Frontier Boys on the Coast Part 1

Frontier Boys on the Coast.

by Capt. Wyn Roosevelt.

CHAPTER I

CAPTAIN BILL BROOM

"What devilment has old Bill got on for tonight, Pete?"

The speaker was seated on an old scarred sea chest in a dimly lighted forecastle.

"I dunno," replied Pete, "maybe he's lookin' fer a wreck."

"I heard the mate say somethin' about a pa.s.sel of four boys," put in a third man who was laying back in his bunk, "that the skipper was a-lookin' for."

"Kidnapping, eh?" said Cales, the first speaker. "Hold 'em for ransom, I suppose. Well, the old man has been in worse games than that. I reckon the kids' parents are rich and are willin' to pay a high price for their darlings."

"You're on the wrong tack, matey," said the man in the bunk. "Cap'n Brinks, who landed in San Diego from a Mexican port put the old man wise. He told him that those fellars had considerable money and a raft of jewels with 'em that they picked up in Mexico."

"Ho, Ho, that's the game, is it," cried Cales, thumping his knee with a gnarled fist, "that ought to be easy then."

"Looks so, but it ain't," replied the other, "those four boys have got somethin' of a reputation in the southwest. Hard fighters and good shots and their leader is a husky lad and about as crafty as a red Injun."

"He ain't met the Old Man yet," said Cales significantly.

"I don't see where you get all your news from, Jake," growled Pete from his seat on the chest, "you ought to be a reporter."

"I keep my eyes open and my mouth shet," replied Jake, "any man can get larned if he will do that."

"I'd like to have a picter of you with your mouth shet," remarked Pete.

"It's open even when you are asleep." He dodged just in time to avoid a heavy shoe flung from Jake's ready hand that crashed against the wall.

"Don't do that agin," he warned, a red light showing in his eyes. "I'll larn you boys that I ain't as old as I looks to be."

Jake laughed harshly.

"You mustn't keep your own mouth open so wide, Pop, cause you'll have to swallow your own words if you do."

"I guess I'll never git choked," replied Pete, truculently. "Kin you tell me what the skipper means snooping down this coast with no lights showing when it's plumb dark? We are liable to sink ourselves or Californey all of a suddint."

"Why don't you ask the Cap'n what he is up to?" inquired Cales, "that is, if you want some real useful information, Pop."

Pop raised himself up and glared at the speaker.

"I ain't done living," he replied.

"We are navigating pretty careful," remarked Jake. "You can hardly feel the Sea Eagle moving."

"Running for the cove, I reckon," suggested Cales, "I'm mighty pleased not to be the man at the wheel. Well, I'm goin' to turn in for a snooze."

In a brief time the two men were snoring loudly, while old Pete sat smoking his pipe, as stolid as a wooden Indian and the forecastle was fogged with the smoke, through which the swinging lantern shone dimly.

The air is stifling so let us go up on deck where we can breathe the salt ozone and incidentally get acquainted with Captain Bill Broom, who is to occupy such a prominent place in this narrative.

He is well worth meeting, not only as the opponent of our old friend, Jim Darlington, but because of his own unworthy but interesting character. In those days Skipper Bill Broom was known all up and down the coast and beyond. His fame, such as it was, comes down even to this recent day.

On deck it is m.u.f.fling dark, with the stars obscured in some dim way by mist or fog. There is a breeze blowing steadily from the broad wastes of the ocean. The bulk of the California coast looms dimly on the port bow.

Not more than a half mile distant can be seen the white rushing forward of the breakers towards the rocky coast.

Dangerous work this, navigating the Sea Eagle through the thick gloom of the night but the old man knew his business. He was on the bridge pacing back and forth like some strange animal and giving hoa.r.s.e directions to the man at the wheel. He knew every inch of that coast, the sunken reefs and dangerous rocks.

"Starboard your helm," he growled.

The sailor spun the wheel obediently. And the captain resumed his pacing back and forth upon the bridge. Not much could be seen of him, except that he was a powerful man, with a peculiar crouching stoop, as if he and the sea were engaged in a mysterious game. One striving to get a dangerous death-hold upon the other, both wary and using unceasing watchfulness.

There was a strange softness in Captain Broom's tread like that of a padding panther, but his arms had the loose forward powerful swing of a gorilla's. Once he stepped into the chart house to look at something and the light of the lamp will give us a square look at him.

"That man a pirate!" you exclaim at the first glance; one who carried the blackest name along the coast as a smuggler and wrecker, who had brought cargoes of wretched slaves from Africa in the days before the Civil War and who had had more marvelous escapes than any man in the history of piracy with the exception of Black Jack Morgan! Impossible!

"Why that man is nothing but an old farmer," you exclaim in disappointment, when you see him. "He ought to be peddling vegetables on market day." But just wait.

True, Skipper Broom had come from a long line of New England farmers, hard, close-fisted, close-mouthed men. Young Broom had broken away from the farm and followed his bent for sea-faring, but to the end of his days, he kept his farmerlike 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 look at him. That heavy winter cap pulled down on his grizzled head gives him a most "Reuben" like appearance. Jeans pants are thrust into heavy cowhide boots. The deadly gray eyes soft as granite have become red rimmed from fits of fury and hard through many scenes of coldly calculated cruelty. A most dangerous customer and I for one, and I ought to know, consider that he will have the better of Jim Darlington in their approaching encounter--and yet Jim is never beaten until the last shot is fired and so it is impossible for me to foretell how this contest of wit and daring will come out.

After examining his chart closely, Captain Broom crouched out through the door and on to the deck. He took one keen look towards the sh.o.r.e, then he approached the helmsman. "Git below, Bill. I'll fetch her in."

The helmsman relinquished the wheel gladly enough and under the Captain's masterful hand the Sea Eagle swung slowly around and pointed in towards the curving sh.o.r.e.

The dark form of the mate could be seen on the deck below waiting for the order that he knew must come soon. The crew of the Sea Eagle though subordinate enough were necessarily partners in Captain Broom's wicked enterprises so that the discipline was somewhat different than in ordinary vessels.

"Call 'em up, Mr. Haffen," roared the skipper to the mate. "It's ch.o.r.e time."

"Aye, aye, sir," replied Mr. Haffen.

The watch was called on deck and the dark forms of the men could be seen in the bow. The pulsing of the Sea Eagle had stopped and with scarcely a sound the anchor was dropped into the water.

CHAPTER II

THE COVE AND CAVE

The starboard boat was lowered into the water. First the mate, then Captain Broom and two men got in. The latter were Cales and Pete who pulled noiselessly at the oars. The boat glided quietly through the silent darkness towards the sh.o.r.e. The Captain was seated in the stern, his great bulk crouched forward, but there was nothing inert in his posture. His big hands clasped either side of the craft.

In a few minutes the boat grounded softly on the sand of the beach and all hands got ash.o.r.e. Scarcely a word was spoken, though the cove was so hidden that there seemed to be no possible chance that the landing of the free-booters would be observed. However, Captain Bill Broom took no risk of being discovered. He had many enemies upon the coast and inland as well. Besides, the State of California had set a price upon his head.