“This sort of fox is sometimes more than usually cunning.”
—The Long Island Huntsman.
THE November mist had settled heavily upon the East River; and when they ran out into it, they could hear the foghorns and bells being tooted and rung all about them.
“A bad night for making out any craft,” remarked the owner of the power-boat. “We can’t see more than a dozen feet on any side of us.”
The man who attended to the engine suddenly lifted his head.
“There goes the Piedmont,” said he.
“Well, if you can see her, you’ve got mighty good sight,” laughed Webster.
“I sure would,” returned the man. “But I don’t see her. I hear her. Listen!”
There was a continuous, snuffling, gasping sound ahead, and the steady thump of an engine.
“I could tell that exhaust of hers anywhere,” explained the engineer. “It’s the worst on the river.”
For some time they listened to the coughing of the Piedmont. The Vixen was barely creeping along, for it was impossible to make any speed; the danger of a collision was too great.
“She seems to be cruising up and down,” said Kenyon.
“Yes; her skipper knows that this is about the best place to meet any vessel making for the Sound. They come this way to avoid the currents around Hell Gate.”
Backward and forward cruised the Vixen passing and repassing the Piedmont in the darkness. Once those on board the latter seemed to become suspicious, and she crept forward, her port and starboard lights shining through the fog.
“Hello!” cried a voice. “Who is that?”
“Don’t come any nearer,” replied the skipper of the Vixen. “I know how that old box of yours steers, Morgan.”
“Oh, is that you, Phylen? All right.”
And then the Piedmont crept away again, resuming her cruising up and down. At this point Dallas re-appeared upon deck.
“I thought I heard someone calling,” she said.
“You did,” answered Kenyon. “We’ve come up with the other boat that the captain was telling us of.”
She gave a little gasp and looked off in the direction of the now distant boat.
“Do you know,” she whispered in a frightened sort of way, “that sound out there reminds me of the cough of Hong Yo.” She had placed her hand upon his arm, and he could feel the shudder that ran through her. “Oh, how I fear that man.”
“You have excellent cause. The man from Butte was close to the truth when he called him a dying devil.”
She gave him a quick, surprised glance but said nothing.
“The murder of that man was one of the worst exhibitions of deadly ferocity that I ever saw—and my career in South America was not without its experiences.”
“It was dreadful,” said the girl, shudderingly, and she covered her face with her hands.
Now and then a steam vessel would pass them in the darkness, and the skipper of the Vixen would hail its deck and draw alongside. But they were mostly tugs and “truck” boats; as yet no yacht had split the murk.
“Do you feel quite sure that she has not yet gone by?” asked Webster at length.
“I’m positive of it,” replied Kenyon. “She had not the time. But she should be due at almost any minute now.”
“Hark, there!” cried the skipper; “do you hear that whistle?”
There came a low, mournful wailing from down river.
“It’s one of those toy sirens that some yachtsmen fit their crafts with,” the skipper informed them. “Like as not this is the vessel you want.”
“Yes; and there goes the Piedmont for her,” said Webster. The coughing exhaust of the unseen power-boat gurgled and volleyed from ahead; and they could see her port light streaming dimly through the fog.
At Kenyon’s order the Vixen swept around and followed the other boat like a beagle. Suddenly the lights of a large yacht stared down at them, from the distance of about twenty-five yards. Then they heard a shrill hail from the deck of the Piedmont.
“Ahoy! Is that the Wizard?”
No reply came from the yacht.
“Hello! is that the yacht Wizard?” came another voice.
“Farbush,” Kenyon told Webster.
Still there was no answer from the yacht.
“She’s increasing her speed,” spoke the skipper of the Vixen. “Her people don’t seem to want to be friendly.”
Bells could be heard jingling from the engine-room of the larger vessel; the rush of water around her bow grew greater; then she shot forward at a swifter rate. The Piedmont’s lights were seen to swing in pursuit; and almost at the same moment the Vixen performed a like manœuvre.
“She can’t outfoot us,” said Kenyon to Dallas, “but we may have some trouble stopping her, if they persist in going ahead.”
“We’ll have to do it before we pass City Island,” growled the Vixen’s skipper. “This craft can’t ride the seas that’s piling into the Sound to-night. She’d swamp if we tried to shove her through.”
They rushed along until they were almost overlapping the Wizard’s stern. However, they were some thirty or more yards to the starboard of her; the Piedmont was upon the port side and apparently directly in her wash.
