From Ruthven’s packets he secured cigarettes and matches, but paused in the act of lighting one. He got shakily to his feet. Why had they carried him here? Undoubtedly they had thought him dead or done for. Coming to the end of the battered wreck, he stood erect and looked around cautiously.
A surge of new life swept through him, a wild thrill of grim delight, as he saw the launch lying there on the sand, canted over, nearly clear of the water. The tide was out, and despite the gathering darkness, he could see that she must have been caught by the ebb before Gorman could get her off. Her deck was canted shoreward, away from him, but he caught a glimmer of light and heard the clink-clink of metal.
“So Gorman’s working on her, eh?” he reflected. He tried to speak and could not; his tongue was swollen and thick with thirst. He must have water. There was water at the ravine, by the rocks, if he could get there. He looked at the sky. Everything was veiled, the air was dank and thick with moisture. Fog! He remembered now. The pilot guide had said something about heavy fogs that cloaked Cerros, all except the peaks, at this season. The fog was thin enough here on the sand spit, but if he circled out a bit they would not see him. And they would not be apt to be on the lookout anyway.
He started off, forcing himself onward through the sand that clutched at his ankles.
Progress was difficult in the extreme, for movement sent stabs of pain through his body, until the stiffness of the wounds loosened up. Also, he was weak, dizzy, and faint. He kept going, until after a little he was well beyond danger. Then he came down to the beach and staggered along the harder sand here, until he found himself among some rocks.
At last he gained the mouth of the stream, a tiny rivulet of fresh, cold water. He lowered himself to it painfully, drank, bathed his hurt side, lay there with the water rippling about his body, soaking the shirt from his torn flesh and skin. There was no hurry, he knew. The launch would not get off the sand for hours yet, until the tide came in full.
Thought of poor Ruthven oppressed him. He could not leave the man’s body here as a prey to the birds; yet, he reflected grimly, he might better think about himself first. He knew now, clearly enough, that Gorman was in full possession of the launch. He was up against a desperate situation. Undoubtedly Gorman was the murderer of his uncle, and the man or men with him were as callous and unscrupulous as Gorman himself. Then, as though to emphasize his own helplessness, came a burst of sharp, staccato reports from the launch, rising into a deep, full-throated roar. The engine was repaired.
The noise ceased.
Shutz dragged himself to his feet, immensely refreshed. He felt much more like himself now, could move and use his left arm fairly freely, and strength had in some measure come back into his body. He settled down behind a rock, lit a cigarette, and rested. As he sat there, he thought again of Ruthven, and a somewhat grim thought came into his mind.
A smile touched his lips, but not with amusement, as he looked out at the thin fog curling among the rocks.
CHAPTER IV
GHOSTS WALK!
“Grub, eh?” exclaimed Scotty, coming up to where Gorman was cleansing the grease from his hands and arms, in a bucket of water. “Real cabin stores, the best layout you’ve seen in a year, Gorman! All ready. Sure you don’t want no deck lights?”
“No, you fool!” snapped Gorman. “Lanterns are all right, but not these electric bulbs. Where’s the supper?”
“Aft, on deck,” said Scotty. “Paxton is makin’ the coffee now. All right, then. I’ll get two lanterns going, if that’ll suit you.”
He moved away. Gorman, who had been working by the electric light in the cockpit, straightened up and wiped his arms and hands. He glanced down at the engine proudly; it ran like a charmed thing. He was a good mechanic, was Gorman, and ought to be. His lip curled at the thought. Once he had toyed with machines a thousand times the size of this, back before a man died suddenly, up north!
Four or five more hours, he thought, as he doused the light and went aft, clawing his way along the sharply sloping deck. They would not get off until about midnight. He looked about, but could see little or nothing, for fog rose white in the sky and eddied all about the shore and closed in the launch lying there on the sand, only her stern in the water.
Two lanterns bobbed before him. Scotty, with some ingenuity, had propped up a table so that it stood level on the deck, near the lower rail. He had raided the larder with good result; the appetizing smell of eggs and bacon lifted on the damp air. A moment later Paxton appeared with a steaming pot of coffee.
