringo but a Basque gentleman, and have done nothing which might cause my arrest.”

The officer bowed in return.

“Señor Basque, I am desolated, but duty is the master of all men. This worthy señor, well known to me, accuses you of having slain and robbed his brother. There is no doubt of your innocence, of course, but at the same time the accusation must be brought before the Jefe——”

“If you will withdraw your brave soldiers, señor capitan,” said Hampton, “and allow me a moment private converstation with this señor, who is evidently a gentleman of the gente fina, I will speedily convince him that he has mistaken me for another man.”

The officer turned to the scowling peon, who, hand on knife, was obviously puzzled by Hampton's calm acceptance of the situation. A word passed, then the officer assented.

“Very well, Señor Basque, but I implore you not to draw upon yourself the deadly fire of my men.”

The white-clad, barefoot soldiers withdrew in a wide semi-circle. The peon took a step forward, his eyes probing Hampton with a sneer.

“Well, gringo?” he demanded. “You think I can be mistaken, eh? You need not attempt to bribe me—you know whom I serve.”

“Fool!” said Hampton quietly. “Bobo that you are! Why have you not reported this affair to Doña Hermana? Now look at this token, and beware what you do!”

He handed the peon the little bone slab bearing the two characters. The peon held it to the light streaming from the hotel windows, and uttered a sudden gasp. His manner completely altered.

“Señor!” he exclaimed, passing it back to Hampton. “Señor—how was I to know? You answered the description, and those gringos told me your name—ay di mi! We have searched the hotel here for you—they said you were lodged here. Pardon this error, señor; I kiss your hands and feet——”

Stammering incoherent apologies, the peon turned to the officer and with many appeals to the saints deplored the error that he had committed. He then appeased the officer's disgust with a few coins, and in two minutes the soldiers were marching away.

“Señor,” said the peon humbly, “I did not know that Señor Dias had sent——”

Hampton was not slow to take a chance, if he might thus get rid of the man.

“Has anything been discovered of that Indian?” he demanded.

“You mean, señor, the hombre called El Hambre? No, but I have hopes——”

“Then you will find him at Gorgona. Get out of the city, and reach Gorgona before dawn if possible—he will be there, unsuspecting. When you return, report this matter to Doña Hermana at once. You are not to arrest El Hambre, but have him put out of the way.”

“Si, si, those are the orders, señor,” exclaimed the other eagerly. “I can get out of the city and procure a good mule—si, it shall be done! Have you no other commands?”

“None,” said Hampton, “except to make haste.”

“This moment. Va usted con Dios, señor amo!”

“Hasta luego,” returned Hampton indifferently, and passed into the hotel.

That last farewell, couched in the phrase used only by men of Indian blood, told him that the peon regarded him as a superior; still, since the spy supposed him to be stopping in the hotel, it was as well to carry on the game. Hampton stood talking for a few minutes with a group of New York men, then, convinced that the spy had departed, he left the place, crossed the plaza, and made all haste toward the Inn of the Golden Pomegranates.

As he entered, old d'Aquila beckoned him into a corner.

“Señor, your friend has returned, and three other men are now in the room with him. My brother's son is here, but in hiding.”

“Send him to the room at once, then,” said Hampton. “It is quite safe.”

He went on to the room, where he found Job Warlock, with Adam Johnson and two other men of the Beverly company. These three were vastly different from the emaciated skeletons of the afternoon; fed and clothed, shaved and cleaned, they were more like themselves, and they wrung Hampton's hand with fervent expressions of gratitude.

“And, Dick, here's a little present from all of us,” said Adam Johnson, holding up a rifle. “It's one of the best we could find in town—we want you to know how we feel about everything; we're all mighty sorry for the past, Dick, and we'd like you to have this rifle as a sort of testimonial from the whole company, or what's left of it. We didn't have time to get it engraved, but it's said to be a fine weapon——”

Hampton examined the silver-mounted rifle, a fine specimen of English workmanship, and accepted it without demur, more than grateful for the feelings which inspired the gift. At this moment the door opened, and El Hambre stepped into the room with a grave salutation.

When Hampton had introduced the Indian, he proceeded straight to business. El Hambre produced the knife with the silver hilt, which Adam Johnson and the other two men at once recognized, and related how on two occasions he had seen it in the possession of Dias. He also told something of what he knew about Dias.

“Now, gentlemen,” said Hampton, “it might be easy to think that I had inspired this testimony; but taking it along with what you already know of Day——”

“Nonsense, Mr. Hampton!” one of the other men broke in warmly. “We've l'arned enough about that skunk Day, you'd better believe—lord knows what he's done to the rest of the company! So it was him killed poor Jed Barnes, eh?”

“It was,” said Hampton. “Because he was afraid of me—he had learned that I was after him—he had me set adrift. I didn't know he was my man, you see. Had a letter from my brother Eli about a chap named Winslow or Dias, and like a fool I blurted it out to James Day, who was the very man. Well, there you are! It's evident enough to me that he slipped into Jed Barnes' cabin——”

“Say no more, sir,” exclaimed Adam Johnson, who knew enough Spanish to have followed the testimony of El Hambre. “We shall take upon ourselves to clear your name at home, be sure of that. Some of us are going home, a few of us are going to California. If you suspect that Miss Barnes and the officers of the company will meet foul play at the hands of Day, we shall be glad to follow you——”

“You can't do it, Johnson,” said Hampton. “Thanks for the offer, but it's impossible. Three of us can get through where more would fail. I expect to be out of Panama by daybreak, but don't breathe it to a soul. Day has men here, and I only avoided arrest tonight by a bit of luck—they're after me. If you'll clear up this murder charge at home, I'll feel amply repaid for the little I've done.”

“Depend on us for that,” said Johnson, and presently got his two companions away.

Left alone, the three men regarded one another, then Job Warlock grinned.

“What's this about arrest, matey?”

Hampton produced the bone tablet and handed it to El Hambre. The Indian started, and his dark eyes swept up in tacit questioning.

“The lady saved us after all, Job,” said Hampton, and proceeded to tell El Hambre of their meeting with Doña Hermana and its aftermath. The eyes of the Indian glittered savagely.

“If I had known this!” he murmured, and fingered the silver haft of the knife.

“None of that,” commanded Hampton curtly. “We have all we can do to get out of here alive,” and he went on to describe his experiences with the spy. “If that peon goes to Gorgona and does not return until tomorrow night, at earliest,” he concluded, “we'll get away safely. Now, Job, what about the guns?”

“Got 'em,” said Warlock laconically, and pointed to a heap of impedimenta on the bed. “Two good guns—one's just the kind I like. A mess o' cartridges, extra bullets, two extra horns of powder, plenty o' caps. But we'd better have a pow-wow with the Injun first of all—he ain't informed about our plans yet.”

He fell into consultation with El Hambre, while Hampton examined the weapons, and listened to what was said. When he was fully informed as to the situation, the lean and cadaverous Indian squatted on the floor and began to smoke calmly; then, after deliberation, delivered his opinion:

“Señores, if you were not here, if another and better errand did not lie ahead of us, then I should remain here and try to get my knife into Doña Hermana. I am sorry that you saved her from those bandits; they did not know who she was, evidently.”

The stark thirst of the man for vengeance, the deadly hatred of Dias which filled his entire being, impressed itself anew upon Hampton. Despite the Indian's intelligence and courtly Spanish veneer, his blood ran far back; close to the surface, there was in his veins a barbaric and terrible strain of ferocity, the more frightful because of the man's grimly cool poise. As when he had calmly driven his knife into that Chinaman, he seemed to lack all emotion save the driving impulse for blood. Perhaps, indeed, all other emotion had been washed out of him by tears.

“Your plans are good, señores,” he went on, and now with an assertion of somber pride. “I shall go as your servant, because in the eyes of those Mexicans I am an Indio. Still, I do not desire to go as your guest, señores. I have many friends in the mountains, and if I need gold they bring it to me. I know that passage on this ship costs gold, so here is my share.”

With this, he produced a pouch of raw-hide, which he tossed out on the floor. Warlock picked it up, slit the binding thongs and with an oath of astonishment exposed to view a mass of yellow dust and small nuggets. Hampton attempted to expostulate, but was reduced to silence by the grave manner of El Hambre; he was brought to the realization that they had gained for their quest an ally, not a mere obeyer of orders, and he accepted the situation.

“This is as it should be,” he said quietly, motioning Warlock to put away the gold. “You saw these men give me a rifle, El Hambre,” and he touched the silver-mounted weapon. “Now, I am not a hunter, but a sailor; to me, one gun is as good as another. With you it is different. Therefore I'll turn over to you this rifle and its accoutrements. They're yours.”

That reached the Indian blood. The dark eyes of El Hambre glittered and flamed, and a guttural word broke from him as he took the rifle and examined it.

“Don Ricardo, I kiss your hands,” he said simply.

At this moment there came a knock at the door, and it opened to disclose the wrinkled, anxious features of old d'Aquila He came in and spoke rapidly, softly.

“Señores! There is a man here who desires speech with you—he spoke of you as two Basque señores, ricos hombres—and he is one of those accursed Mexicans. He says that his name is Manuelo Garcia——”

“My schooner cap'n!” exclaimed Job Warlock.

“And,” went on the old mestizo, “he seems to be in great trouble and a tremendous rage, for he is between tears and oaths. He is alone.”

“Send him in, señor,” said Hampton. “Guns under the bed, Job!”

In a trice the martial array was thrust out of sight, and when the host returned with the visitor, El Hambre was standing respectfully in one corner. Job Warlock greeted the skipper with great ceremony, and presented him to Hampton; he was a swart, vigorous, scowling Mexican of middle age. When he was seated and smoking, he burst into a flood of speech. One of his seamen had just reached him, at the monte table, bearing bad news. Half a dozen soldiers had gone aboard his schooner, searching her for two men supposed to be escaping from justice, and had remained aboard to postpone his sailing indefinitely.

“With them, señores,” he concluded dramatically, “there was a man, apparently but a humble peon, who directed the search; and now my beautiful ship will be confiscated or detained, just when I had arranged to smuggle a fine cargo! Que lâstima, that I should ever have come to this accursed Panama! I hastened to you, señores. There is no doubt that your enemies, those pigs of North America, have suspected your departure——”

Hampton met a glance from Job Warlock which was eloquent, and stood for a moment stupefied by this astounding intelligence. There was no need for speech; to both of them, the event was only too clear. Instead of clearing out from Gorgona at once, the spy of Dias had hurried first to Doña Hermana—and now the lady was at work.

“What have I suffered from these —— gringos!” went on Captain Garcia, with a sigh and an oath. “In Mexico, they ruined me during the war, and my brother was killed at Buena Vista; even now, I cannot escape from them. Give me your advice, noble señores, for they are your enemies no less than mine.”

Warlock was quick to assume his part.

“Beyond a doubt, señor,” he made answer, “the Americanos suspect that we may leave aboard your ship. Perhaps we have been betrayed to them—who knows? None of them came aboard?”

“None but that peon, who must have been a spy. He has remained aboard with an officer and four soldiers.”

El Hambre stirred slightly. His cadaverous and scarred visage, thrust forward, showed a malignant and wolfish expression. Garcia, glancing at him, crossed himself hurriedly

“Señores,” said the Indian, “let me go aboard with the señor capitan.”

Warlock and Hampton exchanged a look.

“Wait!” said Hampton. “You are going aboard now, señor capitan?”

Garcia shrugged. “But yes, señor don; it may be that they await to arrest or question me—quién sabe?”

“And how many men aboard?”

Garcia shrugged.

“Dios sabe! I had six, but three were ashore for the evening. Three men, then, if they have not run away. They are good men, brave caballeros of Soñora.”

“And when could you sail, if free to go?”

The skipper looked again at this tall, fair-bearded man who had so swiftly taken the situation in hand.

“Señor don, in half an hour the tide is on the turn. Ah, you brave Basque adventurers! I see what is in your mind. However, it is quite useless. The moon is rising already, and the batteries would stop us if we fled.”

Hampton laughed.

“The batteries? Bah! If such a man as you were in command of them, yes! But you know what these soldiers of New Granada are, my noble captain; before they could waken to the emergency, we'd be gone—and could they hit us, in any event? Not except by grace of the saints.”

“Verdederamente,” said the Mexican reflectively, and threw out his chest. “It is true, señor don, that they are not soldiers such as we have in Mexico.”

“But, on the other hand, if you slipped away, how could you return here? Perhaps it is better for you not to embroil yourself with the authorities on our behalf, noble capitan. No, we could not allow so brave a caballero to suffer for us. No, return our money and call off the bargain.”

Job Warlock struggled to conceal a grin at this, and the Mexican rubbed his swarthy chin with a very dirty hand.

“Señor,” he returned, with an embarrassed air, “I could not accept your noble offer. Never shall it be said that Manuelo Garcia fled from these dogs of New Granada! Never shall it be said that Manuelo Garcia abandoned two ricos grandes to the wrath of the accursed Yankees! Señores, we are brothers. Give me your instructions, and I will obey. Besides,” he added with some naiveté, “I have lost most of my money at monte. Nor do I expect to return to Panama.”

Hampton chuckled.

