CHAPTER IVBACK TO “BIG B.”
“Well, we haven’t caught up to ’em yet,” remarked Joe Duncan, about noon the next day, when they stopped for a little lunch and to allow the horses to drink at a water hole and rest.
“No, the beggars keep well ahead of us,” agreed Blake, shading his eyes with his hand and gazing off across the hot, sunlit stretch that lay before them. “Oh, if they have opened those film boxes!” he exclaimed hopelessly.
“They have ponies, and that’s more than I calculated on,” remarked Hank. “I thought when they raided our camp that they were after our animals, and when they didn’t take ’em I thought it was because they were afraid of being chased as horse-thieves by a sheriff’s posse. Now I see they didn’t want our mounts, as they had plenty of their own. It was grub they were after, and they got it.”
“And our picture films,” added Blake. “Don’t forget that.”
“That was only a mistake, I tell you,” insisted Hank, “though, for that matter, the Indians wouldn’t hesitate to take ’em just for fun, if they thought they could make trouble that way.”
“And they will make a heap of trouble, too, I’m afraid,” spoke Blake.
“Here now!” called Joe, in jollier tones. “Don’t come any of that C. C. Piper business, Blake. Look on the bright side.”
“Well, I suppose I ought to, but it’s hard work.”
They had traveled all that morning, hoping to come up with the roving band of Indians. But they had had no success.
Hank did pick up the trail of the raiders soon after starting out. The Indians had left their horses tethered some distance from the camp, and had crept up afoot, probably having spied Blake, Joe and Hank from afar the previous evening. And though the moccasined feet of the savages left little trace on the hard and sun-baked earth, there was enough “sign” for so experienced a trailer as was Hank to pick up.
Thus he had been led to where the horses had been left, and after that it was easy enough to follow the marks of the hoofs.
“There are about twenty-five in this band, as near as I can make out,” said Hank, “and everyone of ’em has a horse of some sort. Pretty good travelers, too, I take it, since our animals were fresh and we haven’t been able to come up to ’em yet, though we’ve kept up a pretty fair gait. But we’ll get ’em yet.”
“If only it isn’t too late,” spoke Blake, whose one fear was that the valuable picture films would be spoiled. “Let’s hurry on.”
“Another little rest will do the horses good,” said the cowboy guide. “Then we can push on so much the faster. Our horses are our best friends, and we’ve got to treat ’em right if we want the best service out of them. Another half-hour and we’ll push on.”
And, though Blake fretted and fumed at the delay, he knew it would not be best to insist on having his way. Soon, however, they were in the saddle again and once more in pursuit.
“The trail is getting fresher,” declared Hank, about four o’clock that afternoon. “Their horses are tiring, I guess, and ours seem to be holding out pretty well.”
“Which means——” began Joe.
“That we may get up to them before dark,” went on the cowboy. “And then we’ll see what happens.”
“Will they run, do you think?” inquired Blake.
“They will as long as their horses hold out, forthey must know that this ghost-dance business is about over and that most of their friends are back on the reservations. But when we come up to them——” and the cowboy paused and significantly examined his revolver.
“Does it mean a fight?” went on Blake, and he could not restrain a catch in his breath. It was one thing to have an Indian fight with some shelter, but different out in the open.
“Well, I hardly think it will be what you might call regular and up-to-date fighting,” replied Hank. “They may fire their guns and revolvers at us to try and frighten us back, but I don’t actually believe that they’ll make trouble. They know the punishment would be too serious. And I believe a lot of those Indians have only blank cartridges that they had when they were in some Wild West show. I know there was mighty little whining of bullets, for all the shooting they did last night. But, at the same time,” he went on, “it’s best to be prepared for emergencies.”
They continued on, and the boys had now become so used to the signs of the Indian trail that they could note the changes almost as well as could Hank.
Here they could see where a rest was made, and again where some animal went out of the beaten path. Bits of the Indians’ finery, too,were noted every once in a while—a bit of gaudy bead trimming, a discarded moccasin or some dyed feathers.
“I do hope we come up with them before dark,” said Joe. “If we have to stay out on the trail all night, and part of next day, we may find nothing left of our things and the pack burros when we reach camp again.”
In order to make better time our friends had left behind, at the place where the Indians had raided them, the pack animals, their cameras, a few films not taken by the Indians, and as much of their provisions as they thought would not be needed on the trail.
