Chapter XXXVIII: Cornered

BEFORE the "Meteor" could alight and throw out her huge sea-anchor the "Quickstep" had hove-to and was lowering a boat. Into the latter tumbled four lean-jawed men and a hatchet-faced youngster of about nineteen years of age.

There was no doubt about it: those New Englanders knew how to manage a boat in a seaway. Dexterously the falls were cast off, and bending to their oars the rowers made the whaler shoot over the long, heaving waves.

Before they had made twenty strokes the report of a pistol shot came from the tramp. Without a moment's hesitation her skipper jumped from the bridge without troubling to make use of the ladder, and bolted aft, followed by half a dozen of the deck hands.

It was not long before he was back on deck with a revolver in his hand. At his command one of the men signalled to the "Meteor."

"Sorry! You're right. Laid the skunk by the heels."

As soon as the "Quickstep's" boat came alongside the airship the lad in charge swarmed up the rope ladder and gained the deck.

"Guess you're the boss of this hyer packet?" he exclaimed. "I'm Silas P. Cotton, second mate of the S.S 'Quickstep.' Shake."

Vaughan Whittinghame smiled and accepted the invitation. He extended his hand and shook the proffered tarry paw of the self-possessed young Boston man.

"That skunk Durango has been throwing dust into the old man's eyes," continued Silas P. Cotton. "So the boss has sent me to square things up. I reckon we've heard of the wonderful 'Meteor,' but we didn't calculate on her being so short in length."

"Neither did we," agreed Whittinghame. "Come to my cabin and let us hear about your three passengers. What will you have to drink?"

"Guess rum's my pizen, boss."

A jar of Navy rum that had been sent on board the "Meteor" by the fleet paymaster of one of the ships of Admiral Maynebrace's squadron was produced and uncorked. Filling half a tumbler with the dark spirit the second mate tossed it down at one gulp.

"Now, bizness, boss. This hyer Durango swore that he was a Britisher, and that the airship was one of those blarmed Valderian craft that wanted to lay him by the heels. Our skipper bit the bullet. Sez he: 'There ain't no British airship of that size off this hyer coast; I'll reckon we'll have no truck with that one. I don't want no greasers on my hooker.' So he ordered the helm to be put up, leaving you lying on the water as you are doing now. Durango--Mister Turner of London, he said he was--had heaps of dollars and offered to square up handsome-like if the 'old man' would land him at Guayaquil. The boss said the best he could do was to put him ashore at Panama. With that the skunk seemed right down sick, for he went below to the berth we'd given him, and wouldn't stir."

"Do you happen to know if he had any papers on him?"

"Rolls of paper dollars," replied the second mate. "That's all, I guess. What do you say to coming aboard and seeing how the old man has fixed him up?"

"With pleasure," said Whittinghame. "I hope you won't mind if two of my officers accompany me?"

"Guess they'll get a wet shirt apiece if they ain't particularly slick in getting aboard," replied Silas P. Cotton with a grin.

"Come along, Gerald; and you, too, Mr. Dacres," said the Captain. "We may as well----"

"Message just been signalled from the 'Quickstep,' sir," reported Callaghan. "Captain Gotham asks you to come aboard and bring pistols with you."

"Then, all the fun is not yet over," exclaimed Vaughan Whittinghame. "Take arms, gentlemen. Durango evidently means to give as much trouble as possible."

As the boat ran alongside the "Quickstep" another shot rang out from below. Thinking that there was no time to be lost Vaughan Whittinghame seized hold of the man-ropes and, ably supported by his comrades and the whaler's crew, gained the deck.

To his surprise Whittinghame found Captain Gotham, with his hands thrust deeply into his pockets, leaning against the after guard-rail of the bridge. A huge cigar was jammed tightly betwixt his teeth, and his peaked cap raked at an alarming angle.

"G'day, gentlemen," he exclaimed without attempting to remove his cigar. "Guess you've come to take that wild critter off my hands? Great snakes! If I had a-known he was a low-down Mexican greaser I'd thought twice before he set foot on this hooker."

"Where is he?" asked Whittinghame.

"In the mate's cabin. He's locked himself in, you bet. Thorssenn tried to boost open the door, but the sarpint let fly some. Thorssenn's got more than he can chew, I reckon."

"Was he hit?"

"Clean through the shoulder, boss. Say, how are you going about it?"

Going below and making their way along the narrow alley-way the two Whittinghames and Dacres approached the place where Durango had taken refuge. The hard-visaged Yankee skipper and Silas P. Cotton, not to be outdone in the business of securing the renegade, also joined the attacking party.

Through the cabin door two small jagged holes marked the tracks of Durango's shots. One bullet was embedded in the panelling on the opposite side of the alley-way; the other the unfortunate first mate was nursing in his shoulder.

"The game's up, Durango," said Captain Whittinghame sternly. "You cannot escape, so surrender."

The Mexican's reply was to send another shot through the door, the bullet whizzing between Vaughan and the sub.

The attackers promptly backed out of the danger zone.

"Say, why not let rip at him altogether?" asked Captain Gotham, raising his heavy Colt revolver.

"We want him alive," replied Vaughan Whittinghame. "I cannot explain now, but he's worth more alive than dead."