“Good. We shall shave off our beards, in order not to be recognized. Then we shall come aboard—say, in three-quarters of an hour. When we come alongside, be ready. If possible, we shall get away without causing any alarm. What about a boat?”

El Hambre spoke up from his corner.

“I can arrange for a trustworthy boatman, señor. If it is your pleasure that I accompany the señor capitan, I can see the man and send him here to guide you.”

“So you want to go aboard the schooner with the captain, eh?”

“Si," responded the Indian, and uttered his harsh mirthless laugh.

Hampton looked at Job Warlock, and the latter shrugged slightly, leaving the decision to Hampton. The latter frowned in distaste, yet knew that there was nothing to be said. This was beyond question a matter of life and death. Doña Hermana was by this time aroused, and the town was probably being searched for the false Basques. The fact that the Mexican schooner was guarded, showed that the señora was not overlooking any bets. This schooner represented the sole means of escape—and not of escape alone, but of getting north upon a larger errand.

“Go, then,” said Hampton. “We'll bring the weapons.”

VI

“THIS,” observed Job Warlock as he hacked at his beard, “is what you get for bein' smart with the señora; I hope she lands you up in a corner and gives you a piece of her mind! I bet she can give a feller plain —— worse'n any bucko mate. I wish El Hambre had stayed with us, instead of galivanting around with that silver knife. I like that Injun.”

“It may yet be due to his knife that we get away at all,” said Hampton grimly. “We have our backs against the wall, Job. If we're in the city tomorrow, we'll be located and clapped into jail, and we may rot there.”

“Well, we won't be here,” and Warlock chuckled. “The world's a good place, so hurray! We ought to get some action tonight, matey.”

Hampton grunted something about having had nothing but action all day, and fell to work removing his beard.

They had barely finished dressing, when d'Aquila brought in the boatman—a sullen, silent Indian. Job Warlock got the weapons put together, and then with unwonted seriousness turned to Hampton, who was rolling up the blankets.

“Matey, I reckon there's no sense in it, but I got that same feeling that we're steering the wrong course. I didn't want to say anything about it before, thinking maybe I'd et my dinner too fast—but it's more'n that. I'm scared o' that Doña Hermana, to tell the truth.”

“So am I,” said Hampton. “That's why I want to get off in a hurry; if you think it's the wrong course, suppose you stay and keep her company.”

“Not me.” Warlock grinned and swung the bundled weapons over his shoulder. “Ready?”

Hampton nodded and gestured to the Indian. The latter led the way from the room, d'Aquila met and conducted them by a rear door to an alley, and presently they reached the plaza. The streets were still riotous, for gambling halls, cock-pits and a fandango were in full swing, and groups of convivial adventurers filled the narrow ways. All this was soon left behind, however, and the three men approached the silent beach and waterfront where less wealthy and fortunate voyageurs to Eldorado were camped under open skies. Avoiding these tents and huts, the Indian led the way along dark warehouses to the shelter of a long wharf, where boats were drawn up. He silently indicated one of these, and the white men helped him get it into the water.

Hampton's spirits rose at once, for he saw the success of their scheme assured. A thin mist, a light and miasmatic vapor which foretold new corpses to feed the bay sharks, had settled down over shore and water, hiding the stars from sight and cloaking everything in gentle obscurity. This altered everything, promising a short fight aboard the schooner, and after that a safe evasion; the craft could be towed out to catch the breeze, if necessary. The moonlight, filtering through the mist, made all things more deceptive.

“Looks good,” observed Job Warlock softly, as they got into the boat and pushed out. “Looks good, Dick! Now we got Nelly Barnes dead ahead.”

“I hope so,” returned Hampton. The Indian made a gesture for silence, and laid out his oars. When he had wrapped these in cloths, he set to work rowing. The shore faded away, and around them was the opaline mist, while the water glistened luminously to the stirrings of the silent oars. Hampton's nostrils twitched to the tang of the salt air.

The Indian rowed stolidly, as if in perfect assurance of the way, driving the boat ahead steadily and with scarce a sound. Warlock sat in the bow, Hampton in the stern. After an interminable time, the Indian paused in his labor, leaned forward and touched Hampton's knee, and pointed. Hampton dimly descried a blur in the mist, a faint and ghostly shape, and knew that they must be close aboard the schooner.

They now drew down upon her slowly, drifting cautiously. No sound, no lift of voices, came from her; but Hampton was aware of a stirring in the mist, and knew that a breeze was rustling upon them. So much the better, he reflected happily, as they had need of a breeze to get away. The boat floated in under the dark bulk of the schooner.

Hampton, rising, fended off with his hands as the two craft touched, and prevented a bump or jar. The Indian moved her along slowly, and presently found what he sought—a Jacob's ladder left dangling over the taffrail. Not so much as a stamp of foot came from above. Hampton caught the ladder; as he did so, the mist about them cleared away suddenly, and the full open moonlight struck down and illumined everything.

It was no time to hesitate. Hampton swung up the rounds swiftly, got a leg over the rail, and dropped to the deck. At first he thought it deserted; then, lying against the rail at his very side, he discerned the figure of a man. It was the peon, the spy of Dias, with a pool of dark blood around him and a great black gash across his serape. Hampton turned to the rail to signal Job Warlock——

Then, abruptly, all the decks seemed to leap into rushing life, the dark figures of men came sweeping in from every side. A yell split the night, and another. Hampton felt a noose encircle his body and jerk taut, then he was dragged backward, and went down under half a dozen men who piled upon him. Fighting, kicking, struggling vainly, he was dragged across the deck. The knot of bodies smashed into the farther rail and came to a halt; there, while they fell upon him and held him spread-eagled, Hampton had a momentary vision of what was happening at the opposite rail. The sight held him astounded, paralyzed.

He saw El Hambre there, surrounded by striking men, and Captain Garcia. Where they had come from, he had not the least idea then or afterward; but as he looked, Garcia plunged reeling across the moonlight with a knife-haft protruding from his breast, and El Hambre went down under the mob of men. The silver knife flashed once, and twice, and the Indian broke free—then went headlong over the rail. As the others rushed to peer after him, Job Warlock came into sight, only to vanish under a flash of blue steel.

This was all that Hampton saw, for now he was rolled into the scuppers with a line knotted around and around him, and a gag thrust cruelly between lips and teeth, while over him was flung ancient and reeking tarpaulin that closed him in foul darkness. He was sickened by the frightful completeness of the disaster; yet gradually, as his mind came from chaos to realization, he managed to piece together some details.

Garcia had not betrayed them, for the Mexican had died there—and yet the schooner had been as a trap, vomiting unsuspected men. Whose guile had set this trap? Not that of the crafty peon spy, for he had died under the silver knife, obviously. As he lay thus wondering, Hampton suppressed a sudden groan; around him were men stamping on the deck, voices issuing orders, the click of capstan pawls and the squeak of ungreased sheaves. Movement thrilled all the deck. The schooner was getting under way!

It seemed to Hampton, as he lay there, that he heard Warlock calling him, then came a shot and another. The schooner heeled over a trifle—the fog must have been dissipated by the coming breeze. Now came a pounding of naked feet, a rush of excited voices, the rattle of oars alongside; men going down into a boat, Hampton knew. Therefore, some of that crowd abroad were going ashore. He strove desperately, frantically, for freedom, biting at his gag, tearing at the rope which wound about him, but all in vain. When the spasm of furious despair wore itself out, he lay weak and trembling. He was alone on this schooner, a captive, and whither bound?

As if in response to this thought, came the dull boom of a heavy gun from the castle, but whether in salute or alarm remained undetermined. The schooner lay over more and more to the wind; the cant of deck, the rushing foam past the lee rail where he lay, the squeak and groan of straining timbers, all informed Hampton that she was close-hauled and with all sail set, doubtless running for shelter from the guns of the castle. She was certainly a prey to pirates.

Presently there was a new burst of shouts and trampling of feet. Whatever her objective, the schooner had attained it, for now she wore around; Hampton could catch the orders, which were in Spanish, and by these and the level deck detected that she was running wing-and-wing before the breeze. Then, almost at once, the stifling tarpaulin was jerked from above him and he found himself in full moonlight, with a group of men around. All were strangers.

They regarded him with an oath or two; he was commented upon as a gringo and in still less favorable terms—then the group opened up and fell away. A single figure advanced and stood looking down at him. With this, Hampton comprehended everything; the figure was that of Doña Hermana.

“So, my brave Basque!” said the woman, clicking her fan at him, her voice filled with soft mockery. “You decided to hurry north, as I thought you would! Well, you shall go north, and you shall interview that friend of yours, that Americano named Day, whom you wanted to see!”

A guffaw from the men answered this. Hampton now perceived the whole trap—the woman had outwitted them, that was all. He stifled a groan. A soft laugh broke from the señora, as she leaned forward and tapped Hampton's face with her fan.

“You shall see him, my charming Basque adventurer!” she taunted him, and somehow the gentle nuances of her voice held more menace than any threat. “You shall see him, you and I together, my dear Señor Hampton! And perhaps you shall see your brother also—no? Oh, I recall him very well indeed! A pleasant journey, my caballero; a pleasant journey to you, and you may reflect at leisure upon the ability with which a poor woman can fight—and learn! Hasta la mañana, my caballero!”

She curtsied mockingly and withdrew. The circle of men fell away, then gathered in again, sweeping vast bows in the moonlight.

“Hasta la mañana, caballero!” they echoed her words. “Until morning, brave señor, enjoy our hospitality! Until we have suitable apartments prepared for so brave a caballero, so great a man, a true rico hombre, enjoy our food and wine! All that we have is yours, señor Basque, and our master will give you welcome when he receives you.”

So, with a last volley of taunts, they separated and went away to their work. Hampton lay in his bonds, eyes closed, in the shadow of the mainsail; and against the bellying canvas above him he heard the soft flapping of the reef-points, like an echo of the rat-tat-tat of frozen points against hard canvas off the Horn.

BOUND NORTH

I

THE Valley of Mercy was not originally named with an eye to irony. It consisted of a long, deep and winding gash in the volcanic desert-table of Lower California; a mile distant was the Sea of Cortez, the Vermilion Sea, now becoming the Gulf of California. All around this narrow arroyo was empty sea or emptier and more terrible desert. No travelers came this way; none of the ancient caminos of the padres, linking the Jesuit missions, ran near this valley. The gold-seekers who landed farther south, trying to reach California overland, died ere reaching here.

In other days, Indians had stolen palm-shoots from the missions that the Borgia gold had founded, so that now although the Indians were gone, stately date-palms towered along the narrow cañon bed. Here too were vineyards and fruit-trees and garden beds, strung out along the floor of the arroyo. Beneath the sharp, high side walls of the lower valley stretched yellow-gray adobe houses and barracks. Farther up at a curve lay the new house of Doña Hermana.

From this hidden valley, which ran down and widened into nothing near the desolate shore, a trail ran parallel to the coast until it reached the little hidden haven which was known as Puerto Escondido. Into this harbor came Dick Hampton, and, not knowing that the sad voyage was ended, eyed the dreary coast in sullen despair.

Nothing was in sight save sun-smitten rock, sand, pale and cheerless brush, thorny scrub and cactus. The desert began at the shore and ran back into low peaks of varigated hues, fiery and unutterably barren in the white afternoon sunlight.

Hampton was not the same man who had come aboard this schooner in Panama Bay: that long traverse up the coast had wrought changes. Had it not been for the memory of that last scene with his father, of the promise there sealed with a kiss, he would have lacked strength to endure; yet now he did not lack. He was held by long chains from his ankles to a ring-bolt in the for deck. Sun, wind and sea had worked full will upon him; he was black as any Indian, foul and unkempt and tattered, bearded, and through the rags of his shirt showed skin that was seared and scarred by whips. Only his eyes were the same—cool and undaunted eyes of gray agate that blazed from his haggard face.

The woman to whom he owed his present plight, she whom men called Doña Hermana del Diablo, stood by the rail looking at him, a cruel smile hidden in her eyes. This cruelty of hers, like her beauty, was a singular and terrible thing, unlightened by any womanly gentleness or tenderness. As the wife of Potiphar must have gazed upon Joseph in his cell, so Doña Hermana stood on the schooner's deck, regarding Dick Hampton with a malignant eye.

The anchor splashed down, and a boat was lowered overside. The woman gave an order, and two of her men unfastened Hampton's chains at the ring-bolt, and jerked him toward the rail. He went, unresistant, and clambered down a rope ladder into the bow. Four men followed, taking the oars, and Doña Hermana descended into the stern. Another boat was lowered, into which tumbled the rest of the crew, and set out after the first boat for the shore.

The eager words of the four rowers apprized Hampton of the truth, and he stared wonderingly at this desolate coast, perplexed by the seeming absence of life. Glancing back at the schooner, he saw that a scrap of yellow bunting flew at her bowsprit—a signal to those ashore, no doubt. Then he caught a sharp, knowing smile from Doña Hermana, realized that she was watching him, and turned again to the shore.

The boat drew in and scraped the sandy verge. Hampton clambered out, the men followed and ran up the boat, and the señora set foot on land. She came straight to Hampton and handed him a key.

“Take off your chains, for they are no longer needed,” she said. “You are free. You may go where you will—but if you do not follow us closely, you will suffer.”