“I think this evening will end it,” declared Hank. “We might push on a little faster, as the going is good right here.”
The horses were urged to greater speed, and they responded gamely. They seemed to realize the necessity for haste, and took advantage of the momentary betterment in the surface over which they were traveling.
The sun was sinking lower and lower in the west and the shadows were lengthening. Eagerly the boys and the cowboy scout peered ahead, straining their eyes for a glimpse of those whom they were pursuing. Then there came a bit of rough ground, and the pace was slower. Nextfollowed a little rise, and, as this was topped, Blake, who had taken the lead for a short distance, uttered a cry and pointed forward with eager hand.
“What is it?” cried Joe and Hank together.
“There they are!” yelled Blake. “The Indians! Right below us! Come on!”
Riding to his side, the others saw a sharp descent, then a level plain stretching away for many miles. And moving slowly over this plain was a band of about twenty-five Indians, mounted on ponies that seemed scarcely able to move.
“That’s them!” cried Hank, as he dug his heels into the sides of his horse. “At ’em, boys! A short, swift gallop will bring us up to ’em now, and then—well, we’ll see what will happen!”
“Come on!” yelled Blake, and side by side the trio rode down into the valley, their animals seeming to take on new strength as they saw their quarry before them.
“They’ve noticed us!” exclaimed Blake.
“That’s right!” agreed Hank. “Well, now to see if we can catch ’em!”
A movement amid the stragglers of the band told that they had glimpsed the approach of the whites. There was a distant shout, and at once the whole party was galloping off.
“They’ll distance us!” cried Blake. “They’re going to get away!”
“Not very far,” was Hank’s opinion. “Their horses are about done up. This is a last spurt.”
His trained eye had shown him that the Indians were using quirts and their heels to spur the tired animals to a last burst of speed. True, the ponies did leap ahead for a few minutes; but not even the wild shouting of the redmen, the frantic beating of their steeds, and the firing of their guns could make the wearied muscles of the ponies respond for long.
The spurt lasted only a few seconds, and then came a noticeable slowing down. On the contrary, the horses of our friends, though they had traveled far and hard, were in better condition and much fresher.
“Come on!” cried Hank, rising in his stirrups and swinging his hat around his head, while he sent forth yells of defiance. “Come on, boys! We have ’em!”
He, too, began to shoot, but in the air as before, and the boys followed his example. Their horses were shortening the distance between the two parties.
Suddenly one of the Indians was observed to toss something from him. It fell to the ground and rolled to one side of the trail.
“What’s that?” cried Joe.
“One of the boxes of exposed film!” cried Blake. “They know what we’re after. Oh, if only it isn’t damaged!”
“We can soon tell!” cried Hank, taking the lead. Then he yelled, between reports of his revolver:
“Hi there! you red beggars, give up! Drop that stuff you took from our camp! You haven’t any of the grub left, I suppose, but we want those pictures! Drop ’em!”
Whether his talk was understood, or not, was not known; but others of the Indians began tossing away either boxes of film or other things—aside from food—which they had taken from the camp. They never stopped their horses, though, but ever urged on the tired beasts.
“Here’s the first reel!” cried Blake, as he came up to where it lay. Quickly dismounting, he picked it up.
“Not hurt a bit!” he cried exultantly; “and the seals haven’t been broken, showing that it hasn’t been opened.”
“Good!” cried Hank. “You go slow and pick up what you can, and Joe and I will chase after the Indians. Evidently they’re going to run for it.”
And it did seem so. The Indians never paused,but continued to toss away article after article. They seemed afraid of the consequences should they be caught with anything belonging to the whites in their possession. They may have taken Hank and the boys for the advance-guard of a sheriff’s posse, and, knowing they had been doing wrong, were afraid. At any rate they made no stand.
“I’ve got ’em all!” finally yelled Blake.
“Then there’s no use chasing after ’em any farther,” said Hank. “Hold on, Joe,” for the boy was pushing on.
The horses of the pursuers were pulled down to a walk. The Indians noticed this at once, and, seeming to realize that the chase was over, they halted, and, turning, gazed in a body at the moving picture boys and their cowboy guide.
“Had enough, I reckon,” murmured Hank. “I guess you can’t go on much farther. Well, we’ll turn back a ways and put some miles between us, so you won’t try any of your tricks again, and then we’ll go into camp ourselves. Got everything, Blake?”
