The Bungalow Boys in the Great Northwest

All at once, they emerged from a clump of brush, not unlike our eastern alders – almost upon the bank of a fine river. It was a lot bigger than they had expected, and was rushing along with the turbulent velocity characteristic of mountain water. Here and there were black, deep eddies dotted with circling flecks of white, yeasty foam. But the main stream dashed between its steep, rocky banks like a racehorse, flinging spray and spindrift high in the air when it encountered a check. The water was greenish – almost a glassy tint. The boys learned later that this was because it was snow water and came from the high Olympians.

Flinging themselves flat by the side of one of the eddies, they drank greedily.

“Reminds me of what that kid said when he showed his mother a fine spring he had discovered, and the good lady wished to know how to drink out of it,” chuckled Jack, as they paused for breath.

“What was that?” inquired Tom, wiping his wet mouth with the back of a sun-burned hand.

“‘Why, maw,’ said the kid, ‘you just lie on your tummy and drink uphill.’”

“That does pretty nearly describe it for a fact,” agreed Tom. As he spoke, both boys straightened up from their recumbent position. Hardly had they done so and were scrambling to their feet when there came a sudden, sharp crackling of the brush higher up the stream. Before they had time to recover from their surprise, or to even hazard a guess at what the noise might mean, the brush parted and a figure stepped forth.

Both boys uttered a cry of amazement as their eyes fell on the newcomer. He was a Chinaman – tall, grave, and with a face like a parchment mask.

As Fu saw him, he fell on his face and began muttering incoherent noises like those he had given vent to when he cast himself on the deck of the sloop the night before.

The newcomer was the first to speak. He did so in a deep, sonorous voice very unlike the squeaky, jerky mode of utterance of Fu.

“White boys come with me,” he said, in a tone that indicated that he did not expect to be disobeyed.

“Well, of all the nerve,” breathed the astonished Jack to himself. But before he could speak a word aloud, Tom spoke up:

“We are on our way to a ranch,” he said, “and must reach there by sundown. We’ll have to hurry on.”

No change of expression crossed that yellow mask, but the tall Chinaman’s hand slipped into his blouse sleeve, which was loose and flowing. It was done so rapidly that before the boys had fairly noticed the movement a revolver was pointing at them; the sunlight that struck down through the dark-topped pines glinted ominously on its blued barrel.

The Chinaman, in the same level, monotonous voice, repeated his command:

“White boys come with me.”

“Why, confound it all – ” burst out Tom, but somehow the sight of that tall, motionless figure, with the expressionless face staring unblinkingly at them, and the revolver pointed menacingly in their direction, made him break off short.

“Oh, all right, then,” he said. “I guess we’ll have to. You’ve got the drop on us. But if there were any authorities near, you’d hear of this.”

The ghost of a smile flitted across the tall Chinaman’s hitherto fixed visage. But he made no comment. Instead, he turned to the recumbent Fu, and spoke sharply to him in Chinese. As he was addressed, Fu rose with alacrity and bowed low three times. He seemed to be terrified out of his wits, and fairly whimpered as the stern gaze of his majestic countryman fell upon him.

“White boys walk in front,” ordered the tall Chinaman, motioning toward the clump of brush from which he had so suddenly materialized.

They now saw that there was a narrow trail leading through it. And so, down this narrow path the odd procession started – the two lads in front, and behind the oddly assorted pair of Mongolians.

It would be wrong to say the boys were frightened. To be frightened, a certain amount of previous apprehension is necessary. This thing had happened so suddenly and was so utterly inexplicable that they were fairly stunned. Their sensations, as they walked among the thick-growing bushes, were not unlike those of persons in a dream. Somehow, at every turn of the path, they expected to wake up.

And wake up they did presently. The wakening came as, after traversing the narrow trail for a half mile, they suddenly emerged on a camp under a clump of big pines. At one side of the open space in which three tents were pitched, the stream boiled and roared. On the other, the precipice shot up. But the camp was screened from view from above by the brush which grew out of cracks in the cliff-face. Beyond the river another wooded precipice arose. This was a frowning rampart of bare, scarred rock. All this uneasily impressed the boys. They could perceive that they were in a sort of natural man-trap.

This sense of uneasiness increased as, their first rapid glance over, they observed details. In front of one of the tents was seated a tall, lanky figure, dressed in rough mackinack trousers, calf skin boots, a blue shirt open to expose a sinewy throat, and, to crown all, a battered sombrero. This man was seated on an old soap box and strumming on a banjo as they entered the glade.

At the sound of footsteps he looked up and showed a dark, high-cheek-boned face with a thin, hawk-like nose, and a pair of piercing, steely-gray eyes. The man was clean shaven and his lips were thin, close-pressed, and cruel. This countenance was framed in a mass of lank, black hair, so long that it hung down to the shoulders of his faded shirt.

The figure, its occupation, and the previous incidents of the adventure all combined to form an intuition which suddenly flashed with convincing force into Tom’s mind:

This place was the hidden camp of the Chinese runners, and the figure on the soap box was Bully Banjo – the feared and admired Simon Lake himself.

