Seward knew from his rangering days that bandits were all the same on land or sea, and most turned to jelly when someone was willing to take a bullet rather than bend a submissive knee.
He still couldn’t figure why they’d mutinied, though he’d seen it in them right off. More than likely, a few bad apples had spoiled the rest, and some fool among them had imagined the Lancet’s rich owner transporting gold and treasure aboard.
The ranger had seen higher hopes and worse behavior over stolen horses.
Whatever their motivation, they’d put up a hell of a fight, and Seward still ached in more places than he cared to count. He laughed thinking back to the very moment that it dawned on him that he might have been able to retake the ship single-handed.
But, Manteau must have had the thought too, because he had shot him in the chest at about the same instant. The impact knocked Seward overboard and down he went.
A sudden cracking sound came from the woods on his right, and the ranger swung the big Colt Single Action Army Peacemaker revolver toward it as he continued on through the sand.
He’d purchased the gun to replace the big Army Colt that he’d carried on the trail—something he’d been saddened to do, since the old weapon had kept him and his troop alive in many a bad situation, and its passing from service left little by way of souvenir for his years in the saddle.
All Seward had to show for his rangering days was the badge he’d worn and managed not to lose over his long career, and a small Bible he carried for swearing in deputies, and quoting from over the rough graves of bandits he’d hung.
He’d kept both of those relics in the left breast pocket of his silk vest, and he credited them now with saving his life. A fist-sized bruise over his heart and several cuts in the flesh around it showed where the badge and Bible had stopped Manteau’s bullet. Sadly, both keepsakes were obliterated, but only bits of silver and lead shrapnel had managed to penetrate his chest muscle—no worse than buckshot.
One of the first things Seward had done upon gaining the shore was to pick a couple of the bigger pieces out with the point of his Bowie knife.
Most of the other injuries he’d received during the fight on the Lancet could have been taken care of with a shot of tequila, though there was a cut in his right forearm from a mutineer’s knife that he’d had to staunch by knotting his handkerchief around it.
He wasn’t entirely happy with the way the fight had played out, but at last sighting, it looked like his companions had survived long enough to get away from the ship with their women.
Lilly and Miss James had been right there with the Quarries, and he just had to hope he’d given them enough time to get away before that coward Manteau could rally his crew and go after them.
Once Seward went into the water, he had sunk as deep as he could. The old ranger was pretty banged up by then, so he had no trouble faking a state of lifelessness—and for the first few seconds he’d actually thought that perhaps he had reached the end of his days.
But there was a strong cool current that pulled south out past the natural bulwark of broken rocks jutting out where he fell in, and this took him quickly along, and far enough from the Lancet that he could rise up and catch a breath of air without the mutineers seeing him in the chop.
Eventually, he’d lost sight of his companions as he drifted behind the stones.
He had other things to worry about anyway, since he was bleeding in several places and he had read about sharks and other man-eating fish that swam in the African coastal waters.
Regardless, Seward dove down and let the current carry him along again, always south, through waters that showed a rocky bottom with lots of colorful fish.
On his third time to the surface, he had seen distantly and with great relief that the mutineers had turned the ship about. Thick black smoke pumped from its funnel, and he gauged that they were steaming hard to the west.
The ranger had considered that a positive sign, suggesting that the mutineers no longer had the stomach to retrieve the women.
Seward remembered his fists connecting hard with more than a couple skulls, and he had broken enough bones over his career to know that he’d seriously demoralized the bandit crew, and likely shortened a few lives.
They had probably decided to cut their losses.
Seward’s own injuries must have been playing on him too, because he had blank spaces in his recollection of his time in the water before finally crawling out of the ocean much farther south than he knew.
He had been exhausted and there wasn’t a square inch of him that did not hurt, so he limped up the beach to find the first tree he could climb where he could rest. Seward knew he’d need his strength if he was going to try to find the Quarries.
So, he spent the rest of that day and the night high up on a stout branch with his arms wrapped around the Peacemaker—wishing he was a younger man.
At sunup, he had barely been out of the tree when he saw a 3-foot snake coming up out of the water. The old ranger had made a dive for the serpent and lopped off its head with his knife since there was no sense in wasting a bullet on breakfast.
The slippery varmint was of a variety of snake he’d never seen before, though uncooked, it tasted as good as any raw snake could—which wasn’t saying much. He washed it down with rainwater that had collected in big bowl-like leaves at the jungle’s edge.
Then he had headed north along the beach, hoping he’d see some hill or tree that he’d recognize from when he was drifting the day before.
He did come across a set of naked human footprints around midday which set his nerves on end. Seward still hadn’t fired his gun, and he didn’t want to test the cartridges’ dryness in a fight.
Just the same, he had his knife, and proof that there were people about had goaded him to search the flotsam along the way until he found a good-sized piece of weathered hardwood that he could use as a club.
The ranger had been more than willing and in the mood for a fight, though it had been years since he’d tangled with a real savage. He’d read stories about the black warriors of Africa, and figured them to be similar to the warlike Comanche he’d helped to subdue in his early years of rangering.
