Frontier Boys in Frisco

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"I wish your mind hadn't been so slippery," remarked the engineer. "If
you could only have had presence of mind enough to have brought an olive
or two."

"I tell you, Chief," said Jim, airily, "I'll have the dinner ready by
the time you get your dress suit. But coming down to the plain English
of it, I'm starved. Think of the exercise we have had since leaving the
restaurant to join our friend on the sidewalk."

"A man who would put you to all that trouble to speak to him is no
gentleman," declared John Berwick whimsically.

"He deserves to be hung," said Jim savagely; "anyone who would impose on
a trustful nature like yours and make you run over twenty miles of
landscape! But cheer up, John, I have a hunch that we will strike a pay
streak of grub yet. Let's take one more scout around that mysterious
castle yonder and then we will make a bee line for the nearest lunch
counter."

"Any time you give the word."

"Well, I suppose that 'all's quiet along the Potomac,' so let's move."

"Agreed, James," said the engineer.

Then the two friends slipped through the soft darkness of the night and
fog until they reached the iron rampart of the fence and went past the
great gates. There was a gilt monogram on either side and in the center,
but these things did not interest them. Then they went on to the south
part of the grounds.

"See that, John!" said Jim in a low voice.

"A light in the tower," replied his friend; "now it's gone out again."

They stood watching with breathless interest. There are lights and
lights. Some are the mere commonplace of domestic peace set on a round
table in a cozy room with children intent on the Frontier Boys. Then
there is the weird light of a lantern moving unevenly across a field, or
revolving along a hidden lane, and there is something of the dramatic in
its yellow flame. Finally there is the light that shines under strange
circumstances or peculiar surroundings that has a mystery of its own, a
beacon of danger, or of sudden death.

"It is again on this side, only higher up," announced Jim; "somebody
going up those stairs, that's what it is."

In a few moments the powerful lamp illuminated an upper room and they
saw the interior distinctly. But what fastened their attention was the
sight of a head that showed just above the sill of the windows. It must
be the head of a child to reach no higher. But what would a child be
doing up in that lonely tower. Jim gripped his companion's arm.

"It's that infernal Mexican, Berwick!" he whispered.

"No other!" said his friend. "And that light is a signal."

"Can't be seen far even if the fog is thinner," objected Jim.

"Broome is close in," said the engineer decisively.

"It may be to serve as a guide for some party coming over the lonely
moor," said Jim with much shrewdness.

"Go to the head of the class, James," remarked Berwick; "that's a sound
guess for a fact."

"Guess nothing," retorted Jim; "that's a deduction as they say in the
school books. What in the deuce is that up there now!"

A canine head was outlined in an open window and then the big hound gave
tongue that went far into the night. His senses told him that an enemy
was lurking near.

"My! what a mark for a shot!" whispered Jim.

Then they heard a sharp command in Spanish and both the dog and the
Mexican disappeared from view.

"We had better move along, Jim," said the engineer, "or we will be on
the hot end of a chase ourselves." Without a word Jim started, but he
would not run far.

CHAPTER XIII

THE MAN IN THE GULLY

The two friends disappeared in the fog, in a southerly direction from
the house and after going for about a quarter of a mile, Jim called a
sudden halt.

"Hold on, John," he said, "there is something coming our way."

"I don't hear anything," replied Berwick. "What does it sound like?"

"It's a vehicle of some kind," declared Jim.

"Now I hear it," admitted the engineer, "and I reckon that it is a
carriage of some kind."

"This is as good a place as any," remarked Jim. "It's lucky there is a
fog because there is no cover to get behind."

"Coming direct our way," said the engineer, as the thud of horses' feet
could be heard distinctly, and the low roll of wheels over the ground.

The two comrades moved quickly to one side, and they saw emerge from the
fog a high-stepping team drawing a closed carriage. The horses shied at
what they saw at the side of the way, but the coachman pulled them
quickly to their course and drove rapidly on. It was impossible to get
even a glimpse of the occupants of the carriage.

"Me lord Duke," said Jim, "going to his ancestral castle."

"That's surely where he is bound for," declared the engineer.

"There goes the gate," cried Jim, as the sound of the iron closing came
to his ears.

"The plot thickens," remarked the engineer; "that wasn't an ordinary
turnout by any means."

"We will investigate this business before morning," determined Jim,
"but there is nothing gained by rushing,--better let things settle. What
do you say, John, to getting something to eat?"

