CHAPTER I
THE HIDDEN PATH
Overhead sang the steady trade wind, tempering the goldensunshine's heat. To eastward, under an incredibly blue sky,stretched the more incredibly multi-hued waters of BiscayneBay, the snow-white wonder-city of Miami dreaming on itsshores.
Dividing the residence and business part of the city from thegiant hotels, Flagler Avenue split the mass of buildings, fromback-country to bay. To its westward side spread the shadedexpanse of Royal Palm Park, with its deep-shaded short lane ofAustralian pines, its rustling palm trees, its white churchand its frond-flecked vistas of grass.
Here, scarce a quarter-century ago, a sandspit had broiledbeneath an untempered sun. Shadeless, grassless, it had beenan abomination of desolution and a rallying-place formosquitoes. Then had come the hand of man. First, the RoyalPalm Hotel had sprung into stately existence, out ofnothingness. Then other caravansaries. Palm and pine andvivid lawn-grass had followed. The mosquitoes had fled farback to the mangrove swamps. And a rarely beautiful WhiteCity had sprung up.
It was Sunday morning. From the park's bandstand, William J.Bryan was preaching to his open-air Sunday School class oftourists, two thousand strong. Around the bandstand theaudience stood or sat in rapt interest.
The Australian-pine lane, to the rear, was lined with allmanner of automobiles, from limousine to battered flivver.The cars' occupants listened as best they could--throughthe whirr of sea-planes and the soft hum of Sabbath trafficand the dry slither of a myriad grating palm-fronds in thetrade-wind's wake--to the preacher's words.
The space of shaded grass, between lane and hotel-grounds andbandstand, was starred by white-clad children, and by men whosprawled drowsily upon the springy turf, their straw hatstilted above their eyes. The time was mid-February. Thethermometers on the Royal Palm veranda registeredseventy-three. No rain had fallen in weeks to mar theweather's perfection.
"Scientists are spending $5,000,000 to send an expedition intoAfrica in search of the 'missing-link'!" the orator wasthundering. "It would be better for them to spend all or partof that money, in seeking closer connection with theirHeavenly Father, than with the Brutes!"
A buzz of approval swept the listeners. That same buzz cameirritatingly to the ears of a none-too-sprucely dressed youngman who lay, with eyes shut, under the shifting shade of agiant palm, a hundred yards away. He had not caught thephrase which inspired the applause--thanks to the confusion ofstreet sounds and the multiple dry rattle of the palm-frondsand the whirring passage of a sea-plane which circled abovepark and bay. But the buzz aroused him.
He had not been asleep. Prone on his back, hat pulled overhis upper face, he had been lying motionless there, for thebest part of an hour. Now, stretching, he got to his feet inleisurely fashion, brushed perfunctorily at his rumpledclothes, and turned his steps toward the double line of plumyAustralian pines which bordered the lane between hotel groundsand avenue.
Only once did he hesitate in his slouching progress. That waswhen he chanced to come alongside one of the cars, in the longrank, drawn up in the shade. The machine's front seat wasoccupied by a giant of a man, all in white silk, a man ofmiddle age, blonde and bearded, a man who, but for his moderncostume, might well have posed as a Norse Viking.
The splendid breadth of shoulder and depth of chest caught thewanderer's glance and won his grudging approval. Thence, hiselaborately careless gaze shifted to the car's rear seat wheresat a girl. He noted she was small and dainty and tanned anddressed in white sport-clothes. Also, that one of her armswas passed around the shoulder of a big young gold-and-whitecollie dog,--a dog that fidgeted uneasily and paid scant heedto the restraining hand and caressing voice of his mistress.
As the shabby man paused momentarily to scan the car's threeoccupants, the girl happened to look toward him. Her look wasbrief and impersonal. Yet, for the merest instant, her eyesmet his. And their glances held each other with a momentaryintentness. Then the girl turned again toward the restlessdog, seeking to quiet him. And the man passed on.
Moving with aimless slowness--one is not long in SouthernFlorida without acquiring a leisurely gait the lounger leftthe park and strolled up Thirteenth Avenue, towards the bridgewhich spans the Miami River and forms a link between the morethickly settled part of the town and its southerly suburbs.
