At dusk Squinty was relieved on guard by another of the band—a man of even more sinister appearance than he himself,—a fellow with a big bottle nose and red, inflamed features. He had the besotted, foolish look of a man who is given to yielding to a passion for drink. He brought with him some tin dishes—or rather two tin bowls, and a pair of tin cups. The former contained a kind of stew with a big hunk of bread stuck on one side of the receptacle. The cups were filled with steaming coffee. The newcomer and Death silently released the boys’ hands so that they could eat. While they satisfied their appetites, which by this time were rather sharp, Tom wished devoutly that among the “table furnishings” there had been two knives. He would have risked the attempt to conceal one of them. But, to his disappointment, the meal was served with spoons as the only means of conveying the eatables to the mouth. So that plan was nipped in the bud.
Death and the red-faced man talked in low tones while the boys ate. Apparently the latter was trying to induce the Indian to perform some service for him which the other was unwilling to undertake. At last, however, he appeared to yield, and the boys saw the red-faced individual slip something that looked like money into the Indian’s hand. The latter shambled off and shortly reappeared with a round bottle covered with wicker, which he handed to the red-faced man. The bottle appeared to have come from the quarters of the Chinamen, for that was the direction in which the Indian had gone on his errand.
Supper over, the tin dishes were removed, and the boys’ hands tied once more. They tried to ask some questions, but were cut short with growls from both their guardians. They sat silently wondering how things were going forward with their uncle and Mr. Chillingworth, as the dark rushed on.
Before long the canyon was enveloped in a gray gloom, which presently became black night. Far above them—seen as if from the bottom of a pit—were stars, shining brightly, and with an irritating sense of freedom. The boys had crawled to the cavern mouth to make these observations, but Death and his companion forced them back. As darkness fell, from the camp they could hear the “Plunk-a-plunka-plunk” of Simon Lake’s banjo. The rascal’s harsh voice, too, reached them, crooning out apparently sentimental songs of the cheap music-hall variety.
It grew chilly as the evening wore on. A sea wind laden with a penetrating dampness swept up the canyon. It moaned in a dismal fashion in the black pine woods. Death and the red-nosed man dragged wood to the cave mouth and made a fire. When it was kindled they sat by it hugging their knees, their rifles between their legs, and staring moodily into the glowing embers. Every now and then the Indian would rise to get more wood. At such times he would take a perfunctory glance into the cave to see how his charges were faring.
When he did this the red-nosed took advantage of the other’s back being turned to raise the bottle to his lips and take a long draught. Presently he offered the bottle to the Indian. The Chinook silently took a long drink and handed it back. This performance was repeated several times.
By the time the last tinkle of the plaintive banjo had died out and silence reigned among the chattering Chinamen, both the Indian and the red-nosed man appeared to have difficulty in keeping awake. Presently the latter began to nod. He dozed off two or three times, awakening with a start. Before long he was off in real earnest. His head lolled forward on his chest, his mouth flopped open supinely. He lurched down, huddled in a heap, a degrading spectacle. The potent effect of what he had consumed overcame the Indian more slowly. Before he gave himself up to sleep, in fact, he entered the cave and felt the boys’ ropes carefully. Then apparently, to make sure they were all secure, he strode off toward the main camp and presently returned with more rope. With this he made additional thongs. Then with a grunt of satisfaction he left the cave, and, after a cautious look about him, he, too, laid himself down in front of the fire and presently his wary, beady eyes closed. The Chinese liquor, strong, sleep-inducing, and wit-benumbing, had overtaken him, too.
“Oh, if only we had a knife,” sighed Tom, “we could make a dash for it now.”
“You bet we would,” cried Jack. “All they could do would be to fire after us, and they’d stand little chance of hitting us in the dark.”
“Well, no good wishing,” sighed Tom. “Here we are now, tied up tighter than ever, and——”