Myra’s face was white as she stepped up beside Catlin. “He guesses—Hargrove guesses,” she gasped. “Am I going to fail? Oh, if I only had help—help I could depend on! If you only knew, Mr. Catlin, you’d help me, gladly and willingly.”
“I’ll help you outwit Hargrove, at any rate,” Catlin responded. “I don’t like the man. I’ll do that honestly, and you may trust me. After we’ve outwitted him, things will be the same as now.
She met his eyes again. “I believe you, Mr. Catlin,” she said. She looked back. Hargrove was still on the corner, watching them. He hesitated a moment, then sprang into his motor car, started the engine, swung the car around, and crept down toward them. They had reached their own car by this time, and Myra got in the back, while Catlin took the driver’s seat. “If Hargrove is here, waiting for Donald McHugh, it means that some one else is watching La Jolla Road,” she went on. “We’ll have to dodge Hargrove first. Turn back and pass him.”
Catlin turned the machine and started slowly up D Street. Hargrove swerved his car to avoid them. He merely glanced at Catlin, but he gave Myra Randolph a searching look. And as soon as they had passed, Hargrove turned his car and followed at their own pace. “Run to Fifth Street and turn to your left,” said the girl. “This is Fourth Street we are crossing.” As Catlin complied, Myra turned and looked back. Hargrove had stopped the car before the hotel entrance, and, as she watched, two men ran out and sprang in it. One was the man who had been talking to Hargrove at the corner. The other was Donald McHugh!
“McHugh! Scott has failed again!” she whispered to Catlin. “That other man must have suspected and broken in the door, and overcome Scott. You promised to help me—until Hargrove was outwitted.”
“I did,” said Catlin.
“Turn up Fifth Street—go as fast as you can!”
Catlin turned the corner. Here were a score of machines, and street cars, and pedestrians crowding the crossings. He took the car through them with the skill of a metropolitan taxicab driver. One block up the street, he put on more speed. Hargrove’s car was behind them.
“Straight ahead. Take the long hill as fast as you can,” the girl said. “I know Hargrove’s car. If we have ordinary luck, he can’t catch us.”
Up the long hill they raced, past apartment houses and mansions and residences, past flower gardens and groves of palms. One moment the lights of Hotel Robinson blazed in Catlin’s face, the next they were in the semi-gloom again. Two blocks behind road them burned the headlights of Hargrove’s car.
“The next street—turn to your right—to the Park Boulevard,” she directed again. The turn was a sharp one; Catlin had to reduce the speed of the car. Then they were on the long, winding asphalt boulevard that is San Diego’s pride, the one that follows the crest of the hill behind the city, that turns and winds through the City Park. Here was a place for speed, where there were but few cars at this hour of the night and no obstacles in the road.
On the right were the gardens, on the left the canon and just ahead the great bulk of the high school blotted out the moon. “They’re not gaining!” the girl cried. “Keep going until we run into a cross street, then turn to the right again.”
They dashed down a hill, and narrowly missed collision with a car running in the opposite direction. Catlin made the turning on two wheels, and they were running swiftly down toward the city proper again.
“Straight ahead—as fast as you can!” said Myra Randolph. The spirit of the chase was getting into Catlin’s blood; it was sport to try to shake off an antagonist like Hargrove. They had not lost him yet. Myra could see the lights of his car following.
They left the paved street and dashed down a hill toward the bay through the thick, red dust, sending clouds of it against the palms that lined the driveway. “The next corner—turn,” she directed.
Catlin made the turning. He did it at such a time that Hargrove’s machine was hidden by the trees. He went a block down the street again, and, under Myra’s orders, turned off and stopped. They looked back. They saw Hargrove’s car shoot across the street and go on toward the bay.
“He thinks we’ve gone on to La Jolla Road,” the girl explained. “The road twists like a snake, and he’ll not be sure for some time that we’re not ahead of him.”
“But that’ll put him on the road again ahead of us,” said Catlin.
“Some of his men are there already, perhaps; that makes no difference. I know another way for part of the distance. Turn back now, and drive on the way we were going. There will be small danger from here, to Old Town, but from Old Town to La Jolla we may meet them at any time.” Catlin began backing the car. “You’ve kept your promise,” she went on. “You’ve helped me dodge Hargrove, and I release you from your promise now. We stand now as we did when we left the hotel, Mr. Catlin. You carry out my orders. I am behind you, ready to shoot if you show treachery. You understand?”
“I understand,” he replied.
CHAPTER VII
HER SHANGHAIED CHAUFFEUR.
Myra made the young man drive through back streets where there were great ruts, or where the dust was deep, along country roads at the edge of town where the going had to be slow. Once they crossed barren land where there was no trail, until they came to another road a quarter of a mile farther.
