“If the boys could not make a landing?—What then?” It was an unbearable thought and, as often as it came to him, and, try as he would the young reporter could not dispossess himself of it—there came with it a premonition of disaster. Though Ben didn’t mention it the same thought was chasing itself through his mind. At last he could contain himself no longer and remarked:
“Now, mate, all’s snugged down and ship-shape and I reckon we’d better turn in and get what sleep we can,” he looked at the alarm-clock that hung on the tent pole.
“Eight bells,” he said, “I wonder how it’s going with them boys?” That was all, but the note of anxiety in his voice showed that the hardened old salt was as badly worried about what was transpiring on the Golden Eagle as Billy himself.
“I guess they will be all right, don’t you, Ben?” anxiously asked Billy, quite willing to catch at even a straw of hope.
For answer Ben pulled the tent flap aside and looked out into the black night.
“Wall,” he replied slowly, after he had cast his eye up at the sky, which was ribboned with blue, serpent-like streaks of lightning,—“wall, I’ve seen dirtier nights; but not many. I don’t know much about air wessels;” he went on deliberately, “but my opinion, Mister Barnes, is that this ain’t no kind of weather to be navigating on sea or land.”
Not a word more could Billy get out of him and he could find no comfort in what the old tar had said.
It was snug enough in the tent, with the lamp hung to the ridge-pole and Ben’s pipe going, but outside the storm was evidently waxing in fury. As the thunder crashed and roared its echo was flung against the steep cliff—on the summit of which lay the Toltec treasure valley—with the noise of a battery of heavy guns. It was deafening and to Billy, who had never before experienced a tropic thunderstorm, it was terrifying. He said nothing, however, but sat nursing his knee on the edge of his cot while outside the uproar grew every minute more angry and menacing.
As for Ben Stubbs his conduct was singular. He sat, pipe in mouth, with his head on one side, as though listening intently for something—for what Billy had no idea—and as Ben didn’t seem in a talkative mood he didn’t ask him.
Suddenly there came a lull in the storm and the old sailor ran to the flap of the tent. Outside he threw himself on the ground, holding one ear close to it. He was up in a second and back in the tent.