CHAPTER XII.
SAM HARTLEY TURNS UP.
If the figure proved to be one of the outposts of Simon Lake's camp, thesituation was a serious one. In a few moments the big tree would reachthe narrow passage in the rocks. When it did, two courses were open tothe boys. One was to stick to it and throw themselves and their fateupon providence, or else make a leap for the rocks which were seamed andscarred. But in the event of the motionless figure on the rock provingto be an enemy, their position would be as bad as before. Unarmed asthey were, they would certainly have to give in without a struggle.
But just as Tom had about decided that their best plan would be to clingto the tree and trust to luck to get safely through the narrow "gate,"something familiar struck him about the figure. It was that of asun-burned man of middle age, clean-shaven, and with a conveying senseof alertness in his erect pose. He wore khaki trousers, much the worsefor wear, stout hunting boots, laced up almost to his knees, a roughblue shirt, and a big sombrero.
In a flash it came across Tom where they had seen that figure before.
Another instant made the conviction a certainty.
The man was Sam Hartley. If any question had remained of it, all doubtwas once and for all removed, as Tom decided to risk a mistake andhailed the man.
"Sam! Oh, Sam!"
The man on the rock started. His rifle, which had come up to his arm pitas the boy hailed, fell back. He stared before him intently as the treecame bumping at the rock. Before he could recover himself, from amid itsroots two active young forms had leaped and hurled themselves straightat the stalwart figure of the former arch enemy of the counterfeiters ofSaw Mill Valley.
"Great Scott!" exclaimed Sam, as Tom stopped wringing his hand for aninstant. "It is you, all right. I thought I was pretty sure of you whenI peeked into Bully Banjo's camp yesterday when he had you on thecarpet."
"But, Sam," cried Tom excitedly, "what are you doing here, and----" Hebroke off as a sudden explanation of the mysterious arrival of the knifeflashed across him.
"It was you that lowered that knife!"
"Sure," said Sam easily; "but, say, boys, we're in a bad place righthere. Let's get back in the brush. I've got some grub there and a cleanshirt apiece for you. I guess you're in need of both," he went on, witha smile, surveying the two dilapidated young figures.
"That's right. Especially the grub part of it," laughed Tom. "But, Sam,I can't get over the mystery of it. You being here and arriving just intime to help us out of what seemed such a dickens of a mess."
Yet it was simple enough as Sam explained to them a few moments later.He had been in Seattle when Mr. Chillingworth's letter reached theSecret Service Department in Washington. His chief at the capital cityhad at once wired him in cipher to drop the case he was on and proceedwith all haste to the neighborhood of the Chillingworth ranch.
In the guise of a prospector, Sam had been in the hills for some days,and, by a stroke of luck, he had encountered the day before the trail ofthe men he was after. An unlucky slip had betrayed his presence in thebrush. It was that disturbance, it will be recalled, that had so excitedBully Banjo and his men.
He had seen and heard enough from his place of concealment, however, toknow that two boys were in trouble, and it was no part of Sam Hartley'snature not to try and help them. From various points of vantage amongthe rocks and trees on the cliffside he had watched all that had takenplace subsequently in the camp of Bully Banjo.
After revolving one or two plans of rescue, it had occurred to him thathis best plan would be to lower the knife, which the boys had put tosuch excellent use. From his eyrie high up on the cliffside above thecavern, he had later heard the shots at the river edge, and had surmisedwhat was taking place. He had concluded, though, that the boys had beenshot and killed as they reached the water, and had left the place whileit was still dark, with a heavy heart.
What he had seen had enraged him still more against the men he had beensent to track, and he had made all haste back to his camp which was backof the "gate" in the rocks. It had occurred to him after his arrivalthere, though, that in the event of the boys having been killed theirbodies might be carried down by the current. He had therefore postedhimself by the narrow gateway in order to watch for them. His amazementwhen he encountered the Bungalow Boys safe and sound on their queer raftwas only equaled by his delight.
