They crossed the shingle, seeing nothing that suggested there was anybody about, but Walthew grew uneasy as they approached the trees. The belt of timber was wrapped in gloom, and rolled back up the rising ground in shadowy masses that rustled in the wind. It had somehow a forbidding look, and the nearer he got the less he liked it. He was not daunted, and meant to go on, but his nerves were highly strung and his glances suspicious as he tried to pierce the dark.
They found a trail through tall grass and reeds, and followed it across a patch of boggy soil until it led them to an opening in the trees. Here a shadowy object rose out of the gloom, and Walthew instinctively felt for his pistol. The abrupt movement dislodged a small bundle of clothes which he carried by a strap across his shoulder, and it fell to the ground. Then he saw the man come forward, waving his hand.
"This way, señor!" he called to Grahame, who was some yards in front.
Walthew felt tempted to leave the bundle. He wanted to watch the man; but there was a packet of cartridges among the clothes he had dropped, and he thought they might prove useful. Stooping down, he felt among the grass, but had to move once or twice before he found the bundle; then, springing to his feet, he saw that Grahame and the other had vanished. The next moment his comrade's voice reached him, hoarse and breathless:
"Run!"
That Grahame said nothing more was ominous; but Walthew did not run back to the boat. Drawing his pistol, he plunged in among the trees, but as he reached them he felt a stunning blow on his head. He staggered and fell into a thicket, blinded by blood that ran into his eyes. A struggle seemed to be going on near by, and, getting upon his knees, he fired at random. He thought a man ran toward him, and he fired again, but his mind was confused and he could hardly see. For all that, he got upon his feet and stumbled forward, dazed but determined to rescue his comrade.
A few moments afterward it dawned on him that he was going the wrong way, for he seemed to have come out on the beach. Two or three men were hurrying toward him, but the pistol would not go off. Stumbling on with his hand clenched on the barrel, ready to use the butt, he tripped and fell among the rattling shingle. Then his senses left him.
The next thing of which he was conscious was a cool splash on his face, and while he wondered what it was, he felt that he lay upon something that moved in an erratic manner. It was not shingle, for it was smooth when he touched it, but a minute or two passed before he realized that he was lying in the sternsheets of the gig. She was plunging sharply, the spray flew aft in showers, and when he wiped his eyes he saw that the men were pulling hard. With some trouble he got to his knees, and the top of a wave that washed across the gunwale struck his face.
"Where is the señor Grahame?" he asked faintly.
"Who knows!" somebody answered. "It seems the rurales have him. We came too late."