Flynn’s Weekly Detective Fiction. Vol. 18, No. 3, September 18, 1926
- Автор: Bailey H. C., Bechdolt Jack
- Год: 1926
- Язык: английский
- Год: The Red Star News Company
- Жанр: Другие детективы
Электронная книга - «Flynn’s Weekly Detective Fiction. Vol. 18, No. 3, September 18, 1926». Краткое содержание книги:
A movement at the water’s edge told him that the guard had seen the object in the water and was examining it. There was no challenge, however, and Cal rightly concluded that the log had been recognized for what it was — a harmless drifter. Treading water, he held it motionless while he eased it gently, inch by inch, now toward the nearest dugout, then he let it drift again.
Another movement on shore, this time accompanied by a low oath, as the guard, concerned for the safety of the bateau which the floater menaced, stepped into the shallow water and prepared to shove it off.
Cal, peering from behind the log’s stem, saw him set his boot upon its bow and thrust outward. It eased off a bit, then, manipulated by the ranger, it perversely sloughed about and crept toward the dugout.
Again the guard raised a foot and set it upon the log — this time at the stern, for the bow was almost against the boat.
Cal released his hold, seized the man by the ankle in a powerful grasp, and jerked him down into the water — his attempted cry of alarm cut short by a sudden and complete immersion. The log drifted on, and the ranger, astride the guard, brought all the terrific pressure of his sinewy fingers to bear upon his windpipe. When his captive became limp beneath him, Cal took him in his arms and crept ashore.
When the prisoner finally gasped and opened his eyes, it was to find himself stripped to his underwear, his hands shackled, ankles bound with his own belt, and his captor dressed in the clothing he had worn.
Cal’s left hand instantly closed about the prisoner’s throat, while his right, armed with a long knife, menaced him.
“Make the slightest unnecessary noise and I’ll drive this into your gullet!” he whispered grimly. “When I give you air enough to do so, I want you to answer my questions — truthfully, understand. If you make a mistake, unintentional or otherwise, you are going to die, and die quick! Get it?”
He released the pressure on the guard’s windpipe, and the man gurgled and nodded.
“Where is your camp — how far ashore?” Cal demanded.
The answer was wheezed out with difficulty, but it came:
“About three hundred yards inland — straight up from here.”
“Were you to be relieved?”
“Yes.”
“When?”
“About half an hour from now.”
“Who is to relieve you?”
“Bud.”
“Bud’s asleep, eh — along with the rest?”
“Of course.”
“How was he to know when to relieve you?”
“I was to slip up and wake him.”
“Sure of that? Remember, any mistake you make will spell the end for you. Sure about it?”
“How you reckon he’d know when to come?” demanded the prisoner. “Think we carry an alarm clock?”
Cal laughed softly. “Good enough.” he replied. “Guess an alarm clock would be excess baggage on a trip like this. Where is Bud lying; in what position, with reference to the others?”
“Well, he’s the nearest one — the others are beyond him.”
“You’re just to wake him quietly, tell him to come on, then turn in his place? That the racket?”
“Yeah.” The answer was delayed — came hesitantly.
Cal’s knife pricked the tender skin at the base of the prone man’s throat.
“Take that blade away!” came in a fierce growl.
“Listen,” Cal told him, increasing the pressure until the needlelike point pricked the skin, “I’m going to gag you, roll you into the brush, where you’ll be hidden from all but me. If I make a mistake, due to you, I’m going to break for you — and kill you. No matter what happens to me later, I’m going to see to it that you don’t benefit. Get that?”
“Yeah,” was the surly reply.
“Now — tell me the truth.”
“Well, I’m to wake Bud, then come back here until he has a chance to heat some coffee — we’ve got a bit of fire farther back in the brush, hid by logs. I’m to watch here until he comes down. And now, damn you, take that knife off my gullet!”
Cal took the knife away, and with it cut off the tail of the shirt he wore. Then, before the prisoner realized what was taking place, he stuffed the cloth into his mouth.
“That’ll keep you quiet, I reckon,” Cal told him, as he lifted the guard and carried him twenty feet down the bank, depositing him where the river grass made an excellent screen. “I’m taking a chance — but you’re taking a longer one than I am!”
He returned to the point where the dugouts lay, got into one and paddled across the stream, towing the other and his own bateau. When he returned, he came in his own boat, leaving the others.
“If anything starts that I can’t handle,” he reflected, “I may be able to get away — and leave them marooned.”
He anchored in the shadows near where the prisoner lay, then crept inland toward the camp — almost as noiselessly as a water-moccasin would have crawled. Every few feet he paused, held his breath and listened. At the fourth or fifth pause, he caught the sound of some one snoring lightly — and knew the camp was at hand.
V
With his six-gun in hand he crept onward, and halted beside a blanketed form on the ground. A moment he hesitated, then reached out and caught the sleeper by a shoulder.
“Bud!” he said gruffly, under his breath. “Bud!”
The sleeper stirred. “Huh?” came drowsily from the blanket.
“Come on! It’s your turn!” Cal whispered.
“Hell!” The man called Bud yawned. “All right, Becker. Soon’s I git some coffee inside me. All quiet?”
“Sure! Nothin’ stirrin’!” Cal answered. “Hurry — I’m dead for sleep!”
He faded away toward the river — breathing heavily from the strain. Reaching the shore, he sought a place to hide, and found it behind a big gum which grew beside the path Bud would have to follow when he came down.
The relief was not long in coming. He reached the shadow of the tree — and did not pass out of it. He dropped without a groan, as Calhoun’s clubbed gun crashed against his skull.
To bind and gag Bud required perhaps five minutes, and he was still unconscious when the ranger slipped back toward the camp — and the most dangerous part of the job he had set for himself.
Inch by inch, pausing frequently to listen for the slightest sound which might warn him that his men were awake, he crept upon the camp, until he found himself beside a long figure, tightly rolled in a blanket. Calhoun was not squeamish — besides, his own life hung by a hair. He clubbed his gun.
Suddenly the sleeper stirred, opened his eyes; his jaw dropped in consternation, then snapped shut, and he made a wild scramble to sit up.
Cal swung swiftly, putting power behind the blow, and the blanketed figure dropped back and lay still.
The noise of the scuffle, however, was sufficient to wake the second man, who threw aside his blanket and called out:
“Rhodes! I say, Rhodes, what’s going on?”
Then his glance fell upon Calhoun, who crouched ready to leap. His hand flashed down and came up with a gun, as he got to his knees.
Cal’s weapon spurted fire, there was an oath of agony from the man on the blanket, and the next instant his shattered right wrist was bound to his left with steel.
The man called Rhodes was stirring, and Cal took the precaution of rendering him harmless with the remaining pair of cuffs. Then he turned to the man he had shot.
“Well, Red,” he remarked quietly, “I ought to let you bleed to death, but since the Government prefers to have you die by the rope, I’ll patch you up temporarily. Hold out your hands!”