CHAPTER XXIITRONADOR LIGHT“Wild life is plainly what I was made for,” said Lang. “See how I’ve thrived on it. A great adventurer’ll be lost in me when I go back to surgery in Boston. I’ve had maltreatment enough to kill a mule, as I’d have thought once, and it’s brought me to life. What a broken-down wretch I was in Mobile! What a whining, ill-tempered dog you must have thought me!”“I never did,” Eva denied quickly. She had just relieved Lang at the helm of theChita, sitting beside him in the little glassed pilot house forward. They had hoped to make Puerto Montt that evening and had kept on, though it was now two hours after sunset. Blackness was over the mountains to the east and the rough islands on the other side of the wide channel, and the sea heaved gently, smooth and black, bubbling up palely away from the bow.“I thought you were wonderful,” she went on “Everything in the world had smashed under you—so you thought then. I was so sorry—oh, I can’t tell you! I wanted to comfort you, even at first when we met on the boat. And afterward, when it was I who seemed to have lost everything, you were so good to me, and you never seemed to remember your own troubles. I couldn’t tell you then how grateful I was. I never can tell you. But you’ll know some time.”“You’ve already brought me about a hundred times more than I deserve,” Lang murmured, abashed, and he was not thinking of the emeralds.They were in a locked drawer in Morrison’s little stateroom, and even his share in these was to be no trivial reward. The stones had been carefully sorted, weighed, cleaned, appraised as far as possible. A few of them were almost certainly only green sapphires, of slight value. Many were flawed. The biggest, which Lang had fondly hoped to be worth a fortune, developed under a magnifier a series of central cracks, and it would have to be cut into four, or perhaps five parts. How the stones would cut was still in doubt, but Morrison, who knew something of rough precious stones, estimated conservatively that the lot should bring between fifty thousand dollars and seventy thousand dollars if they were disposed of with due skill and no haste.It would be no great fortune, but it was all Lang wanted. It was as good as a million to him. It would give him a fresh start; and he had his own work back again. He was not afraid of another breakdown. Action and adventure and rough open-air life had braced and hardened him and worked out the lack of control in his hands, which had been probably nervous, after all. The emergency operation at the camp had restored his confidence. A few weeks’ practice would bring back all his old technique. As he gazed ahead through the darkness, looking for the revolving light at the top of Chiloe Island, the future looked a dazzle of certain success.Carroll and Louie had died within three hours of each other, and lay together in one grave in the gravel at the foot of the glacier. Lang was thankful now that it was not his bullet that had killed either of them; though their deaths were hardly to be regretted. But he did still sorely regret the fate of his German Chileans of the schooner, and he planned to make inquiries at Puerto Montt, and indemnify their families, if they had any.Morrison had been greatly fired when he finally heard Lang’s complete account of his discoveries inside the glacier, and had insisted on seeing them himself. With reluctance Lang went with him through that tunnel that he had hewn out in a sort of nightmare.It seemed a surprisingly short way now to the death camp, where they chipped all the bodies clear of ice, discovering still another in doing so. Morrison measured and sketched them, and even managed to carry in a camera and take flash-light photographs. They gathered up all the crystals that Lang had discarded, but found no more emeralds; though Morrison secured material that was almost more precious to him—copper knives and spears of unusual design, a primeval fire striker, bone carvings and decorations, and, most important of all, under the furs of one of the Indians, a number of skeins of peculiarly colored and knotted cords.They were like the indecipherablequipusof the Incas, those records in knotted strings that no one has ever been able to understand. But these cords were knotted on an evidently different system, and Morrison had high hopes that they might turn out a sort of Rosetta stone which would solve the secret of the Peruvian records. At any rate it confirmed his theory of the extent of Inca influence into the far south.Morrison was sitting back in the cabin then, poring over thequipusunder the swinging light. They would mean glory for him, should he succeed in making sense of them. He would write a book, which learned men would read and quarrel over violently, but it seemed to Lang a poor sort of ambition.The adventure was over, but he would never get the thrill and flavor of it out of his bones. Eva was beside him, her shoulder almost touching his own, as she steered, looking ahead for the ending mark of the voyage.