"I'm with you there," agreed Berwick. "I may have been hungrier in my
life before, but I can't remember."

"No Russian Duke this time to help you out, eh?" queried Jim.

"Don't mention that," cried the engineer; "I'm in no need of an
appetiser."

If you have read "Frontier Boys in The Sierras," you will recall the
chief engineer's account of his experience while traveling from St.
Petersburg to the frontier, when he appropriated the Grand Duke's
hamper while his Highness was wrapped in the deep stupor of sleep. He
had told it with much nerve and vivacity, and Jim could recollect very
clearly the scene in the warm engine-room of the _Sea Eagle_, with the
stormy rain sweeping the decks outside, and the good old crowd of
Juarez, and the boys, listening to the engineer.

"I have a hunch that we are going to get something to eat soon,"
remarked Jim encouragingly.

"Shall we strike the trail back to the city, and return in the small wee
hours to call on our friends in the castle?" asked Berwick.

"No need of that," replied Jim; "I am sure we can find a place to eat
down by the beach."

They had a little difficulty in finding a break in the cliffs that
walled the water front, but finally they discovered a cleft in the solid
rock and they were able to make a steep descent over broken bowlders.
They were halfway down when Jim stopped so abruptly that the engineer
stumbled against him.

"See that man sitting against that rock," he whispered; "he looks as if
he were asleep."

"Maybe drunk," remarked John Berwick.

"Or a sentinel for the castle," put in Jim.

He felt around at his feet until he picked up a suitable rock, then
closely followed by the engineer, he approached cautiously the figure
against the rock, then Jim deliberately went up and looked into the
man's face.

"He's dead," said Jim in a quiet voice. "I've seen too many like him not
to know."

"Who do you suppose got him," queried the engineer.

"Those friends of ours on the hill, no doubt," said Jim. "Yes, it's
their work," he declared, as he ran his hand along under the man's coat;
"stabbed in the back." The unfortunate fell heavily against Jim's
shoulder and one of his legs straightened out convulsively.

"You have a pretty fair quality of nerve, my friend," remarked the
engineer in cool admiration.

"Strike a light, John," said Jim, "and see if we can get a line on this
poor fellow."

The engineer drew a pretty trinket of a match box from his upper vest
pocket and struck a match near the face. There was such a direct living
look in the man's half-closed eyes, that the engineer dropped the match
with an involuntary expression of surprise and shock.

"What's the matter with you, John?" asked Jim with a touch of sharpness
in his voice. The engineer was a man of usual nonchalant nerve, whose
bravery had always seemed a by-product of his nature and not due to an
effort of the will, which gave point to Jim's question.

"I am getting shaky in my old age, Captain," replied the engineer.

"No danger of that," replied Jim.

Again a match was lit and this time Berwick held the flame close to the
dead man's face. They saw that he was not over forty years of age, with
a heavy square jaw, a full straw colored mustache, and hazel eyes. He
wore a light gray fedora hat and his suit was also of gray, loosely
worn. He was squarely built, and slightly below the middle height. There
was absolutely nothing to indicate his business, or his station in life.
Whatever possessions he may have had on him had been taken.

"What was the reason for this, John?" questioned Jim, as he gently laid
the dead man back against the rock.

"Robbery?" suggested Berwick.

"They are none too good," replied Jim, "as I can testify from personal
experience. But I reckon that there is more back of this than that.

"Now I may be mistaken, but in my opinion this man was a United States
detective and he was hot on the trail of this gang of pirates and
smugglers. I used to know a number of these fellows in New York and
there is something about them that marks them to my mind."

"I bet you have hit it right," said Jim, "but why did they not hide the
body?"

"Possibly they are so safe in this section that they don't take the
trouble to cover up their crime," remarked the engineer tentatively.

"Or they may be intending to come back to-night and dispose of the
body," said Jim.

"That's more apt to be it," agreed the engineer.

"It might be a good scheme to lie in wait for a while, and see if any of
these hounds come back on their trail," suggested Jim.

The engineer of the _Sea Eagle_ who was at present out of his element,
drew a deep sigh and likewise drew up his belt a couple of holes, which
was his alternative for a meal, that he seemed fated to go without. The
unsympathetic Jim grinned at his comrade in arms.

"I tell you, Chief," he said, "we will catch one of these grand rascals
and cook him a la cannibal."

"I would be most happy to," replied the engineer suavely and savagely.

"We will move down the ravine a ways," ordered Jim.