“Yes, every reel of film, and not one has been opened, by good luck. Maybe they thought it was powerful ‘medicine,’ and didn’t want to run any chances.”
“We don’t care, as long as we have ’em back,”remarked Joe, gleefully. “And now for a good rest.”
They turned back, and as they did so the Indians gave a last shout of defiance and began to make camp for themselves. It was as if a lot of schoolboys, playing truant, had been rounded up, and as a last indication of defiance had given their class yell.
“Good riddance to you,” remarked Hank. “I don’t want to see you again for a good many years.”
Collecting the things the Indians had thrown away, our friends rode on until dark, and then, out of sight of the roving redmen, they made a simple camp. They stood guard by turns, but there was no night alarm. The next day they reached the place where they had picketed the pack animals. Nothing had been disturbed.
“And now for Big B ranch!” exclaimed Blake, when once more the little cavalcade was under way.
“And glad enough I’ll be to see it!” said Hank; “though I sure will miss you fellows.”
“The same here,” echoed Joe, and Blake nodded in accord.
They traveled on for another day, finding good water and plenty of grazing for the steeds. Their provisions ran a bit low, for the Indians hadhelped themselves liberally, but they managed to shoot some small game.
And, on the second day after parting from the Indians, they topped a rise, from the height of which Hank cried:
“There she is, boys!”
“What?” asked Blake.
“Big B ranch! We’re back in civilization again!”
CHAPTER V.A NEW KIND OF DRAMA
“And so you really got what you went for; eh, boys?” asked Mr. Alden, proprietor of Big B ranch, as the trio rode in. “Well, you had luck.”
“Both kinds—good and bad,” remarked Hank, as he told how, after getting the rare films, they had nearly been lost again.
“And you rescued your enemies, too? What became of Munson?”
“Oh, he and his crowd went off by themselves,” explained Blake. “They felt badly about us beating them.”
“I’ve got a surprise for you, Joe,” went on the proprietor.
“What sort?” asked the lad, eagerly; “is my father——?”
“No, not that; but Sam Reed is back here again, and he can tell you what you want to know. He came the day after you left.”
“But I did better than that!” exclaimed Joe. “I met my uncle, and I’m soon going to find myfather, I hope,” and he related his meeting with the trooper.
“Good!” cried Mr. Alden. “Here comes Sam now. I told him you might be along soon,” and he turned to introduce a rather shiftless-looking cowboy who sauntered up.
“Pleased to meet you,” said Sam Reed. “I never cal’lated when I writ that there letter that I’d ever see you in flesh and blood. I’ve got your pictures, though,” and he showed those that had appeared in a magazine, giving an account of the work of Joe and Blake.
As might have been expected, Sam knew nothing of Joe’s father. The best the cowboy had hoped to do was to put the boy on the track of Mr. William Duncan, and, considering that Joe’s uncle, as I shall call him—though he was really only a half-uncle—had enlisted in the army, Mr. Reed would probably have had hard work to carry out his plans.
“Well, I’m glad you met your relative, anyhow,” said Sam to Joe; “and I wish you luck in looking for your father. So he’s somewhere on the southern California coast?”
“Yes, in one of the lighthouses,” explained Joe. “My uncle didn’t know exactly where, but I can easily find out from the government office when I get on the coast.”
The boys were made welcome again at Big B ranch, and talked over once more the exciting time that had happened to them there when the Indians stampeded the cattle.
“Here are the films you left with me,” said Mr. Alden, giving the boys those they had made of the cattle stampede and of the cowboys doing their stunts. “And so you got other good ones?”
“Yes, fine ones,” replied Blake. “And we must soon be getting back to Flagstaff. We have stayed away longer than we meant to, and Mr. Hadley and Mr. Ringold may need our services.”
But the boys at the ranch would not hear of their starting for a few days, and so Joe and Blake stayed on, being royally entertained. They witnessed a round-up and the branding of cattle, but could get no pictures, as their films were all used up. However, the subjects had often been filmed before, so there was no great regret.
Then came a time when they had to say farewell, and they turned their horses’ heads toward Flagstaff. The cowboys gave them a parting salute of cheers and blank cartridges, riding madly around meanwhile.
“It reminds me of the Indian attack,” said Blake.
“Yes,” assented Joe. “I wonder if we’ll go through another scare like that?”
