El Diablo Part 50

From the ledge above the cave a bright ray of light followed the figure of the Italian. Mascola leaped to cover behind a huge rock.

The same instant the roar of a pistol shot deafened Gregory's ear. As Smith fired into the air to give the signal to the men without, he cried: "Hands up, men. You're prisoners of the United States."

The flash-light fell from the deputy's hand as an answering shot echoed from the darkness across the cave. Smith rolled to his side. "Nail 'em,"

he gasped, and tumbled from the ledge.

Gregory slid from the rocks and stumbled to the fish-covered floor of the cavern. The light from the lantern was suddenly extinguished.

Dropping to his knee, he shot at the flash of a gun ahead. Dimly to his ears came the shouts of the posse fighting their way into the cave. Soon the vaulted walls reverberated with the rattle of firearms and the darkness was faintly illumined by the light of the signal flares burning at the entrances.

Brought into bold relief by the weird glow from the sputtering candles, a number of darting figures could be seen leaping to cover behind the rocks. From the shadows came bright jets of flame. Bullets whined through the cavern, clipping the walls and rattling the pebbles to the stone floor. Flattening his body against the slimy fish, Gregory wriggled foot by foot in the direction of the big rock which sheltered Mascola.

The game was up. Bandrist emptied his revolver in the direction of the advancing deputies and drew cautiously away from Mascola. The _Fuor d'Italia_ lay at anchor in the cove beyond the goose-neck. The tunnel-like pa.s.sage, which only himself knew, would lead him to the beach. While the Italian delayed the attacking party would be his chance to take to the boat. In the fog he could make his escape. By daybreak he could make the Mexican coast. Then he would be safe. Of Mascola he thought but little, save as a means to an end. It would serve the Italian right.

Mascola faced about a few minutes later to find himself fighting alone.

Then he heard the rattle of loose stones dropping from the cavern wall.

Bandrist was leaving him. The Italian's blood warmed at the islander's treachery. Did Bandrist think he was the only one who knew the way out?

His anger mounted as he climbed the wall and wormed his way through the narrow opening. So Bandrist thought to give him the slip, did he? Well, he'd show him.

When Bandrist reached the end of the tunnel he crawled out into the fog and listened intently. Some one was following from the cave. Jamming a fresh clip into his automatic he waited. Then he silently replaced his revolver. A shot would only draw pursuit. Perhaps there were men already guarding the secret exit. Huddling close to the cavern tunnel he waited for the figure of the man behind him to emerge.

When Mascola reached the end of the tunnel he felt himself grasped roughly by the arm and twisted to the rocks. Bandrist recovered his wits quickly when he recognized the Italian.

"Quiet," he whispered. "You were a long time coming. There may be men on the beach already. Where is your boat?"

Mascola nodded his head in the direction of the beach.

"My skiff lies close to rocks by the point," he said. "The launch is close by."

Bandrist fingered his automatic nervously.

"We can wait no longer," he said.

As he spoke he began to crawl forward toward the water.

The blue light from the signal flares flickered about the rock behind which Mascola had gone into hiding. Gregory reached the shadow, revolver in hand. Raising his body to his elbow, he leaned forward and looked up.

The s.p.a.ce which lay between the rock and the cavern wall was empty. He was on his feet in an instant. Mascola had escaped. That much was clear.

But how? Surely not through the main entrance to the beach. He would have no chance that way. The sound of the tumult at the mouth of the cavern told him that. Neither could the Italian have taken the other pa.s.sage. He would have seen him as he pa.s.sed.

He searched the floor carefully for a possible hiding-place which would shelter the man he sought. Then he raised his eyes to the cave wall. It was lined with irregular niches, some of which might be large enough to hide the body of a man. In the faint glow from the signal flares, he climbed slowly upward until he felt a cool rush of air fan his cheek.

The air was heavy with fog; laden with the breath of the sea. The cavern held still another entrance.