As he crossed the bridge, a car passed him, moving rapidlyeastward, and leaving a choky trail of dust. He had bare timeto see it was driven by the Norse giant, and that the girl hadmoved to the front seat beside the driver. The collie(fastened by a cord running through his collar from one sideof the tonneau to the other) lay fidgetingly on the rear seat.
For miles the man plodded on, under the wind-temperedsunshine. Passing Brickell Avenue and then the last of thecity, he continued,--now on the road, now goingcross-country,--until he came out on a patch of broken beach,with a background of jungle-like forest.
The sun had gone beyond the meridian mark during his ramblesouthward, and the afternoon was hurrying by. For the way waslong, though he had tramped steadily.
As he reached the bit of sandy foreshore, he paused for thefirst time since stopping to survey the car. An unpaintedrowboat was drawn up on the beach. Half way between it andthe tangle of woodland behind, was a man clad only inundershirt and dirty duck trousers. He was yanking along bythe scruff of the neck a protesting and evidently angrycollie.
The man was big and rugged. Weather and sea had bronzed himto the hue of an Arab. Apparently, he had sighted the dog,and had run his boat ashore to capture the stray animal. Hehandled his prize none too gently, and his management wascalling forth all the collie's resentment. But as the man hadhad the wit to seize the dog by the scruff of the neck and tokeep himself out of the reach of the luckless creature'svainly snapping jaws, these protests went for nothing.
Within thirty feet of the boat, the dog braced himself for anew effort to tear free. The man, in anger, planted avigorous kick against the collie's furry side. As his footwas bare, the kick lost much of its potential power to injure.Yet it had the effect of rousing to sudden indignation thedusty youth who had stopped on his tramp from Miami to watchthe scene.
"Whose dog is that?" he demanded, striding forward, from theshade, and approaching the struggling pair.
"Who the blue blazes are you?" countered the barefoot man, hiseyes running contemptuously over the shabby and slight-builtfigure.
"My name is Brice," said the other. "Gavin Brice. Not thatit matters. And now, perhaps you'll answer my question.Whose dog is that?"
"Mine," returned the barefoot man, renewing his effort to dragthe collie toward the boat.
"If he's yours," said Brice, pleasantly, "stop hauling himalong and let him loose. He'll follow you, without all thathustling. A good collie will always follow, his master,anywhere."
"When I'm honin' for your jabber," retorted the other, "I'llcome a-askin' for it."
He drew back his foot once more, for a kick. But, with a lazycompetence, Brice moved forward and gave him a light push,sidewise, on the shoulder. There was science and a rareknowledge of leverage in the mild gesture. When a man iskicking, he is on only one foot. And, the right sort ofoblique push will not only throw him off his balance, but insuch a direction that his second foot cannot come to earth inposition to help him restore that balance.
Under the skillfully gentle impact of Brice's shove, the manlet go of the snarling collie and hopped insanely for a secondor so, with arms outflung. Then he sat down ungracefully onthe sand.
Scarce had he touched ground when he was up.
But the moment had sufficed for the collie to go free.Instead of running off, the dog moved over to Brice, thrusthis cool muzzle into the man's hand, and, with wagging tail,looked up lovingly at him.
A collie has brains beyond most dogs. And this collierecognized that the pleasant-voiced, indolent-looking strangerhad just rescued him from a captor who had been treating himabominably. Wherefore, in gratitude and dawning
adoration, hecame to pay his respects.
Brice patted the silken head so confidingly upraised to him.He knew dogs. Especially, he knew collies. And he was hotwith indignation at the needlessly brutal treatment justaccorded this splendid beast.
But he had scant time for emotions of any kind. The beachcomber had regained his feet, and in the same motion had losthis self-control. Head lowered, fists swinging, he camecharging down upon the stripling who had the audacity to upsethim.
Brice did not await his onset. Slipping lithely to one sidehe avoided the bull-rush, all the time talking in the samepleasantly modulated drawl.
"I saw this dog, earlier in the day," said he, "in a car, withsome people. They drove this way. The dog must have chewedhis cord and then jumped or fallen out, and strayed here. Yousaw him, from the water, and tried to steal him. Next to avivisectionist, the filthiest man God ever made is the man whokicks a dog. It's lucky--"
He got no further. Twice, during his short speech, he hadhad to twist, with amazing speed, out of the way ofprofanity-accompanied rushes. Now, pressed too close forcomfort, he halted, ducked a violent left swing, and ran fromunder the flailing right arm of his assailant.