“I hope not,” spoke his chum; but, though they did not know it, they were destined to face many more perils in the pursuit of their chosen calling.
The ride to Flagstaff from Big B ranch was without incident. It was through a fairly well settled part of the country, as settlements go in Arizona, and they made it in good time. Joe often talked about the strange fate that had put him on the track of his father.
“I wonder what kind of a man he’ll be?” he often said to his chum.
“The best ever!” Blake would answer; “that is, if he’s anything like you—and I think he must be.”
“That’s very nice of you, and I hope he does turn out to be what I wish him to be. I can’t even picture him in my mind, though.”
“Well, I should think he’d be something like your uncle—even if they were only half-brothers.”
“If he is, I suppose it will be all right, though Uncle Bill is a little too wild to suit me. I’d want my father to be more settled in life.”
“Well, it won’t be a great while before you know,” consoled Blake.
The boys received a royal welcome from Mr. Hadley and the members of the theatrical troupe.
“Oh, but it’s good to see you back!” exclaimed Birdie Lee to Blake, as she shook hands withhim, and if he held her fingers a little longer than was necessary I’m sure it’s none of our affair.
“So you didn’t get scalped, after all?” remarked C. C., gloomily, as he surveyed the boys. “Well, you will next time, or else they will hold you as captives.”
“Oh, stop it, Gloomy!” called Miss Shay. “What do you want to spoil their welcome for, just as we have a little spread arranged for them?” for she had gotten one up on the spur of the moment, on sighting the boys.
“A spread, eh? Humph, I know I’ll get indigestion if I eat any of it. Oh, life isn’t worth living, anyhow!” and he sighed heavily and proceeded to practice making new comical faces at himself in a looking-glass.
“Well, I’m glad you boys are back,” said Mr. Ringold a little later at the impromptu feast, at which C. C. ate as much as anyone and with seemingly as good an appetite. “Yes,” went on the theatrical manager, “I shall need you and Mr. Hadley right along, now. I am going to produce a new kind of drama.”
“I—er—I’m afraid I can’t be with you,” said Joe, hesitatingly. “I am at last on the track of my father, and I must find him.”
“Where is he?” asked Mr. Ringold, when the lad had told his story.
“Somewhere on the Southern California coast. In a lighthouse—just where I can’t say. But I am going there, and so you will have to get some one else, Mr. Ringold, to take my place. Blake can stay here, of course, and make moving pictures, but I——”
“I’m going with you,” said his chum, simply.
There was a moment’s silence, and then the theatrical manager exclaimed:
“Well, say, this just fits in all right. There’s no need for any of us to be separated, for I intend taking my whole company to the coast to get a new series of sea dramas. The Southern California coast will suit me as well as any.
“Joe, you can’t shake me that way. We’ll all go together, and you’ll have plenty of chance to locate your father!”
CHAPTER VION THE COAST
The announcement of Mr. Ringold was followed by a silence, during which Joe and Blake looked at each other. It seemed like too much good fortune to learn that they would still have the company of their friends in this new quest.
“Do you really mean that?” asked Joe. “You’re not saying it just to help us out; are you, Mr. Ringold?”
“No. What makes you think that?”
“Because it seems too good to be true. I wouldn’t like anything better than to go with your company and make pictures.”
“The same here,” added Blake.
“And if, at the same time, I can locate my father,” went on Joe, “so much the better, though I don’t imagine I will have any trouble finding him, once I can communicate with the government lighthouse board, and learn where he is stationed. They have a list of all employees, I imagine.”
“Yes, I think so,” spoke Mr. Hadley. “As you say, it will be easy to locate him. And, boys, I’m very glad you’re going to be with us again. I wouldn’t like to break in two new lads, and we will certainly need three photographers to take all the scenes in the sea dramas that are planned.”
“Will we have to go very far to sea?” asked Macaroni, who was among those who had greeted the moving picture boys. The lads’ thin assistant had been kept busy assisting Mr. Hadley while they were after the Indians. “Because if it’s very far out on the ocean wave I don’t believe I want to go; I’m very easily made seasick.”
“Oh, we can arrange to keep you near shore,” said the theatrical man, with a laugh.
“He may be drowned, even near shore,” put in C. C., with his most gloomy voice; though he was, at the same time, practicing some new facial contortions that were sending the women members of the troupe into spasms of laughter.
