The Marines Have Landed Part 13

From this spot it was about a two-mile walk over the hills, down into the valley past Laguna de Flamingo to the perfect, crescent-shaped, smooth, level sands of Flamingo Bay, where the mighty rollers swept in with unrestricted grandeur from the blue Atlantic, stretching northward farther than the eye could reach. Here, in spite of the wonderfully high surf there was little or no undertow and the bathing was considered safe, and free from venturesome sharks.

According to their habit, the two boys undressed at Firewood Bay and leaving their clothes in the cutter, wearing only rubber-soled sneakers and bathing trunks, they were soon dog-trotting over the narrow trail leading to a group of shacks on the saddle of the ridge they had to cross. With their swifter pace they soon pa.s.sed the others of the party. After breasting the summit of the ridge they followed the torturous downward trail to the Lake of the Flamingos. The trail led past an unused hut half-way down the hillside, at one end of which it abruptly turned to the left.

d.i.c.k, well in the lead, having turned the corner of the hut, saw a man das.h.i.+ng towards him, mounted on a fiery little West Indian pony. There was plenty of room for the rider to turn aside so as to avoid the boy, while ordinary politeness would have led him to do so, therefore d.i.c.k continued at his slow trot in the center of the path. Nearer came the rider, and the boy now saw he was reeling in his saddle and las.h.i.+ng his horse viciously as he came tearing up the hill. Still the boy did not change his course. The next moment the pony had of its own volition jumped out of the trail to avoid collision.

At the moment he pa.s.sed the native rider cut d.i.c.k a fearful lash across the shoulders with his leather quirt, yelling loudly some vile expletive in Spanish. For the fraction of a second d.i.c.k did not comprehend what had happened. The blow across his bare back nearly brought him to his knees and, missing his footing, he fell headlong. In an instant he was up again holding a rough, jagged piece of rotten-rock in either hand and running back after the reckless horseman.

Never before in his life had d.i.c.k been thoroughly angry--never before had he felt that insane rage within him that knew no other impulse than the desire to inflict bodily harm on another human being.

The horseman must have disappeared behind the deserted shack, for he was nowhere in sight. By this time Henry came swinging along the trail, and he was surprised to see his chum coming towards him like a raving maniac.

"Did you see him?" yelled d.i.c.k furiously.

"See whom?" questioned Henry.

"That black drunken scoundrel on horseback."

"What are you talking about, d.i.c.k? I've seen no horseman."

"Didn't a native just pa.s.s you on the trail, riding a pony like mad and las.h.i.+ng the poor brute with a rawhide quirt?"

"Nope,--I reckon you must have been seeing things, d.i.c.k," and Henry started to laugh.

"'Seeing things,' nothing! Look at that red welt across my back, if you think I've been 'seeing things'!" shouted d.i.c.k, and he turned while Henry examined with amazement the angry looking ridge across the broad, sun-browned shoulders.

"I see it, right enough, d.i.c.k, but--you say a man on horseback did it?"

"Yes, and if he didn't pa.s.s you on the trail then he turned by this hut and went off into the bush, and I'm going to get him and thrash him before this day is over," said d.i.c.k, and having delivered his outburst he rushed off towards the clump of bushes, tall gra.s.s and cabbage palms, cl.u.s.tering close to the far corner of the hut.

"Hold on, d.i.c.k," called Henry, "we can't get through that jungle without our clothes. You stay here on watch while I go back and fetch them. The rest of the liberty party will be along any time now and they will lend us a hand."

"I don't need any help to thrash that cowardly Spig,"[#] muttered d.i.c.k, but seeing the wisdom of Henry's suggestion he consented to wait.

[#] "Spig" or "Spiggoty"--A generic term for all inhabitants of Latin-American countries and of the Philippines and Guam, given by sailors, soldiers and marines only since the Spanish War of 1898.

Left to his own devices, he began a systematic scouting of the ground in the vicinity. The trail, baked hard by the sun, showed no signs, but across the ground in front of the palm-thatched hut he found distinct traces of recent hoof prints. Following them he came to a newly broken trail through the long gra.s.s leading to the thicker undergrowth beyond.

Returning to the hut he pushed open the dilapidated door and entered the musty interior. The place was bare of furniture or utensils, a few bits of rubbish littered the floor and in one corner were several bottles and flasks, all empty. Picking up one and extracting the cork he found a strong smell of whisky. Evidently this was the rendezvous of those men from the s.h.i.+ps recently found under the influence of liquor while on sh.o.r.e. Presently he heard the sound of footsteps coming down the trail.

Probably members of the liberty party with whom he came ash.o.r.e, thought d.i.c.k.