They were approaching Old Town, that part of San Diego that all her good citizens worship. There the flag was first planted, and there, long ago, Father Junipero Serra knelt and prayed against the famine and death that threatened—prayed until the relief ship sailed into San Diego Bay and the mission colony was saved. There, too, is the home of Ramona, its patio, its wishing well, its museum filled with relics and curios of the far-gone age when the Spanish fathers carved an existence and founded an empire in the desert among hostile natives. The ancient mission bells, the old cross, the ruins of the fort where the soldiers of Old Spain once ate and drank and gambled and fought—on a few acres in that little corner of San Diego is to be found more of the historic and picturesque than most states possess entire.
Roger Catlin had been thinking hard as they rode. Dodging Hargrove was mere amusement, but now that the chase was over he began to wonder whether he was doing right. Had it not been for McHugh, Catlin would have trusted his judgment and helped Myra Randolph at all costs. But Donald McHugh, a friend of years’ standing, was on the other side, and he had given his word of honor that his side was right. He didn’t feel like overpowering the girl, getting possession of the iron pigeon, and handing it over to McHugh. And he didn’t feel like helping Myra Randolph to get the pigeon to the destination she desired. He wanted to be neutral to separate from Miss Randolph at some point along the road and let her take her chances of getting to her destination at La Jolla. Yet, on the other hand, he didn’t want to leave her at the mercy of Hargrove and his men. He found himself in a difficult position. They were creeping down a hill now. In the distance lights twinkled in some of the houses at Old Town. On the main road below them there was no trace of an automobile.
“We must go down to the road here,” she said. “After we pass Old Town we can leave it again. Here is where the danger begins for me. As for you, you had better not attempt treachery. I am watching you always—and am ready. You understand, don’t you, that I shouldn’t do this if it wasn’t necessary—if so much did not depend on it?”
“I suppose so,” said Catlin.
“If I dared explain, I’m sure you’d help me voluntarily.”
“How am I to know which side is in the right?” he asked. “I feel I may trust and believe you, Miss Randolph, but there is my old friend on the other side.”
“He’d not be there if he knew the truth. Hargrove has lied to him.”
“Possibly so. Hargrove looks like a man who could lie. But Donald McHugh, to the best of my belief, is not a man to swallow a lie.”
“He has b
een fooled this time,” she insisted.
“Why not look at the other side of it?” he asked. “Perhaps some one has fooled you, and made you believe you are working for the right when you are not.”
“The man opposed to Hargrove is my father, Mr. Catlin.”
“I beg your pardon.”
“I know he is working for the right. Oh, I wish I could explain!”
They had reached the main road, and run along it speedily, for here it was good going. Catlin had certain suspicions, and they gave him reasons of his own for wanting to be neutral in this matter. He didn’t want to help the girl, and he didn’t want to help Hargrove and McHugh. He wanted them to fight it out between themselves; only he hated to see the odds so against the girl. If what he suspected was true, Hargrove’s victory, if he won, would be of short duration. Catlin knew a few things that neither the girl, McHugh, nor Hargrove suspected he knew. The thing to do, he decided, was to leave Myra at Old Town and return to San Diego proper on the electric car or the gasoline car that runs through to La Jolla.
They passed the ruins of the old jail and approached Ramona’s home. Save for the moonlight and the lights that twinkled here and there in Mexican houses, the world about them was in darkness. There was no automobile on the road behind them as far as they could see. And there were no lights in the road ahead; but they could see but a short distance that way because of the little hill, on the summit of which were the ruins of the fort of olden times.
In the shadow of a clump of palms at the corner of Ramona’s home, where the road forked, Catlin, with an exclamation, shut off power and applied the brakes.
“What is it?” asked Myra.
“Something wrong. Engine doesn’t sound right.”
“You are not trying to fool me?”
“I’ll go ahead if you say so, but don’t blame me if we break down within a hundred yards.”
“Get out and look!” she commanded. Catlin got out and walked around to the front of the machine. The girl, standing in the back, watched as he opened the hood.
There was nothing wrong; Catlin was working a ruse. He had driven the girl thus far—he would desert her and let her go the remainder of the distance alone. She had an excellent car and knew how to drive; she had a weapon and could protect herself; as for getting to her destination, she would have to take her chance, for Catlin determined to remain neutral as long as he knew no more than he did. “Is it anything serious?” she asked.
“I can tell in a moment.” He bent forward as if to examine the engine.
“I’ll hold a light,” she said. “We must hurry. They may be along at any time.”
She bent to open the door. It was the movement for which Catlin had been waiting. He sprang back into the darkness of the trees, and, with a laugh, dashed around the corner of Ramona’s home.
He had escaped her without resorting to violence, without being forced to take the gun from her. In a way, it seemed a cowardly thing to do, he told himself, yet it was the best under the circumstances. At the corner of the building he stopped in the shadow and looked back. She had made no effort to follow him. He could see the trolley-car station; there was no car there. He would have to wait for the next from the city.
He slipped along the wall, completed the circuit of the building, and peered around the corner. The auto was where he had left it, the hood still open. The girl was standing beside the machine, her head resting on her arms, her arms on the end of a seat. Catlin could hear her sobs. They made him feel very much like a brute. She was a plucky girl, he told himself, and she had been through a great deal this night. Now she seemed in the depths of despair.
