The Flag of Distress Part 27

Soon they are coursing along the strand, towards the upturned boat, silently, and without asking explanation. If they did, they could not get it; for their leader is panting, breathless, almost unable to utter a word. But five issue from his throat, jerked out disjointedly, and in hoa.r.s.e utterance. They are:

"Crozier--Cadwallader--waylaid--robbers--murderers!"

Enough to spur the _Crusaders_ to their best speed, if _not_ already at it. But they are; every man of them straining his strength to the utmost.

As they rush on, cleaving the thick fog, Harry at their head listens intently. As yet he can distinguish no sound to alarm him; only the monotonous swashing of the sea, and the murmur of distant voices in the streets of the town. But no cries--no shouts, nor shots; nothing to tell of deadly strife.

"Thank the Lord!" says the brave sailor, half speaking to himself; "we'll be in time to save them."

The words have scarce pa.s.sed from his lips, when he comes in sight of the capsized launch; and almost simultaneously sees two figures upon the beach beyond. They are of human shape, but through the fog looking grand as giants.

He is not beguiled by the deception; he knows it to be the two officers, their forms magnified by the mist. No others are likely to be coming that way; for he can see they are approaching; and, as can be told by their careless, swaggering gait, unsuspicious of danger, little dreaming of an ambuscade, that in ten seconds more may deprive them of existence!

To him, hurrying to avert this catastrophe, it is a moment of intense apprehension--of dread chilling fear. He sees them almost up to the place where the a.s.sa.s.sins should spring out upon them. In another instant he may hear the cracking of pistols, and see flashes through the fogs. Expecting it even before he can speak, he nevertheless calls out:

"Avast there, Mr Crozier! We're _Crusaders_. Stop where you are.

Another step, and you'll be shot at. There's four men under that wall waiting to murder ye. D'ye know the names, Calderon and Lara? It's them!"

At the first words, the young officers--for it is they--instantly come to a stand. The more promptly from being prepared to expect an attack, but without the warning. Well-timed it is; and they have not stopped a moment too soon.

Simultaneous with the sailor's last word, the sombre s.p.a.ce under the wall is lit up by four flashes, followed by the report of as many pistols, while the "tzip-tzip" of bullets, like hornets hurtle pa.s.s their ears, leaving no doubt as to who has been fired at.

Fired at, and fortunately missed; for neither feels hurt nor hit!

But the danger is not yet over. Quick following the first comes a second volley, and again with like result. Bad marksmen are they who design doing murder.

It is the last round of shots. In all likelihood, the pistols of the a.s.sa.s.sins are double-barrelled, and both barrels have been discharged.

Before they can reload them, Harry Blew, with his _Crusaders_, has come up, and it is too late for De Lara and his confederates to use the steel.

Crozier and Cadwallader bound forward; and placing themselves at the head of the boat's crew, advance toward the shadowed spot. They go with a rush, resolved on coming to close quarters with their dastardly a.s.sailants, and bringing the affair to a speedy termination.

But it is over already, to their surprise, as also chagrin. On reaching the wall, they find nothing there save stones and timber! The dark s.p.a.ce for an instant illuminated by the pistol-flashes, has resumed its grim obscurity. The a.s.sa.s.sins have got away, escaping the chastis.e.m.e.nt they would surely have received had they stood their ground.

Some figures are seen in the distance, scuttling along a narrow lane.

Cadwallader brings his pistol to bear on them, his finger upon the trigger. But it may not be they; and stayed by the uncertainty, he refrains from firing.

"Let them go!" counsels Crozier. "'Twould be no use looking for them now. Their crime will keep till morning; and since we know their names, it'll be strange if we can't find them; though not so strange if we should fail to get them punished. But that they shall be, if there's a semblance of law to be found in San Francisco. Now, thanks, my brave _Crusaders_! And there's a hundred pound note to be divided among you.

Small reward for the saving of two lives, with a large sum of money.

Certainly, had you not turned up so opportunely--But, Harry, how come you to be here? Never mind now! Let us get on board! and you, Blew, must go with us. It'll do you no harm to spend one more night on your old ship. There you can tell me all."

Harry joyfully complies with a requisition so much to his mind; and, instead of tossing discontentedly on a couch of wet sand, he that night sleeps soundly in his old bunk in the frigate's forepeak.

CHAPTER THIRTY SIX.

A NEGLECTED DWELLING.

A Country-House some ten miles from San Francisco, in a south-westerly direction. It stands inland about half-way between the Bay and the Pacific sh.o.r.e, among the Coast Range hills.