Then, darting back for fully twenty-five feet, he cried out,gayly:
"I won't buy him from you. But I'll fight you for him, if youlike."
As he spoke, he drew from his pocket a battered andold-fashioned gold watch. Laying it on the sand, he went on:
"How does this strike you as a sporting offer? Winner to takeboth dog and watch? How about it?"
The other had halted in an incipient charge to take note ofthe odd proposition. He blinked at the flash of the watch'sbattered gold case in the sunshine. For the first time, heseemed a trifle irresolute. This eel-like antagonist, withsuch eccentric ideas as to sport, was something outside thebeach-comber's experience. Puzzled, he stood scowling.
"How about it?" queried Brice. "I hope you'll refuse. I'drather be kicked, any day, than have to fight. But--well, Iwouldn't rather see a good dog kicked. Still, if you'recontent with what you've got, we'll call it a day. I'll takethe dog and be moving on."
The barefoot man's bewilderment was once more merging intowrath, at the amused superiority in Brice's words anddemeanor. He glowered appraisingly at the intruder. He sawBrice was a half-head shorter than himself and at least thirtypounds lighter. Nor did Brice's figure betray any specialmuscular development. Apparently, there could be but oneoutcome to such a battle.
The man's fists clenched, afresh. His big muscles tightened.Brice saw the menace and spoke again.
"It's only fair to warn you," said he, gently, "that I shallthrash you worse than ever you've been thrashed before in allyour down-at-heel life. When I was a boy, I saw George Silerbeat up five men who tackled him. Siler wasn't a big man.But he had made a life-study of leverage. And it served himbetter than if he'd toted a machine gun. I studied under him.And then, a bit, under a jui-jutsu man. You'll have lesschance against me than that poor collie had against you. Ionly mention it as a friendly warning. Best let things restas they are. Come, puppy!" he chirped to the highlyinterested dog. "Let's be on our way. Perhaps we can findthe people who lost you. That's what I've been wanting to do,all day, you know," he added, in a lower voice, speakingconfidentially to the dog, and beginning to stroll off towardthe woods.
But the barefoot man would not have it so. Now, heunderstood. This sissyfied chap, with the high and-mightyairs, was bluffing. That was what he was doing. Bluffing!Did he think for a minute he could get away with it, and withthe dog?
A swirl of red fury swept to the beach comber's brain.Wordless, face distorted, he flung himself at the elusiveBrice.
So sudden was his spring that it threatened to take its victimunaware. Brice's back was turned to the aggressor, and he wasalready on his way toward the woods.
Yet, with but a fraction of an inch to spare, he turned toface the oncoming human whirlwind. This time he did not dartback from the rush. Perhaps he did not care to. Perhapsthere was not time.
Instead, with the speed of light, he stepped in, ducking thehammer-fist and plying both hands with bewildering quicknessand skill, in a shower of half-arm blows at the beach comber'sheart and wind. His strength was wiry and carefullydeveloped, but it was no match for his foe's. Yet the hail ofbody-punches was delivered with all the effect that scienceand a perfect knowledge of anatomy could compass.
The beach comber grunted and writhed in sharp discomfort.Then, he did the one thing possible, by way of reprisal.Before Brice could dodge out of his close-quarters position,the other clasped him tight in his bulgingly powerful arms,gripping the lighter man to his chest in a hug which had thegruesome force of a boa-constrictor's, and increasing thepressure with all his weight and mighty strength.
There was no space for maneuvering or for wriggling free.Clear from the ground Brice's feet were swung. The breath wassqueezed out of him. His elastic strength was cramped andmade useless. His lungs seemed bursting. The pressure on hisribs was unbearable. Like many a better man he was paying theprice for a single instant of overconfidence.
One arm was caught against his side. The other was impededand robbed of all efficient hitting power, being pinionedathwart his breast. And steadily the awful pressure wasincreased. There was no apparent limit to the beach comber'spowers of constriction. The blood beat into Brice's eyes.His tongue began to protrude from a swollen throat.
Then, all at once, he ceased to struggle, and lay limp andmoveless in the conqueror's grasp. Perceiving which, thebeach comber relaxed the pressure, to let his conquered enemyslide, broken, to the ground.