These words were accompanied by an enigmatic smile, and a burst of guffaws from the men around told Hampton of some deep and bitter meaning. Without response, he stooped and freed himself of the irons, which one of the men then took and carried. The second boat came in and ran her nose on the sand.

A gun banged somewhere among the rocks, and as the bullet whistled overhead, the men laughed uproariously. Hampton heard, like too-sharp echoes, the reports of other guns that dwindled in the distance on the hot afternoon—a signal was being passed. Now a man mounted on a mule appeared, riding down from the rocks to the shore. He was a half-breed, dark with Indian blood, wearing gold-laced sombrero and much tarnished finery. He dismounted, swept the dust with his wide hat to the señora, and presented her with the mule. He then greeted the other men, gave Hampton an incurious glance, and remained leaning on his rifle.

Doña Hermana, after mounting, put the mule to a hardly visible trail that went back from the shore, winding here and there among the groups of cacti, and finally becoming a wider and better defined trail that struck straight down the shore. The men followed, carrying various burdens. Hampton, ignored by them, trailed along. He perfectly understood the bitter irony of his freedom; sharks guarded the water, hunger and thirst guarded the land. It was better to slave for Señor Dias and Doña Hermana, then to perish in miserable torture. Also, Hampton had learned a frightful lesson on that voyage north from Panama. He had discovered that to these men around him he was not a man, but a beast to be tortured and tormented at the end of a leash whenever he would tug—so he no longer tugged at the leash. He accepted what came in stoic silence, which made no sport for them; and they, thinking his spirit so broken that he would no longer fight, presently ceased to find his suffering of amusement.

Indeed, as he stared at the stony trail, the cactus, the far peaks, the hot white sand, Hampton had only one thought. Close at hand, at the end of this path, was Nelly Barnes. Knowing what he now did of the brutes around him, he dreaded, rather than hoped, to see his brother Eli again. Luckily, he had no idea of how close upon him was that meeting with Eli. All his thought was of the girl.

The trail wound on, keeping parallel to the shore. Aside from the “Hidden Harbor” behind its little island, there was no anchorage or shelter for vessels, which sufficiently explained the distance between the port and the settlement of Dias. Presently the ground became appreciably higher, the sea dropped from sight, and the trail wound through a tremendous thicket of spiny bush, such as overlies the Lower California deserts in vast and matted segments. Emerging from this, Hampton found that the others had halted, Doña Hermana speaking with another rifle-armed man who had appeared; and he stared in amazement at the scene which lay before and below him.

The halt took place on an open shelf of bare rock, which lay at the verge of a chasm in the earth; this chasm was the Valley of Mercy. All around was the desert, quivering in the hot afternoon sunlight. Below, however, could be glimpsed the unwonted sweetness of green things—tree-tops, fields in bearing, the sparkle of water. Hampton stared down at the sight, then at a sudden chorus of voices swung around. Approaching the shelf of bare rock by a winding and narrow trail that mounted the cliff-side, where a number of men mounted on mules—and at their head was James Day.

Yet, after the first glance, Hampton realized fully that he was no longer facing James Day, but Señor Dias. Gone was every mark of dress or bearing that had stamped the man as an American; now, from huge sombrero to silver-studded tapideros, the renegade was in every aspect a Mexican. A new-grown dark mustache graced his upper lip, emphasizing the arrogance of his features, and those peculiarly glassy eyes held all the latent ferocity of an Apache.

Slipping from his mount, Dias bowed low to his señora, kissed her hand, and greeted her with evident delight—but all in the restrained fashion of the country. They might have parted but yesterday, so far as the warmth of meeting went. Doña Hermana, indeed, whose reboso was close-drawn, had donned with it all the demure aloofness of a Mexican woman.

“But how have you come?” demanded Dias. “Surely, the schooner——”

“I took another schooner,” she returned calmly. “Ours will follow. The story is too long to be told now—see, I have brought you a gift! Look at it, then join me and ride on home, for I wish to talk with you.”

Following her pointing finger, Dias looked at Dick Hampton with puzzled eyes. Suddenly recognition leaped into his face, and one astounded oath burst from him.

“—— take me, I thought you were dead long ago!” he exclaimed in English, as he stared.

He took a step forward, his predatory gaze drinking in every detail of Hampton's figure. Then his teeth flashed out in a wide laugh.

“What a meeting, what a meeting!” he cried. “And how excellently this good wife of mine seems to have entertained you——”

Doña Hermana put out a hand and touched his shoulder.

“Talk to me, not to him,” she said quietly. “Come!”

“Certainly, mi querida,” responded Dias, and waved his hand to Hampton. “You are free, my friend! Enjoy your freedom. Go where you please. If you wish food and water, come and talk with me below.”

He turned to his mule, mounted, and started for the path, Doña Hermana at his side. Hampton caught a jesting word from one of the men that was illuminating.

“This little sister of the devil puts our master in leading strings, eh? Now we shall see some fun down below!”

They started down the trail, and Hampton followed, understanding perfectly why Dias needed no fetters for his slave-gang. The ghastly mockery of those few words about food and water, explained many things. The rifle-armed guards were not posted to watch for any who might escape from the cañon , but to give notice of any who arrived. The very stones of this terrible desert were impassable to any one not wearing the native hide footgear of the peninsula; even during this short march, Hampton's poor remnants of shoes had been cut to ribbons and rags by the incredibly sharp flints of the desert trail.

The down-path was not a long one, but was narrow and meandering along the cliff face, so that a few men might have held it against an army. Down below, Hampton caught glimpses of a fair-sized little creek, whose waters were conducted by acequias into fields of cane and lucerne and corn; date-palms nodded somnolently, fruit trees were in bearing, and the low adobe houses stood dead-gray here and there. Of the upper cañon at the bend of the creek, where stood the great house of Doña Hermana, he could see nothing.

Then, upon reaching the floor of the lower cañon, Hampton found that those ahead had halted and were awaiting him expectantly. Toiling up the cañon toward them, from where its lower reaches merged with the coast, were two carts, drawn by mules, and escorted by ragged figures. Each two-wheeled cart bore a number of stone blocks; the wheels were iron-bound segments of solid wood, whose ungreased axles filled the cañon with dismal shriekings.

Dias must have had an unpleasant chat on the way down, for he faced his mule about and regarded Hampton with a sudden burst of fury in his face.

“You are very clever, you dog!” he said, yet in a well-controlled voice. “You played a fine little game in Panama, eh? You thought the señora would believe whatever you said, eh? Well, you have learned something by this time, and you shall soon learn more. Speak up, you dog! Do you wish to earn your food and drink here, or not?”

“Yes,” said Hampton, meeting those glassy eyes and knowing the horrible futility of words.

“After this,” said Dias, “when you speak to me you do not say only 'Si!' but 'Si, señor amo!' Here you are a dog, nothing more, and it is I who am obeyed. You understand?”

“Si, señor amo,” said Hampton. At these words the men standing around broke into wide grins; to hear upon the lips of a gringo Yankee these words, used chiefly by broken-spirited Indian peons, gratified their cruelty and pride—for these ruffians had pride of a sort.

“You have evidently been well trained by the señora,” and Dias grinned. “So you wish to work for me, eh? Very well. I shall send for you in the morning. In the meantime, we shall ask this man in charge of the stone-cutting to take care of you overnight.”

Dias turned his mule toward the approaching carts and began to roll a cigarito. In his air was a cruel expectancy, in the manner of the ruffians around was gleeful watching. Hampton met the gaze of Doña Hermana, and read a horrible hidden laughter in her dark eyes. He turned away gladly enough toward the carts, yet sensed that something frightful was in store for him.

Riding on one of the carts was an overseer armed with a long whip, but it was not at him that Dias beckoned with imperative hand. It was, rather, at the man in advance of the carts—a bent, sun-blackened, bearded figure clad in ragged trousers and serape, whose face was all in dark shadow beneath the wide hat of plaited grass.

At the gesture from Dias, this creature broke into a shambling, uneven run, and advanced toward the party with hat flap ping and tattered hide footgear slapping the dust. Coming straight to Dias, he seized the latter's hand and kissed it effusively, with a babble of Spanish.

“Si señor amo! I am here at your command—and here is the señora! Beautiful señora, I kiss your feet and welcome you home. All that I have is yours, señora——”

Suiting action to words, the man bent over the stirrup of Doña Hermana and kissed her toe, then laughed and babbled vapid compliments. With a sudden shrinking sensation, Hampton realized that this creature was an idiot.

“To me, Bobo!” said Dias, and the man answered with a cackling laugh to the name of fool. Dias lighted his cigarito and exhaled a thin cloud of smoke. “I have brought you a present, Bobo—a new and strong man to help you with your work. He is a gringo, and his name is Señor Hampton, Ricardo Hampton. You will treat him like a brave caballero, extend all the hospitality of your quarters to him, and bring him before me at nine in the morning. Look at him, Bobo, and welcome him among us!”

Hampton was wondering what refinement of cruelty lay behind all this—for he sensed such a thing very distinctly, and knew that all eyes were now turned upon him. The idiot turned and came toward him, shambling, hands hanging. Then Dias spoke again.

“Off with your hat, Bobo, and greet our guest politely!”

Obediently, Bobo doffed his wide hat and bowed in mocking welcome. A shiver passed over Hampton, and his eyes widened at sight of the hatless man. Despite the beard, despite the long hair, the haggard features, that face struck into him with frightful recognition; he stood paralyzed, speechless, incredulous, in the grasp of a stiffling horror that mounted and mounted as the fool gibbered at him. Hampton put a hand to his eyes as though to wipe away the vision—looked again, was conscious of the laughter of Dias and the men around, but heeded it not. A spasm of unutterable agony seized upon Hampton as he realized the truth.

In this poor creature he had found his brother.

“Eli!” he exclaimed, dry-lipped. “Eli! Is it you——”

“Welcome, señor, welcome!” cackled the other. “We shall give you of our best——”

A wild cry burst from Hampton.

“You devil, you devil!” he gasped out, as he turned and leaped straight for Dias. So swift and unexpected was his action that it succeeded; in blind and frantic agony of rage he caught Dias by the throat and half tugged him from the saddle.

Then the men around were upon him, kicking and striking, cursing as they drove in blows. Dias himself, freed of that grip, regained his seat and looked on, but his face was slightly pallid.

“Enough!” he said presently, and the men fell back from the half-senseless bloody figure of Hampton. “Take good care of him, Bobo!”

“Evidently,” observed Doña Hermana, as she shook the reins of her mule, “the man needs a hundred lashes or so.”

“All things in due time,” said Dias, and furtively put brown fingers to his throat. “Dios, the man has strength! Yes, he must be broken still further—in due time.”

They rode away side by side, the men following them afoot. And Hampton, as he lifted himself dizzily from the dust, heard the vapid laughter of Bobo at his side.

II

EVENING drew down upon the Valley of Mercy, and Dick Hampton, after bathing in the lower creek, found himself entering into the life of the damned under the guardianship of the brother he had come so far to seek—El Bobo, the fool.

The first shock of anguish and horror past, he steeled himself to accept the inevitable and to endure in silence, as he followed his brother and the squeaking carts from the creek along the rude cañon trail toward the rows of adobe buildings. It was growing dark now, here in the valley, and work was over for the day. The overseer's whip cracked, one unfortunate wretch howled aloud, and the others hastened to unhitch the mules.

From different directions men came toward the adobe bunk-houses—weary, ragged, sodden men, with here and there the crack of a whip to hasten some unfinished labor. They came from the fields, from the lower valley toward the sea, from the upper cañon; here and there rifle-armed guards were in evidence, though these had separate quarters higher along the valley wall. The slave-quarters were not all large. Some were small adobe shacks, with women and children in sight, and the smoke of cooking fires went up into the late afternoon coolness.

As he dragged himself along after the shambling figure of his brother, Hampton scrutinized these other figures coming in from all sides. Here and there he discerned a bowed American, shaggy and ragged like the others yet marked by a certain surly defiance that still lingered in their hopeless and scarred features; he knew none of them. There were a few Chinamen, sleek and mud-spattered figures from the fields, who bunked apart by themselves, and in the buzz of voices that arose Hampton caught a few oaths in German or French, and heard one little cockney whining over a gashed arm. The great majority of these slaves, however, were Mexicans of Spanish strain. Very few of them showed any Indian blood, while on the contrary all the guards and overseers were either pure Indians or mestizos.

Hampton followed his brother to where a pot was slung over a fire, and crowded in among the mass of men. A stumpy little Mexican woman handed out bowls of stew, with tortillas. As Hampton got his share and turned away, he found at his elbow a red-bearded American, stooped and broken, who greeted him with weary recognition.

“Hello, another Yank, eh? You're a new one, ain't you? Didn't know a ship was in. Where you from, and who roped you in?”

“My name's Hampton. I came up from Panama.”

“To see the country, hey?” The other grinned and wolfed his tortilla. “I'm Pap Hoskins, from Car-lina; started to dig gold, and got hooked. If I wasn't tougher'n most, I'd be gone now. We done buried the last o' that Massachusetts crowd day 'fore yesterday. Softies.”

“What crowd?” asked Hampton, with a flicker of interest.

