by Roy J. Snell
CHAPTER IV HE WHO WALKS ALONE
Dorn, the young French boy, awoke early on the morning after Johnny'sdisappearance. He had fallen asleep in the middle of the night confidentthat he would find his good American friend sleeping peacefully by hisside in the morning. That he was not there alarmed him.
Like most French boys of the better class, Dorn was endowed with a senseof responsibility beyond his years. He awakened Pompee and Curlie Carsonand was for starting a search at once, even without breakfast.
This plan Curlie vetoed. He had been out prowling around late at nightand was hungry. Besides, being something of a soldier of fortune, who hadbeen lost many times himself, he did not share the French boy'sapprehension.
"He'll show up," he said, digging in his pack for a match to light thefire. "Pompee won't be any good without his morning cup of coffee; forthat matter, neither will I."
A half hour later, having eaten a hasty breakfast of cassava bread,coffee and mangoes, Dorn struck away across the court that led to themain stairway of the Citadel.
His heart was heavy for he had taken a great liking to the frank, freeand kindly American boy, Johnny Thompson. He knew, too, what a dangerousthing it is to be lost in a jungle.
With his eyes and ears open, he wandered among the ruins. Up a stairhere, down one there, peering here, there, everywhere he went. Alwayshoping to catch sight of Johnny's sturdy figure yet always disappointed,he spent the whole bright tropical morning hunting.
At times he came upon Curlie Carson or Pompee. They, too, were searching.Curlie was taking the affair seriously at last.
"If we don't find him trapped somewhere in the Citadel," he said to Dorn,"we'll have to take to the jungle trails. He may have been spiritedaway."
"Spirited away?" The French boy's tone showed surprise.
"Yes, by the natives. There's been a lot of queer doings around thismossy old pile of stone. Remember that native who took the trouble tohang a ladder before my window and look in?"
"Yes."
"He didn't do that just for fun. These natives are serious folks, despiteall their drumming, dancing and singing. I've seen natives of otherlands, Central America, Alaska, Siberia. I tell you they're different.
"But they're superstitious, too," he went on. "Look at the way Ifrightened that fellow," he laughed. "Never meant to at all. Didn't evenknow he was there. But look! A little flash of red light, a littlesomething for him to see and Bim! Down he goes, head over heels. Wonderhe didn't break his neck.
"Know what, Dorn?" he suddenly grew serious. "Know what I could do? Icould walk from one end of this island to the other and take you with me,and you'd never see a native; at night I mean, always at night."
"But there are thousands of homes right by the roadside."
"Plenty of homes. Homes can't run away. People can. You might see theirbare heels. That would be all."
It was Pompee who made the discovery of the day. There were many strangesecrets hidden away behind Pompee's wrinkled old brow. As a boy he hadwandered many days among these ruins. Fear had been upon him then and agreat dread, a dread of the spirits of those who had lived there in thepast. Yet a boy's consuming curiosity had led him on and on until he knewevery dungeon, every secret passage as an American boy knows the secretsof the woods at the back of his pasture.
While Curlie and Dorn searched every dark corner, Pompee had eyes onlyfor the new, the unfamiliar. In time he found it, a fresh break in thetop of the Citadel.
There he dropped on hands and knees to shade his aged eyes and peer intothe darkness below.
Long he remained there motionless. Then of a sudden, a low exclamationescaped his lips. Having moved a little to one side, he had allowed aglimmer of light to touch a spot on the floor of that dark hole whereJohnny had come upon a misadventure.
Another moment of silence, then he spoke a name:
"Johnny."
He spoke it so softly it could not have been heard ten yards away.
He listened. No answer.
"Johnny," a little louder this time. Still no answer.
"Johnny Thompson!" His lips were at the jagged opening now. His voicesounded out like the roar of a great beast in the hollow enclosure. A batbeat the air with its wings.
Still no answer.
The old man rose to his feet. On his face was a look of fear, the fearthat had gripped him here as a boy. His voice trembled, his words cameout through chattering teeth as he called again and again:
"Dorn! Dorn! Dorn!"
And this time there came an answering call.
After a long day of weary search Dorn had seated himself on a stoneparapet to watch the sun, a fiery red ball slowly sinking toward the sea.As he sat there it seemed to him that the sun of hope for a little valleythat he and Johnny and the Professor had learned to love, was sinkingnever to rise with another morn.
"The valley has seen triumph and tragedy," he told himself. "Time waswhen one could not have found a richer valley. And yet, even then thosewho labored there were poor. They were slaves. After that freedom andrevolution, a hundred years."
But now, how his hopes had grown. America, the United States, great,strong, beautiful America had come to the aid of little Haiti. Valleyswere blossoming as of old. Health was returning to the people. And allthis time they were free. "Free," he repeated the word reverently.
"We hoped so much for our little valley too," he told himself. "But thereis not money for all. Some must wait. And now," his throat tightened."Johnny Thompson is lost, perhaps gone forever. And our golden dream willsoon be forgotten."
It was at this moment that he heard the call of old Pompee. It was astrange call, he thought. These Haitians express so much in a call. Butthis call spoke neither of joy nor sorrow.
