It was a lonely spot. He looked about him, but could not see any trace of a human habitation.
"If this should be a trap I'm nicely in it, all right," he muttered to himself as he followed his guide into the shadows of the wood.
"How much further?" he asked, as they stumbled along over the rough path.
"Right ahead down by the creek," said the man. "We're almost there now."
With a few paces more they emerged on the banks of a slow-flowing and muddy creek, which was evidently tidal and joined the Bartonville Bay lower down. About a hundred yards off stood a rickety looking shack, and anchored in the creek opposite to it was a sloop with a red band painted round its bulwarks. Suddenly and for no reason that he could assign, the recollection flashed across Herc that he had heard Ned speak of such a sloop. At the time though he could not recall in what connection.
"Is this the place?" asked Herc, as his guide slackened his pace.
"This is it," nodded the man, and again a sharp presentiment that all was not right, flashed through Herc. But it was too late to hold back now.
"I'll give him the signal," said the man, placing his fingers to his lips. A shrill whistle followed.
As if by magic, from the tall, spiky grass about them, half a dozen men sprang erect.
"It is a trap!" shouted Herc, flinging himself furiously upon the first man who rushed at him. The lad fought valiantly, but the contest was too uneven to last long. Within five minutes, Herc, raging like a lion, and inwardly abusing his own gullibility that had led him into such an ambush, was bound hand and foot and stretched a prisoner on the floor of the old rookery of a shanty.