“Bunch come up with Dias. Got hooked, I reckon. Sho', though, lots of 'em ain't hooked. Them chinks are here on contract—work so long, then get sent to 'Frisco. Well, better not talk. Lot o' spies in this gang of greasers. See ye later, Yank. Anytime ye need a drink o' cactus licker, go down to the mill. All ye want free. Helps recruit the greasers, too.”

The red-bearded man from Carolina sauntered away, following a steady stream of men that was headed for the creek, where a small pulque mill was in full blast. Hampton was not slow to comprehend the diabolic ingenuity of Dias in thus furnishing the deadly juice of the big cactus leaves. It was a potent factor in breaking down such men as Pap Hoskins, who might otherwise be dangerous, and it served to keep the Mexicans in a more or less continual state of drunken stupor.

Watching the men around him, Hampton swiftly realized that his brother Eli occupied a position far above the average; and this favored lot was undoubtedly due to his mental state. El Bobo replenished his own bowl thrice, while those who begged a second helping were repulsed angrily by the women cooks; he could talk or jest among the guards with impunity, a liberty denied to the others. Yet with his fellow-slaves he was obviously popular enough, and he could chatter Spanish like a native.

Hampton's heart ached for the haggard, witless creature, so terribly changed from the sturdy young fellow whom he had left at home. Not a spark of recognition had awakened in that dull and vacuous countenance, even the mention of Hampton's name had evoked no response. The savage cruelty of Dias must have been satisfied to the full in that moment of meeting.

When Eli now approached him, Hampton took a desperate mental brace, faced the unhappy man, took him in his arms.

“Eli, Eli!” he cried frantically, tears leaping on his sun-blackened cheeks. “Don't you know me, boy? Speak to me—one word of English——”

Men crowded in around them, staring curiously at the new gringo, nudging one another and grinning over his emotion. El Bobo twisted clear of Hampton's grip, with a grimace.

“El señor gringo uses strange words,” he whimpered, and the crowd guffawed.

Hampton whirled upon them in a gust of anger—then conquered himself and turned away. He felt himself broken, hopeless, at the end of everything. Without a word he followed the beckoning Bobo into an adobe bunk-house, was shown to a shelf furnished with tattered blankets, and slumped down on it. The witless one departed into the gathering twilight.

There Hampton was at his lowest ebb, and knew it. He sat for a long while motionless, head in hands, gripped by a measureless despair. Around him the night gathered. Other men came drifting into the place, sleeping two by two on their shelves which ranged the walls in two tiers. They stank of vile mescal, of tobacco, of dirt. Tobacco smoke filled the unlighted place. From the quarters of the Chinese, adjoining, drifted a faint, sweetish reek of opium.

What hope for escape from this hell? None. Hampton saw himself caught in the same net that had seared all these other men, that had brought his brother to idiocy; the lash, hard labor under a bitter sun—labor that alone would kill any white man—and worse than the sharp tooth of slavery, the poison-fang of depraved and vicious surroundings.

“No way out,” thought Hampton, “except one. I was a fool to jump at Dias today; now they'll know that I'm not broken yet. The only possible thing I can do now is to wait, endure everything silently, and then get that —— when the chance offers. They may kill me first, but if they try it I'll go down fighting. No—it won't do to give up hope. Besides, Nellie Barnes is here somewhere! If I can find her, it would be better to die a clean death out in the desert than to perish miserably here in this vile place. No wonder El Hambre came here and went away again without doing anything! Well, I mustn't let them beat me down—my game is to strike a blow, and lie low until the time comes. For the old man back home, and for the poor boy here—and perhaps for Nellie Barnes. We'll see.”

Through his thoughts there pierced a sound that aroused everything in him, that brought back before him that scene in the farmhouse with his father, while the woodpecker tap-tapped, somewhere above. Over the odorous air of the adobe shack, sharp through the dark growl of sodden voices, came the rasping clat—clat—clat of palm-fronds overhead, like the flicker of reef-points against a wind-bellied main course. That sound drew a long breath from Hampton, roused up the man in him; he quietly stretched out, rolled over against the wall, and lay motionless, fighting down the torrential anguish of his soul. Like that scene in the farmhouse with his father, where a certain self-mastery had come to him, this night marked another and a greater fixation of his character.

“The world's a good place—so hurray!” he quoted softly to himself, and managed a wry smile at thought of Job Warlock.

As he lay, he heard voices at the door, and the whining peon drawl brought him sharper comprehension of the situation. The guards were there and had checked off each slave upon entering; none could now leave the place until morning came. Impressed by this evidence of caution on the part of Dias, Hampton rolled over against the wall—and his elbow rapping the adobe gave a distinctly hollow sound. Curious, he leaned aside, reached out and raked away the matted tatters of blankets there, and his fingers groped into a long and ragged hole scraped in the adobe. Then they fell upon a long knife or machete esconced in the hole.

He lay wondering, startled by his discovery. Was there some instinct of escape still dormant in the enfeebled brain of poor Eli? Or was this the token left by some former occupant of the double bunk? It was hard to say; none the less, Hampton's fingers thrilled to the touch of the blade. It meant a weapon.

There came a new altercation at the door, and the sound of his brother's vapid laugh; it went through him like a knife. Then the shambling step across the trodden earth floor, and presently a figure crept in beside him and straightened out in the bunk. His brother—here at his side in the darkness, yet unknowing! The thought was agony. The realization of that blinded intellect——

A hand reached out, touched his arm, came down to his wrist; fingers caught at his in a wild grip—a frantic and terrible convulsion of the muscles.

“Dick! Dick!” The low-breathed word reached his ear and stunned him with its import. “Are you awake, Dick!”

“In heaven's name——”

That hand shifted rapidly, clamped down over Hampton's lips, cut short his astounded ejaculation. The low whisper vibrated again at his ear.

“Careful, careful! Spies all around. Oh, Dick, it was so hard to do! But I had to do it. We don't know who the spies are—ever since I got a bad clip over the head I've played the fool—it's the only thing that has saved me! Don't spoil it now, Dick—don't spoil it! Oh, I'm so glad you've come—and so sorry——”

The words died out in a low, inchoate sob. With that, Hampton gave way; the furious back-swing of his emotion caught him up in its rush, and gathering the tattered figure in his arms he lay with sobs tearing at his throat and tears blinding him.

Weariness was forgotten—torture and mental horror, despair, wounds, all were swept aside by this overwhelming discovery. So tremendous was the revulsion that Hampton lay for a long while unable to speak, unable to trust himself; until at length he put lips to ear and broke silence with shaken accents. So in the darkness of the slave-pen came to be delivered the message from father to son. Then, after a little, Hampton mentioned that hole in the wall.

“A night's work will finish it,” said Eli, little more than forming the words with his lips. “But it's no good, Dick. Can't get away. No hope on earth. Pap Hoskins is in the game with me, and so is that big Frenchman with the blue-black beard. All we wanted was a chance to strike a blow—hopeless to think of escape.”

“Nelly Barnes—have you seen her?”

“Yes,” uttered Eli, and in the word were volumes. “She's all right—so far. No chance to talk with her. Things are quieting down now—be careful! Wait until morning. Act a part. Make them think you're broken—or they'll use the whips. The others who came with Dias and Nellie are gone. They couldn't last long. Dias sent them out into the desert gathering wood for the fires; it killed them quickly. Now wait until tomorrow.”

Hampton obeyed. Presently he fell asleep, tears on his cheeks.

Daylight came, sharply cold. Dick Hampton wakened to find his brother's lips at his ear, and felt something thrust into his hand. It was a razor, or what remained of one.

“Use it if you want, then hide it in the hole. Come down to the creek.”

Hampton hesitated. Badly as he wanted to be rid of his beard, which had regrown on the voyage north, to do so would make him a marked man; and now he had a game to play. Besides, it was no light task to secretly hack at a stiff beard, without soap or water—and he thrust the razor into the hollowed-out adobe, then pulled the matted blankets over the opening and left the bunk.

Slight attention was paid to him as he made his way down to the creek and washed. He saw nothing of his brother at first, but presently El Bobo appeared, carrying tortillas and a bowl of chocolate. They were alone for the time being, as whips were cracking and slave-gangs being formed up by the overseers.

“Safe to talk,” said Eli, depositing his burden and flinging himself down. “We have to snatch the right time, Dick. I'm a privileged character—they found I could get out stone blocks and could carve them a bit. Besides, you're in my charge just now, until we go and see Dias. Here's breakfast, so pitch in. Did you hide the razor?”

Hampton nodded. “Can we get away at night, get a couple of mules, and hit across the desert, Eli? Is that your plan?”

The other laughed hopelessly.

“Impossible, Dick; you might as well dismiss the notion. They'd let you go in the daytime, but they'd see to it that you went afoot and empty-handed. The only way out is by that patch up the side, or else by the lower end of the cañon to the sea. Both ways are guarded, and those guards are Yaqui Indians from Sonora. How did you get here? I heard about the Beverly company and all that from the poor —— who got here with Dias—Ezra Howe was with 'em. His wife died on the way up from Panama. Dias shot him two days after they got here.”

Hampton briefly recounted, while breaking his fast, an outline of his story. He had barely finished when Eli leaped to his feet and was instantly transformed into El Bobo, and flung a swift word at his brother.

“Look out! Here's Ramon, Dias' chief lieutenant, coming. Pure Yaqui and a ——”

Approaching them was the tall, splendid figure of an Indian, garbed in all the gold-laced finery of a Mexican, about his shoulders a handsome scarlet serape. He came close to them, his glittering eyes fastened upon Hampton; his features were intelligent, darkly proud, stamped with a bitter ferocity. El Bobo capered up and demanded his cigaret, which Ramon accorded, then the Yaqui began to roll himself another.

“Well, gringo!” he said curtly. “Today your scalp is mine. Come.”

El Bobo fluttered in with some question, and Ramon whirled on him with imperative gesture.

“Be off! The master has ordered me to bring this man. Go to your work, fool.”

So poor Eli went shambling away, while Hampton rose and followed the tall Yaqui, in silence.

He was led up the valley, and knew that he was going to face Dias. He did not fail to observe that at sight of Ramon the other guards became very ostensibly alert, and the slaves at work shrank hastily aside; even the Chinese, who shared but slightly in the hardships of their companions, avoided the tall Yaqui with extreme care. Hampton needed no explanations to realize that this chief lieutenant of Dias was a devil rather than a man. So much was patent in the very face of the redskin.

They passed the slave barracks and the scattered houses of the guards, whose half-breed families were in full evidence, and so came to the bend of the creek. There, masked by the fruit orchard and the huge foliage of ancient fig trees, was revealed the hub of this entire place—the new house of Doña Hermana.

It was a palace rather than a house, built beside the tumbling waters of the little creek; here the towering walls of the cañon drew in on either side, dwarfing all things. The building itself was of stone, not of adobe—long and low, the roof furnished with a parapet where Hampton caught the gleam of several small brass cannon. Just across the creek was a corral, with some small adobe buildings used by the Chinese servants of Dias.

Ramon strode straight to the entrance of the house, a low doorway on either side of which were prominently displayed the same two Chinese characters which Hampton had seen on the silver knife and at the entrance of Doña Hermana's residence in Panama. The Yaqui struck a large bell, and the door was opened by a silk-clad Chinaman.

“Follow,” said Ramon, and stalked in.

Hampton obeyed, keenly alert and noting every detail. Since the previous day he had become a new man—himself again, the seaman, the man of action. Outwardly he was the same sullen, silent person beaten down by the whips of misfortune; inwardly, the deathly despair was gone. He could have laughed aloud as he entered the house of Dias. True, there was no escape in sight, but there was at least the prospect of striking a blow and going down like a man instead of as a beast.

Inside the house, he was astounded beyond words by what met his eye. As in all Mexican houses, the heavy ceiling and roof were formed of logs painted in bright hues, covered over with tules or rushes, interlaced and plastered with adobe, and these in turn with the upper surface of stone-worked adobe. Aside from the logs, however, Hampton might have imagined himself in any splendid mansion of a great city, for the interior finish of the place was admirable. Aside from this, its sheer luxury was incredible. The rooms were filled, crowded with all manner of objects which spoke eloquently of loot and piracy—carpets of Spain and Turkey, jeweled and bedizened images of saints, oil paintings, furniture of all descriptions.

This brief vision past, Hampton found the patio opening out ahead, another Chinaman holding the door ajar for the commanding Yaqui. Two of the rifle-armed guards appeared; awnings were stretched, and bubbling acequias conducted water from the creek to irrigate the flower-beds whose gaudy splotches of color softened the blinding white morning sunshine. Across the patio was working a slave-gang, building up the far wall of the enclosure and working on a small structure which was nearing completion.

It was not at these things that Hampton looked, however. After the first glance around, his gaze came to rest on the little group of people beneath the awning. There was Dias, smoking and laughing heartily at some jest of the guard at his elbow; there was Doña Hermana, picking delicately at a dish of fruit—and, standing beside the señora, staring at Hampton with eyes wide and incredulous, was Nelly Barnes.

“Here is the gringo dog, señor,” said the tall Yaqui, who deigned to call no man master.

III

AFTER that first recognition, Hampton dared not look again at the white face of the girl; she took a step forward, then paused and glanced at Doña Hermana. Deadly fear lay in her eyes. She wore the same simple blue dress in which Hampton had last seen her. This vision of her, standing here in the patio, brought a swift heart-stab to him. He looked at Dias, and in those glassy, arrogant eyes he read death. He felt suddenly afraid; it came to him that there must be no delay, no hesitation. That very night he and Eli must act, must make their desperate at tempt—if he lived until tonight.