“Eva!” he whispered suddenly.He did not know what he meant to say. She turned her face, then let go the wheel impulsively, threw both arms around his neck and drew his head to her. The boat yawed wildly. They heard Morrison’s startled shout.“What’s the matter, there?”Eva seized the wheel again and steadied her. Looking ahead, Lang saw something like the faintest, most remote summer lightning touch the horizon clouds, vanish, reappear, vanish.“I think we’ve raised Tronador Light,” he called back.Morrison came forward and stared over their shoulders.“Yes, that’s old Tronador,” he said with satisfaction. “Many a time I’ve seen it winking as I came up this channel—never with such a cargo as we’ve got on board to-night.”“It’s time—you’ve deserved it long enough, father,” Eva murmured.“Of course I deserved it, but I’d never have got it but for luck, and Doctor Lang. Close to a hundred thousand. It was you who turned the trick for us, Lang, and you’ll get your reward.”“I’ve got my reward already,” said Lang, with some emphasis.Morrison glanced at him sharply, and said nothing for a moment.“Yes, I know. I’ve seen it coming,” he returned somberly. “You get the reward, but I pay it, Lang. I pay it, and I can’t afford it. I suppose I can’t help myself.“Oh, well, it’s the fate of parents,” he went on resignedly. “And I’ve still got something, after all—some stuff that’ll make the scientific world take notice. Wait till I write my monograph on thequipus!”It seemed a cold and barren sort of success, Lang thought, sitting in touch of Eva’s shoulder. His own triumph seemed charged with fire. He was coming back with treasure and love and future brilliance, and he felt profoundly sorry for his future father-in-law. And, miles ahead, Tronador Light swept every minute wider circles of light on the black horizon.THE END
“Wild life is plainly what I was made for,” said Lang. “See how I’ve thrived on it. A great adventurer’ll be lost in me when I go back to surgery in Boston. I’ve had maltreatment enough to kill a mule, as I’d have thought once, and it’s brought me to life. What a broken-down wretch I was in Mobile! What a whining, ill-tempered dog you must have thought me!”
“I never did,” Eva denied quickly. She had just relieved Lang at the helm of theChita, sitting beside him in the little glassed pilot house forward. They had hoped to make Puerto Montt that evening and had kept on, though it was now two hours after sunset. Blackness was over the mountains to the east and the rough islands on the other side of the wide channel, and the sea heaved gently, smooth and black, bubbling up palely away from the bow.
“I thought you were wonderful,” she went on “Everything in the world had smashed under you—so you thought then. I was so sorry—oh, I can’t tell you! I wanted to comfort you, even at first when we met on the boat. And afterward, when it was I who seemed to have lost everything, you were so good to me, and you never seemed to remember your own troubles. I couldn’t tell you then how grateful I was. I never can tell you. But you’ll know some time.”
“You’ve already brought me about a hundred times more than I deserve,” Lang murmured, abashed, and he was not thinking of the emeralds.
They were in a locked drawer in Morrison’s little stateroom, and even his share in these was to be no trivial reward. The stones had been carefully sorted, weighed, cleaned, appraised as far as possible. A few of them were almost certainly only green sapphires, of slight value. Many were flawed. The biggest, which Lang had fondly hoped to be worth a fortune, developed under a magnifier a series of central cracks, and it would have to be cut into four, or perhaps five parts. How the stones would cut was still in doubt, but Morrison, who knew something of rough precious stones, estimated conservatively that the lot should bring between fifty thousand dollars and seventy thousand dollars if they were disposed of with due skill and no haste.
