Buckhart was saying not a word now. With his strong hands gripping the rail, he leaned forward, gazing at the placid water where the golden tint was gradually changing to a dull reddish color like stagnant blood. They slipped past a huge black hulk that lay anchored near the spot where the catastrophe had occurred. Under the eastern rail of this vessel the shadows were almost inky black.
“We’ve passed the spot, Lynch,” muttered Ditson. “I’m afraid Merriwell’s gone down for good.”
“I’m afraid he has,” whispered Mike huskily.
“Turn back,” came hoarsely from Buckhart’s lips. “We’ll cruise around this locality as long as there’s a ghost of a hope left.”
Duncan brought the boat round, and they retraced their course. This was repeated over and over until the afterglow of sunset had faded in the west and darkness shrouded the entire bosom of the harbor. Not until Buckhart huskily confessed that he no longer hoped did Lynch or Ditson propose abandoning the search. They had been questioned by other persons, and a number of boats were moving about in that vicinity, while the report of a collision and a drowning had been carried to the shore.
The Texan seemed completely overcome by the horrible thing that had happened. Not a word did he speak after the search was abandoned until the launch swung alongside a float where they were to disembark.
“You’ve tried all sorts of tricks to down my pard and myself,” he observed, fixing his gaze on Lynch and Ditson. “At last you’ve succeeded in murdering one of the whitest lads who ever lived. I said murder, and that is the word I meant to use. Don’t tell me you didn’t see our boat. Don’t tell me you didn’t run us down intentionally. And don’t you think for an instant that you’re going to escape paying the penalty for the crime. You can’t lie out of it. There are four of you in the secret, and some one of you will make a false step and trip you all up. This thing shall be investigated, I give you my word. If the body is found, you’ll have a chance to face the coroner’s jury. If it isn’t found, you’ll have a chance to face a jury just the same.”
“Why, you’re daffy, Buckhart!” exclaimed Ditson. “You must be bughouse to think we’d deliberately do anything like that.”
“I know you wouldn’t stop at anything. Perhaps you didn’t mean to drown either one of us when you ran us down. Perhaps you thought it would be a fine joke to smash our boat and give us a ducking. Well, you see what’s come of your fine joke. Dick Merriwell is at the bottom of the harbor, and you, you miserable spawn of the earth—you have his blood on your hands! You can’t wash it off. The stain will cling there even as it clung to the hands of Lady Macbeth. And retribution is as sure for you as it was for her.”