He couldn’t imagine they’d be any harder to kill than an Indian, and now that his blood was up a part of him almost looked forward to meeting one and seeing if that was true. Surviving against the odds had a way of bringing out the best in him, just as action made him crave more action.
Seward had been only too happy to move Lilly, the Quarries and their help the hell out of London. By reading between the rattlin’ sabers, he was certain that war could break out in Europe at any time now that the German Kaiser was putting on airs and talking tough.
Of course, what Seward had read about South Africa gave little comfort since that country was not long out of its “Boer” Wars and old grudges were smoldering and sending up sparks, and what with the Afrikaner fellows itching to run riot over the land no matter what the British had to say about it.
At 62 years of age, the ranger still preferred action to tea parties, but outright war was a bit more trouble than he liked, especially with the Quarries under his protection.
He preferred life in Texas where he knew the dangers and delights, and now that all the Indians were in reservations or sent off to their happy hunting grounds the threats were of a manageable variety.
When the retired ranger had first heard that old “Gusher” Quarrie needed a bodyguard, he had jumped at the opportunity. Gusher was a well-known patron of the rangers, and made sizeable donations to be sure the lawmen were properly mounted and armed.
“I don’t mind working for Gusher,” Seward had told an old compadre who’d been joshing him about going to seed. “Not every rich man knows the name of the fellow guarding his livestock.”
The old ranger spent years as Gusher’s bodyguard until Quarrie’s fortunes exploded like one of the striking wells for which he was named. Seward had known something was up when he’d
been asked to hire on a couple former lawmen that could provide protection for Gusher.
“I’m going to trust you with my greatest treasure instead,” Gusher told the captain one night over a bottle of whisky. “My dear Lilly...”
All that was years ago, and now the ranger was on what he considered to be his last mission after being ordered by Gusher to take Lilly and retinue to London where they would wait with relatives until being summoned to South Africa if the oilman’s business down there was successful...
...which seemed to be the case since Gusher had sent Seward instructions to get boat tickets and bring his daughter.
At his age, the captain knew there was a good chance he’d end his days in South Africa, but he had no powerful yearning to return stateside. His work hadn’t given him time for a family of his own, and what he knew of his pedigree would hardly miss the likes of him.
A Bostonian uncle in business, and a doctor cousin in England were all he knew of, but he’d never contacted them since he couldn’t picture himself drinking tea, and talking to strangers about people he didn’t know.
His only hesitation about this final move had been the serving of his personal passions. He knew there’d be hunting in Africa and like back home everything was big and came with sharp horns or fangs.
But mainly, he feared the relocation would undermine his drinking. They would have liquor in South Africa, that was certain, but he doubted there’d be any tequila.
Captain Seward didn’t think he could settle anywhere without a ready supply of his favorite tipple.
Those thoughts had rambled through Seward’s head at sundown, then loped by for another pass a long while afterward and had been circling him for the hour since the jungle went dead quiet.
As he hiked north, he stared into the lurking shapes of gray and black on his right struggling to tell the trees from shadow, expecting that at any second a murderous ball of muscle, fang and claw could explode from the heavy dark.
Squinting, scowling and staring, Seward swung his pistol right, then left and back as he walked—knowing he’d have to catch some glint of amber from the carnivore’s eye to fire in time if he hoped to survive an attack.
His breath caught when his vision resolved on a big, dark hump. He surged forward growling, pistol ready, but held up as he recognized driftwood and branches piled in an open stretch of sand. Had his nerves not been on end, Seward might have missed it and kept on walking—but his guarded stance blinded him to the ground at his feet, and he stumbled on an uneven surface of compacted sand.
Dropping to one knee, he set his hardwood club aside to feel the dew-damp sand, and there made out the deep imprint of a foot. His trembling fingers traced its edges.
This one wasn’t naked and had been made by the tapered sole and broad heel of a boot—and then he found another.
People were near. Perhaps he had found the other survivors!
CHAPTER 15 – Thief in the Night
The ranger rose to investigate the pile of wood before him, and with his free hand identified snapped and splintered end pieces, and in other places hard, straight cuts that a sharp axe could make!
There were other people near, and this was their signal fire.
But he reined in his jubilation, aware that while it had been made by someone wearing boots; it was built in a savage land. He would be foolish to call out hoping it was his group, or civilized men!
For all he knew the mutineers had returned...
...and the continuing jungle silence had yet to raise its voice. The only sound was the constant lap of wave on shore.
So by hit and miss, the ranger found more tracks in the sand, and these led him to a greater disturbance where more foot traffic had passed.
Seward stared into the shadows, and soon recognized that while the pale sand beach ran out of sight to north and south, here by the signal fire it swept in toward the jungle as two arching crescents, and where they intersected he noticed a sandy path leading into the trees.
With pistol in one hand and makeshift club in the other, the captain moved to stand before this gap, knowing that without a light or lantern, it would be suicide to proceed before morning.