It was then, in this minute of silence, that the whole thing flashed across Hampton's brain—the terribly simple outline of the night's work. As Eli had said, escape was out of the question, for the mere idea of reaching the schooner and getting away in her was too absurd to consider, while the desert spelled death; this death, however, was better than the Valley of Mercy. There remained only to get Nelly Barnes out of this hell, strike a last blow, and go. Provided, of course, that Hampton lived until night; for in the eyes of Dias, in the slow smile of Doña Hermana, he read terrible things.

“Welcome, Señor Hampton,” said Dias, leaning back in his chair and puffing his cigaret. “I believe that you came in search of a man named Winslow or Dias. Well, you have found him! You have also found the lost brother, who is one of my most valued friends. What, then, have you to say to me?”

Hampton stood silent. A thin smile curved the lipp of Dias.

“What! Have you no word even for this fair señorita from your own country? Speak to her, my dear señor! Assure her of my benevolence, and congratulate her upon having found as a friend and protector my most charming señora! Indeed, Señora Dias has even arranged a marriage for her with a man of high position and much wealth, so that her future is assured.”

Hampton caught a slight shrinking movement on the part of Nelly Barnes, but he remained silent, his eyes watching Dias in dulled apathy. Dias turned to the girl, smiling.

“Come, señorita! Have you no word of greeting for this caballero?” He repeated the words in English. Doña Hermana leaned forward and spoke brokenly.

“Si! Look at zem, señorita—one is a fool, and I haf peek you a fine señor, no?”

Less from the uttered words than from the glances that were cast, Hampton comprehended with a thrill of horror that the speakers were referring to the tall, dark Yaqui, who stood to one side rolling a cigarito. As he understood, Hampton felt a hot wave of blood rise into his face—yet he forced himself to remain silent. Suddenly Nelly Barnes plunged down on her knees beside the chair of Doña Hermana, caught the hand of the señora, and poured forth a passionate, agonized entreaty.

“You're a woman—you'll know all it means, you have a heart!” she cried desperately. “You can't be as bitterly cruel as this monster—I know it's not your doing! Don't let them do this, señora; he can have my money, anything at all, and I'll never say a word——”

Doña Hermana drew her hand from the girl's frenzied grasp—a slow and deliberate movement which spoke far more than her coolly amused laugh or disdainful words.

“Peace, niña! Go to your man, but leaf me alone.”

Nelly Barnes slowly drew back, then rose. Before she could speak, Dias broke in:

“Tut, tut, young lady! There before you is the man who murdered your father——”

Hampton spoke for the first time, and his voice leaped out with a cold and deadly emphasis that seemed to startle Dias.

“You lie! Nelly, that man is your father's murderer. The fact has been proven beyond all doubt. Adam Johnson and others know of it and have cleared me absolutely.”

Dias leaped to his feet, with an expression of such savage ferocity that even Doña Hermana leaned aside, watching him with wide eyes.

“So you're not broken yet, gringo!” he cried, then flung out his hand to the Yaqui. “Take him, Ramon—his scalp is yours——”

Ramon lighted his cigaret, then slipped hand to waist and steel glittered. Hampton swiftly weighed his chances and found none—the two rifle-armed guards were close on either side. Then, suddenly, Nelly Barnes leaped forward, flung her arm across his chest protectingly, and gasped out swift words:

“No, no! I will do anything you want—I will agree to anything—let him go——”

Ramon grinned. Doña Hermana uttered a low, musical laugh. Dias stared at the girl, then shrugged his shoulders and resumed his seat.

“As you will, señorita,” he said in English. Then, to Ramon, repeating his words in Spanish that both the Yaqui and Nelly Barnes might understand, he continued: “Let this man go free. Give him food and water and a mule. His life has been purchased, and the woman is yours.”

Ramon put up his knife, a swift gleam in his eye, and spoke a few words in a patois that Hampton did not understand. But Hampton, knowing well enough that this action on the part of Dias was only a delusion and a snare, had seized his chance for a word. Nelly Barnes stood close against him, her brown hair brushing his cheek—and though he longed to touch her, to grasp her hand if only for an instant, he refrained, lest the motion draw attention to him. Instead, he breathed low words which could reach her ear alone.

“Tonight, midnight. Be ready. Get outside if you can.”

A tremor of her arm as it lay across his chest told him that she understood—then Ramon turned to them, doffed his sombrero ironically, and swept Hampton a bow.

“Come with me, señor, and the order of our master shall be obeyed. Until later, señorita.”

Nelly Barnes stood aside, gave Hampton one lightning glance of perplexity, alarm, startled wonder—then he turned and followed the Yaqui. The two guards closed in behind him, and he was escorted through the house again, gaining a breath of its coolness before stepping out into the blinding white sunlight of the valley.

Then, as the door of the building was closed, the two guards put down their rifles and seized Hampton. Swiftly, efficiently, his arms were twisted behind his back and lashed tight; he was given no chance to resist, even had he so desired. Ramon gave the guards a guttural order, then strode away toward the corrals, which were gained by a small bridge over the creek.

“Walk to the barracks, gringo,” commanded one of the guards.

Hampton strode along in grim silence, careless what might await him if only he were allowed to live until night. Thoroughly as he had plumbed the depths of the deliberate and diabolic cruelty of Dias, this last evidence of the man's deviltry had scored him sharply and left a deep and ineradicable hatred which was beyond expression, filling his whole spirit, burning in his tortured brain like a white flame.

Other guards assembled, and stolid half-Indian women. Then, near his own sleeping-quarters, Hampton was suddenly tripped and flung to the ground, and four men sat on him. Others drove stakes in the sun-baked earth, and in ten minutes he was being spreadeagled and lashed by wrist and ankle to the four stakes. Ramon came up with some thongs of green hide, which were eagerly seized and applied to the work. Then the tall Yaqui commanded that a fire be built up, and at once a storm of questions arose.

“No,” said Ramon. “The gringo is not to be killed—yet. This is by the master's order; it is only a little thing.”

So Hampton guessed, rightly enough, that he was now to pay for that blindly furious attack on Dias the previous afternoon.

Pegged out in the hot sunlight, unable to endure the brazen sky overhead, he closed his eyes and lay silent, oblivious to the remarks and jests of those around. Time passed; what was preparing, he did not know or care. Between blistering sun above and scorching ground below, he was in a burning heat, but scarce felt it. The green rawhide thongs that tied him down were gradually evaporated in that flooding sun, until they shrank tight and ever more tightly cut into his skin, dragging out feet and hands toward the stakes. He remembered having heard of such Indian tortures—given a few more thongs to each extremity, his limbs might well be pulled from their sockets.

A sudden burst of laughter and a storm of jeering exclamations went up. Half opening his eyes, Hampton saw, bending over him, one of the silk-clad Chinese servants from the house of Dias—a wrinkled, saturnine fellow, whose very grin bore anticipations of torture. In one hand he held a brush, in the other a small pot of paint or ink. He made some remark to the crowd in Spanish which drew another outburst of mirth.

Ramon leaned over the pegged-out figure and tore away the front of Hampton's shirt. In this act, the eyes of the two men met—Hampton putting into one swift look all the things he dared not utter. The Yaqui started violently, half-whipped out his knife, then rose and turned away with a shrug; none the less, Hampton smiled a little, knowing that his message of hatred had been understood. Then he gave a sudden grunt, and found the Chinaman calmly seated upon him, brush in hand, drawing a diagram on his naked chest. Hampton had no need to ask what it was—those same two characters were embroidered on the silken blouse before his eyes. A cackle of mirth broke from the celestial, and he looked at the staring crowd who had gathered close.

“Look!” he exclaimed in very good Spanish. “Observe the beauty of this writing, which you do not understand! But I will show you what it means. Here above is the character tan, which shows the sun just above the horizon; it means the morning, or what you call dias—it is our word for the name of the master. Now below it you see me writing the character named i, which in the ancient writing of my country shows an arrow fixed in a target. It means that something has been done or finished, and the two characters together mean that our master has approved or done this thing—it is a seal made for our master by the eminent Yu Szu Lo of Canton.”

The yellow man concluded his writing and his exposition at the same moment, and then rose. Hampton was vaguely astonished by this explanation of the mysterious insignia used by Dias; but he quite comprehended that his astonishment would not last long.

Nor did it. He had closed his eyes again, when a keen breath of anticipation, a rustle and low mutter of words, apprized him that the next step in the program was at hand. He peered up as a shadow barred the hot sunlight from his face, and beheld the tall shape of Ramon standing above him.

“Look and enjoy, señor!” said the Yaqui, grinning, and stooped. In his hand was a white-hot iron from the fire, specked with scintillating particles.

Hampton threw back his head; at the touch of the iron he quivered, but made no sound. For an instant he thought that iron was about to be plunged into his throat—then he felt the caress of a burning finger touch his breast, and realized the truth. He was being branded with the seal of Dias.

“Deep, Ramon, deep!” went up the fierce cry from those crowding around, but the Yaqui did not heed. He had certain specific orders from Dias, which forbade him to work any real injury or to put the prisoner beyond ability to labor and endure the deadly sun-torture in the surrounding desert; so, that the gringo might be able to set forth with a wood-gathering party in the morning, grubbing out mesquite and juniper from the blazing desolation, Ramon touched lightly with the iron, little more than searing the skin.

The agony was exquisite, as the hot iron followed the painted lines, bringing out in a whitish blister the shape of the Chinese characters traced there. Even more exquisite and frightful was the pain when at last the Yaqui grunted and rose to his feet, and the sunlight struck down to scorch the seared skin. Yet those who watched so eagerly saw nothing, beyond a slight convulsive tremor of Hampton's body; then that body relaxed and lay without further movement. The captive had fainted.

When Hampton opened his eyes again, blinded and dazzled by the sun, it was to feel the keen anguish of a hand upon his burned chest. Then he saw the ginger whiskers of Pap Hoskins outstretched above him, and heard the voice of the man from Carolina in his ear.

“Everybody's eatin'—reckon I can spread this grease 'thout bein' caught. Your brother's fair wild and we're keepin' him away——”

“Tell him—get loose tonight!” croaked Hampton, and groaned. “Water, water!”

“I got some right handy, son. Lucky you been layin' out in the sun after all-done took out the fire. I'll lay some more grease in your bunk. Reckon they'll cut you loose right soon. Tonight, eh? All right. Here come two o' the devils now, so shet up.”

While he spoke, Hoskins was deftly spreading some sort of grease across Hampton's inflamed skin. Then he lifted an olla and let some water drip into the open, swollen mouth. Several of the guards and other prisoners came up, but made no comment, and after a moment Hampton found himself alone again. He realized that it was past noon, and that many of the slaves had gathered around. By this time the rawhide thongs were so tightly stretched that he had lost all feeling in hands and feet, which were swollen and purpled.

Presently whips cracked, orders were shouted, and the labor of the day was taken up afresh. When silence had settled down, Hampton was dully aware that some one was close beside him, and with the torture of thirst again upon him, he spoke:

“Agua! Water!”

An ironic laugh made answer, and he peered up to see Dias gazing down at him.

“Water, eh?” Dias chuckled. “He asks water—get him some, querida mia!”

“Indeed! Get it yourself,” made answer another voice, and Hampton knew that Doña Hermana was behind his head. “You are a fool to treat him so lightly; I tell you the dog will make trouble yet if he is not killed.”

“Why kill him quickly?” responded Dias. “Three days in our charming desert, and then the symbol burned into his back—and in four days more Ramon will have a scalp to wave before his new woman. You hear, Hampton? Tomorrow we celebrate the marriage of my faithful Yaqui. You shall be the guest of honor, and El Bobo shall give away the bride.”

Hampton did not open his eyes again or make any response. Presently the two moved away, and it was a little later that he felt a sudden relaxation of his tortured flesh. When he looked around, he found that one of the guards was cutting him loose.

“Go to your kennel, gringo dog,” said the guard, and sauntered away.

For a long while Hampton lay helpless. At last he managed to sit up, and despite the burning anguish that enveloped him, began to chafe his wrists and ankles, which were cut and bleeding from the thongs. With the restored circulation, his head was whirling with the access of pain, when he looked up to see two figures passing by. They were Dias and Ramon; both men were too occupied to notice him, and halted a short distance away. To them came running a half-naked Indian. Dias flung a question at him:

“You are from the harbor? What is it?”

Hampton comprehended that they had been signaled the arrival of this messenger, and had come forth to meet him. The panting Indian made answer.

“Si, mi señor amo! We have sighted the schooner, that of Señora Dias, which was left behind. The wind is very light, however, and she cannot get in before sometime tonight.”

“Good,” exclaimed Dias heartily. “No sign of the other schooner, my own?”

“No sign, señor amo.”

Dias waved his hand. “Bueno! Return and tell your comrades that they may come in at sunset; there will be no need of keeping watch at the harbor tonight.”

