The Golden Quest

CHAPTER XI. PLOTTERS BY NIGHT

WHILE The Shadow had been engaged in his strange expedition, Harry Vincent and Rex Brodford had not been idle. The two young men had chugged their way to the gully that marked the edge of the Quest mine property. They had moored the motorboat and found the blazed trail to the shack.

Stowing their luggage, they had decided to return to the lake. In course of discussion, both had agreed that it would be more pleasant to spend the night at Laspar’s lodge. They could then start their first day’s search from the water’s edge.

The trek up to the shack had been a rocky one. Their return progress had been slow. With the boat ride, and two miles of hike up the hill and two miles down again, they had consumed considerable time.

Added to this was a half hour that they had spent at the shack. The entire procedure had required more than two hours and a half.

Seated on the shore beside the motorboat, Rex and Harry lighted their pipes and began to talk about the night’s work. Rippleless, the blackened water of Lake Chalice lay before them. Under a cloudy sky, they could scarcely discern the point where Laspar’s lodge stood.

The air was warm and sullen. The water lay Styxlike in its inkiness. The adventurers were like lost souls, waiting for Charon’s barge to take them to some nether shore.

Something in the gloom aroused Rex Brodford.

“Vincent,” declared the young man, seriously, “we’d be dubs to call this a night. We’re betwixt and between, if you get the idea.”

“Elucidate,” laughed Harry.

“We’ve left the shack,” resumed Rex, “and we’d be crazier than we are if we went back to it. But at the same time, we told Laspar we intended to stay there.”

“We intimated that we would.”

“Well, there are no lights showing on the point. He has given us up for the night, and a pair of fine wahoos we’d be if we barged in at this late hour.”

“So therefore, we should camp here.”

“No. The shack is the best bet, provided that we can kid ourselves into thinking we had a reason for coming back here to the lake.”

“A reason? How about a ride in the motorboat?”

“A mode of transportation. I want a purpose. I have one, if you’re game.”

“A trip to Old Absalom’s isle?”

“You’ve guessed it.”

HARRY pondered. The adventure appealed to him. But Harry held some concern about the advisability of such a step. He felt that it would be better to first contact The Shadow.

While Harry considered, Rex broke the chain of thought.

“Come along,” he scoffed. “We ought to find out something about this bearded hermit before we start hunting for the mine shaft. Let’s look in on him, at his native habitat. He’s part of the fauna of Lake Chalice.”

“It might not be wise,” began Harry.

“Why not?” Rex’s query carried a note of suspicion. “I thought you were with me a hundred per cent, Vincent.”

“I am,” acknowledged Harry. He saw need of an excuse for his reluctance. “I’m not worrying about Old Absalom. What I don’t like is the motorboat.”

“What’s the matter with it?”

“You can hear it anywhere on Lake Chalice. If we chugged down by that island, the hermit would be out with a howitzer, waiting to sink us.”

“No other objection?”

“None.”

Rex chuckled. “How about that old rowboat we saw on the shore?” he queried. “The flat-bottomed scow that somebody turned turtle. We can use that. Come along we’ll get it.”

Rex arose. Harry was forced to follow. He had no present excuse for dallying. He hoped only that they would find a leaky boat, with no oars.

But Harry was doomed to disappointment. After blundering through underbrush, they came upon the boat. Rex thumped it and found it solid; then stumbled upon the oars projecting from beneath the inverted gunwales.

“Loop oarlocks,” he commented, as he shook one of the oars. “All ready to go. Come along — we’ll launch this beauty and begin our voyage.”

ONE hour later, the boat was gliding close to the lee of Old Absalom’s island. Rex was at the oars; Harry was seated in the stern, watching the boat’s course.

Progress had been slower than anticipated. The trip had begun with creaking oarlocks, which Harry had protested. As a result, they had stopped at the motorboat for an oil can.

Generous squirts of lubricant had banished the noise. Rex was a competent oarsman; and he had added skill rather than speed. Half a mile from the isle, he had muffled his strokes entirely. The approach was one of stealth.

The boat grounded on sand. Rex clambered ashore. Harry followed, and they drew the boat up among the bushes. Skirting the shore of the little islet, the two men looked for signs of a path. They did this in darkness, not caring to risk a flashlight.

Harry stumbled against a large object. It turned out to be a skiff — the boat that the hermit evidently used.

Pressing among the bushes, Harry used a flashlight on the ground. The rays showed what appeared to be a path.

The investigators prowled their way toward the center of the island. They saw a glimmer. Edging away from the path, they came to the side of a crude cabin. A glow from a grimy window proved that someone was at home.

“Listen!” Harry whispered the warning. “Voices — in the cabin!”

“We can make it to the window,” returned Rex.

They prowled closer. One windowpane was broken; hence sound came from the interior of the cabin.

Harry was the first to peer in from darkness. He grabbed Rex’s arm, warningly. Both stood with bated breath.

Inside the cabin was a stoop-shouldered man clad in dungarees. His face was matted with a thick, black beard. His eyes looked wild; his entire appearance was unkempt. Such was Old Absalom, the hermit.

But it was not this strange recluse who captured the attention of the peering men. Old Absalom had two companions who appeared to be visitors. One of them, sallow of visage, was a man whom Harry Vincent recognized as he whispered the name to Rex Brodford.

“James Jubal!”

Harry had hardly uttered the name before he realized his mistake. He had never told Rex that he had once seen Jubal.

But Rex was too tense to realize the significance of Harry’s whispered recognition. Rex not only knew Jubal; he recognized the other visitor as well.

“Firth!”