A glance skyward showed him stars and scudding clouds lit by a hidden moon, and then he faced the shadows again. Dead, he would be no use to the Quarries.
But that thought was fractured when a dim yellow light glimmered and bobbed in the distance, and he could not resist a step or three toward it...
...to where he stopped by a great pale thing beneath the trees on his left.
The Lancet’s lifeboat!
So these were tracks his friends had made!
Staring into the deeper darkness he caught another flickering light joining the first.
“Lilly!” a shrill voice cried.
Seward softly growled the name and with gun before him, he charged toward the lights—as still other voices echoed the same.
“Lilly!” He heard them in the dark; people were crying out for “Lilly!”
Seward rushed along a narrow path where black bloomed to either side, until the trees fell away and sky opened overhead.
Before him a broad gray clearing swept away to distant trees.
Heart thudding with relief and anxiety, he watched the lights revolve around each other like fireflies. Indeed, Seward had found his friends, but they seemed to have lost Lilly!
He hurried toward the flicker and gleam that now moved through the tall grasses toward him—and two lamps resolved out of the glimmer, and a low voice called from the light: “Who goes there?”
The ranger surged out of the darkness and stood where Dr. Van Resen and Jacob stared wide-eyed over a lamp while Miss James and Phillip Holmes brought their flame close behind them.
“Captain Seward—how grand!” Van Resen blurted, hurrying with his lamp toward the big Texan and delivering him a great one-armed hug.
“Lord bless us, Captain,” Jacob added, shaking excitedly. “We thought you were dead.”
“Me too...” the ranger said, eyes studying the dark shapes behind them until from the shaggy forms he made out a cabin raised up in the trees. Amber light shone from its door and window. He raised his pistol. “What the hell?”
“More good fortune, my friend...” Van Resen said, taking Seward’s arm and leading him toward the structure.
“Lilly’s missing!” Virginia James said urgently, voice breaking as she patted the Texan’s broad back. “But I have hope now you’re here!”
“Missing?” Captain Seward hissed turning back to them, his face a mask of purpose.
“She wandered off!” Holmes snapped, his petulance obvious despite the darkness. “Without a thought for the rest of us.”
“She was sick,” Virginia added in a scolding tone. “We can’t delay.”
The big Texan nodded with his mouth dropped open as he regarded the tree house.
A silhouette appeared at the door.
“Oh Captain Seward!” a voice rang, and the ranger recognized Mrs. Quarrie standing in the doorway.
“By God! Seward...” Mr. Quarrie rasped, stepping out of her shadow and kneeling to reach down and clasp the ranger’s hand. “I knew we hadn’t seen the last of you.”
“Thank God you’re here!” Mrs. Quarrie cried, hurrying back into the cabin.
“What happened?” Seward growled as Miss James tugged his arm.
“Hurry Captain,” the governess said, her face and nightdress bright in the lamplight. “She’s out there alone.”
“Can you find her?” Phillip Holmes asked, voice cracking.
“Better if we all look,” the ranger growled, glancing at the grass for some sign. “How long has she been gone?”
“Difficult to say,” Van Resen said, “I was sitting in the dark and fell asleep by the fireplace.”
“Fireplace?” The old ranger glared quizzically up at the cabin. “All right...”
When Mrs. Quarrie reappeared in the doorway, Seward could just make out the
silvery tear tracks on her cheeks as she handed something to her husband, who passed it down to him.
His Stetson—looking a little worse for wear. He ran his fingers on the brim.
“Find her, Captain Seward,” Clive Quarrie said, straightening. “My granddaughter is lost in the wild!”
“Yes, sir,” Seward answered huskily, positioning the hat on his head. “We’ll get her!”
Van Resen hefted his lamp by the handle on its sturdy metal housing and with Jacob in tow charged after Captain Seward. They would search the open space north of the yurt and work toward the jungle, each of them reassured by the big pistol the ranger carried in his hand.
The scientist still wielded his butcher knife, and Jacob looked formidable in the lamplight armed with an axe.
Mr. and Mrs. Quarrie stayed in the relative safety of the cabin to await the girl should she find her way back on her own, while Virginia reluctantly paired with Phillip Holmes to search the tall grasses south of the shelter.
Holmes carried a glass lamp as he ran at Virginia’s side. His other hand gripped a coal shovel—his weapon—and the governess carried a kitchen knife.
She did not feel safe with the young Englishman since Holmes had done little to inspire anything but contempt. He was a loafer...
...but that was the least of the man’s sins for his actions toward Virginia had shattered any chance of friendship with her.
The fact that he’d only made romantic overtures to her after Lilly spurned him had permanently marred the governess’ feelings toward him.
But, her fear for Lilly ruled her heart as she circled the yurt slipping through the long grass without concern for her own well-being.
“Where could she go?” Virginia breathed, unable to accept that the girl had disappeared from the very bed on which they had both slept. Lilly was not a sleepwalker, but a fever from her illness may have caused her to rise.
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