Forcing his body through a cleft in the rocks from whence the breeze came, he found himself in a tunnel-like pa.s.sage. The dry sticks snapped beneath his feet as he felt his way through the impenetrable darkness, stopping at intervals to listen.

That Mascola had preceded him only a few minutes before, he felt reasonably certain. By the time he reached the end of the pa.s.sage the Italian might have gained a place of safety. Why had he not jumped from the ledge at first sight of his father's murderer? By now it would all be over. His thoughts turned quickly to d.i.c.kie Lang. Perhaps the _Gray Ghost_ might have come upon the _Richard's_ anchorage in the cove adjoining the goose-neck. Perhaps the speed-boat had been run down.

Would the girl do as she was told and stay on the launch?

His mind a prey to conflicting thoughts and emotions, Gregory crawled on through the darkness.

When Bandrist and Mascola reached the _Fuor d'Italia_, the Italian kicked the dory adrift as the two men climbed aboard. "Pull the hook,"

he cried, "while I start the motor."

"No," Bandrist whispered. "You'd be a fool to do that. The cave was filled with revenue men. That means there's a cutter lying in around here somewhere. Perhaps at the goose-neck. She would spot you in a minute with her search. We must row the launch around the next point at least."

Mascola growled his resentment at Bandrist's air of authority.

Nevertheless he saw the wisdom of the suggestion and hastily brought out the long ash oars and fastened them in the bra.s.s locks. Bandrist pulled the anchor and took his place at one of the sweeps. For some moments the two men rowed silently into the fog. Then the islander ceased his labor at the oar abruptly.

"Head out," he whispered. "There's a launch ahead."

Mascola's eyes sought to pierce the fog where the dim outline of a motor-boat loomed dark across their course. Then he swung the _Fuor d'Italia_ about and skirting the point rowed doggedly away from the darkened stranger.

The Italian's ugly temper was not bettered by the physical exercise.

There was no need to row the launch as far as this. If Bandrist was going with him, he must learn he was to be only a pa.s.senger. The _Fuor d'Italia_ did not belong to Rock and the islander. She was his own property. He would run her where he pleased and as he pleased. As he labored, he formulated his plans.

He would head straight for the Mexican line, keeping well out to escape the patrol off San Juan. Daybreak would put him in the little lagoon beyond Encinitas. There he would be among friends. He reflected suddenly that he had but little money. American gold in Lower California would buy much. Without it, even his friends would give him but scant comfort. Bandrist, he remembered, never trusted his money to banks, but paid his bills in yellow gold which he carried in the coin belt about his waist.

The observation gave Mascola comfort. Bandrist had enough for them both.

He would see that he received his share.

He ceased rowing.

"Far enough," he muttered.

"No."

Bandrist's reply was sharp and decisive.

"Your exhaust can be heard for miles," he said. "The wind is blowing in our faces. We must keep at the oars. Then they will think us still on the island. If you start the motor now you'll bring pursuit."

Mascola's hatred of Bandrist increased with the quiet tone of command with which the islander spoke.

"There is no boat that can catch mine with this lead," he bragged.

"Mr. Gregory's boat is faster than yours for one," Bandrist disputed quietly. "The new revenue cutters are faster for others. Why are you a fool?"

A hot argument began on the instant between the two men. An argument which ended by Bandrist's knocking Mascola to the c.o.c.kpit.

Mascola lay where he fell for a moment, dazed by the blow. Bandrist was not rowing he noticed. Without doubt he had him covered with his revolver. Fuming with impotent rage, the Italian growled: "Well, you're the boss. It's up to you."

As he struggled to his feet he made up his mind to get square with the islander. Again resuming his oars, he rowed steadily until Bandrist gave the order to start the motor.

The _Fuor d'Italia_ leaped forward and the cool sea air fanned Mascola's flaming face. Settling quietly into his seat he turned his attention to the wheel.

He could afford to wait, but only a little longer.