"My idea was that they would come down from the top of the cliff," said
the engineer with cool criticism.

"That was my idea, too," said Jim cheerfully; "then we might follow them
without too much chance of being caught ourselves."

"You are certainly long on strategy, James," remarked the engineer.

"Hello, Berwick," exclaimed Jim; "there is a light ahead."

Sure enough on the beach at the mouth of the ravine shone the yellow
light from a small square window. They crept up carefully to the place.
It was rather a curious affair. It was simply two old street cars joined
together by a wooden vestibule; one was used as a sleeping room the
other was a tiny beach eating place. Jim looked in cautiously through
the window and his eyes widened and his hand went involuntarily to where
his revolver usually hung. He remained there a full half minute taking
in the scene within while the engineer stood a little ways back in
apparent indifference, but he was carefully taking in the whole
situation. A short distance away the waters of the bay were lapping
through the darkness onto the beach.

He noticed that there were a number of heavy tracks going towards the
door of the odd little restaurant, and they were quite recent. He
listened intently to hear, if possible, who might be inside, but while
he could distinguish voices, there were only a few noncommittal sounds.
He wondered what the captain found so interesting, but just then there
came a scuffling of chairs on the floor within and the sound of guttural
voices. Jim drew back suddenly, and in evident alarm. The door was
slowly opened and a heavy figure dressed in sailor garb lurched out into
the darkness followed by a stealthy form.

CHAPTER XIV

THE VISITOR

"I wonder what mischief the old man is chawing on?" It was the forward
deck of the _Sea Eagle_, and the speaker, Old Pete, the sailor, of
unsavory memory. "He's been as savage as a bear with a sore head two
days past, and that means he's brewing some sort of devilment."

"Maybe he's watching to trail some craft going out with a rich cargo,"
said Jack Cales, of likewise deleterious recollection, who was seated on
the forward hatch, opposite the ancient mariner who was himself resting
on a coil of rope.

"I dunno about that," said Pete, puffing meditatively on his black,
stunted pipe; "according to my notion it's something ashore. Old Hunch
was aboard airly this mornin', and that greaser is a sure sign of
trouble. Reminds me of a croaking black raven. I'd like to wring his wry
neck for him. He ain't fit to associate with respectable pirates like
us."

"I don't see why the cap'n sets such store by him, anyhow," protested
Jack Cales.

"It's an unhung gang of bloody cutthroats the old man's got ashore,"
remarked Old Pete. "I wouldn't want any trafficking with them."

There was something amusing in this feud between the rascals on ship and
ashore, something like the rivalry between the navy and army.

"Shut your jaw," said Cales peremptorily; "here comes the cap'n now."

To the earlier readers of "The Frontier Boys," he is a familiar figure
but he is well worth introducing to those who are meeting him for the
first time. Captain William Broome, familiarly known as Bill, or the old
man, was a remarkable person. There was a strange softness in Captain
Broome's tread, like that of the padded panther, as he came forward
along the main deck. He appeared like a man always ready to get a death
hold upon a nearby enemy, both wary and using unceasing watchfulness.
This was evident in the crouching gait of his powerful figure. His arms
had the loose forward swing of a gorilla's, indicative of enormous
strength.

"That man a pirate!" you exclaim at the first glance. One who carried
the blackest name along the coasts of the two American continents as a
wrecker and smuggler; who in the days before the Civil War had brought
cargoes of slaves from Africa, and who had enjoyed more marvelous
escapes than any man in the history of piracy, with the exception of
Black Jack Morgan? "Impossible!" you say. "Why, that man is nothing but
an old farmer," you cry in disappointment. "He ought to be peddling
vegetables in a market!" But just wait.

True enough, Skipper Broome had come from a long line of New England
farmers, hard, close-fisted, close-mouthed men. Young Broome had broken
away from the farm, and followed his bent for seafaring, but to the end
of his rope, and his days, he kept his farmer-like appearance, and he
affected many of the traits of the yeoman, which he found to be, on more
than one occasion, a most useful disguise.

Let's take a look at him, as he comes along the deck of the _Sea Eagle_.
The heavy winter cap, which he wore in season and out of season, pulled
well down on his grizzled head, gave him a most Reuben-like appearance.
Corduroy pants are thrust into heavy cowhide boots. The deadly gray
eyes, no softer than granite, have become red-rimmed from spasms of fury
and rendered hard by many scenes of coldly-calculated cruelty.