The three men settled down to their repast.
“This here is luxury!” said Paxton with a sigh, when his first hunger was appeased. “I vote we stay with her and head south, you bet. That was some engine job, Gorman.”
“It was,” said Gorman. “And it’s well done, you can lay to that! You boys worked like good ones. Three men like we are could go anywhere in this craft. We’ll get all cleaned up as soon as we’ve eaten, and make ourselves over into sportsmen, out deep-sea fishing.”
“What about sleep?” queried Scotty.
“Nothing doing until we get off the sand and get clear away from here,” returned Gorman with decision. “Take no chances; that’s my motto. And while I think of it, one of you had better go over to that wrecked craft and make sure this Shutz fellow is dead. You’re elected, Paxton.”
“All right,” said Paxton.
“I’ll go, too,” volunteered Scotty with some alacrity. “We didn’t get to go through that first feller. Say, that was a swell shot Paxton made! The first one, I mean. Took that hombre right square between the eyes, or just above. I seen the hole plain.”
“It wasn’t more’n a hundred yards,” said Paxton. “And I was waiting for him to raise up. Shucks! I could show you some shooting, if you ask me. That’s a swell rifle we got off that wreck. Gimme one of them cigars you dug up, Scotty. We’ll get going pretty quick, as soon as my dinner settles.”
Gorman took a cigar from the box, and the others followed suit.
“That’s funny!” said Scotty, listening. “Seemed to me like I could hear somebody walking. It’s quit now.”
“You’re always hearing things,” scoffed Paxton, scratching a match. “Huh! I remember you woke up the other night, hollering about hearing a woman scream—”
“You shut up!” cried out Scotty shrilly. “That wasn’t only a dream, blast you! I hadn’t hurt no woman, and you needn’t say I did, neither!”
Paxton broke into a laugh, at sight of Scotty’s terrorized face in the lantern light.
“Yeah?” he said mockingly. “What was it you said about putting a rope around her neck and choking her, huh? I tell you—”
He broke off short, in the act of lighting his cigar.
His distended eyes became wide and horrible with sheer fright. The light of the match showed his face suddenly ghastly as he stared. Scotty caught the look and turned about. A low moan burst from him. With a jerk, he threw himself down, buried his face in his arms.
“You fellows better cut out the rough talk,” said Gorman. He held a match cupped in his hands, puffed vigorously at his cigar, dropped the match. “No use starting trouble—good heavens! What’s the matter?”
Paxton tried to speak, but words would not come. Gorman turned around swiftly, then sat paralyzed.
Above the rail, a little forward of where they sat, the light fell full upon the head and upper body of Ruthven. His arms were held out wide as though reaching for the three. The little hole in his forehead was clearly visible. He moved a little, settled forward, as though about to climb aboard.
Paxton uttered one wild, shrill scream, and rose to his feet.
“Judas, it’s him!” he yelled hoarsely. “It’s him, Gorman! He’s come aboard—”
Scotty stirred, glanced up, then scrambled half erect and lost balance. With a howl of terror, he plunged over, knocked the table away. He hit one of the lanterns with an arm and the other with his body, knocked them both out,
and with a tremendous clatter and clash of dishes and tinware went headlong over the rail to the sand below.
The deck was plunged into darkness. From the sand alongside, where Scotty had fallen, came a thudding sound, a low groan, and then nothing more.
“Jump, Paxton, jump, you fool!” came the voice of Gorman, with a scramble of feet.
Alongside, under the bulge of the rail, crouched Shutz, and breathed a low curse of dismay. The accidental dousing of those two lanterns had wrecked his whole campaign.
With infinite toil and pain, he had dragged the body of Ruthven down from the wreck, had lifted it, stood up the death-stiff corpse alongside so that the head and torso overhung the rail. Then he had meant to jerk up his pistol, catch the three of them as they sat in panic. As he moved to do it, Scotty knocked out the lights and fell on top of him.
Well, Scotty had paid for that. He lay in the sand, knocked senseless, sprawled under the rail, but Gorman had taken warning. Gorman was no fool. After that first instant of paralysis, he had leaped into action.