"Then aim low and cripple the skunk," rejoined the skipper bluntly. "If we've got to wait till he's starved out I reckon we'll be in the latitude of Cape Hatteras before he bails up. Say, what's your programme?"

"Have you a piece of boiler-plate handy?"

"You bet," drawled the Yankee, blowing out a cloud of smoke through his nose, for the cigar was still tightly held between his teeth. "Cut away, sonny, and tell Andrews to send up a piece of biler plate as much as one man can hold--git."

With remarkable agility Silas P. Cotton, who had been addressed as "sonny," made off to carry out the old man's orders. Presently he returned, staggering under the weight of a slightly curved three-sixteenths plate.

Using this as a shield Whittinghame, Dacres, and the master of the "Quickstep" exerted their whole weight and strength against the comparatively frail door. It creaked, but refused to give. The Mexican had barricaded it with the first mate's furniture and bedding.

Durango let fly another shot. The ping of the lead against the boiler-plate told its own tale. He fired again, this time low down. The bullet cut a groove in the Yankee's sea-boots and caused that worthy to let fly a string of oaths.

"Guess I'm master of my own ship!" he shouted. "Who tells Captain Gotham not to use his shooting arms? Here goes."

He raised his revolver and sent six shots in rapid succession through the door. Then he listened, only to skip and dodge behind the iron plate as another bullet cut the peak of his cap.

"Have you any sulphur on board, captain?" asked Dacres, as the American was about to reload.

"Sulphur? Wal, I guess I have some."

"Then we'll smoke him out," continued the sub. "All we want is a brazier and some short lengths of copper pipe and a pair of bellows."

"Bully for you!" exclaimed Captain Gotham enthusiastically. "Git, sonny, and tell Andrews to lay out with the gear."

Off hurried the second mate, to return accompanied by the engineer, a man as lantern-jawed as the rest of the officers of the "Quickstep." With him came a deckhand, who, under Cotton's orders, had stove in a barrel of sulphur.

Soon the yellow rock-like substance was burning. Its pungent fumes caused water to run from the eyes of the operators. More than once during their preparations they had to beat a hurried retreat and gasp for breath in the open air.

At length two pipes were inserted through the shot-holes in the door; the bellows were filled with reeking fumes and discharged through the pipes.

Durango began to cough. The men without could hear him fumbling with the things he had used to barricade the door, with the intention of plugging the pipes and preventing the invasion of the sulphur fumes. Again the attackers hurled themselves against the woodwork. The Mexican realized that he had either to abandon the barricade or submit to be smoked out.

Sheltered behind the boiler-plate Dacres vigorously plied the bellows. After five minutes a strange silence prevailed. Gerald Whittinghame, risking the chance of being shot, peeped through one of the bullet-holes in the upper part of the woodwork.

The interior of the cabin was full of yellow vapour. He could discern the Mexican. Durango had his face jammed up against the open scuttle.

"Tarnation thunder!" ejaculated Captain Gotham. "I fair forgot that scuttle. Keep the pot bilen', boss."

With this injunction the master of the "Quickstep" made his way to the poop deck and peered over the rail. He could see the tip of Durango's nose projecting beyond the rim of the scuttle, while clouds of sulphur fumes wafted past the Mexican's head and eddied along the ship's side.

"Lower that fender--look alive, there!" ordered Captain Gotham.

Two men dragging a huge globular rope fender lowered it over the side and adjusted it so that it blocked the Mexican's sole means of obtaining fresh air. He immediately pushed the obstruction aside with his knife.

The Yankee skipper was not to be baulked. A long handspike was procured; one end was wedged between the lower part of a convenient davit and the vessel's side; a tackle was clapped on to the other end and bowsed taut, thus jamming the fender hard against the scuttle.

The end was now in sight. Durango was gasping for breath.

"Will you surrender?" demanded Captain Whittinghame.

There was no answer.

The attacking party waited a few moments longer. There was a dull thud upon the cabin floor. Still suspecting that this was a ruse on the part of the trapped man they waited another minute, then the door was burst open.

The rush of sulphurous air almost capsized them. Dacres, tying a handkerchief over his mouth and nose, crawled in. His hands encountered the Mexican's resistless form. With a heave he dragged him into the alley-way. Other hands relieved him of his burden and carried Durango on deck.

"Dead?" asked Gerald Whittinghame.

"Snakes don't die easy," grunted Captain Gotham. "Take him away, boss, and welcome to him."

The unconscious form of Durango was lowered out into the "Quickstep's" whaler. The British officers shook hands with the Yankee skipper as they prepared to go over the side.

"One moment, boss," said the latter. "Guess you know I've got those two Valderians aboard?"

"Yes," assented Vaughan. "Can you give five men a passage to Panama? I'll see that you are not out of pocket by it."

"Five?" queried Captain Gotham.

"Yes, these two Valderians and three men of a Galapagos boat we picked up just now. Will fifty dollars be sufficient?"

"Guess that'll fix 'em up, cap. Send the others along."

Twenty minutes later the airship and the tramp parted company, the "Quickstep" to flounder along at a sedate eight knots, while the "Meteor," with Durango in safe keeping, was speeding aloft at ninety miles an hour, homeward bound at last.