"Yaw two gents enjying the balmy air for'ard, on your bloomin' pleasure
yacht?" inquired Captain William Broome, who had a turn for broad
sarcasm.

"Jus' smokin' a few peaceful pipes, sir," replied Pete, who was allowed
a certain amount of leeway with his master, as he had been with him in
the African trade, and as boys in New England, they had lived on nearby
farms.

"This ain't no time for peaceful meditation," said the captain; "you git
aft and keep a sharp eye abeam, and if you see any boat creepin' through
the fog, even if it's an innercent looking fishin' boat, you report it
to the mate."

"Aye, aye, sir," replied Pete as he stowed his pipe in his capacious
pocket, and maneuvering a safe distance from the captain's foot, went on
his mission. Then Broome spit carefully around on the deck.

"Here, Cales, you loafer, clean this yere deck up," he growled.

Thus, having made himself pleasant to all hands, he went forward and,
leaning heavily on the rail, looked shoreward as if expecting a
messenger of some kind. It was impossible to tell the exact position of
the _Sea Eagle_ in the immense bay of San Francisco. One thing was
certain, that it was not near the shore where the castle stood on the
cliff, for the current and the depth of water made it impossible to
anchor. However, it was near some shore, for the sound of the surf could
be heard distinctly. Five minutes passed and then the captain raised
himself up with a grunt of satisfaction. A long trim boat had slipped
quietly from the enveloping fog into the quiet circle of the sea around
the yacht.

The oars were not muffled but they made as little noise as though they
were. It was rowed by four men, quite evidently foreigners; brown men,
two with rings in their ears, and the others were splendidly built
fellows, who rowed as easily as they breathed. These latter were
Hawaiians, who are as native to the sea and its ways as the cowboys to
their own western plains. They were part of the mixed crew which the old
pirate had got together for reasons of his own. The said reasons being
that such a crew could not very well combine to mutiny or to rob him of
his ill-gotten wealth.

In the stern of the ship's cutter was an entirely different looking man
from the kind with whom Captain Broome was generally associated. If the
man had been a priest or a parson his presence in such company would
have been no more surprising. He had the appearance of a well-dressed
gentleman, probably a professional man of some kind. His features were
good and his dress impeccable.

Against the chill fog he wore a dark overcoat, with silk facings, and a
black derby hat. At his feet, on the bottom of the boat, was a long
black leather bag, somewhat like those which physicians carry. Yet he
was not a doctor, for it was generally the enemies of Captain Broome who
needed the services of a physician.

The boat glided gently by the perforated platform of the gangway and was
held firmly by the oarsmen, while the stranger stepped with a quick,
precise step from the small boat. The captain was on hand and greeted
him with a certain awkward courtesy, for politeness was not in his line.

"Glad to see yer, Mr. Reynolds," he said, giving him a grip from his
horny hand; "hope you didn't get damp from the fog, crossin'."

"It's nothing, Captain," replied the man-crisply, an amused sneer hidden
under his mustache; "fog is my element. It agrees perfectly with my
delicate health."

"I'm relieved to hear it," remarked Captain Broome gently. "Come up to
my cabin, sir, and I'll give you a drink of something that will clear
the fog for you."

The professional gentleman, from the city, followed his sinister host up
the gangway and into his cabin, while the boat pushed away from the side
of the yacht, bowed softly to the gentle swell of the sea. It was like a
carriage that is waiting for the return trip. The two Hawaiians were
laughing and joking in characteristic good humor, which is entirely
different from the boisterous jollity of the darkies.

They were having sport by laughing at their passenger. His neatness of
demeanor and style of dress seemed to furnish them with much amusement.
With their quickness for giving nicknames, they called him, "Mr.
Blackbag," and the captain was known to them as Roaring Bull. They were
very apt, as all Hawaiians are, to see the defects of character and weak
points of those white people who came under their observation.

Meanwhile the captain and his guest sat in the latter's cabin,
discussing matters that will soon concern us gravely. This cabin, as
perhaps the reader remembers, was a good sized room. A large table of
cherry wood was against one side, with a few maps and books on it. A
broad bunk was curtained off with red draperies. There was a scarred sea
chest against the opposite wall, fastened by a heavy padlock. On this
the captain was firmly seated.