To the readers of the "Bungalow Boys," the first volume of this series,Sam Hartley will need no further introduction. Our other readers may beinformed, however, that Sam was one of the "star men" of the SecretService bureau in Washington, and that the boys had made hisacquaintance at the Maine bungalow.
Sam, in disguise, was there for the purpose of getting evidence againstthe Trullibers in much the same manner as he was now after the defiantBully Banjo. It will be recalled by our old readers that the boys hadbeen of great service to Sam Hartley, aiding him in running down theTrullibers, and that he in his turn had been able to do them someservices. How glad they were to meet each other once more under suchodd--yet such entirely natural circumstances, when they came to beexplained--may be better imagined than detailed.
"And now," said Sam, when all had been said and explained, and the boys'hunger fully satisfied, "what are you lads going to do?"
"Push on to the ranch, of course," declared Tom. "It is important thatwe should get the medicines for Mr. Dacre without delay."
"I agree with you," said Sam, "and as it's not much use my trailingthose fellows any more--they'll be away from there by now--I'll go withyou."
"But then you'll lose them altogether," exclaimed Tom.
Sam laughed his light, cheery laugh.
"No fear of that, boy," he said. "I know where their schooner is, andI'll get them yet, just keep tabs of that. In any event, I don't want tobe in any hurry. I'm going to give this Bully Banjo all the rope hewants, and then round him and his gang up when he least expects it."
"All by yourself?" asked Jack amazedly.
Sam laughed again.
"Well, hardly," he said. "It will take a dozen or more of us to handlethat job when the time comes. But in the meantime I don't want to givehim any idea that he is being watched or that the Secret Service isafter him. That's the way we always do things--wait till we are readyand the plum's right for picking, and then go and get it with neatnessand dispatch."
"That's why you didn't let Mr. Chillingworth know you were in thevicinity, then?" cried Tom.
"That's it," agreed Sam Hartley. "You see, I figured that they werelikely to be watching his place, and so I gave it a wide berth. But Iguess there's no harm in showing myself to him now. It's evident thatBully Banjo doesn't fear anything, or he'd not be running the Chinksthrough so boldly."
Sam walked off into the brush a little way and soon reappeared with asmall burro. Helped by the boys, he loaded his cooking utensils andother camping apparatus on the little creature's back and then they setoff through the brush, headed for a trail of which Sam knew. It wascharacteristic of Sam Hartley that already he was more familiar with thecountry about than most of the ranchers.
"There's one thing that puzzles me, though," he said, "and that is howthose fellows ever get into the canyon yonder from the sea."
"Why they come in by a trail, don't they?" asked Jack innocently.
"Oh, no they don't, for I watched them pretty sharply. I'm willing toswear that they didn't come in by any trail. No, sir," grunted Sam, withan air of conviction. "Either those rascals have an airship or else theytravel under ground."
"Well, they haven't got an airship, that's certain," laughed Tom.
"That's right," agreed the detective; "therefore, they come under theridge of hills that separates the canyon from the sea. But how--well,I'll tell you," he went on, without waiting for the boys to speak. "Mytheory is that this river burrows its way under that ridge, and that therascals have some sort of a tunnel there they get through."
"Do you really think so?" as
ked Tom, rather frankly incredulous.
"I do. It sounds wild, I admit, but how else are you to account for it.After all, there's nothing very uncommon in rivers running under a rangeof hills. Why's there's one does it right up at my old home in New YorkState, and in California, and all through the west there are any amountof such waterways. The only real novelty in it is the fact that theserascals have been able to use it as a short cut to this canyon. At anyrate, I'm going to explore it some day when I get time."
"And shut them off from it?" asked Jack.
"Well, it might come in handy to use as a trap," mused Sam Hartley. "Butit's no use figuring so far ahead till we know if there is such a thingin existence."