This, to his blank amaze, Gavin Brice neglected to do. Theold ruse of apparent collapse had served its turn, for perhapsthe millionth time. The beach-comber was aware of alightning-quick tensing of the slumped muscles. Belatedly, heknew what had happened, and he renewed his vise-grip. But hewas too late. Eel-like, Gavin had slithered out of theimprisoning arms. And, as these arms came together once more,in the bear-hug, Brice shot over a burning left-hander to thebeach-comber's unguarded jaw. Up flew the big arms in belatedparry, but not soon enough to block a deliberately-aimed rightswing, which Brice drove whizzing into the jaw's point.
The brace of blows rocked the giant, so that he reeleddrunkenly under their dynamic force. The average man musthave been floored and even knocked senseless by suchwell-directed smashes to so vital a spot. But thebeach-comber merely staggered back, seeking instinctively toguard his battered face, and to regain his balance.
In at the reeling foe tore Gavin Brice, showering him withsystematic punches to every vulnerable spot above the beltline. It was merciless punishment, and it was delivered withrare deftness.
Yet, the iron-bodied man on whom it was inflicted merelygrunted again and, under the avalanche of blows, managed toregain his balance and plunge back to the assault. A bornfighter, he was now obsessed with but one idea, namely, todestroy this smaller and faster opponent who was hurting himso outrageously. As far as the beach comber was concerned: itwas a murder-battle now, with no question of mercy asked orgiven.
The collie had been viewing this astounding scene in eagerinterest. Never before, in his short life, had he seen twohumans fight. And, even now, he was not at all certain thatit was a fight and not some intensely thrilling game. Thushad he watched two boys wrestle and box, in his own puppyhood.And, for venturing to jump into that jolly fracas, he had beenscolded and sent back to his kennel.
Yet, there was something about this clash, between the giantwho had mistreated him and the softer-voiced man who hadrescued him, which spoke of mad excitement, and which stirredthe collie's own excitable temperament to the very depths.Dancingly, he pattered around the fighters, tulip ears cocked,deep-set eyes aglow, his fanfare of barks echoing far backthrough the silent woods.
The beach comber, rallying from the dual jaw-bombardment,bored back at his foe, taking the heaviest and most scientificpunishment, in
a raging attempt to gather Brice once more intothe trap of his terrible arms. But Gavin kept just out ofreach, moving with an almost insolent carelessness, and everflashing some painful blow to face or to body as he retreated.
Then, as the other charged, Gavin sidestepped with perfectease, and, when the beach-comber wheeled clumsily to face him,threw one foot forward and at the same time pushed the largerman's shoulder violently with his open palm. It was arepetition of the "leverage theory" Gavin had so recently beenexpounding to his antagonist. It caught the lunging giant atprecisely the right non-balance angle, as he was turning about.And, for the second time, the beach-comber sat down on thetrampled sand, with unexpected suddenness and force.
Gavin Brice laughed aloud, with boyish mischief, and stoodback, waiting for the cursing madman to scramble to his feetagain. But, as the beach comber leaped up--and before hecould get fairly balanced on his legs--another foot-and-palmmaneuver sent him sprawling.
This time the puffing and foaming and insanely-badgered mandid not try at once to rise. Instead, his hand whipped backto his thigh.
"My clumsy friend," Brice was saying, pleasantly, "I'm afraidyou'll never win that watch. Shall we call it a day and quit?Or--"
He broke off with an exclamation of genuine wrath. For, withastonishing swiftness, the big hand had flown to the hip ofthe ragged trousers, had plucked a short-bladed fishing knifefrom its sheath, and had hurled it, dexterously, with thestrength of a catapult, straight at his smiling adversary'sthroat.
The sub-tropic beach comber and the picaroon acquire nastytricks with knives, and have an uncanny skill at their use.
Brice twisted to one side, with a sharp suddenness that allbut threw his back out of joint. The knife whizzed throughthe still air like a great hornet. The breath of its passagefanned Gavin's averted face, as he wrenched his head out ofits path.
The collie had watched the supposed gambols of the two menwith keen, but impersonal, interest. But here at last wassomething he could understand. Instinct teaches practicallyevery dog the sinister nature of a thrown object. The man onthe ground had hurled something at the man whom the colliehad begun to love. That meant warfare. To the canine mindit could mean nothing else.