“Hey, Gorman!” It was Paxton’s voice, uplifted in the darkness. “Where are you?”
Gorman made no response. He was getting his pistol, which he had left up forward. Paxton struck a match, held it up; and with a convulsive leap went up the deck, uttering scream on scream of horror. He had caught sight of Shutz in the act of coming over the rail three feet away from him.
“It’s him! It’s the other one!” he cried out, then tripped over something and went down with a crash.
Shutz came over the rail, lay on the deck, panting. This one action of coming aboard had taken all his resolution, all his strength, for it hurt him cruelly. Momentarily he was helpless, could not even lift his pistol. He had gambled everything on taking advantage of the first panic-struck moment, and he had lost. Gorman, he knew, was the man whom he had to fear most, and Gorman was now on the alert, waiting and watching.
“Fool that I was, not to shoot him down first!” muttered Shutz as he lay there. Yet, fool or not, he knew that he could not have shot an unsuspecting man in the back; even though he be a double-dyed murderer. Besides, and in a more practical sense, he was very anxious not to kill Gorman, if it could be avoided.
But now everything had crashed down around him, and he would be lucky if he got out of here alive, much less with any murderers to be brought to justice.
Shutz dared not move. Fortunately, the crash of Paxton’s fall had covered what noise he, himself, had made. Now, with the silence, he knew that Gorman was intent on any sound that might lift across the low roar of the surf rolling in. He himself was intent on any sound, and could hear none. Paxton had fallen quiet, whether hurt or in fright.
Then, up forward by the engine cockpit, Shutz discerned a faint flicker of light, followed by another. He knew instantly what it was. Gorman had obtained the flashlight by the engine, was testing it against his palm, cutting off most of the light. In another moment the beam would sweep out. Shutz lifted the pistol in his hand, caught the faint flicker of light again, and pressed the trigger.
Nothing happened.
Wild consternation swept over him. The pistol was jammed, no doubt of it; whether by sand or by heavy grease, the weapon was entirely useless. For a moment, Shutz was tempted to give up everything, then he rallied. His brain awoke.
He must act, and act swiftly, before Gorman went into action. Once that flashlight picked him up he was done for. Weaponless, he was entirely helpless against these men. He knew where there was a weapon, however—a spare automatic pistol, down in his own cabin, loaded and ready for use if he could reach it.
Inch by inch, Shutz came to one elbow, lifted himself, drew up his leg. He made no slightest sound. Paxton’s voice broke the silence, calling fitfully for Gorman, from somewhere amidships, where the man had fallen against the rail. Gorman made no reply, and Paxton fell silent.
Shutz came to one knee. He knew that Gorman was waiting for the first sound. He himself had been waiting, likewise, but no use now. The companionway was a scant six feet from him, farther aft, if he could but reach it. His arm, holding the pistol, drew back—then he hurled the weapon, swiftly, accurately.
He waited an instant, every aching muscle tensed. There was a clatter and crash as the weapon fell, up in the bow. Instantly the flashlight beam struck out at it, playing over the forward deck. As it did so, Shutz threw himself at the companionway, caught the edge of the hood, swung himself down out of sight.
Panting, trembling, he crouched there for a moment, and then hastened down into the cabin, feeling his way against the cant of the deck. He knew exactly where to reach that spare pistol, hanging in a belt and holster on the wall. He pushed open his door, got into the tiny cabin, felt around. It must have fallen from the hook with the lean of the ship, for he could not find it. Desperate, he pulled out his matches, struck one, glanced around the little room.
The pistol was gone!
CHAPTER V
A FAIR JOB
“Lights, Paxton! Turn on all the lights! Everything!” Gorman’s voice came roaring furiously from the darkness. He was sweeping the deck, fore and aft, with his beam of light. All caution was cast aside now, since no shot had come at him. Gorman was no fool. He began to see exactly what must have happened.
His light picked up the balanced figure of Ruthven. This was almost on top of Paxton, who leaped to his feet with a yell of terror on seeing that face flash out above him. Then Gorman’s pistol cracked out. To the explosion, the corpse fell sidewise and lodged there, one arm catching at the bulwark.