“Oh, there you go, Gloomy!” exclaimed Mr. Hadley. “First we know you’ll be saying we’ll all be smashed in a train wreck going to the coast; or, if not, that we’ll be carried off by a tidal wave as soon as we get there.”
“It might happen,” spoke the gloomy comedian, as though both accidents were possible at the same time.
“And it may rain—but not to-day,” put in Miss Shay, with a look at the hot, cloudless sky.
“Then it’s all settled,” went on Mr. Ringold. “It is understood, Joe, that you can have considerable time, if you need it, to locate your father. The dramas I intend to film will extend over a considerable time, and they can be made whenever it is most convenient. After all, I think it is a good thing that we are going to the Southern California coast. The climate there will be just what we want, and the sunlight will be almost constant.”
“I’m sure I’m much obliged to you,” said Joe. “This trip after the Indian films cost us more than we counted on, and we’ll be glad of a chance to make more money. We’re down pretty low; aren’t we, Blake?”
“I’m afraid so. But then, we may get that prize money, and that will help a lot.”
“That’s so,” put in Mr. Hadley. “You had better have those films developed, and send them to the geographical society. I wouldn’t ship them undeveloped, for they might be light-struck. You were lucky the Indians didn’t spoil them.”
The boys decided to do this, and during the next few days the reels of moving pictures were developed, and some positives printed from them.While the lads had been after the Indians Mr. Ringold had sent for a complete, though small, moving picture outfit, and with this some of the pictures were thrown on a screen.
“They’re the finest I’ve ever seen!” declared Mr. Hadley, after inspecting them critically. “That charge of the soldiers can’t be beaten, and as for the Indian dances, they are as plain as if we were right on the ground. You’ll get the prize, I’m sure; especially since you’re the only ones who got any views, as I understand it.”
Mr. Hadley proved a good prophet, for in due time, after the films reached New York, came a letter from the geographical society, enclosing a substantial check for the two boys.
The films were excellent, it was stated, and just what were needed. One other concern, aside from Mr. Munson’s, and the one the latter mentioned, which had gone to Indian land, had succeeded in getting a few views of the Indians in another part of the State, but they were nowhere near as good as those Blake and Joe had secured after such trouble and risk. The attempt to get phonographic records had been a failure, the officers of the society wrote, though another attempt would be made if ever the Indians again broke from their reservations.
“And if they do,” spoke Blake, “I’m not going to chase after them.”
“Me, either,” decided Joe. “I’ve had enough. Now the sooner we can get to the coast the better I’ll like it. Just think, my father must be as anxious to see me as I am to find him; but as near as I can understand it, he doesn’t even know that I am alive. Think of that!”
“It is rather hard,” said Blake, sympathetically. “But it won’t be long now. I heard Mr. Ringold say we would start soon.”
There were a few scenes in some of the dramas enacted in Arizona that yet needed to be filmed, and Joe and Blake helped with this work, Macaroni assisting them and Mr. Hadley.
“And after this, nearly all our work will have to do with the sea,” said the theatrical man. “I want to depict it in all its phases; showing it calm, and during a storm, the delights of it, as well as the perils of the deep.”
Before leaving Flagstaff it was decided to give a few exhibitions of some of the moving pictures, so that the residents there, and a number of the cowboys and Indians who had taken part in the plays, might see how they looked on the screen. A suitable building was obtained, and it was crowded at every performance.
The Indians were at first frightened, thinkingit was some new and powerful kind of “medicine” that might have a bad effect on them. With one accord, when the film the boys had taken, showing the charge of the soldiers on the Moquis, was put on, the redmen rushed from the building. And it was some time before they could be induced to return.
“Say, there’s my uncle, as plain as anything!” exclaimed Joe, when the excitement had calmed down, and the reel was run over again. “There’s Sergeant Duncan, close to Captain Marsh!” and he indicated where the trooper was riding beside the commander of the cavalry.
“That’s right,” agreed Blake, as the pictures flickered over the screen, the figures being almost life size. “And he looks like you, too.”
“I wonder if my father looks like that?” said Joe, softly.
There were busy days ahead of them all now, and there was much work to be done in transporting all the “properties” to the coast, and arranging to move the picture outfit, the cameras and the entire company. The boys had little leisure, but Joe managed to get a letter off to the government lighthouse board, asking for news of his father, Nathaniel Duncan.