Dias and the tall Yaqui turned and strode back up the cañon, but Hampton sat in absolute dismay. Unconsciously, despite its impossibility, he had cherished a faint hope of escape by way of the sea, for he knew that the schooner which had brought him must be still lying in the hidden harbor. Now this tenuous hope was completely dashed. This second schooner, which had taken the devilish señora south and which she had left to follow her, had arrived in time to block even the faintest chance of escape.

After a little Hampton gained his feet with some difficulty and staggered down to the creek. There, standing in the cool water, he laved his hurts and drank his fill, unhindered; and gradually returning to a sanely balanced mind, found himself not vitally hurt—the strain of the torture itself had worn him down more than the actual suffering. He made his way back to the barracks, now deserted. Finding his own shelf-bunk, he discovered in it a bundle of rags and an earthen bowl containing some grease.

Mentally blessing Pap Hoskins, he daubed the grease on his wounds, wound the rags about his body, and then crawled into his bunk. He was asleep almost instantly—his last conscious thought a memory of the dark features of Ramon the Yaqui.

IV

WHEN Hampton wakened again, it was to darkness. The reflection of cooking fires outside cast a very faint glow into the bunk-horse, where men were talking and smoking; the slaves of Dias were not supplied with lights, but were given a goodly allowance of tobacco. The guards at the entrance were checking off those who entered, as usual.

Hearing a soft sound of sobbing, Hampton put out his hand and found his brother lying at his side. Eli gripped his fingers quickly, with a low word.

“Dick! I've been half-wild today—to think that it was to help me you came here——”

“Shut up,” said Hampton curtly. “I'm not hurt. Did Hoskins tell you about tonight?”

“Yes.” Eli controlled himself. “You're feeling able to walk?”

“Able to do more than walk, I hope,” said Hampton grimly. “I don't say that I enjoyed myself, but I'm not much hurt. Hoskins got me some grease that helped a lot.”

“He was keeping that to use on himself—Dias threatened to burn him, last week. Well, Dick, you'll have to let me over next the wall; if I'm to finish cutting the hole, it must be now before the noise quiets down. I'll get out first.”

There was no room for Eli to crawl over his brother, so when the bunk was clear, Hampton sat up and swung his feet to the floor, while Eli crept in past him. Much to his own surprize, Hampton found himself in much better condition than he had anticipated. Every movement cost its share of pain, naturally, yet his freedom of movement in general was not restricted; and on that unhappy traverse up from Panama, Hampton had learned anew the admirable results of muscular pain coupled with necessary exertion. All seamen were compelled to learn that lesson at bitter cost—yet Hampton had now learned it in ways not of the sea.

“I'm fit enought,” he muttered to Eli, as he took the outside place. “Once let me get a grip on that Yaqui, and I'll give him something to remember me by! Who else goes with us?”

“Talk later,” grunted Eli, who was head and shoulders inside the wall opening. “Got a foot of adobe yet to cut through.”

Hampton composed himself in patience, thankful now for the noise as the half-drunken men continued to come up from the pulque mill. He could hear the machete busily at work in the four-foot wall, whose adobes crumbled rapidly before it; and presently, by the occasional whiff of fresh air and the sound of falling fragments, knew that Eli was through the wall. He lay breathless, fearful lest some one hear the sounds, but no alarm was raised, and after a bit Eli, breathing hard, was back beside him and stuffing blankets into the opening.

“Now we're fixed,” said Eli, in an inaudible murmur, his lips at Hampton's ear. “I got word to Frenchy—he and Hoskins will be along, and maybe a couple of greasers I've sounded out. Can't trust many. At midnight the guards are changed and they come poking in here and there, so, quick's they've gone, we'll get to work.”

Hampton, not trusting himself to respond, lay quiet, and presently dozed off again.

He wakened to a light before his eyes, blinked into a lantern just above his face, and heard the Yaqui guards exchange a jest; it was midnight, the inspection and change of guard were under way. Beside him, El Bobo flung an oath and an incoherent babble at the guards, who laughed and passed on. Their lantern bobbed a moment at the door, then passed outside.

A dull sound came from the wall, and a breath of cold, clear night air. Then the low voice of Eli.

“Come on. They'll be along any minute.”

“They” referred to Hoskins and the others, no doubt. Hampton rolled over and shoved his legs at the ragged hole. Movement cost him a good deal of pain, of course, though not enough to hamper him in action; he wriggled into the hole, felt his feet gripped from the outside, and presently scraped through into the open air. Eli caught and supported him, helped him find his feet.

“Wait here for the others,” said Eli, his voice athrill with eagerness. “Keep 'em quiet. I'm going to get the guards—they belong to me—I don't calculate to let Pap Hoskins cheat me neither—he'll get his knife in 'em first if he has the chance——”

The dark figure melted away.

Hampton found himself standing alone at the rear of the adobe barracks. Brilliant starlight showed him the cactus-dotted hill side and the black cañon wall behind; all else was cut off by the long adobe building. The night was cold, crystal-clear. Under the blazing stars objects stood out distinctly.

A low scuffling sound—Hampton turned to the hole in the adobe wall, caught a foot as it protruded, and tugged. Came tumbling out a ragged figure with immense black beard; this was the Gaul known as Frenchy, and he emerged sputtering softly and spitting out adobe dust.

“Name of a name, the hole is too small for me! Who is here?”

“Be quiet,” said Hampton. “The others?”

“Are coming. Brr! Freedom! Liberty!” Frenchy slapped himself vigorously.

Presently a lithe, half-naked Mexican came squirming through the hole, followed by a second; Eli had some good reason for trusting the pair, and Hampton helped them clear. Almost at once, Pap Hoskins came along head first, gripping the tattered blankets which he tugged after him.

“Got to close that hole—gettin' right cold in there,” he grunted as he gained his feet. “Don't want to wake 'em up——”

He stuffed the rags into the gaping hole, then turned and grunted as he surveyed the others. A soft laugh broke from him, and he gripped Hampton's hand.

“All right? Where's Eli?”

“Said to wait for him——”

An oath from Frenchy, a low alarmed word from the Mexicans. Hampton turned, to see the glow of a cigarito at the nearer corner of the adobe building. The smoker came toward them. In the bright starlight there could be no mistaking the outline and swagger of that figure, its immense sombrero, its cloaking serape, its rifle.

“A Yaqui—a guard!” said Hoskins, and caught his breath sharply. The others remained silent, huddled against the wall in consternation. Hampton, wondering that the guard had not already seen them and sent out a call, stepped sharply forward.

“We may talk in peace now,” said the Yaqui, and broke into a low laugh. It was the voice of Eli.

In the plot as they were, the others stared in amazement at this metamorphosis of the shambling El Bobo. He came forward and flung down another serape and sombrero, with a rifle, at Hampton's feet.

“There you are. Now, then, who's in command here?”

“I am,” said Hampton. “If you others agree.”

Frenchy uttered a laugh.

“What matter?” he said in Spanish. “You as well as another. We die in any case.”

“Certainly,” said Hampton. “Dias' other schooner got into the harbor tonight, or was sighted. That ends our only chance of getting away by water. Now it's the desert, and one blow at Dias before we go down. Has any one a better project to offer?”

No one had, it appeared. The two Mexicans laughed softly, Frenchy squatted and with them rolled cigaritos from the supplies Eli had captured, and Pap Hoskins profanely told Hampton to go ahead and give orders.

“Can we count on any general rising of these other men?” asked Hampton.

“None,” spoke up Frenchy in disgust. “A few would help, yes, and all would break out if restraint were totally removed—but they have no heart to fight while a single Yaqui is in sight.”

“Can we reach the desert above by any other way than the one path?”

“No, unless we go down the valley several miles to the sea and circle around.”

“What about getting horses or mules away without discovery?”

“Impossible,” said Eli. “Even if we had them, they would be no good to us in the desert. The Yaquis would run us down in no time.”

“Very well.” Hampton, who had flung the serape over his shoulder, donned the sombrero and picked up the rifle. “Eli, you and I will go after Nelly Barnes. Pap Hoskins, you take the others and make for that trail. We must hold it. I'll create an alarm at Dias' house that will draw most of the guards, then we'll join you. As to arms——”

“Don't worry 'bout us,” said Hoskins significantly. “We aims to catch a few o' them Injuns on our way acrost the valley—same's Eli done. So you're goin' for the gal, eh? All right. I don't expect you'll get fur, but go ahead. It don't matter much how we peter out, so long's we go down hard. We'll wait for your rumpus to start. So long.”

He turned to Frenchy and the other two. Eli plucked Hampton's serape, and the two brothers stepped along the wall into the darkness, leaving a murmur of voices behind. Eli held out a cigaret he had rolled, with his own for light.

“Take it easy; we're all right. We'll be taken for guards if any one sees us. That's why I brought along the sombrero and serape for you. If any one comes close—the machete.”

Hampton puffed at his cigaret, swung around the corner, and advanced with Eli toward the upper valley. Here and there lanterns burned, by the entrances of other barracks; a faint whiff of opium lingered on the cold air; nothing stirred in the starlight. They left the adobe buildings behind, heard two guards exchanging jests from some dark corner, and so came to the dark masses of the orchard, the heavy, figs and the scattering of vines and fruit trees, at the elbow of the cañon. No alarm had come from behind them; all the lower valley was dark and empty, and Pap Hoskins was evidently keeping his companions in check.

“What about weapons for them?” asked Hampton, as he tossed away his cigarito.

“That's what Hoskins is after,” and Eli laughed softly. “Those guards have an adobe shack down below, with all kinds of weapons and ammunition. Dias has racks of new revolvers in that house of his, though. We'll see. Nelly Barnes is going with us?”

“Yes.”

“Too bad; we'll not go far, then,” said Eli grimly.

“I told her to be ready at midnight, and to come outside if possible. Where would we find her?”

“Probably by the left side of the house, toward the creek, where that big pepper-tree stands,” said Eli. “There's usually a guard around there, and another by the corral where the Chinos live. I want a crack at Dias while we're there.”

“You won't get it,” said Hampton. “You'll take Nelly in charge and lead her across to that trail by the quickest way. I'll stay to raise a fuss, then I'll find my way across. No arguments, lad. Your time comes soon enough.”

Eli grunted, but forbore to protest, as they were advancing toward the house. From somewhere far beyond, in the desert out above the cañon wall, rose the sobbing wail of a coyote to the stars. A voice in the shadow of the giant pepper-tree mimicked it perfectly, and flung out a laugh. A match flamed, and the red glow of a cigarito became visible.

“Quien es?” came the careless voice of the guard. “You've been down to the pulque mill, Pablo? I hope you brought——”

The words ended in a startled silence. From somewhere far down the valley rose a shrill astonished cry in words that echoed high and far. “Porque me tires? Why do you strike me?” One of the guards, perhaps, caught by Hoskins. Silence followed instantly, no further cry was heard, but Hampton walked straight in upon the figure beneath the pepper-tree. There could be no hesitation now. The cigaret point guided his fingers to the brown throat; the thought of action after these weeks of helpless torture maddened him, caused a furious access of savagery in his grip; like steel talons, his fingers ripped the life out of that brown throat before the cigaret had been extinguished in the dust. Without a sound, without a movement, the guard was dead. Eli, too late with his machete, stood aghast and horrified.

“Get his rifle and caps,” said Hampton quietly. He straightened up, and sent his voice into the darkness in a guarded call. "Nelly! Nelly! Are you here?”

An instant of silence, the fluttering sound of a breath sharply caught, then the girl's voice sounded softly.

“Here, Dick, at the window, but there are bars.”

Hampton was already following the sound of that voice. It conducted him to a window in the side wall of hewn stone—not a window of glass, but in the ancient fashion of the country framed solidly in wood and barred by heavily carved wooden grille. Against this, as he came close, Hampton made out the figure of Nelly Barnes, one hand thrust through the openings.

“Stand back,” he ordered, and thrust his rifle-barrel into the grill-bars, and then flung his weight on it. There was a sharp crash of dried wood, and half the barrier came away.

“Out—quickly!”

As the girl emerged, Hampton caught her, heard a startled call ring out from somewhere, and then held Nelly to him for an instant. Careless of the pain, he crushed her against his breast, touched his lips to hers—then thrust her at his brother.

“Eli! Take her quickly. Go with him, Nelly—I'm coming presently. Steal off, now, both of you! Not an instant to waste.”

Bewildered, daring no protest, the girl was swept off into the darkness by Eli, and Hampton turned to the window. A guard was approaching from somewhere, drawn by the crunch of shattered wood. Hampton threw the fragments of the grill inside and then followed them with a swift and silent leap.

Once inside the place, he caught a faint thread of light—a dim radiance that led him to an open doorway. He found himself looking out upon the patio, where, along the cloistered wall, little night lamps of oil flickered in niches. Hampton, smiling grimly, stepped to the nearest, took the lamp, and with it returned to the room he had just quitted. He set it on the floor and glanced around.

He was in one of the luxuriously furnished rooms, crowded with fine furniture and precious loot of all kinds, and a doorway led into an adjoining room which was racked with rifles, revolvers and pistols of all descriptions. Hampton seized half a dozen Colt revolvers, strung them together by the chin-thong of his sombrero, filled the sombrero itself with caps and prepared cartridges from the neat piles. He clapped the sombrero on his head again, hung the revolvers about his neck and behind him, then loaded two more revolvers for himself. With these, he returned to the former room.