"What can it be?" he asked himself as, springing down from his seat, highabove the mountain crest, he went racing down at a reckless pace.
"What is it? Have you found him?" he cried as he came near.
Pompee did not answer. He merely stood and pointed at his feet.
Only when the boy stood at his side did he see that he was pointing at ahole in the Citadel's stone top.
Dropping on one knee, he stared into the darkness of that man-made cavernbut could see nothing. The sun had sunk too low. The spot of light was nolonger there.
Only by lighting a match and allowing it to drop was he able to see. Thenhe gave forth a sharp exclamation. What he saw was a khaki handkerchief.The ownership of that bit of cloth was unmistakable. A little friend ofJohnny's had embroidered a large red J in each of his handkerchiefs.
"It's Johnny's!" he said in a low, tense tone. "He has been down there.He--he fell in."
Pompee nodded.
"Is he down there still?"
Pompee shook his head solemnly.
"Where can he be?"
"How can one say? See!" said the faithful old servant. "The sun is gone.Night comes swiftly. Caught on the top of this place where spirits walk,who can say what may happen to us?"
"Spirits do no harm," said Dorn. "It is only the living ones. But we willgo down." He led the way.
* * * * * * * *
And what of Johnny? Where was he?
He had accepted the proffered aid. He had climbed the rope ladder. Whatelse was there to do? The native who looked down upon him, who earlier inthe night had looked in upon Curlie Carson at his work, might be avillain. What of it? If he had cared to he might have murdered Johnny,then closed up the hole in the fortress roof. That he had not chosen todo so was in his favor.
"Probably an innocent, kindly fellow," Johnny told himself. "A littlecurious, that's all. Most of the natives down here are like that."
He did not feel too certain that this conclusion was correct.Nevertheless, up the rope ladder he went. And as he climbed, allunbeknown to him, his handkerchief fluttered from his pocket and droppedto the floor, there to remain as mute evidence that its owner had spentsome time
in that dungeon-like hole. Hours later, as you have seen, itwas found by Pompee.
On clambering over the rough entrance to the pitfall he found himselfsurrounded by three stalwart brown men. These men were armed only withsteel pointed spears and machetes, a thing Johnny marveled at. In thepart of Haiti which he had visited, spears were scarce, bows and arrowspractically unknown, and rifles very common.
As he thought this through he recalled his own bow and quiver of arrows.He had taken them with him on his lonely ramble; in fact he never leftcamp without them.
In his fall the bow had been knocked from his hand and the quiver, caughton a jagged bit of rock, had broken the light thong that held it to him.
"Where are they now?" he thought.
Ah, there they were!
With a sigh of relief he stooped to pick up his bow. He was notinterrupted in this procedure, but as his right hand gripped the bow, oneof the natives seized the quiver of razor-pointed arrows.
A thrill shot through him. His brow grew suddenly cold. "So that's that,"he thought. "At least they don't trust me too much."
Turning about, the native who had seized the quiver started away, over adim trail that did not lead toward the boy's camp.
For a moment the boy stood where he was. Then a hand pushed him verygently forward.
"What's the use?" he thought. "They are three. I am one. It is night. Iam unarmed. Whatever they will to do they can do."
He thought of the young French boy. "Shouldn't have brought him," he toldhimself. "But old Pompee will care for him."
He thought of the needy valley people, of the old Professor and hisdreams, of the 'Rope of Gold'.
"This is the end of that," he told himself as he followed on in thedarkness.
They led him along the top of the Citadel for a time, then, afterdescending stone stairways into the heart of the fortress, lost himcompletely in a maze of rooms and passageways to at last emerge upon thetop of a stairway that, hidden as it was by great over-hanging treetops,had escaped the eager eyes of the three boys.
"They know a great deal about this old fortress," Johnny told himself."Shouldn't wonder if they could lead me to the 'Rope of Gold'.
"But where do we go from here?" he asked himself, as the leader moved ondown the moss-grown stairs.
At the foot of the stairs were some twenty natives. Apparently Johnny andhis guards had been expected. He noted with a little tremor that two ofthe men carried light strong ropes.
Without a word the men formed in line, some in front, some behind him.Then, slowly, the procession moved forward single file over a narrowtrail Johnny had not known before.
The boy's head was in a whirl. They had not said "Come." They had notsaid, "You must go with us." They had said nothing. And yet, there was asubtle something about their actions that said plainer than words, "It isuseless to resist. You must come with us."
"But where am I going?" he asked himself. "Where will I be when I getthere? And why am I going at all?" Since he could find no answer to thesequestions, he gripped his stout bow (now quite useless without hisarrows) and trudged silently on into the night.
Several hours later he found himself lying upon his back beneath a giantmahogany tree. He was far up the mountain side. Greenish-gray moss hunglike beards from the tree branches. Here it was cool even in daytime.
They had left the trail a half hour before, he and the strange group ofnatives. He guessed they were hiding until dark. When darkness came theywould travel again. Where would they go? What was the end of the trail?To these questions he could form no answer. He had dined well enough onnative food. He was not being disturbed now; watched that was all.
"Strange business," he grumbled to himself.