"Say, Joe," he heard a voice question, "where do you suppose that marine was hot-footing it to?"

"I dunno," answered the one addressed, "when he ducked past me he yelled something, but I didn't get it, did you?"

"Nuh! Glad he's out of the way, 'cause him and the kid he runs with think they are some cla.s.s. They'd put a crimp in our game if they got next to it."

"Any of the others in sight?" Joe now asked as the two stopped beside the corner of the shack.

"No; get a hustle on," and with that d.i.c.k heard the two speakers run past the front of his refuge and dash into the woods near the spot he had just been investigating.

"The plot thickens!" mused d.i.c.k, looking at the empty bottle he still held.

Again the sound of footsteps, but this time the men pa.s.sed the shack without stopping. These men were bound for the beach at Flamingo Bay.

At first the boy thought of calling them back, but on second consideration he decided not to. He preferred working out this affair with only Henry's a.s.sistance.

That very morning First Sergeant Dougla.s.s had given the marines a talk about the liquor traffic and asked them to try and trace it. He had said it would be a feather in their caps could they succeed in finding the guilty parties. For that reason, all the more honor if he and Henry carried it through by themselves.

It seemed an interminable while before the soft patter apprised him of his companion's return. As Henry reached the corner of the hut, d.i.c.k's warning hiss attracted his attention to the open door.

"Come in here, Hank," he called, and Henry entered, breathing hard from the grind of his strenuous race up-hill.

While he dressed, d.i.c.k explained more fully about the drunken native and of what had transpired during Henry's absence. The young trumpeter was equally enthusiastic over the prospect of an exciting adventure ahead of them and thoroughly agreed they alone could manage the business.

"I reckon we are on the right track for sure," said Henry, struggling into his O.D. s.h.i.+rt. "That fellow Joe Choiniski is one of the tough nuts who joined us from San Juan in the last draft right after we came here. He's been on some 'spit-kit'[#] stationed down in these waters for a long time and speaks the native lingo. The man with him is a bad egg too, though he has never been caught so far."

[#] "Spit-kit"--Really "spit-kid," a small wooden cask set about the deck for spit-boxes. Spitting upon decks is an unpardonable sin. The name is slangily applied to the smaller vessels of the Navy.

"What is his name?" asked Richard, preparing to open the door.

"Never did hear his right name; the men on board call him 'Slugger.'"

"I know now," said d.i.c.k, "they say he used to be a prize-fighter and he's all the time bragging how he can mix it up with the gloves, but no one ever saw him put them on since he came on board. He's husky enough, but all out of training."

"That's the fellow,--a tough customer, I reckon."

The boys, finding the coast clear, emerged from the hut and were soon following the trail which the two men and horseman before them had presumably travelled. For a while the way led through a veritable tangle of briers, weeds, bamboo and underbrush, but after a quarter of a mile with no break on either side the path joined into a wider and well worn trail through a piece of timberland leading almost due north and south. In the shade of the tall hardwood trees the ground was softer and the spoor of the horse was distinctly shown turning to the right.

This fortunate discovery saved the boys any possibility of going wrong.

The island at this point was spa.r.s.ely settled, as in 1906 the Navy Department had required all squatters to move off the government reservations. The trail was now nearing the boundaries of the northern tract. For another quarter of a mile they went on, each moment hoping to discover some evidence to substantiate their deductions, but the silence of the wilderness was about them, only broken occasionally by the cooing of the blue doves high up in the tree-tops.

Here and there the woods gave place to clearings covered with waving gra.s.s or untended banana patches, affording long vistas of land and water but not a house nor animal nor human being rewarded their sharp searching. To their left was South West Cay, separated from the larger island they were on by a narrow dangerous channel. To their right they caught occasional glimpses of Flamingo Bay or the distant top of Mount Resaca.

During one of their halts before emerging into plain view on the hog-back trail, Henry caught d.i.c.k by the shoulder and pulled him down in the shelter of the long gra.s.s which carpeted a steep slope on their left, down to the very edge of the water.

"Look, there is your horseman!" he whispered excitedly, forgetting his voice would not reach half the distance to the object at which he was pointing.

[Ill.u.s.tration: LOOK, THERE IS YOUR HORSEMAN!]

"I see him," said d.i.c.k grimly, "coming up from that shack at the foot of the hill."

"Yes, and see those two sailors going down to the beach; they're toting sacks or something over their shoulders. They can go around to Firewood Bay that way. We've got 'em, all right," exclaimed Henry joyfully.

"What do you reckon we'd better do now?"

"I 'reckon' there's going to be one native of this 'Treasure Island'