CHAPTER XIV
A Change of Locomotion
"Take cover!" exclaimed Peter warningly, at the same time making for his automatic and ammunition, which were lying on one of the blankets spread out on the beach.
"Too late, I fancy," replied Brian. "They've spotted us for a dead cert. We were fools to leave the boat and all this gear strewn over the sand."
Nevertheless, Uncle Brian grasped the rifle and automatic pistol and a haversack containing parts of the secret ray invention. Come what may he was not going to let that fall into the hands of the Rioguayans.
"Which way?" he inquired.
"Up the cliff," replied Peter. "We may be able to stow ourselves away before they are sufficiently above us. There's not very much cover, worse luck."
It was fortunate that Peter Corbold had previously found a way to the top. Profiting by the experience, uncle and nephew quickly gained the summit of the cliff.
The flying-boat was now about a mile away, but was shaping a course that would bring her to the west of the island.
"Don't believe they've spotted us yet," declared Peter. "But they are bound to see our boat if they start cruising over the island. Look! What's wrong with that?"
He pointed to a cleft in the face of the cliff about twenty yards to the left of the spot where they had made the ascent. A closer acquaintance showed that the hollow was deep and narrow, descending steeply until it terminated in a natural breastwork about eight feet above the beach. Although open to the air, the enclosing walls of rock were sufficiently irregular to cut off direct observation; and as neither Peter nor his uncle had noticed the cleft from the beach, it being similar to a dozen others, they were fairly safe in assuming that they stood a chance of outwitting their pursuers.
They could hear the drone of the motors, but were unable to see the inquisitive flying-boat. For some minutes the noise continued almost constant in volume, as if the machine were hovering in the vicinity. Then the sound grew louder and louder until it ceased abruptly.
Peter knew what that meant. The Rioguayan airmen had discovered traces of the two Englishmen and were volplaning down to investigate.
Suddenly the descending aircraft appeared within Peter's limited field of vision, since by cautiously peering over the breastwork he could command a view of the beach in the vicinity of the spot where the two Englishmen had landed.
There was nothing to criticize adversely in the manner in which the flying-boat alighted on the surface. With hardly a splash the lightly-built hull took the water. A few revolutions of the for'ard pair of propellers and the flying-boat "taxied" until she touched the edge of the sandy beach.
If there had been any doubts in the minds of Peter and his uncle as to the intentions of the Rioguayan airmen, there was now no uncertainty on that score.
A couple of men jumped out and secured the gently swaying flying-boat by means of a grapnel and rope. Then several more leapt ashore, all fully armed with rifles, revolvers, and machetes. Almost their first act was to smash the little craft which the Englishmen had only just succeeded in repairing.
The Rioguayans seemed to take a childish delight in their work of destruction, laughing, yelling, and gesticulating at the thought that they had run their quarry to its lair and had cut off the fugitives' means of escape.
Not content with smashing the boat to firewood, they examined every article that was strewn on the beach, destroying some and passing the rest into the hull of the flying-boat.
Peter glanced at his uncle and tapped his automatic significantly. At all events, he thought, since the Rioguayans had deprived them of a means to leave the barren island, there was no reason why the two Englishmen shouldn't open a destructive fire upon their now declared foes. At that short range there was a good chance of killing or wounding every man in the group on the beach.
Uncle Brian shook his head.
"Wait," he whispered.
Peter felt positively mutinous. To remain inactive was to throw away their only chance of scoring heavily off their pursuers.
"Why?" he demanded in a low voice.
"They're going to search for us," was the reply.
Brian Strong had the Rioguayan airmen's own words to support his statement, for amid the babel he managed to overhear one of the men declare that the Englishmen must be found, and taken prisoners. These were the Comandante's explicit instructions.
There were now eight of the crew on the beach, all of them arguing with each other and paying scant heed to the excited shouts of an officer in the pilot's seat of the flying-boat. At length two of the crew went on board, reappearing with a long, scraggy dog, whose chief points were his long drooping ears and lolling tongue. Brian Strong recognized the breed as a cross between a Cuban bloodhound and a Brazilian whippet. The dog was carried ashore in spite of its weight, the apparent reason being that for the purpose for which it was intended it must not walk through water.