No alarm seemed to have sounded—from the window he could discern nothing, could hear nothing; he realized that only a few moments had passed since that guard had perished beneath the pepper-tree. Now he heard the voice of another guard calling softly, knew that the second had approached and was searching. Smiling, Hampton turned back into the room, seized the brittle fragments of the grating he had flung inside, and went to the lamp. In two minutes a heap of furniture was dimly illumined by the creeping bluish flames of spilled oil. Once those flames reached the plastered reeds and timbers of the ceiling, they would not easily be quenched.

“Que es?” came the startled cry from outside. “What fire is that?”

The figure of a Yaqui came to the window opening, peering into the room. Hampton raised his revolver and fired; then, struggling under his load, he climbed from the window, caught up the dead guard's rifle, and emptied it in the direction of the corrals.

The alarm was given.

V

HAMPTON remained beneath the pepper tree, adjusting his loads and coolly awaiting the moment to complete his work.

His view of the lower valley was cut off, but the absence of any shots and the sharp repetition of voices told that the guards were centering all attention on himself. From the buildings across the creek came shriller voices and bobbing lights; from inside the house of Dias arose questioning calls and shouted demands. The flames in the room mounted higher and gained foothold on the ceiling.

Now from the servants' quarters came lanterns and running men, Chinese by their voices, pouring toward the house of the master. In the other direction, the orchard resounded with trampling feet and low cries as the Yaqui guards came hastening up from the barracks. Hampton, lost to sight in the blackness beneath the wide tree, saw the groups of men approach in the clear starlight, questing what was wrong, aiming at the ruddy light of the window.

They found what was amiss when Hampton's revolvers began to speak. He fired deliberately, coolly, emptying his weapons with deadly effect, while the Chinese shrieked in wild consternation and the Yaqui guards cursed as the bullets struck them down. Rifles began to make response. Hampton left his position and slipped across to the shadow of the fruit-trees that ranged the creek, and started for the lower valley.

Behind him was pandemonium. Flames were spouting in air, men were shooting blindly, and above the din of voices rose the stentor-blast of Dias. Hampton, not pausing to reload his heavy revolvers, made his way along the creek, turned the cañon elbow, and after one last glance at the ruddy glare behind, hastened on his way. From all quarters of this lower valley the guards were hurriedly converging upon the scene of alarm, their shouts ringing near and far.

Hampton plunged into the creek, which was only waist-high here, and crossed to the far side, where there was a trail. He had barely come into this, when he discerned a tall figure coming toward him, and a voice leaped at him fiercely:

“Where are you going? What is the matter up yonder?”

Hampton recognized Ramon, and laughed softly.

“Do you not know your friends at night, Ramon?” he demanded.

“Who are you?” demanded the tall Yaqui, coming up to him.

“I am the gringo, and pay my debt thus,” rejoined Hampton, and struck out with the heavy Colt.

The front sight lashed Ramon across the eyes and face, cutting deep and sending the blood spurting, drawing a cry of startled anguish from the Yaqui, Instantly Hampton struck again, this time across the forehead, and again the weapon went deep. Dazed and staggered by those blows, blinded by the blood, Ramon snarled like a wolf and whipped out his knife—but a third time the heavy iron smote him, and under the blow the facial bones crunched and gave. He took a step backward, then whimpered and fell groping in the dust, and writhed there, a crushed and blinded thing.

“Remember the gringo now, you dog,” said Hampton, and went on his way again.

He was not sure where to find the trail that ascended to the desert, but presently, from the dark cañon wall, heard a shot and a wild yell; then a burst of shouts went up, and he caught Eli's voice. Instantly he lifted a ringing shout, which Eli answered, and in five minutes Hampton had located the trail and found himself greeted by Pap Hoskins.

“That you, Hampton? Eli's on above with the gal. We got the trail—I'm stayin' here to hold it a spell. We got rifles and a heap o' shootin' supplies. What's burnin' yonder?”

“The house of Dias,” said Hampton, and Hoskins uttered a howl of joy.

Pushing on up the trail, Hampton stumbled over a dead Yaqui and presently caught up with Eli and Nelly, who greeted him with a cry of delight. The mounting trail gave them plainer view of the growing conflagration up the cañon, and Hampton briefly related what he had done.

“We might have a chance to fight through to the schooner, had it not been for the other schooner arriving tonight,” he concluded, but Eli dissented.

“No—listen! Shots from up above. The Injuns up there will spread out and hold us. I know a first-rate place to make our stand if you say so—unless you want to run for it.”

“No use running,” said Hampton. “Go ahead and secure the position. We'll wait up above.”

He held Nelly against him in the darkness, and her hand crept into his. Eli was gone up the trail.

“We can't escape, Dick,” she said quietly.

“We'll not try the impossible, dear,” he responded. “All we can do is to go down fighting.”

“Then I'll do my share, and be thankful when the evil dream is all over! Nothing ahead can be any worse than what is behind.”

A laugh broke out ahead of them, and the bearded Frenchy came into sight, exultantly waving a rifle.

“Hola, mes amis!” he cried jovially. “They have us in check up above, but El Bobo and the two Mexicans have gone on to take up a position. I came to meet you. What is the bonfire down below, eh?”

Hampton told him, then got rid of his revolvers and ammunition. Frenchy was delighted, and cheerfully assumed the load. Presently all three gained the open plat form at the head of the trail, and Frenchy pointed out the situation. A hundred yards, or less, along the brink of the cañon, was a crown of loose boulders rising from the cactus thickets; this was the position which Eli had gone to seize, and a glance showed Hampton its value, as it commanded the head of the trail from below, that approaching from the sea, and the surrounding desert. Slight as was this eminence of a few feet, it was a natural fort ready for defense.

From the cactus, rifles spat fire, and again, in a sudden burst of sound. Frenchy slid softly away into the darkness, and Hampton pulled the girl into shelter of a boulder.

“Wait here and see what happens,” he said. “The fire's dying down—Dias has brought water from the creek. Hello! Some one coming up the trail——”

Puffing breaths and hasty footsteps drew his attention, and the newcomer proved to be Pap Hoskins, who had come up to see what was going on. At the same moment Eli came cautiously back from the edge of the platform, two bullets burning after him.

“All right!” he exclaimed guardedly. “Make a break for it with Nelly, Dick—we'll bring the loads. Frenchy! Where are you?”

Frenchy cursed from the darkness, and bullets began to whine all around from the Yaquis who were flung out in the cactus. Hampton, seizing Nelly's hand, rushed her across the open platform to the rocks beyond; stumbling among the boulders, torn by the thorns on every side, they approached the crown of jutting fragments, where the two Mexicans awaited them. A cry broke from the girl as she stumbled over the body of a Yaqui—then they were in shelter of the high rocks, and one of the Mexicans pressed a rifle on Hampton.

What came next was sharp and vicious—Eli, Frenchy and Hoskins staggering under heavy loads toward the crown of rocks, while Yaqui yells arose piercingly and rifles stabbed crimson in the darkness. There were only three or four of the enemy scattered around, and on them Hampton and the two Mexicans fired; before the rifles could be reloaded, Eli and his companions came in, unhurt, and dropped their loads of ammunition and food.

Now, divining the purpose of the white men, the two Mexicans protested vividly that they desired to take their chance in the desert. Despite the curses of the others, accordingly, Hampton told them to take food and ammunition and go—water there was none. They made up loads and slunk away, having no stomach for what lay ahead in this place.

“Four of us,” observed Pap Hoskins, “and we got extry guns, and revolvers all around—I don't guess we-all are beat yet!”

“Five of us,” added Nelly Barnes. “I'll attend to the reloading, and maybe I can use a pistol if I have to! Dick, spread out that big serape of yours and bring those guns here, and show me how to load those Colt revolvers——”

Taking up a strategic position between two of the central boulders, Nelly Barnes was soon hard at work, the four men spreading out to answer the desultory fire from the few Yaquis around. Since no alarm was heard, it seemed that the two Mexicans had managed to sneak through undiscovered; none the less, their fate was certain.

The conflagration had died out in the cañon below, being succeeded by a confused tumult, through which pierced occasional yells to answer those emitted by the Yaquis above. Leaving these last to his companions, Hampton settled himself with extra rifles and revolvers to watch that platform at the head of the trail, and it was not long before his patience was rewarded. Under the stars he sighted a dim mass moving upward, heard the scrape of feet and mutter of low voices. Laughing to himself, he waited momentarily, then poured a hail of bullets into the dark mass of men. When he ceased firing, only dead or wounded men remained on the trail; below, far below, the seaman's voice of Dias rang like a clarion.

After this there fell silence; while from the cactus thickets, around the crown of rocks came occasional voices that told of new arrivals from the harbor. Now and again a rifle was fired, though the four white men made no response, and the Yaquis, sure of their prey, were not anxious to hasten the event; indeed, they could do little until Dias and his men from the arroyo could gain the upper level by a roundabout way. So the five fugitives waited for the end, making a full meal on the provisions they had brought, and Frenchy found a canteen on a dead Yaqui which provided a few swallows of water all around.

“So this is the end of it all!” said Nelly Barnes, as she sat hand in hand with Dick Hampton, watching the eastern sky slowly lighten with the dawn. “This is the end—and what a sordid thing it has been all along, with the greed of that man Dias behind everything! It is hard to realize how everybody was deceived; oh, do you remember that day in Beverly, Dick, when the company marched down to the wharf, and the speeches and songs——”

“And where is the company now?” broke in Hampton, with a grim laugh. “It's dead, or fever-stricken, or heading back home—and its money is in the pocket of Dias. Did he get all of yours, Nelly?”

“Yes,” she said. “He kept promising to take me on to San Francisco from here. Well, no use looking backward now, Dick! How long have we before—before the end?”

“Not long,” and Hampton glanced at the rapidly lightening sky. “They'll rush us once or twice, then pour bullets into us and get it over.”

“Then kiss me goodby now, Dick,” she said quietly. “I'm saving one of these revolvers for myself—and they shan't capture me. We'll go together, Dick.”

“Right, Nelly,” he answered, and their lips met.

“Come alive, Dick!” sounded Eli's voice. “Looks like they're on us!”

A last kiss, and Hampton sprang to his place. The crown of rocks was surrounded by rough and cactus-covered ground, but had the advantage of dominating position; from it, Hampton could see far over the desert on all three sides. Behind was the gulf of the arroyo. Eli pointed to a dark crowd of men, beyond rifle-shot, off to the right.

“Now they're splitting up,” he said. “Working out around us, eh? And look yonder, toward the sea—ain't that another gang?”

Hampton looked down the trail toward the harbor and thought that he made out shadowy moving objects. He shrugged.

“The crew of the schooner coming up. Well, get to your place, Eli—and goodby.”

“Goodby, Dick.”

A rifle-ball whistled between them as they separated. Pap Hoskins answered it, uttered a jubilant whoop, and the game was on.

A stern enough game it was, as Hampton discovered, and one at which he was a poor player. From the surrounding brush, boulders and cactus thickets, bullets were poured in at the crown of rocks; so thick and fast they came that to answer them was impossible, every least exposure drawing a hail of lead. Under cover of this fire, the Yaquis moved forward, gathered for a rush, and finally burst from cover with a yell.

The yell changed to a wild scream, however, as the four white men emptied rifles and revolvers into them, maintaining a stream of bullets. Astounded and dismayed, man after man plunging down, the Yaquis broke and scattered, and then spread out under cover to recommence their dropping fire. Frenchy brayed exultantly, Pap Hoskins whooped, and Nelly Barnes flitted from one to another, reloading the emptied weapons.

“They won't try that again!” yelled Eli, and his rifle banged. “Head down, Dick!”

Try it again they did not, but began to pour a searching, deadly fire into the crown of rocks. Hampton dared not show himself to shoot—the movement of a hand brought a dozen bullets. Hoskins, however, was more at home in this sort of work, and his rifle was deadly; while Eli and Frenchy manifested a reckless abandon which dropped more than one Yaqui.

Meantime, the spears of dawn had ripped asunder the gray veil of the eastern sky, and the sun was up, a red ball of fire mounting the brazen heavens. Hampton looked toward the harbor trail, but could see nothing more of the schooner's crew—they had taken warning and were advancing under cover, no doubt. Suddenly Hampton, who was on the right of the rocky crown, was startled by a yell from Eli.

“Look out, Dick—feller creepin' up on you! By that ocotillo bush——”

Hampton twisted about, peered forth at the clump of long, slender cactus spires, and presently caught a movement to one side of it. He fired. A Yaqui leaped into the air like a stricken deer, and fell motionless. Bullets stormed in—one of them raked across Hampton's head, sending the blood dripping into his eyes.

“Come on yere an' take Frenchy's place, Hampton!” yelled Pap Hoskins. “Move smart!”

Hampton scrambled across the crown of rocks, bullets spattering all around, to where Frenchy lay sprawled out with two bullets through his brain; the enemy were close in on this side, so close that Hampton could hear the rattle of displaced stones as the men scrambled. He caught up a revolver, leaped to his feet, and emptied the weapon. Two Yaquis lay quiet, and Hampton ducked to shelter unhurt as bullets flailed the air above him.

“Good work!” shouted Eli, from the left. “Hurray! I got one——”

The shout was cut short. Hampton, glancing around, saw Eli's figure leap up, whirl, and crumple out of sight. A shrill cry came from Nelly Barnes.