“It seems as though they were going to try to lay alongside and board her,” cried Webster, suddenly, as he peered through a night glass.
“They’ll go to the bottom if they make the attempt,” prophesied the engineman of the Vixen. “They must be damned fools.”
“I’m not so sure about that,” said Kenyon, quietly. “They are out here to board that yacht, and it’s up to them to do the best they can in the matter. If the people on board the Wizard refuse to stop, they must take steps to accomplish their object, anyhow.”
“But it’s impossible to get to the deck of that vessel at her present speed,” protested the skipper.
“I’ll show you in a few minutes that it is not,” Kenyon assured him.
“What do you mean?” suspiciously.
“Just point her nose toward the yacht’s stern. I think I can get her rail in a jump from the cabin roof.”
“You could never do it. Another thing, I’m not going to give you a chance to try. If the Vixen once got so far into the wash of that craft, she’d be swamped.”
Just then a high-pitched voice was heard crying from the Wizard’s deck:
“Sheer off there, you fools, or I’ll run you down!”
There was silence for a moment, save for the beat of the engines and the dashing of the dark water; then a gunshot roared redly through the night, followed by a scream of pain.
“Head her over,” cried Kenyon, excitedly, to the skipper.
“I’m blessed if I do,” replied the man, stubbornly. “What the devil are you folks after, anyhow?”
“Head her over,” ordered Kenyon, sternly.
“I won’t,” replied the other. “And what’s more I’m going to run back to Morris Heights. There is something about this thing that don’t look right to me.”
“We will be responsible for any sort of damage,” Webster told him, encouragingly.
“I don’t care what you do,” returned Phylen, whose mind seemed to be made up. “Slow her down, Ned,” to the man at the engine, “we are going back.”
He was about to change the course of the boat when Kenyon’s powerful grip fell upon him, and he was dragged away from the wheel. At the same moment the long frame of Big Slim slid from the top of the cabin into the little companionway, blocking the entrance of the engineman.
“An engine was once my job,” he told Kenyon, coolly. “Say the word, pal, and I’m here to stay.”
“Take charge of these two men,” directed Kenyon. And Gypsy Brady and his followers had the skipper and engineer in their midst, forward, in a moment. Then, with Kenyon at the wheel and Slim at the engine, the Vixen headed toward the flying Wizard.
But the Vixen was a swift boat, and easily closed the gap between herself and the yacht; before long they were in the wash alongside and the spray was drenching them. The leap from the Vixen’s cabin top to the Wizard’s rail would be no great feat, if they could get near enough, for the yacht had a rather low freeboard.
“Take the wheel, Garry,” said Kenyon, at last. “I’m going to make the try.”
Webster looked aghast.
“I could no more steer this craft than I could build a bridge across the Sound,” confessed he.
Kenyon felt a firm hand laid upon the spokes, and shifting his gaze from Webster found Dallas at his side.
“I will take the wheel,” said she quietly. Then, noting his surprise, she added, “You need feel no fear. If the vessel will answer, I’ll bring her up.”
“Good girl!” exclaimed Webster.
But Kenyon said nothing. He leaped upon the cabin, and stood gathering himself for the spring. With the ease of an expert the girl drove the Vixen close under the starboard rail of the Wizard, and held her there for a moment.
“Now,” she cried, clearly.
And Kenyon leaped. A sea struck the bow at the same moment and destroyed his calculations; notwithstanding this, however, he grasped the yacht’s rail with one hand and drew himself quickly upon her deck. Then the Vixen fell off; but still he could hear her engine pulsing and see her lights glimmering through the mist. Then he turned his attention to the vessel upon whose deck he stood.
All her deck lanterns were lighted. In her waist a man, breathing heavily, lay stretched near the bulwarks; another stood at the wheel, a revolver in his hand, while a third was at the port rail, also armed with a like weapon. There came a snapping of firearms, apparently from the, to Kenyon, invisible Piedmont. The man at the rail swore furiously and began firing downward; the other man left the wheel and joined him in the fusillade.
“They seem to be enjoying the pastime immensely,” commented Kenyon, under his breath, “so it would be a pity to interrupt them.”
He softly crossed the deck and made his way down the iron steps leading to the engine-room. This was also brilliantly lighted; the engine was throbbing swiftly, but there was no sign of anyone in charge.