To complete the description I may say that the room was paneled in
white, and contrary to what you might expect, the cabin was absolutely
neat. Broome's visitor had turned the swivel chair halfway from the
desk, and was directly facing the hard-faced captain, who had taken off
his heavy cap, showing his bald and polished dome of thought that glowed
red under the light of the big, swinging, brass lamp. The shuttered
window was closed against the dim daylight outside. This was a secret
conclave and with good reason. Upon the table at Mr. Reynold's elbow the
black satchel was opened. Its contents at first glance were not
startling. But wait!

CHAPTER XV

THE LAWYER AND THE PIRATE

The contrast between the two men as they sat facing each other was
really dramatic; the rough hewn captain, in his countrified garb, and
the city man correct in dress and quiet in manner; but as to which was
the most dangerous villain it would be hard to decide off hand.

Mr. William Howard Reynolds was primarily a lawyer, but he was likewise
agent and adviser for several organizations whose aims were not high but
very direct. He had been of aid to Captain Broome several times before,
had smoothed over several unfortunate affairs with the local authorities
on behalf of his client and had been liberally rewarded for so doing.
Where finesse and criminal adroitness were concerned he was of the
greatest use to the captain of the _Sea Eagle_.

It was doubtful if he had ever been engaged in a more nefarious scheme
than he had in hand upon this particular occasion. As he sits facing the
captain with the light slanting across his face let us take a square
look at this man, so that we shall be able to recognize him if we
should chance to meet him again.

As has been said he was well attired, and with his light weight overcoat
off, he is seen to be dressed in a dark cut-a-way coat with a white vest
according to the custom of that remote time. He wore upon the forefinger
of his left hand a peculiar serpent ring, whose ruby eyes seemed really
to glow in the light. He used this ring finger on occasion to drive home
a convincing argument.

His own dark, close set eyes always followed the line of this gesture
with telling effect. It was these eyes together with a cruel mouth, at
one corner of which lurked a treacherous sneer, that showed the true
character of the individual, for aside from these two features his face
was not an unpleasant one. The forehead was high and well developed, the
chin square and masculine. The wiry, but carefully brushed hair was
already becoming gray around the temples. So much for Mr. William H.
Reynolds, so far as his mental and physical photograph goes.

"Well, Captain Broome," he said, leaning forward with the weight of his
hands upon the arms of the chair, "what is your scheme in this
business?"

"I haven't any, Mr. Reynolds," replied the captain mildly; "you know
that I am a plain man, just a simple, seafaring old codger and am
greatly afeared of being shanghaied ashore by some of the villains that
reside there."

The lawyer threw back his head and laughed harshly.

"I've noticed that it is the plain, farmer looking chap, that's the
deepest often," he said, "but I know that you didn't invite me out to
your yacht for afternoon tea. Let's get down to business."

"As I said, I ain't got a scheme, but I'll give you the facts and let
you hatch the scheme." There was an unconscious contempt in the
captain's voice, which the keen lawyer was quick to recognize, but did
not care to resent. His client was too valuable to risk a breach with,
so he merely tightened his jaws, and waited for the captain to begin.

At this juncture in the interview the captain got up quickly from the
locker on which he had been seated. The motion was so sudden and
menacing that the lawyer plunged his hand into the black bag on the
table. Broome, if he noticed this action, gave no sign but crouched
noiselessly to the door, opened it suddenly and rushed out upon the
deck.

There was the sound of a low growl as of an uncaged animal, then a
scuffling sound followed by a thud. In a moment the old pirate returned
to his cabin, shut the door, and sat down as if nothing had happened, as
indeed was the fact according to his idea of things. Meanwhile Cales,
the sailor, who chanced to be cleaning the deck not far from the
captain's cabin, picked himself up from the scuppers, whence he had been
flung by Broome. He was bleeding and dazed, but not so dazed but what he
could heap maledictions upon the head of his superior officer. Even in
his wrath, however, he did not dare to speak above a hoarse whisper. The
lawyer surmised what had happened but he made no comment as his genial
client sat himself down again upon the sea chest.

"These are the facts, Mr. Reynolds, and I'll be brief because it is my
nature." The captain leaned forward heavily on his knees, and spoke in
harsh confidence to his attorney, or rather agent, who listened
intently, but with an inscrutable face. "There's a rich Mexican with a
Spanish name, Senor da Cordova, over in the city right now and he has
been trying to make a dicker with me to get hold of my yacht. He's
interested in helping those Cuban niggers who are fighting the
Spaniards and he thinks this yere boat might come in handy in the
business, and she would, too; there's nothing faster sailing these
waters anyhow."

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