"That's right," agreed the boys, and for some time after that they werefar too busy getting through the close-growing brush to do much talking.At last they emerged, as Sam had foretold they would, on a rough trail,not unlike the one by which they had traveled into so much unlooked-fortrouble.
"Now, then," said Sam, "the next thing is to locate the Chillingworthranch. We can't be so awfully far from it."
"How are we ever going to get a line on it," wondered Jack, "I'm alltwisted about now."
But Tom who had observed Sam Hartley's way of doing things on more thanone previous occasion, said nothing. He just watched Sam as the lattertied the burro to a tree, and then, diving into the pocket of hismackintosh coat, produced a map. From its grimy condition it seemed tohave been well handled. Along the edges of the folds it was torn by muchfolding and unfolding.
Selecting a flat rock, Sam spread the map out and the boys saw that itwas a rough "sketch," one drawn with pen and ink. Several places on itwere marked in red ink. Sam laid a finger on one of these and remarkedbriefly:
"Chillingworth's."
"I don't see how that helps," began Jack, but a look from Tom stoppedhim, and presently he was glad he had not said more, for Sam produced acompass and a pair of parallel rulers. Gazing carefully over the map, hepicked out a spot which he said was approximately the one on which theythen stood. He then laid the rulers from that spot to the red-inkedportion of the map representing Mr. Chillingworth's place.
"A straight course, almost due northeast from here, and we'll hit it,"he decided, folding the rulers and putting them carefully away. Then hemethodically replaced the map in its envelope.
A few minutes later they set out on the course Sam had outlined. Heplanned to travel across country, the sure-footed burro being as much athome on the rough mountainside as on a trail.
"Lay hold of the ropes at the side of the pack if you get tired," headvised the boys. "You'll find it helps a lot."
After an hour's traveling, of a sort to which they had never beenaccustomed, the boys were glad to accept this advice, and foundthemselves greatly aided.
Their way lay over bowlder-strewn ground, under towering columnar trunksof great trees of the pine tribe. The lofty conifers entwined their darkbranches high in the air, making the forest floor beneath cool and dim.
It was noon when Sam Hartley, consulting map and compass once more,struck off to the east.
"We ought to be there in ten minutes," he said, without a trace ofhesitation in his tone. A sea captain could not have been more confidentof bringing his vessel across the ocean into a designated port than Samwas of landing in the exact spot for which he had laid his calculations.
As a matter of fact, it was half an hour before they emerged from thepine woods into a clearing littered with stumps and blackened trunks.Before them was a half-grown corn field, and traces of cultivation wereall about them. In a roughly fenced pasture lot--cleared like the restfrom the virgin forest--were some cattle and horses.
Across the corn field could be seen a long, low house of logs, with arough-shingled roof. A little distance from it were some barns painted adull red and made of undressed lumber, and a big corral with a hay stackin the center of it.
As they struck out, skirting the edge of the corn field, toward thehouse, the death-like quiet that had reigned about it was ruefullybroken. From behind one of the barns there suddenly emerged ablue-bloused figure from whose head a pigtail stuck out behind as itflew along. Hardly had the new arrivals taken in this, before, behindthe Chinaman, came a second figure, that of a woman in a blue sun bonnetand a pink print dress. They could see that she had a rifle in herhands, and as they watched she raised it and fired after the retreatingChinaman.
But she did not hit him, apparently--even if such had been herintention--for he kept straight on and vanished in an instant in thedark woods at the edge of the clearing.
"Gee whiz!" exclaimed Sam Hartley, hastening forward. "What's themeaning of this drama?"
The words had hardly left his lips, before the woman who had put theChinaman to such precipitate flight espied the approach of thenewcomers.
They were about to hail her when, to their amazement, she raised herrifle to her shoulder once more. This time it was most unmistakablytrained upon them and the good-looking face behind the sights bore anexpression that seemed to say as plain as print:
"Don't come any nearer if you want to avoid trouble."
The Bungalow Boys in the Great Northwest Page 12