At the sight of the hound Brian felt more ill at ease than he had since the appearance of the flying-boat. He knew the ferociousness of the breed and their skill in following the trail of a fugitive. He almost wished he had fallen in with his nephew's unspoken suggestion and had tried the moral and physical effect of a sudden and unexpected burst of automatic pistol firing.
It was too late for that now. The opportunity had passed, for already some of the men were screened by the intervening wall of rock.
So Brian watched the movements of the two men with the dog, noting with considerable apprehension that both fellows, in addition to their firearms, carried a supply of hand-grenades, which might or might not be smoke bombs.
Presently they, too, passed out of the Englishmen's arc of vision; but from auricular evidence, it was plain that they were experiencing considerable difficulty in persuading the animal to scale the cliff. But one point was distressingly in evidence; the hound was already on the trail, since he had indicated the way by which Uncle Brian and Peter had gained the summit.
It seemed quite a long interval before the baying of the hound announced that the feat of the ascent was accomplished. Momentarily the two fugitives expected to hear their pursuers descending the narrow gorge in which they were concealed, but minutes passed without their unpleasant expectation being realized.
Gradually the deep notes of the dog, accompanied by the encouraging shouts of the searchers and the occasional report of firearms, died away.
"Good business," whispered Peter. "The brute's picked up the wrong scent. He's following my track where I went this morning."
Which was exactly what the hound was doing, accompanied by the airmen who were firing at haphazard into every bush they passed, on the chance of compelling their quarry to abandon a possible place of concealment.
Peter took another look at the flying-boat. He could see the officer in charge sitting up in the for'ard cockpit with a rifle laid upon the decking by his side. There was no one else visible, but in front of the Rioguayan was an automatic gun somewhat resembling a Colt, with its muzzle pointing ominously in the direction of the way down the cliff.
"We'll have to rush the 'bus, Uncle," said Peter in a low voice. "It's our only chance."
Uncle Brian nodded, and raising the haversack from the ground, slung it over his shoulder.
"Right," he whispered. "Lead on, but keep a sharp look-out in case there's a man on guard on the cliff. If there is, no firing if it can be avoided, mind."
His nephew gave a sign of assent and replaced his automatic, taking the precaution of leaving the flap of the holster unfastened. Then, with his uncle close at his heels, he crept cautiously along the gully, till he arrived at the slightly rugged ground adjoining the brink of the cliff.
As Peter had expected, there was a sentry posted within ten paces of him. The fellow had discarded his flying kit, which was not to be wondered at, seeing that the temperature was somewhere in the region of 120° F. Evidently taking it for granted that, as his comrades and the bloodhound had swept the ground in the neighbourhood of his post, he could "stand easy", he even went so far as to commit the grave military crime of parting with his rifle, for the weapon was resting against a rock. His back was turned to the two Englishmen and—a fact that Peter noted with intense satisfaction—he was rolling a cigarette.
Like almost every person of Latin descent, the fellow was an adept at that task, the cigarette when made being almost semicircular as regards its shape. Then, producing a large box of sulphur matches, he proceeded to set light to the "smoke".
That was the opportunity which Peter was waiting for. He reckoned on the sulphurous fumes causing a little discomfort to the smoker, or at least his attention would be concentrated upon lighting the cigarette, to his own undoing.
Peter had already counted the men engaged in following the useless trail. There were seven, strung out in an irregular line, and by this time quite a quarter of a mile away.
As stealthily as a cat, Peter approached the careless sentry until he was within a couple of yards of him. Then he sprang.
His love of Rugby football had taught him how to "tackle his man low". Before the Rioguayan could utter a sound or realize what had happened, he was lying half dazed upon the ground, with Peter pinning his arms and Brian Strong pressing the muzzle of an automatic gently against the fellow's temple.
"Ask him," said Peter, "how many men are on board the flying-boat."