And, ruff a-bristle and teeth bared, the dog flew at the beachcomber. The latter had followed his throw by leaping to hisfeet. But, as he rose, the collie was at him. For aninstant, the furry whirlwind was snarling murderously at histhroat, and the man was beating convulsively at thisunexpected new enemy.
Then, almost before the collie could slash to the bone one ofthe hairy big hands that thrust him backward, Gavin Brice hadreached the spot in a single bound, had shoved the dog to oneside and was at the man.
"Clear out, puppy!" he shouted, imperatively. "This is mymeat! When people get to slinging knives, there's no moresense in handling them with gloves!"
The debonaire laziness was gone from Brice's voice and manner.His face was dead-white. His eyes were blazing. His mouthwas a mere gash in the grim face. Even as he spoke, he hadthrust the snarling collie away, and was at the beach-comber.
No longer was it a question of boxing or of half-jestinghorseplay. The use of the knife had put this fight on a newplane. And, like a wild beast, Gavin Brice was attacking hisbig foe. But, unlike a wild beast, he kept his head, as hecharged.
Disregarding the menace of the huge arms, he came to grips,without striking a single blow. Around him the beach-comberflung his constricting grasp. But this time the grip wasworthless.
For, Brice's left shoulder jutted out in such manner as tokeep the arms from getting their former hold around the bodyitself, and Brice's right elbow held off the grip on the otherside. At the same time the top of Brice's head buried itselfunder the beachcomber's chin, forcing the giant's jaw upwardand backward. Then, safe inside his opponent's guard, heabandoned his effort to stave off the giant's hold, and passedhis own arms about the other's waist, his hands meeting underthe small of the larger man's back.
The beach comber tried now to use his freed arms to gain thegrip that had once been so effective. But his clasp couldclose only over the slope of Brice's back and could find nopurchase.
While the man was groping for the right hold, Gavin threw allhis own power into a single move. Tightening his underhold,and drawing in on the small of the giant's back, he raisedhimself on his toes, and pressed the top of his head, with allhis might, against the bottom of the beach-comber's chin.
The trick was not new. But it was fearsomely effective. Itwas, as Gavin had explained, all a question of leverage. Thegiant's waist was drawn forward, His chin, simultaneously, wasshoved backward. Such a dual cross pressure was due, eventually,to mean one of two things:--either the snapping of the spine orelse the breaking of the neck. Unless the grip could be broken,there was no earthly help for its victim.
The beach comber, in agony of straining spine and throat,thrashed wildly to free himself. He strove to batter thetenacious little man to senselessness. But he could hitnothing but the sloping back, or aim clumsily cramped hooksfor the top and sides of Gavin's protected head.
Meantime, the pressure was increasing, with a coldly scientificprecision. Human nature could not endure it. In his extremity,the beach comber attempted the same ruse that had been sosuccessful for Brice. He slumped, in pseudo-helplessness. Theonly result was to enable Gavin to tighten his hold, unopposedby the tensing of the enemy's wall of muscles.
"I'm through!" bellowed the tortured giant, stranglingly, hisentire huge body one horror of agony. "'Nuff! I'm--"
He got no further. For, the unspeakable anguish mounted tohis brain. And he swooned.
Gavin Brice let the great body slide inert to the sand. Hestood, flushed and panting a little, looking down at the hulkhe had so nearly annihilated. Then, as the beach comber'slimbs began to twitch and his eyelids to quiver, Brice turnedaway.
"Come along, puppy," he bade the wildly excited collie. "Heisn't dead. Another couple of seconds and his neck or hisback must have gone. I'm glad he fainted first. A killingisn't a nice thing to remember on wakeful nights, the killingof even a cur like that. Come on, before he wakes up. I'mgoing somewhere. And it's a stroke of golden luck that I'vegot you to take with me, by way of welcome."
He had picked up and pocketed his watch. Now, lifting theknife, he glanced shudderingly at its ugly curved blade. Thenhe tossed it far out into the water. After which, he chirpedagain to the gladly following collie and made off down thebeach, toward a loop of mangrove swamp that swelled out intothe water a quarter-mile farther on.