She was making no effort to get into the machine and continue her journey, and there was the possibility that her foes would come up at any time.
Catlin went through a mental struggle standing there at the building’s end. After a time he straightened his shoulders and walked forward. “Miss Randolph,” he called. She raised her head and turned toward him, and did not move or speak as he approached. “I’m sorry—really,” he said. “I thought it was the only thing to do—escape and remain neutral. Can’t you understand? But you mustn’t take it this way, please.”
“I’m only trying to fight for the right!” Her words came brokenly, charged with emotion. “It seems every, one I look to for help fails me.”
“You must try to understand my position in the matter. I thought it a joke of my friend’s at first, and developments came so rapidly—”
“Look at me!” she commanded. “Do you think I’d be concerned in some unworthy enterprise? Do you think I’m not the right sort of girl? I know, I tell you—but I dare not explain. Why can’t you trust me and help me, even against your friend? Donald McHugh is an honest man, but Hargrove has deluded him. He’ll be glad, afterward, if Hargrove loses.”
“If I only knew—” said Catlin, watching her closely.
“I am helping my father fight this battle, and I know he is the soul of honesty and honor. It is no ordinary battle, Mr. Catlin. It is not one business clique outwitting another, or anything like that. Oh, if you knew! See—see! Come here, Roger Catlin!” She ran to the wall of Ramona’s home, and he followed. There, beside the wall, was the ancient cross. “Here is where Father Serra prayed ages ago,” she said; “why, this is sacred ground! Here is where they fought to start an empire—here, in the depths of despair; but never giving up hope and faith, Father Serra prayed for help—and help came at the last minute, when all other men were against him! And here beside this cross, Roger Catlin, I stand in the depths of despair, but not giving up hope nor faith, and I am praying for help—praying to you! All other men are against me. Will help come—at the last minute—as it did to Father Serra?”
“Miss Randolph—”
“Without knowing more than you now know, will you swear to help me? It’s only a little thing—help me to get safely to a certain house in La Jolla, and to take the iron pigeon with me. A little thing—but how much it means!”
“Miss Randolph—” he began again.
“And I swear to you, Roger Catlin, here by Ramona’s cross, that you will be helping the right, will be preventing a great wrong that will be far-reaching. I swear it!”
She threw her hands against the wall, stooped, kissed the cross. Roger Catlin stepped forward and took her by the shoulders and turned her so that she faced him. “You’ve won, Miss Randolph,” he said. “I’ll help you—and I pray that I am doing right. Come!” He led her back to the machine.
“The engine—” she asked.
“Is all right. It was but a poor ruse of mine.”
“I felt at the first that I could trust you, if only I could make you understand.”
“I give you my word I’ll help you through,” he said. An automobile dashed around the hill as he spoke. Before he could close the hood of the machine he had been driving, the other car stopped beside them.
“Caught you again, eh?” cried Hargrove’s voice. “Well, you’ll not get away this time!”
Already Catlin had thrown off coat and waistcoat and called to the girl to get into the machine. Myra Randolph understood. He would keep them from trying to get to her. Hargrove rushed upon him. It was not a case of rapier and masquerade sword this time. It was a case of old-fashioned fisticuffs, and the best man win. Catlin had taken in the situation at a glance. Hargrove and Donald McHugh were the only men in the machine. They had left the other along the road somewhere, apparently.
He stopped Hargrove’s rush with a blow that did not injure, but enraged. Hargrove came at him again. This time Catlin broke through the other man’s guard, and followed up his advantage. Four more blows he struck before he reached the point of the chin and Hargrove went down.
Catlin sprang back toward the machine. He wanted to avoid a clash with his friend, McHugh. He closed the h
ood quickly, and started to get in.
“Wait!” McHugh called. “I want that pigeon! You’ve downed Hargrove, but I’m here yet!”
“Stand back, McHugh! I don’t want any trouble with you, old man!”
“Then hand over that pigeon.”
“I can’t do it. This young lady is under my protection, and the pigeon and what it contains is hers.”
“You’ve taken sides because of a pretty face, have you?”
“Stand back, McHugh!”
“I’m coming!”
Catlin avoided his rush, but as his friend turned and came back he realized he could not avoid the combat. He had no heart for this fight. He had known and loved McHugh for years; he knew him for a hot-headed man who acted first and regretted his actions afterward. McHugh was no weakling; he could fight and would fight.
“Stand off!” Catlin cried again. “I have no quarrel with you!”
But McHugh did not answer. He came on, full of rage, and there was nothing for Roger Catlin to do except enter the fray. This man was not as easy to handle as Hargrove; he was younger, stronger, more active. In a moment Catlin knew he had a real fight on his hands. McHugh’s fist struck him between the eyes, and he reeled backward. And then, because he fought out of necessity and not through anger or passion, he settled down to business and did battle calmly, watching for openings, getting in telling blows when he could.
With two men so evenly matched such a fight could have but one ending when one of them was careless through anger. Slowly but surely Catlin beat his adversary down, and a final blow gave him the victory.
The Adventure Novella MEGAPACK® Page 8