It would be no great fortune, but it was all Lang wanted. It was as good as a million to him. It would give him a fresh start; and he had his own work back again. He was not afraid of another breakdown. Action and adventure and rough open-air life had braced and hardened him and worked out the lack of control in his hands, which had been probably nervous, after all. The emergency operation at the camp had restored his confidence. A few weeks’ practice would bring back all his old technique. As he gazed ahead through the darkness, looking for the revolving light at the top of Chiloe Island, the future looked a dazzle of certain success.
Carroll and Louie had died within three hours of each other, and lay together in one grave in the gravel at the foot of the glacier. Lang was thankful now that it was not his bullet that had killed either of them; though their deaths were hardly to be regretted. But he did still sorely regret the fate of his German Chileans of the schooner, and he planned to make inquiries at Puerto Montt, and indemnify their families, if they had any.
Morrison had been greatly fired when he finally heard Lang’s complete account of his discoveries inside the glacier, and had insisted on seeing them himself. With reluctance Lang went with him through that tunnel that he had hewn out in a sort of nightmare.
It seemed a surprisingly short way now to the death camp, where they chipped all the bodies clear of ice, discovering still another in doing so. Morrison measured and sketched them, and even managed to carry in a camera and take flash-light photographs. They gathered up all the crystals that Lang had discarded, but found no more emeralds; though Morrison secured material that was almost more precious to him—copper knives and spears of unusual design, a primeval fire striker, bone carvings and decorations, and, most important of all, under the furs of one of the Indians, a number of skeins of peculiarly colored and knotted cords.
They were like the indecipherablequipusof the Incas, those records in knotted strings that no one has ever been able to understand. But these cords were knotted on an evidently different system, and Morrison had high hopes that they might turn out a sort of Rosetta stone which would solve the secret of the Peruvian records. At any rate it confirmed his theory of the extent of Inca influence into the far south.
Morrison was sitting back in the cabin then, poring over thequipusunder the swinging light. They would mean glory for him, should he succeed in making sense of them. He would write a book, which learned men would read and quarrel over violently, but it seemed to Lang a poor sort of ambition.
The adventure was over, but he would never get the thrill and flavor of it out of his bones. Eva was beside him, her shoulder almost touching his own, as she steered, looking ahead for the ending mark of the voyage.
“Eva!” he whispered suddenly.
He did not know what he meant to say. She turned her face, then let go the wheel impulsively, threw both arms around his neck and drew his head to her. The boat yawed wildly. They heard Morrison’s startled shout.
“What’s the matter, there?”
Eva seized the wheel again and steadied her. Looking ahead, Lang saw something like the faintest, most remote summer lightning touch the horizon clouds, vanish, reappear, vanish.
“I think we’ve raised Tronador Light,” he called back.
Morrison came forward and stared over their shoulders.
“Yes, that’s old Tronador,” he said with satisfaction. “Many a time I’ve seen it winking as I came up this channel—never with such a cargo as we’ve got on board to-night.”
“It’s time—you’ve deserved it long enough, father,” Eva murmured.
“Of course I deserved it, but I’d never have got it but for luck, and Doctor Lang. Close to a hundred thousand. It was you who turned the trick for us, Lang, and you’ll get your reward.”
“I’ve got my reward already,” said Lang, with some emphasis.
Morrison glanced at him sharply, and said nothing for a moment.
“Yes, I know. I’ve seen it coming,” he returned somberly. “You get the reward, but I pay it, Lang. I pay it, and I can’t afford it. I suppose I can’t help myself.
“Oh, well, it’s the fate of parents,” he went on resignedly. “And I’ve still got something, after all—some stuff that’ll make the scientific world take notice. Wait till I write my monograph on thequipus!”
It seemed a cold and barren sort of success, Lang thought, sitting in touch of Eva’s shoulder. His own triumph seemed charged with fire. He was coming back with treasure and love and future brilliance, and he felt profoundly sorry for his future father-in-law. And, miles ahead, Tronador Light swept every minute wider circles of light on the black horizon.
THE END
THE END