Ralestone Luck

CHAPTER XV PIECES OF EIGHT—RALESTONES' FATE!

Through the dull roaring which filled his ears Val heard a sharp call:

"Val! Val, where are you? Val!"

He stared up into utter blackness.

"Val!"

"Here, Ricky!" But that thin thread of a whisper surely didn't belong to him. He tried again and achieved a sort of croak. Something moved behind him and there was an answering rattle of falling clods.

"Val, I'm afraid to move," her voice wavered unsteadily. "It seems to be falling yet. Where are you?"

The boy tried to investigate, only to find himself more securely fastened than if he had been scientifically bound. And now that the mists had cleared from him, his spine and back felt a sharp pain to which he was no stranger. From his breast-bone down he was held as if in a vise.

"Are you hurt, Ricky?" He formed the words slowly. Every breath he drew thrust a red-hot knife between his ribs. He turned his head toward her, pillowing his cheek on the gritty clay.

"No. But where are you, Val? Can't you come to me?"

"Sorry. Un—unavoidably detained," he gasped. "Don't try any crawling or the rest may come down on us."

"Val! What's the matter? Are you hurt?" Her questions cut sharply through the darkness.

"Banged up a little. No"—he heard the rustle which betrayed her movements—"don't try to come to me—Please, Ricky!"

But with infinite caution she came, until her brother felt the edge of her cape against his face. Then her questing hand touched his throat and slid downward to his shoulders.

"Val!" He knew what horror colored that cry as she came upon what imprisoned him.

"It's all right, Ricky. I'm just pinned in. If I don't try to move I'm safe." Quickly he tried to reassure her.

"Val, don't lie to me now—you're hurt!"

"It's not bad, really, Ricky—"

"Oh!" There was a single small cry and a moment of utter silence and then a hurried rustling.

"Here." Her hand groped for his head. "I've wadded up my cape. Can I slip it under your head?"

"Better not try just yet. Anything might send off the landslide again. Just—just give me a minute or two to—to sort of catch my breath." Catch his breath, when every sobbing gasp he drew was a stab!

"Can't we—can't I lift some of the stuff off?" she asked.

"No. Too risky."

"But—but we can't stay here—" Her voice trailed off and it was then that she must have realized for the first time just what had happened to them.

"I'm afraid we'll have to, Ricky," said her brother quietly.

"But, Val—Val, what if—if—"

"If we aren't found?" he put her fear into words. "But we will be. Rupert is doubtless moving a large amount of earth right now to accomplish that."

"Rupert doesn't know where we are." She had regained control of both voice and spirit. "We—we may never be found, Val."

"I was a fool," he stated plainly a fact which he now knew to be only too true.

"I would have come even if you hadn't, Val," she answered generously and untruthfully. It was perhaps the kindest thing she had ever said.

Now that the noise of the catastrophe had died away they could hear again the drip of water. And that sound tortured Val's dry throat. A glass of cool water—He turned his head restlessly.

"If we only had a light," came Ricky's wish.

"The flash is probably buried."

"Val, will—will it be fun?"

"What?" he demanded, suddenly alert at her tone. Had the dark and their trouble made her light-headed?

"Being a ghost. We—we could walk the hall with Great-uncle Rick; he wouldn't begrudge us that."

"Ricky! Stop it!"

Her answering laugh, though shaky, was sane enough.

"I do pick the wrong times to display my sense of humor, don't I? Val, is it so very bad?"

Something within him crumbled at that question.

"Not so good, Lady," he replied in spite of the resolutions he had made.

She brushed back the hair glued by perspiration to his forehead. Ricky was not gold, he thought, for gold is a rather dirty thing. But she was all steel, as clean and shining as a blade fresh from the hands of a master armorer. He made a great effort and found that he could move his right arm an inch or two. Concentrating all his strength there, he wriggled it back and forth until he could draw it free from the wreckage. But his left shoulder and side were numb save for the pain which came and went.

"Got my arm free," Val told her exultantly and reached up to feel for her in the dark. His fingers closed upon coarse cloth. He pulled feebly and something rolled toward him.

"What's this?"

Ricky's hands slid along his arm to the thing he had found. He could hear her exploring movements.

"It's some sort of a bundle. I wonder where it came from."

"Some more remains of the jolly pirate days, I suppose."

"Here's something else. A bag, I think. Ugh! It smells nasty! There's a hole in it—Oh, here's a piece of money. At least it feels like money. There's more in the bag." She pressed a disk about as large as a half-dollar into Val's palm.

"Pirate loot—" he began. Anything that would keep them from thinking of where they were and what had happened was to be welcomed.

"Val"—he could hear her move uneasily—"remember that old saying: 'Pieces of eight—Ralestones' fate?"

"All good families have curses," he reminded her.

"And good families can have—can have accidents, too."

There could be no answer to that. Nor did Val feel like answering. The savage pain in his legs and back had given way to a kind of numbness. A chill not caused by the dank air crawled up his body. What—what if his injuries were worse than he had thought? What if—if—

The dripping of the water seemed louder, and it no longer fell with the same rhythm. Ricky must be counting money from the bag. He could hear the clink of metal against stone as she dropped a piece.

"Don't lose it," he muttered foggily.

"Lose what?"

"Your pieces of eight."

"What do you mean?"

"You just dropped a piece."

"I haven't touched—Val, do—do you feel worse?"

But he had no thought now for his body. If Ricky had not dropped the money, then what had caused the clink? He ground his cheek against the clay. Thud, thud, clink, thud. That was not water dripping nor coin rattling. That was the sound of digging. And digging meant—

"Ricky! They're digging! I can hear them!"

Her fingers closed about his free hand until the nails dug into the flesh. "Where?"