“All the better for me,” muttered the adventurer, as he dropped his Colt back into his pocket. “I suppose the matter upon deck has them all interested.”
In an instant he had shut off steam, and the engine began to slow down; then he ascended the iron stairs once more and gained the deck. The revolver shots still continued from the Piedmont; but those upon the Wizard were not replying. From the shelter of the housing Kenyon looked aft. As before, only two unwounded men were visible, and these, all unconscious, in their excitement, that the engine had stopped, were crouched under the bulwarks reloading their weapons. The Piedmont had clung to the larger vessel; and now that she had all but lost her headway, the attacking party came alongside and leaped upon the deck of the Wizard.
While the two sailors were being seized, Kenyon slipped down into the cabin, a strong suspicion forming in his mind. So when, a little later, Farbush came bursting in, followed by Hong Yo, who was assisted by a couple of men, they found the adventurer seated coolly in a steamer chair, rolling a cigarette. And as they stood staring with eyes of wonder, he looked up and smiled.
“Ah, gentlemen,” he greeted, “how do you do?”
For a moment neither Hong Yo nor Farbush was able to speak; then the former waved his hand in dismissal to the two men who had helped him down into the cabin; when they were gone, he turned to Kenyon once more.
“Well?” asked he, and his deathly face was set like stone.
“I’m sorry to say that it does not seem to be at all well,” replied Kenyon. He lit the cigarette and pointed to a couple of chairs. “Won’t you sit down?”
“Where is Forrester?” inquired Farbush. His face was flushed, and there was anger and suspicion in his eyes.
“I haven’t the faintest idea.”
Both men sat down and looked at him silently for a time. Apparently they were wholly unable to account for him. At length Hong Yo spoke again.
“What are you doing on board the Wizard?” he asked.
“My errand is exactly the same as your own,” smiled Kenyon. “I came to find Forrester.”
A light of intelligence crossed the countenance of Farbush.
“Ah, I think I understand!” exclaimed he. “You received my message after all.”
“It is very seldom that I miss anything of importance,” evaded Kenyon, evenly. “It is a thing that I have drilled myself to, you see.”
“And when you learned the circumstances, you suspected Forrester of the burglary,” cried Farbush, triumphantly. “Hong Yo said that you would not—that like himself you had confidence in the traitor.”
Kenyon drew the cigarette smoke deeply into his lungs, and expelled it slowly.
“I am astonished at Hong Yo’s trusting anybody,” commented he.
“It was not trust,” spoke the Chinaman, coughing hollowly. “It was my fixed belief that it was to his advantage to remain faithful.”
“A fool can never be trusted even to see an advantage,” declared Farbush.
“I would not be quite so confident of his folly,” advised Kenyon. “He seems to have been shrewd enough to escape us to-night. He suspected that the yacht would be stopped on her way out, apparently; so he did not venture aboard her. And, to gain time possibly, he sent her out in charge of three of her crew. There is no knowing where he has gone in the meantime.”
“Have you searched the yacht?” asked Farbush.
“No.”
“Then he may be aboard, after all.”
A half-dozen men searched the Wizard from end to end; but, as Kenyon had reasoned, Forrester was not on board. Steam was gotten up and the Wizard was headed toward Pelham Bay, the two power-boats following in her wake.
“That, then, was your boat that we heard all along,” said Farbush, as he leaned over the Wizard’s stern rail, his eyes upon the two low-lying, shadowy crafts.
“Very likely, you did hear us,” answered Kenyon.
“You seem to have quite a crew on board of her,” commented Farbush, peering through the night.
“Of course. Like yourself I was not at all sure as to what resistance I’d meet with. Success only comes to the ready man.”
Just then a great beam of white light shot across the water and brought all three vessels into strong relief. It was the searchlight at Fort Schuyler; the firing had evidently been heard, and they were endeavoring to locate the trouble. At the first swinging sweep of the light the Vixen’s decks were flooded. Kenyon saw Gypsy Brady and his followers still grouped about the rebellious skipper and engineer; at the wheel was a slim, girlish figure enveloped in the long coat, and near by was Garry Webster.
At the first flash Farbush uttered an exclamation; then he turned upon Kenyon with distorted face and upraised hand, his whole frame shaking with what looked like fury. For a moment he stood thus, glaring at the imperturbable adventurer. Then his hand dropped and the look gave place to a smile, while he said, hurriedly:
“What the devil! That confounded light almost startled me out of my wits!”