“It’s a body, you fool!” stormed Gorman. “Turn on all the lights! Wake up!”
“All right,” said Paxton shakily. The switch box was not up by the engine, but down in the aft companion, as he had found before dark. “Where’s Scotty?”
“Jump, damn you!” cried Gorman with a volley of oaths. “Shutz brought the stiff here to scare us. Look out for him! Lights!”
“I’m moving,” returned Paxton, his voice sullen.
He went stumbling aft, cursing, and the flashlight beam guided him to the companionway. He was still badly shaken, jumping at shadows, yet ashamed of his panic. Gorman was playing his light along the rail, on the wet sands alongside, on the swirling blanket of fog, but picked up nothing. Scotty had fallen under the lower rail, out of sight from above.
Paxton let himself down the companion, cursed the slant of the deck, and felt out for the switch. In the darkness his fingers came full upon a human hand, which caught at him swiftly. He uttered a breathless gasp, recoiled, lost his balance, and came down with a smash.
The lights were snapped on.
Paxton looked up, saw Shutz there above him—and then the poised fist drove into his face and knocked him flat. This was flesh and blood at all events, and Paxton, with a growl of rage, started up. Before he could get his footing, Shutz kicked out. The heavy boot took Paxton squarely under the chin and lifted him backward, and his head thumped down.
“If I couldn’t do it one way, I can another!” muttered Shutz. Then he leaned forward and ran his hands over the senseless figure.
To his acute dismay, Paxton had no weapon at all. Shutz caught his ankles and dragged him into the cabin, swiftly jerked down a coil of fishing line from a locker, and in two minutes had the man securely trussed with a line that a hundred-pound shark could not break. Then, with a leap, Shutz was out in the passage again and clawing up the companion to the deck.
He looked around cautiously and barely repressed a gasp of surprise at seeing Gorman directly before him. Standing at the lower rail, Gorman was peering over the side as the electric light pierced the swirls of fog. His back was turned.
“Scotty!” he exclaimed sharply. “Scotty! Is that you?”
With a grim smile, Shutz emerged, balanced himself, and thrust his finger into the back of the other man.
“Up!” crackled his voice. “Up, or I’ll blow your damned heart out!”
Gorman twisted his head about, and
his eyes distended in a glare as he looked into the face of Shutz. His arms slowly lifted, a pistol in his right hand.
“I’ll take that gun, too. Thanks.”
Shutz laughed a little, exultation creeping into his voice as he twisted the automatic from Gorman’s unresisting hand. He reached out, frisked the man swiftly, and recovered his own pistol from Gorman’s pocket.
“Move down the deck a bit. And give me any excuse—you’ll get it!”
Gorman obeyed, edging along the lower rail. Shutz emerged from the hood, carried into buoyant spirits by the swift reversal of fortune. He had Gorman now, had him helpless, was master of the launch again—and all from the thrust of a finger!
The corpse of Ruthven, propped in horrible immobility, stared from sightless eyes at Gorman as he turned.
“You damned rat!” His voice bit out at Shutz, his tanned features were contorted in a grimace of baffled fury. His uplifted hands were like claws in their menace, yet the leveled pistol held him motionless. “You can’t get away with that, blast you!”
“That’s all right,” said Shutz cheerfully. “I think I’m doing a pretty fair job of it so far, my dear Doctor John. And how’s your brother, the other doctor? Say, that was a neat touch; it took me in completely! Well, you and your precious pals are about to head north and answer for a few things. I’m mighty glad I didn’t have to kill you, Gorman. It’ll be so much more pleasure to walk you into the hands of the police.”
“See here, can’t we fix all this up?” exclaimed Gorman suddenly. “I can show you where there’s gold on this island, plenty of it.”
“Oh, sure, sure!” broke in Shutz, and waved his hand airily. “This island is just heaped with gold, isn’t it? That’s why you’re so anxious to leave it, of course. You just can’t stand the strain of living with so much gold. Well, I’m willing to oblige you. Now, if you’ll be good enough to turn your back to me, and stick both hands behind you—”
The H. Bedford-Jones Pulp Fiction Megapack Page 87