In reply he got a communication stating that a Mr. Duncan was stationed as assistant keeperat a light near San Diego, and not far from Point Loma.
“That’s where we want to head for, then,” said Joe, as he talked the matter over with his chum. “I wonder if that will suit Mr. Ringold?”
It did, as the theatrical manager stated, when the subject was broached to him. Accordingly arrangements were made to ship everything there.
The day came to bid farewell to Flagstaff, which had been the stopping place of the theatrical troupe for several months. They had made many friends, and the Indians had become so used to taking their parts in the dramas, and in getting good pay for it, that they were very sorry to see the “palefaces” leave. So, too, were the cowboys, many of whom had become very friendly with our heroes and the theatrical people.
“But we’ve got to go,” said Blake, as he shook hands with his acquaintances.
“Indeed, if we didn’t leave soon,” said Joe, “I’d be tempted to start off by myself. I’ve sent a letter to my dad, telling him all about how strangely I found him, and I’m just aching to see him. I guess he’ll be pretty well surprised to get it.”
“I should imagine so,” agreed Blake.
“One last round-up to say good-bye!” cried one of the cowboys, as the party started awayfrom the quarters they had occupied. “Everybody get in on this. Whoop her up, boys!”
He leaped to his steed, flourished his hat, and began riding around in a circle, firing his big revolver at intervals.
“That’s the ticket!” shouted the others, as they followed his example.
Soon two score of the light-hearted chaps were riding around the little crowd of the boys and their friends, saluting them, and saying farewell in this lively fashion.
“Whoop her up!”
“Never say die!”
“Come again, and we’ll exterminate a whole band of redskins for you!”
“And have a cattle stampede made to order any day you want!”
These were only a few of the many expressions from the cowboys.
“Say, if they don’t kill themselves, they’ll make us deaf, with all that noise,” predicted C. C.
“This isn’t a funeral,” declared Mr. Hadley. “It’s a jolly occasion, Gloomy Gus!”
“Huh! Jolly? First you know some one will be hurt.”
But no one was, in spite of the direful predictions, and soon the cowboys drew off, with final shots from their revolvers, discharging them inthe air. The Indians, too, had their share in the farewell, though they were not so demonstrative as were their companions.
“And now for the coast!” cried Blake, as they reached the train.
“And my dad,” added Joe, and there was a trace of tears in his eyes, which he did not attempt to conceal. Blake knew just how his chum felt, and he found himself wishing that he, too, was going to find some relative. But he knew the only one he had was his aged uncle.
Little of incident occurred on the trip to San Diego, which had been decided on as headquarters until a suitable location, away from any town, could be selected directly on the ocean beach. I say little of moment, but C. C. was continually predicting that something would happen, from a real hold-up to a train wreck.
“And if that doesn’t happen, a bridge will go go down with us,” he said.
But nothing of the kind occurred, and finally the boys and their friends reached the coast, going to the boarding place they had engaged.
“And there’s the old Pacific!” exclaimed Joe, as he and Blake went down to the shore of the bay on which San Diego stands. “It isn’t very rough, however, and Mr. Ringold said he wanted tumbling waves as a background.”
“It gets rough at times, though,” remarked a fisherman. “Of course, if you want to see big waves you’ll have to go beyond this bay. It’s pretty well land-locked. Oh, yes, the old Pacific isn’t always as peaceful as her name.”
CHAPTER VIIAT THE LIGHTHOUSE
The two boys talked for some time with the old fisherman, and then Blake whispered to Joe:
“Why don’t you ask him where the lighthouse is where your father is supposed to be, and the best way of getting to it?”
“I will,” replied his chum.
“The Rockypoint light?” repeated the fisherman, in response to Joe’s inquiry. “Why yes, I know it well. It’s only a few miles from here. You can see her flash on a clear night, but you can’t make out the house itself, even on a clear day, because she’s down behind that spur of coast. From the ocean, though, she’s seen easily enough.”
“And how can we get there?” asked Blake.
“Well, you can walk right down the beach, though it’s a middlin’ long tramp; or you can go back to town, and hire a rig.”
“We’ll walk,” decided Joe. “Do you happen toknow of a Mr. Duncan there?” He waited anxiously for the answer.
“No, lad, I can’t rightly say I do,” said the fisherman. “I know the keeper, Harry Stanton, and, now I come to think of it, I did hear the other day that he had a new assistant.”