“Right smart work, by Chowder!” he exclaimed, setting aside his banjo and rising on his long, thin limbs as the boys and Fu were marched into his presence. His voice was as thin, sharp, and penetrating as his eyes, and was unmistakably that of a downeaster. In fact, Simon Lake was a native of Nantucket. From whaling he had drifted to sealing. From sealing to seal poaching in the Aleutian, and from that it was but a step to his present employment. A shudder that they could not suppress ran through the boys as they realized that they were in the presence of this notorious sea wolf.

CHAPTER VIII.

IN THE GRIP OF SIMON LAKE

But Simon Lake’s voice, setting aside its rasping natural inflection, was mild enough as he addressed them.

“Wa-al, boys, yer see thet I’ve got a smart long arm.”

“I’d like to know by what right you’ve had us brought here in this fashion,” broke out Tom indignantly. “We’re not interfering with you. Why, then, can’t you leave us alone?”

“Jes’ cos I want er bit uv infermation frum yer,” rejoined Simon easily. He leaned down and picked up a bit of wood. Then, drawing a knife, he shaped it to a toothpick and thrust it in his mouth. During the pause the boys noticed that several rough-looking men had sauntered up from various positions about the camp. Among them was one short, stocky man, who might have been the thickset man of the boat the night before. This individual’s hat was shoved back – for it was warm and stuffy in this place – exposing a ruddy stubble of hair. A bristly mustache as coarse as wire sprouted from his upper lip. This man was Zeb Hunt, Bully Banjo’s mate when afloat and chief lieutenant ashore. In some ways he was a bigger ruffian than his superior.

“Ez I sed,” resumed Simon Lake, when he had shaped the pick to his satisfaction, “I want er bit uv infermation from yer. It ain’t often thet Simon Lake wants ter know suthin’ thet he kain’t find out right smart fer hisself. But this yar time it’s diff’ent. I’m a kalkerlatin’ on you byes helpin’ me out.”

A sudden gleam came into those cold, steely eyes. A flash of warning not to trifle with him, it seemed. But it died out as suddenly as it had come, and in his monotonous Yankee drawl, Simon went on:

“Ther hull in an’ outs uv it is – how fur hez Chillingwuth gone?”

“I don’t know what you mean,” exclaimed Tom, who had decided to act as spokesman, and silenced the impetuous Jack by a look.

“Oh, yes, yer do, boy. Daon’t try ter gilflicker me. I’m ez smart ez a steel trap, boy, and ez quick as sixty-’leven, so da-ont rile me up. I’m askin’ yer ag’in – how fur hez Chillingworth gone?”

“He’s anchored down in the cove,” said Tom, willfully misunderstanding him.

Again that angry gleam shone in Bully Banjo’s eyes. His thin lips tightened till they were a mere slit across his gaunt visage.

“Daon’t rile me, boy,” he said, in an almost pleading voice, although Tom was swift to catch the menace behind it. “Daon’t rile me. Yer seen thet them I wants I gits. Yer seen thet when that Chink yonder walked inter yer by the crick. Speak me true, bye, an’ speak me fair, an’ yer kin go on yer way. But ef yer lie – wa-al, by Juniper, you’ll wish as you wuz dead a hundred times afore you be.”

“In any event,” said Tom boldly enough, and without a quiver in his voice, though his scalp tightened and his heart beat thick and fast at these words; “in any event, if you think you can carry out any such high-handed piece of business as this without suffering for it, you’re badly mistaken.”

Simon Lake laughed. His mirth was not pleasant to hear.

“We’re in the twentieth century, recollect,” added Tom. “There is such a thing as law and order. Seattle is not so very far away. Port Townsend, too. There are police there, and the means to make you suffer.”

“Wa-al, d’ye hear thet, Zeb?” asked Bully Banjo, turning to his mate. “I kinder kalkerlate thet is ther all-firedest best joke I’ve hearn since Heck wuz a pup. By Juniper, boy,” he went on impressively, “ther ain’t no law made kin touch me. Understand? No law made. They’re welcome ter try ef they want ter. You kin see fer yourselves thet nobody wouldn’t find this place unless they knowed the way, and nobody’s not never goin’ ter diskiver it ’cept those who I’ve a mind shall. Na-ow air yer goin’ ter tell me wot Chillingworth hez done in ther matter of tryin’ ter bring me up with a short tun?”

“No. I am not,” replied Tom firmly. “That is Mr. Chillingworth’s business. Why do you ask us about it? We are only out here as his guests. We know nothing about your ras – ” “Rascality” Tom was going to say, but thought better of it and substituted: “Goings on.”

Lake smiled unpleasantly. His fingers closed suggestively around his knife.

“Yer seem ter cle’n plum everlastingly fergit thet I kin find out all I want ter know frum thet Chink thar,” he snapped suddenly, pointing to Fu, who stood apart with his tall countryman. The two seemed to be talking earnestly. As Lake turned, the tall Mongolian hastened toward him. It was as if he had overheard him, although that at the distance which he had been standing would have been impossible.

“That fellow yonder,” he said, speaking slowly, but using good English, “that fellow yonder,” pointing to Fu, “tells me that these boys and their companions were anchored on a sloop in the cove last night. They saw the burials and overheard some of our talk.”

Lake’s face grew black, as if a thundercloud had settled on it. Zeb Hunt exclaimed angrily. The men standing about began to mutter. Tom saw that the frightened Fu must have told everything.