The dog gamboled gayly about him, as they walked, and tried toentice him into a romp. Prancing invitingly toward Brice, thecollie would then flee from him in simulated terror. Next,crouching in front of him, the dog would snatch up a mouthfulof sand, growl, and make pattering gestures with his whiteforefeet at Gavin's dusty shoes.
Failing to lure his new master into a frolic, the dog fellsober and paced majestically alongside him, once or twiceearning an absent-minded pat on the head by thrusting hismuzzle into the cup of the walker's hand.
As they neared the loop of the swamp, the collie looked back,and growled softly, under his breath. Gavin followed thedirection of the dog's gaze. He saw the beach comber sit up,and then, with much pain and difficulty, get swayingly to hisfeet.
"Don't worry, old chap," Gavin said to the growling collie."He's had all he can carry, for one day. He's not going tofollow us. By this time, he'll begin to realize, too, thathis face is battered pretty much to a pulp, and that some ofmy body-smashes are flowering into bruises. I pity him whenhe wakes up to-morrow. He'll be too stiff to move an inch,without grunting. His pluck and his nerve are no match forhis strength .... Here we are!" he broke off, beginning toskirt the hither edge of the swamp. "Unless all my dope iswrong, it ought to be somewhere close to this."
He walked more slowly, his keen eyes busily probing theimpenetrable face of the swamp. He was practically at thevery end of the b
each. In front, the mangroves ran out intothe water, and in an unbroken line they extended far back tolandward.
The shining dark leaves made a thick screen, shutting fromview the interior of the swamp. The reddish roots formed anequally impenetrable fence, two feet high, all along the edge.It would have been easier to walk through a hedge of bayonetsthan to invade that barrier.
"Where mangroves grow, puppy," exhorted Brice, "there iswater. Salt water, at that. The water runs in far, here.You can see that, by the depth of this mangrove forest. Atfirst glance, it looks like an impasse, doesn't it? And yetit isn't. Because--"
He broke off, in his ruminative talk. The collie, boredperhaps, by standing still so long, had at first turnedseaward. But, as a wavelet washed against his white forefeet,he drew back, annoyed, and began aimlessly to skirt the swamp,to landward. Before he had traveled twenty yards, hevanished.
For a second or so, Gavin Brice stared stupidly at thephenomenon of the jungle-like wall of mangroves that hadswallowed a seventy-pound dog. Then his brow cleared, and aglint of eagerness came into his eye. Almost running, hehurried to the spot where the dog had vanished. Then hehalted, and called softly:
"Come, puppy! Here!"
In immediate obedience to his call, the dog reappeared, at theswamp's edge, wagging his plumy tail, glad to be summoned.Before the collie could stir, Brice was at his side, takingsharp note of the direction from which the dog had juststepped out of the mangroves.
In front, the wall of leaves and branches still hung,seemingly impenetrable. The chief difference between thisspot and any on either side, was that the mangrove boughs hadapparently been trained to hang so low that the roots wereinvisible.
Tentatively, Brice drew aside an armful of branches, justabove the waiting dog. And, as though he had pulled back acurtain, he found himself facing a well-defined path, cutthrough the tangled thicket of root and trunk and bough--apath that wound out of sight in the dark recesses of theswamps.
Roots had been cleared away and patches of water filled withthem and with earth. Here and there a plank bridge spanned agap of deeper water. Altogether--so far as Brice could judgein the fading light--the path was an excellent bit of rusticengineering. And it was hidden as cunningly from casual eyesas ever was a hermit thrush's nest.
Some one had been at much pains and at more expense, to layout and develop that secret trail. For it is no easy or cheaptask to build a sure path through such a swamp. From adistance, forests of mangrove seemed to be massed on risingground, and to group themselves about the sides and the crestsof knolls. As a matter of fact, the presence of a mangroveforest is a sign of the very lowest ground, ground covered forthe most part by salt tidewater. The lowest pine barren ishigher than the loftiest mangrove wilderness.
Gavin Brice's aspect of lassitude dropped from him like anoutworn garment. For hours--except during his brief encounterwith the beach comber--he had been steadily on the move, andhad covered a good bit of ground. Yet, any one, seeing him ashe traversed the miles from the Royal Palm Park at Miami,would have supposed from his gait that he was on some aimlessramble. Now, alert, quick-stepping, eager, he made his swiftway along the windings of the secret path.
