Before we were half a mile away, they were hauling in the drag, both at it with all their strength, and we knew they had struck something.
It was necessary to decide at once what to do. If they had the cache, we would find it; if they had hold of something else or were simply playing to throw any one off the scent, they would keep their secret. We decided to take the chance.
I swung the launch around, and opened her up to the limit. In an instant we were flying toward them at fifteen miles an hour, and within two minutes were in hailing distance. They saw us coming, and hesitated. That hesitation made me sure of our game. They would not let go the cache unless something dangerous was about to happen, the danger of losing it altogether being too great. Smith jumped up, revolver in hand, as the launch came tearing up.
"Hands up—stop that drag," he yelled. "We've got you, Doctor Jackson."
A flash flicked the gloom, and a sharp "pop" sounded, followed by another and another. Smith dropped his gun, and fell into the bottom of the boat.
"They got me," he gasped.
Then he raised himself upon his knees and, while I headed the flying craft straight for them and opened fire, Smith rested his revolver upon the coamings, and shot the doctor through the head.
Then the launch crashed into their craft, going at full speed, and her sharp nose cut straight in a full foot and a half before she stopped.
The young man who had shot my third mate was snapping an empty gun at me as he went over the side into the sea. I stopped the engine, and jumped for him.
He dived, but as he came up I hit him over the head with a boat hook that lay handy, and before he sank I had caught the hook into his collar and dragged him alongside.