"I don't know. Listen!"

The sound had grown in strength until now, though muffled, it sounded through that part of the passage still remaining open.

"It comes from this end. From behind that wall. But why should it come from there?"

"Does it matter? Val, do you suppose they could hear me if I pounded on the wall at this side?"

"You haven't anything heavy enough to pound with."

"Yes, I have. This package thing that you found. It's quite heavy. Val, we've got to let them know we're here!"

She crawled away, moving with caution lest she bring on another slide. That reassuring thud, thud still sounded. Then, after long minutes, Val heard the answering blow from their side. Three times Ricky struck before the rhythm of the digging was broken. Then there was silence followed by three sharp blows. They had heard!

Ricky beat a perfect tattoo in joy and was quickly answered. Then the thud, thud began again, but this time the pace was quickened.

"They've heard! They're coming!" Ricky's voice shrilled until it became a scream. "Val, we're found!"

A clod was loosened somewhere above them and crashed upon the wreckage. Would the efforts of their rescuers bring on another slide?

"Be quiet, Ricky," Val croaked a warning, "it's still moving."

Then there came the sharp clink of metal against stone. "Val," called Ricky, "they're right against the wall now!"

"Come back here, away from it. We—we don't want you caught, too," he answered her.

Obediently she crawled back to him and again he felt her hand close about his. The sound of metal grating against stubborn brick filled their pocket of safety. But as an ominous accompaniment came the soft hiss of earth sliding onto the wreckage. Which would win to them first, the rescuers or the second slide?

There was a vicious grinding noise from the walled end of the passage. A moment later a blinding ray of light swung in, to focus upon them.

"Ricky! Val!"

Val was blinking stupidly at the light, but Ricky had presence of mind enough to answer.

"Here we are!"

"Look out," Val roused enough to warn, "the walls are unsafe!"

"We're coming through," rang the answer out of the dark. "Stand away!"

Now that they could see, Val realized for the first time the danger of their position. A jagged, water-rotted beam half covered with clay and sand lay across him, and beyond that was a mass of splintered wood and wet earth. A little sick, he looked up at Ricky. She was staring at the wreckage. Her eyes were black in a white, mud-smeared face.

"Val—Val!" His name came as the thinnest of whispers.

"It isn't as bad as it looks," he said hurriedly. "Something underneath must be supporting most of the weight or—or I wouldn't be here at all."

"Val," she repeated, and then, paying no heed to his frantic injunctions to keep away, she dug at earth and rotten wood with her hands. Using the long bundle clumsily wrapped in stained canvas, she levered a piece of beam out of the way so that she might get down on her knees and scoop up the sand and clay.

"Ricky! Val!" The light swung ahead as someone scrambled through the hole in the barrier wall. Then, when the ray held firm upon them, the headlong rush was checked for a long instant. "Val!"

"Get her—away," he begged. "Another—slip—"

But before he had done, a long arm gathered Ricky up as if she had been a child. "Right," came the firm answer. "Sam, take Miss 'Chanda back. Then—"

Val was watching the reflection of the flash on the broken roof above him. Sand slid in tiny streams down the wall, mingling with the greenish trickles of water. There were queer blue and green arcs painted on the brick which had something to do with the hot pain behind his eyes. The blue turned to orange—to scarlet—

"Careful! Right here in the hall, Holmes—"

The broken earth above him had somehow been changed to a high ceiling, the chill darkness to blazing light and warmth.

"Ricky?" he asked.

"Here, Val." Her face was very close to his.

"You—are—all—right?"

"'Course!" But she was crying. "Don't try to talk, Val. You must be quiet."

He heard someone moving toward them but he kept his eyes on Ricky's face. "We did it!"

"Yes," she answered slowly, "we did it."

"Val, don't try to talk." Rupert's face showed above Ricky's hunched shoulder. There was an odd, strained look about his mouth, a smear of mud across his cheek. But the harsh tone of his voice struck his brother as dumb as if he had slapped him.

"Sorry," Val shaped the words stiffly, "all my fault."

"Nothing's your fault," Ricky's indignant answer cut in. "But—but just be quiet, Val, until the doctor comes."

He turned his head slowly. On the hearth-stone stood Charity talking quietly to Holmes. Just within the circle of the firelight lay a bundle which he had seen before. But of course, that was the thing they had found in the passage, which Ricky had used to pound out their answer to Rupert.

"Ricky—" Val always believed that it was some instinct out of the past which forced that whisper out of him—"Ricky, open that package."

"Why—" she began, but then she got to her feet and went to the bundle, twisting the tarred rope that fastened it in a vain attempt to undo the intricate knots. It was Holmes who produced a knife and sawed through the tough cord. And it was Holmes who unrolled the strips of canvas, oil-silk, and greasy skins. But it was Ricky who took up what lay within and held it out so that it reflected both red firelight and golden room light.

Her brother's sigh was one of satisfaction.

For Ricky held aloft by its ponderous hilt a great war sword. There could be no doubt in any of them—the Luck of Lorne had returned.

Ricky held aloft a great war sword. There could be no doubt in any of them—the Luck of Lorne had returned.

"We found it!" breathed Ricky.

"Put it in its place," Val ordered.

Without a word, Rupert drew out a chair and scrambled up. Taking from Ricky's hands the ancient weapon, he slipped it into the niche their pirate ancestor had made for it. In spite of the years underground, the metal of hilt and blade was clear. Seven hundred years of history—their Luck!

"Everything will come right again," Val repeated as Ricky came back to him. "You'll see. Everything—will—be—all—right."

His eyes closed in spite of his efforts. He was back in the darkness where he could only feel the warmth of Ricky's hands clasped about his.