Light as were his steps, they creaked lamentably at times onthe boards of a bridge-span. More than once, he heardslitherings, in the water and marsh to either side, as someserpent or other slimy swamp-dweller wriggled away, at hispassing. The collie trotted gravely along, just in front ofhim, pausing once in a while, as if to make certain the manwas following.
The silence and gloom and sinister solemnity of the place hadhad a dampening effect on the dog's gay spirits. The backwardglances at his self-chosen master were for reassuring himself,rather than forguidance. Surroundings have quicker and stronger effect oncollies than on almost any other kind of dog. And thesesurroundings, very evidently, were not to the collie's taste.Several times, when the path's width permitted, he droppedback to Gavin's side, to receive a word of friendlyencouragement or a pat on the head.
Outside of the grove's shadows the sun was sinking. Not withthe glowing deliberation of sunsets in northern latitudes, butwith almost indecent haste. In the dense shade of the forest,twilight had fallen. But the path still lay clear. AndBrice's footsteps quickened, as in a race with darkness.
Then, at a twist of the path, the way suddenly grew lighter.And at another turn, twilight brightened into clearness. Ahundred feet ahead was a thin interlacing of moonflower vines,compact enough, no doubt, toprevent a view of the path to any one standing in the strongerlight beyond the grove, but making distinct to Brice a grassyclearing beyond.
Upon this clearing, the brief bright afterglow was shining,for the trim grass and shrubs of an upwardsloping lawn wereclearly visible. For some minutes the water and the swampunderfoot had given place to firmer ground, and the characterof the trees themselves had changed. Evidently, the trailhad its ending at that screen of vineleaves draped between twogiant gumbo-limbo trees at the lawn's verge.
Thirty feet from the vines, Brice slackened his steps. Hislithe body was vibrant with cautious watchfulness. But, thecollie was not inclined to caution. He hailed with evidentrelief the sight of open spaces and of light after the gloomytrail's windings. And he broke into a canter.
Fearing to call aloud, Brice chirped and hissed softly at thecareering dog. The collie, at sound of the recall, hesitated,then began to trot back toward Gavin. But, glancing wistfullytoward the light, as he started to obey the summons, his eyeencountered something which swept away all his dawning impulseof obedience.
Athwart the bright end of the path, sprang a furry graycreature, supple, fluffy, indescribably formless and immensein that deceptive half-light.
Brice peered at the animal in astonishment, seeking toclassify it in his mind. But the collie needed no effort ofthat sort. At first sight and scent, he knew well to whattribe the furry gray newcomer belonged. And, with atrumpet-bark of joyous challenge, he dashed at it.
The creature fluffed itself to double its former size. Then,spitting and yowling, it ran up the nearer of the twogumbo-limbo trees. The dog reached the foot of the tree afraction of a second too late to seize the fox-like tail ofhis prey. And he circled wildly, barking at the top of hislungs and making futile little running leaps up the shiningtrunk of the tree.
As well hope for secrecy after the firing of a cannon as aftersuch a fanfare of barking! Gavin Brice ran forward to graspthe rackety collie. As he did so, he was vaguely aware that aslender and white-clad form was crossing the lawn, at a run,toward the tree.
At the path-end, he and the figure came face to face. Thoughthe other's back was to the fading light, Gavinknew her for the girl he had seen in the Australian pine lane,at Miami, that day.
"Pardon me," he began, trying in vain to make himself audiblethrough the collie's frantic barking. "I found your dog, andI have brought him back to you. We--"
The glib explanation died, in his amazement-contractingthroat. For, at his first word, the girl had checked her runand had stood for an instant, gazing wideeyed at him. Then,clapping one little hand to her side, she produced fromsomewhere a flash of metal.
And Gavin Brice found himself blinking stupidly into themuzzle of a small revolver, held, unwaveringly, not three feetfrom his face. Behind the gun were a pair of steady gray eyesand a face whose dainty outlines were just now set in a maskof icy grimness.
"That isn't a bluff," ran his involuntary thoughts, as he readthe eyes behind the ridiculously tiny weapon. "She reallymeans to shoot!"
Black Caesar's Clan : A Florida Mystery Story Page 2