Uncle Brian obliged, backing up his request with a slightly stronger pressure of the cold ring of the automatic's muzzle.
"The captain and two mechanics," was the tremulous reply.
"That's what I wanted to know," remarked Peter gratuitously. "Now, Uncle Brian, we'll gag and bind this gentleman, to be left till called for."
Peter proceeded with the operation so rapidly and deftly that it left Uncle Brian wondering where his nephew had acquired that knowledge.
In a very few moments the Rioguayan was trussed like a fowl, his sash and belt coming in very useful for the purpose.
"Now a cartridge, Uncle Brian," continued his relative. Uncle Brian handed him one of the rifle cartridges. This Peter wrapped in a handkerchief.
"Open your mouth, old son," he said.
The "old son", although ignorant of English, obliged instantly. It was patent that he, too, had had experience in the gentle art of gagging.
"And that's that," concluded Peter. "Now for the next act of the matinee. We'll kick off from our hiding-place. It's only an eight-foot drop to the beach, and a jolly sight quicker than scrambling down the cliff. I'll take the rifle, please."
Silently and cautiously the two men descended the gully until they reached the breastwork separating the rift from the beach.
Peter peered cautiously in the direction of the flying-boat.
The Rioguayan captain was still at his post in the pilot's seat. He was wearing his leather flying-coat but had thrown back the flaps. He was a swarthy, thick-lipped man with hulking shoulders and a head set well forward—altogether a brutal type of humanity.
"It's like potting a sitting rabbit," thought Peter, as he slipped a cartridge into the breech of his rifle. "It's not giving the fellow a ghost of a chance."
Yet, his compunction notwithstanding, Peter's hands were as steady and his eye as clear as an experienced hunter's. It was the first time in his life that he had had a human being covered with a rifle—but it was the only way.
Deliberately he pressed the trigger. The Rioguayan captain did not appear to move. Peter was beginning to think that he had missed, when the man leant forward until his head rested on his arms on the deck of the fuselage—to all appearances as if he were asleep.
Without hesitation, the Englishmen vaulted over the ledge of rocks on to the beach and ran towards the flying-boat. They fully expected to find their way barred by the two mechanics; but the latter had either not heard the shot, or, if they had, had taken it as one of the many fired by the searchers on the island.
[Illustration: PETER TACKLES THE SENTRY Page 126]
Gaining the pilot's cabin, Peter peered down the hatchway into the engine-room. The place was empty. Hurrying aft, he found the two mechanics in the motor-room, where the twin engines driving the after pair of propellers were situated.
At the sight of a couple of automatics thrust down the hatchway both men raised their arms with commendable celerity.
"Up—you!" ordered Uncle Brian, indicating one of the engineers.
The fellow complied, his olivine features grey with terror.
At Brian Strong's orders, backed up by an indisputable argument in the shape of a pistol, the man was marched along the alley-way to the gangway and told to go ashore and bring back the grapnel and mooring rope. This he did.
"Now," continued Brian sternly, "you can go and stand over there," indicating a spot close to the mangled remains of the "orange-box". "If you shift from there while you are within range of a rifle, you won't stir more than half a dozen steps. I'm a crack shot.... All right, Peter. Away as soon as you like."
The remaining mechanic was ordered for'ard to start the motors. For the present the flying-boat was to be actuated only by the bow propellers, those aft being required only when proceeding at top speed.
Then Peter, having lowered the body of his victim to the water, took his place in the "office". By this time the flying-boat, no longer tethered by the rope and grapnel, had drifted from the island before the light offshore wind.
The motors were throbbing tunefully. A forward thrust of one lever was sufficient to bring both propellers in gear. Like a gigantic water-fowl, the aerial craft leapt forward, leaving a feathery wake on the surface of the lake.
When the speed gauge indicated thirty-eight kilometres, Peter manipulated another lever, and, obedient to the alteration of trim of her short, cambered planes, the flying-boat soared into her proper element.
"A 'bus for an orange-box," soliloquized the light-hearted pilot. "Not a bad exchange, eh what?"