Answering Harry’s whisper, Rex gave this proof of the servant’s treachery. Here they were, Jubal and Firth, together on Lake Chalice. Fellow conspirators, they could have but one purpose: to defeat the aims of Rex Brodford.

“It’s all right, old-timer” — Jubal was chuckling these words as the men outside listened — “we’re here to make a deal with you. Money — for you!”

As he spoke, Jubal turned slightly. Harry and Rex saw that he was holding a revolver. That explained why Old Absalom had been standing rigid.

As Jubal moved, Firth brought out a bag and jingled it. The hermit’s hands rose eagerly. A smile spread amid his beard.

“It makes us friends, eh,” laughed Jubal. “Well, we can forget the guns then. I’ll pocket mine. Don’t make a grab for that shotgun of yours, old-timer. Show him the silver, Firth.”

The servant opened the bag. It was like a small pouch, heavily laden. Silver coins jingled on a crude table. Old Absalom began to snatch at them. He grabbed coins that were rolling to the floor. Jubal stopped him with an outstretched hand.

“Not yours yet,” he told the hermit. “We must make a bargain, first. You understand?”

Old Absalom stood still and nodded. But his eyes were avaricious as they remained upon the coins.

“You don’t like people to come here, do you?” inquired Jubal. “You were going to shoot us, weren’t you?”

“Yah,” grunted Old Absalom. “Maybe.”

“But we brought you money,” stated Jubal. “You would like to keep it? You would like more?”

“Yah. I like money.”

“Then here is what you are to do: Keep other people away. Men are coming here to steal your money. Be ready for them.”

The hermit stepped back. His fists clenched. He glowered as he stared about.

“Two men are coming,” explained Jubal. “You must kill them! Quickly! Before they kill you! Young men!”

Old Absalom nodded wisely.

“Men who will come from up there” — Jubal pointed in the direction of the Quest mine — “men who are living up on that hill. Kill them, like you killed before!”

“I kill!” snarled Old Absalom.

“You kill,” rejoined Jubal, “but say nothing. When you have killed them, we will come back. With more money. But we can not come here again until they are dead.”

Another nod from the hermit.

“Remember,” warned Jubal, “they are coming soon. Stay here — away from the lake — and be ready for them.”

“Yah,” agreed Old Absalom.

Jubal motioned to Firth. The two turned about and started from the cabin. Rex Brodford was drawing a gun from his pocket. He was ready to spring through the window. Harry stopped him with a quick clutch.

The move was a wise one. Sounds were coming from bushes off to the sides of the cabin. Harry drew Rex away from the window. Jubal and Firth were not the only ones who had come to this isle.

They had brought a gang of thugs with them; but luckily they had posted their reserves on the other side of the crude building, to watch the doorway. Thugs had not noticed Harry and Rex approaching.

A whisper from Harry. He and Rex sneaked away toward the path. They could hear Jubal and his crew moving off in the opposite direction. The crooks evidently had come by boat to the other side of the island.

BACK at the rowboat, Harry and Rex pushed off and began a slow, cautious trip along toward the lake shore. They whispered as they progressed.

“They’ve come here with a lot of mobsters,” informed Rex. “They’ve figured what we’d be doing. They must be parked somewhere in the woods, those rogues and their crew. There’s enough of them to attack us.”

“But they’re passing the buck,” commented Harry, wisely. “They figure Old Absalom as a better bet.”

“Why? Because the guy’s goofy?”

“Sure! He’d take the rap. We’d be in wrong for trespassing on his island.”

“And that would leave Jubal and his outfit in the clear.”

“That’s just it. But it leaves us safe for a while, anyway.”

“Until we visit Old Absalom.”

“No; it leaves us safe until they begin to wonder why we haven’t come to see the hermit. We have three or four days to go. But I wouldn’t like to bump into that crew in the dark.”

“Neither would I. Do you think it will be safe up at the shack?”

“Safer there than anywhere else, Rex. Those thugs will stay away until Old Absalom gets his whack. We’ll lie low tonight and talk it over.”

“Maybe we could bribe old whiskers ourselves.”

“Possibly. We’ll talk about it.”

Rex rowed slowly onward. He knew that he and Harry were safe for the present. Jubal, Firth and their men had obviously departed across the lake.

But as he rowed, Rex kept his eyes on that isle that they had visited. He was picturing old Absalom, in his cabin, counting the blood money.

Rex was correct in his picture. Back in the crude building, the hermit was stacking silver in little piles. He had been given more than a hundred dollars — a sum which Jubal had figured as plenty for an advance.

His counting finished, Old Absalom chuckled. With a short laugh, the bearded man found a loose board in a floor by the corner. He picked up the coins, jingled them, and added the stacks to a smaller hoard that he had beneath the floor.

There was something cagey in the bearded man’s action. His smile showed broad in his matted beard as he turned back into the light. His chuckle was a satisfied gloat; not the wild chortle of a madman.

There were eyes that saw Old Absalom’s face; ears that heard the hermit’s outburst. A new prowler had arrived at the window of the cabin. This personage had arrived just after the departure of Jubal’s crew.

The Shadow was on Old Absalom’s isle. His divining eye discerned much that was of import. For brief moments, The Shadow paused outside the window; then turned and moved off through the trees.

The Shadow reached a small cove, midway between the opposite landing spots. His tall shape stepped aboard a low, dark canoe. His hidden lips phrased a whispered laugh that faded soft and eerie among the sheltering trees.

The Shadow had guessed the game that was afoot. Unseen, his very presence unsuspected by the foe, he was prepared for crime that was to come.