“Eli's shot, Dick!”

Hampton made no response. Pap Hoskins uttered a fierce yell; his red whiskers were blackened with powder and sweat, and his eyes glared wildly.

“It's all over!” he shouted, and then sent a laugh roaring up. He leaped to his feet, swinging a revolver in each hand, and disdaining all cover, began to fire at the brush around. As he did so, his voice leaped out in a shrill rendition of the golden song:

“Oh! California,
That's the land for me!
I'm gwine to Sacramento
With my wash bowl on my knee——”

His knees gave way suddenly, he flung out his arms, and with a last effort he fired a shot even as he fell; then he lay across the boulder in the hot sunlight, while bullets still thudded into his poor body. Pap Hoskins had found his golden land.

Hampton fired to right and left. The others were all gone now—he was conscious that Nelly Barnes was just behind him, reloading his revolvers. Then, from some where out ahead he heard the voice of Dias lifting sharply. He could not get the words, which were in the Yaqui patois, but the firing ceased. The bullets no longer came buzzing and whining, to spatter in bursts of lead on the hot rocks. He wiped the blood from his eyes and looked around.

“Hurt, Nelly?”

“No, Dick.” She looked up at him, smiled bravely. “Eli isn't dead—I couldn't do anything for him though——”

“No matter. It'll be over in a minute now,” said Hampton. “The main thing is not to let 'em get us alive. Goodby, dear girl——”

Something flickered through the high air like a falling snake; another followed, and another. Hampton leaped to his feet, lunging in every direction, crying frantic oaths, firing in blind desperation at men he could not see. The nooses had settled about him, the thin, harsh ropes of maguey fiber drew taut; beside him Nelly Barnes writhed and twisted in another noose.

Dark shapes appeared—Yaquis, laughing, who flung themselves in upon the two. Hampton emptied his revolver as he was jerked back and forth, knew that one and another of the Indians had fallen, heard another shot beside him as Nelly Barnes fired pointblank at an assailant. The ropes dragged him down, brown men leaped on him, held him helpless; he was bound hand and foot and jerked out from among the boulders, out from the mass of rocks crowning the eminence, to where Dias stood in the sunlight, on the wide platform above the trail. Here in this empty space Hampton was propped upright to stand as best he could on bound feet; here Nelly Barnes, bound likewise, was dragged to stand beside him; and here Eli, ragged shirt covered with blood but alive and conscious, was dragged and flung down in the sand.

“The others are dead, mi señor amo,” said one of the guards.

Dias nodded, and rolled a cigarito, and smiled slightly as he met Hampton's eyes. He did not speak, however, for a little space. The Yaquis assembled, until Hampton realized that two-score and more of them were crowded around.

Dias lighted his cigarito. He was about to speak, when a man came running up the trail, panting, chattering out a shrill message as he came. It was a Chinaman from the cañon below.

There was no need to ask what message the yellow man brought, however. From the arroyo ascended a sudden outburst of sound—the howling of men, a shot or two, the long shriek of women in mortal fear, stabbing Yaqui yells; an indescribably, frightful tumult of voices, over which rose and rose that bestial howling. Excited cries burst from the Yaqui around. Every man there knew instantly that the slaves had broken out. Dias turned to the brown men.

“Go and look after your families,” he ordered. “Five of you remain here. Slay those fools who have forgotten themselves. Go! Guard the señora.”

Ere he had finished speaking, the impatient Yaquis were melting away down the trail. More shots came from below. The panting Chinaman babbled out something about the slaves, and Dias hurled an oath at him. He sought the shade of a big cardon cactus at the edge of the clearing.

“So you're not dead, El Bobo?” Dias looked down at Eli, and smiled. Then his eyes lifted to Hampton's unfaltering gaze. “Well, the two of you fooled me neatly. And you struck me a good blow last night. Which of you left Ramon a blind wreck?”

“I,” said Hampton, cheerfully enough. “I'm sorry it was not you instead, you dog!”

“You'll be sorrier before long,” and Dias chuckled. Then a word from one of the Yaquis, a low word of astounded wonder, caused him to turn. Toward the group, from the edge of the platform, staggering toward them with outstretched hands and horrible face, was the Chinaman. Halfway to the group, his mouth open and gaping yet uttering no sound, he halted, beat at the air with his yellow hands, and then plunged forward. He lay on his face in the dust, dead, and from his back protruded something that glittered in the morning sunlight.

Dias was the first man to move. An astounded oath broke from him. He stepped forward, went to the dead Chinaman, and stooped. He came erect holding that glittering object in his hand. His gaze whipped to Hampton in blank amazement, then darted at the desert around.

The object that he held was the silver-hafted knife.

“Oh! California,
We'll see you bye and bye,
And if we forget Beverly
Why bless you, don't you cry!”

THAT was the strangest sound that had ever echoed up from the Valley of Mercy—that sound of men's voices roaring out the lilting air of “Susannah” above the crack of rifle-shots and the stabbing yells of Yaquis. The sound itself, and what it portended, held Dias motionless for an instant—then from the edge of the clearing leaped a long, naked brown figure that came for him like a snake darting for a rabbit.

It was El Hambre.

“Injun does it!” shrilled up the voice of Job Warlock, as Indian and Dias went down in the dust. The Yaquis swung around, but too late—there was a ragged crack of rifles, a burst of revolver-fire, and the five brown men remained sprawled out in the sunlight. Hampton, to whom all this seemed a dream inchoate, visioned half a dozen men, white men, springing forward across the platform, while Job Warlock darted upon him with a yell of delight. Small wonder that Nelly Barnes uttered one wild cry and pitched forward senseless across the recumbent figure of Eli.

“You, Job—you!” stammered Hampton, as Warlock grinned in his face and then stooped to slit his lashings. Another white man came leaping toward him. “Adam Johnson! It can't be—this is some hallucination——”

“—— a bit, Dick Hampton!” cried Adam Johnson. “Give us your fist, lad—ah! There's a fiend unleashed in that brown Injun! Look at him, now——”

Everything else forgotten, all stared; even Hampton, oblivious of his freedom or of the fainting girl at his feet, looked at the scene which was transpiring before his eyes.

Dias lay upon his back there in the hot sand, and upon him the lean Indian half-sat, half-knelt. Dias had driven that long silver knife through and through El Hambre, from breast to back, and clutched the haft with both hands, powerless to draw it forth again—for the brown fingers of the Indian were in his throat. From El Hambre's lips burst his harsh, mirthless laugh; then he slowly bowed forward, slowly sank down, until his dying body covered the figure of his victim, his scarlet serape more vivid than blood in the sunlight. The legs of Dias twitched slightly, then were quiet.

“No use lookin' at the Injun,” said Job Warlock. “Durned if Dias didn't split his heart first crack! Well, that's the end—give's your fist, Dick Hampton! Who's this in the dirt?”

The tension broken, the others were around him now, Adam Johnson and other men of the Beverly company; shaking his hand, pounding his back, crying out glad words. Some drew Nelly Barnes to one side, others cut Eli's bonds and shouted his name aloud as they recognized him; the hot, sun-smitten rock platform resounded to laughing, exulting words and eager cries, and the dead men who lay like blots in the white sunlight were forgotten.

“But what does it mean?” Hampton stared around helplessly at Nelly Barnes, who was being revived, at Eli, who was sitting up and grinning, at the men whom he knew so well who stood before him. “It's incredible that you're here, Job Warlock, and these others——”

“Not a bit,” said Adam Johnson, and laughed happily. “Warlock and the Injun got ashore and told us what had happened. So we took a vote on it, and twenty of the company decided to come along to San Francisco; then we joined about fifteen New York men to our crowd.”

“But—how the —— did you get here?” demanded Hampton.

The men around grinned delightedly. None of them paid any heed to the sounds that were coming up from the arroyo—the intermittent crack of rifles, the occasional lusty shout from Yankee throat, the still continuous howling of the slaves who were free.

“Get here?” Adam Johnson chuckled. “Warlock knew that Dias' schooner, or rather his wife's schooner, was due from the south, so we all went out in the boats of some Injun fishermen and met her. That's all there was to it. We piled aboard, chucked Dias' men into the boats, and set sail for the north. Piracy? Tut, tut! Who's to lay a charge against us, eh? We got in late last night, took the other schooner lying in port, and El Hambre explored. He came back this morning with word of the shooting here, so a few of us came this way to capture the trail-head, while the others marched around and up into the arroyo. And that's all of it. From the sound of things down below—ah! Miss Nelly, a glad good morning to you!”

Johnson swept off his hat. Nelly Barnes, staring around, came to Hampton's side and stood in blank wonder. Job Warlock scraped and grinned delightedly, and shook his gold ear-hoops. A sudden cry broke from the girl.

“Oh, it's true, it's true! Really you after all——”

“Aye, Nelly,” and Hampton swept his arm around her, drawing her close to him. “Aye, it's the mercy of God at work—ah, Eli! Here's my brother, Adam Johnson! You remember him? Not hurt badly, Eli?”

“Nothing but a scrape over the ribs.” Eli laughed, and then was engulfed by the eager men. Hampton was about to speak when Job Warlock turned to him suddenly.

“Dick! Where's that —— Doña Hermana?”

Hampton shook his head. Then he felt the girl tremble against his side—her face lifted, and a sudden frightened cry burst from her.

“Look—look there! Quickly!”

The knot of men disintegrated, whirled. Turning, Hampton saw a number of figures leaping up the trail from below, queer frightened figures, whose wild panting cries reechoed from the rocky walls. Two or three of the white men fired, and at this the figures screamed and turned again. They were Chinamen.

Now there swelled up a frightful and horrible sound which held the white men staring and spellbound. It was the mad screaming of men, the bestial howling of men mad with liquor, with hatred, with blood-lust. It mounted up along the trail, rising in a shrill crescendo of such unutterable fury that those on the platform stood waiting for that unseen horror to appear, the very hearts frozen within them by the awful outburst of shrieks. A shot burst through that tumult, and another, but the voices only swelled up louder.

“Back, everybody!” cried Hampton suddenly. “It's the slaves—they're loose. No telling what may happen—back to cover, men!”

He tried to get Nelly Barnes back toward the rocks, but a low cry broke from her, and her arm swept up. Hampton followed that pointing gesture, and then swung the girl aside that she might see no more. A low oath burst from him, was echoed from those around.

Into sight on the narrow trail came two of the Chinamen, and at their heels was a great wave of half-naked men—the Mexican slaves from below, now become wild and ravening beasts. They dragged down the two yellow men, poured over them, then suddenly the wave split asunder at another burst of shots. There in the midst of them all stood Doña Hermana, distinct in the white sunlight; she was bare-headed, her hair flying wildly, the clothes half-stripped from her body, a revolver in her hand. It spoke again—then the wave rolled upon her. From the peons swept up that hoarse and frightful yell; their bestial, foaming faces closed in upon the woman, their claws tore at her and tore again. She stood an instant under that wave, her white shoulders leaping into scarlet streaks—then she disappeared, and the crested billow of men rolled above her, the stabbing shriek of her voice piercing once or twice through the horrible screaming exultancy of those human wolves.

Mad oaths burst from the white men. Rifles swept up, revolvers began to crack. Bullets thudded into that writhing mass of humanity and shredded it apart. The blind screams of rage and fury became frantic yells of fear—the peons fell away, thinned out, turned and vanished down the trail again, leaving a red heap behind them. Job Warlock ran forward to look at that heap, but presently he came back again in ghastly pallor. He mutely shook his head, wiped the sweat from his face and collapsed on a boulder, staring at the ground.

“Well, well,” said Adam Johnson nervously, “I don't know what——”

“Don't worry about it,” spoke up Eli. “That was Doña Hermana—the wife of Dias. I guess those peons sort of evened things up. Now what, Adam? You fellers goin' down below?”

“I'll have to,” said Adam Johnson with a grimace. “All's clear at the harbor, Hampton; you might go that way with Miss Nelly. Here, two o' you boys come with me, the rest of you go along to the harbor. Make sure o' those schooners. See you later, Hampton.”

He strode away down the trail, two of the Beverly men at his heels. Job Warlock came to his feet and looked at Hampton.

“The world's a good place, so hurray!” he exclaimed, though soberly enough. “Well, what are we waitin' for? Looks like all our friends are goin' on to San Francisco, Dick. What course are you and me goin' to set?”

Hampton smiled. He met Eli's beaming face, then turned and nodded to the eager gaze of the girl at his side.

“Which way, Nelly? Together?”

"Always together, Dick!” She smiled as her fingers gripped his. “Always together——”

“Set the course for 'Frisco, Job!” said Hampton.

Job Warlock touched his forelock.

“Aye, aye, sir! North it is, once out o' this gulf—it's a far ways to them Bluenose ships, but Injun does it—aye, sir, north it is. Come along, all hands!”

Hampton, tucking Nelly's arm in his, turned with the others to the harbor trail. Then, as though in presage of the future, from the arroyo below rang up the slow-lilting, sharply accented air of “Susannah,” roared out by a score and more of exultant New England voices:

“Oh, Sacramento,

That's the place for me!

Our troubles all are over

And in 'Frisco soon we'll be!”

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