Though a structure of mud-brick--the sort made by the Israelites in Egypt--and with no pretension to architectural style, it is, in Californian parlance, a _hacienda_. For it is the headquarters of a grazing estate; but not one of the first-cla.s.s, either in stock or appointments. In these respects, it was once better off than now; since now it is less than second, showing signs of decay everywhere, but nowhere so much as in the dwelling itself, and the enclosures around.

Its walls are weather-washed, here and there cracked and crumbling; the doors have had no paint for years, and opening or shutting, creak upon hinges thickly-coated with rust. Its _corrals_ contain no cattle, nor are any to be seen upon the pastures outside. In short, the estate shows as if it had an absentee owner, or none at all.

And the house might appear uninhabited, but for some _peons_ seen sauntering listlessly around, and a barefoot damsel or two, standing dishevelled by its door, or in the kitchen kneeling over the _metate_, and squeezing out maize-dough for the eternal _tortillas_.

However, despite its neglected appearance, the _hacienda_ has an owner; and with all their indolence, the lounging _leperoa_ outside, and slatternly wenches within, have a master. He is not often at home, but when he is they address him as "Don Faustino." Servants rarely add the surname.

Only at rare intervals do his domestics see him. He spends nearly all his time elsewhere--most of it in Yerba Buena, now named San Francisco.

And of late more than ever has he absented himself from his ancestral halls; for the _hacienda_ is the house in which he was born; it, with the surrounding pasture-land, left him by his father, some time deceased.

Since coming into possession, he has neglected his patrimony; indeed, spent the greater portion of it on cards, and evil courses of other kinds; for the _dueno_ of the ill-conditioned dwelling is Faustino Calderon.

As already hinted, his estate is heavily mortgaged, the house almost a ruin. In his absence, it looks even more like one; for then his domestics, having nothing to do, are scarce ever seen outside, to give the place an appearance of life. Fond of cards as their master, they may at most times be observed, squatted upon the pavement of the inner court, playing _monte_ on a spread blanket, with copper _clacos_ staked upon the game.

When the _dueno_ is at home, things are a little different; for, Don Faustino, with all his dissipation, is anything but an indulgent master.

Then his _muchuchos_ have to move about, and wait upon him with a.s.siduity. If they don't, they will hear _carajos_ from his lips, and receive cuts from his riding-whip.

It is the morning after that night when the "El Dorado" _monte_ bank suspended play and pay; the time, six o'clock a.m. Notwithstanding the early hour, the domestics are stirring about the place, as if they had something to do, and were doing it. To one acquainted with their usual habits, the brisk movement will be interpreted as a sure sign that their master is at home.

And he is; though he has been there but a very short while--only a few minutes. Absent for more than a week, he has this morning made his appearance just as the day was breaking. Not alone; but in the company of a gentleman, whom all the servants know to be his intimate friend and a.s.sociate--Don Francisco de Lara.

The two have come riding up to the house in haste, dropped the bridles on the necks of their horses, and, without saying a word, left these to the care of a couple of grooms, rudely roused from their slumber.

The house-servants, lazily drawing the huge door of the _saguan_, see that the _dueno_ is in ill-humour, which stirs them into activity; and in haste, they prepare the repast called for--_desayuno_.

Having entered and taken seats, Don Faustino and his guest await the serving of the meal.

For some time in silence, each with an elbow rested on the table, a hand supporting his head, the fingers buried in his hair.

The silence is at length broken; the host, as it should be, speaking first.

"What had we best do, De Lara? I don't think 'twill be safe staying here. After what's happened, they're sure to come after us."

"That's probable enough. _Caspita_! I'm puzzled to make out how that fellow who called out our names could have known we were there.

'_Crusaders_' he said they were; which means they were sailors belonging to the English warship. Of course the boat's crew that was waiting.

But what brought them up; and how came they to arrive there and then, just in the nick of time to spoil our plans? That's a mystery to me."

"To me, too."

"There were no sailors hanging about the hotel that I saw; nor did we encounter any as we went through the streets. Besides, if we had, they couldn't have pa.s.sed us, and then come on from the opposite side, without our seeing them--dark as it was. 'Tis enough to make me believe in second-sight."

"That appears the only way to explain it."

"Yes; but it won't, and don't. I've been thinking of another explanation, more conformable to the laws of nature."

"What?"

"That there's been somebody under that old boat. We stood talking there like four fools, calling out one another's names. Now, suppose one of those sailors was waiting by the boat as we came along, and seeing us, crept under it? He could have heard everything we said; and slipping off, after we went to the wall, might have brought up the rest of the accursed crew. The thing seems odd; at the same time it's possible enough, and probable too."