“That’s him!” cried Joe, eagerly.
“Who?”
“My father, I hope,” was the reply, and in his joy Joe told something of his story.
“Well, you sure have spun a queer yarn,” said the old fisherman, “and I wish you all sorts of luck. You’ll soon be at the light if you go right down the beach. I’d row you down in my dory, only I’ve just come in from taking up my nets and I’m sort of tired.”
“Oh, we wouldn’t think of asking you,” put in Blake. “We can easily walk it.”
“Some day I’ll take you out fishing,” promised the man. “And so you’re here to get moving pictures; eh? Well, I don’t know much about ’em, but you couldn’t come to a nicer place than this spot on the coast. And you only have to go a little way to get right where the real surf comes smashing up on the beach. Of course, as I said, we’re so land-locked just here that we don’t see much of it, even in a storm. Moving pictures; eh? I’d like to see some.”
“I guess you can be in them, if you want to,” said Blake. “I heard Mr. Ringold say he had one drama that called for a lot of fishermen.”
“Me in moving pictures!” cried the old man. “Ho! Ho! I wonder what my wife’d say to that. I’ve been in lots of queer situations. I’ve been knocked overboard by a whale, I’ve been wrecked, and half drowned, and almost starved, but I’ve never been in a picture, except I once had a tintype taken—-that was when I was married,” and he chuckled at the remembrance. “These movin’ pictures aren’t like tintypes; are they?”
“Not much,” laughed Joe, as he and Blake moved off in the direction of the lighthouse, calling a good-bye to their new friend. They had told Mr. Hadley, in starting out that morning, that they might not be back until late, for Joe had a half notion that he would try to find the lighthouse that day.
“I wonder what I shall say to him, when I first see him, Blake?” Joe asked, as they trudged along.
“Why—er—I hardly know,” replied his chum. “I never found a lost father, myself.”
“And I never did, either. I guess I’ll just say: ‘Hello, Dad; do you know me?’”
“That sounds all right,” said Blake. “He sure will be surprised.”
The walk was longer than they had thought, and when noon came they still had some distance to go. As they were hungry they sought out a fisherman’s cottage, where, for a small sum, they had a fine meal. Starting out again, they turned an intervening point of land about three o’clock, and then came in view of a lighthouse, located on a pile of rocks, not far from the high-water mark.
“That’s the place,” said Blake, in a low voice.
“Yes,” agreed Joe. “It looks comfortable and homelike, too.”
Back of the lighthouse was a small garden, and also a flower bed, and a man could be seen working there. His back was toward the boys.
“I—I wonder if that’s him—my father?” said Joe, softly. “He seems to be very old,” for they had a glimpse of a long white beard, and the man seemed to be bent with the weight of many years.
“Go up and ask,” said Blake. “I’ll wait here.”
“No, I want you to come with me,” insisted his chum. “You were with me when I first heard the good news, and now I want you along to hear the conclusion of it. Come on, Blake.”
“No, I’d rather not,” and nothing Joe could say would induce his chum to accompany him.
Their talk had been carried on in low voices, and the aged man, working in the garden, hadapparently not heard them. He continued to hoe away among the rows.
“Well, here goes!” exclaimed Joe, with a sigh. Now that he felt he was at the end of his quest his sensations were almost as sorrowful as joyful. In fact, he did not know exactly how he did feel.
Walking up toward the old man, he paused, and then coughed slightly to attract his attention. The lighthouse keeper turned, surveyed the boy and in a pleasant voice asked:
“Well?”
“If—if you—are you my father?” asked Joe, in trembling voice, holding out his hands.
“Your father!” cried the man in unmistakable surprise. “What is your name?”
“Joe Duncan.”
“Joe Duncan? Did Duncan have a son?”
“Yes, and I’m the boy!” went on Joe, eagerly, yet a doubt began creeping into his heart. “But are you Mr. Nathaniel Duncan?”
The old man paused a moment, and then said gently:
“No, my boy. I’m Harry Stanton, keeper of Rockypoint light.”
“But my father!” exclaimed Joe. “I understood he was here! Where is he?”
“He was here,” went on Mr. Stanton, as he leaned on his hoe and looked compassionately atthe lad standing before him; “but he went away more than a week ago.”
“Gone away!” echoed Joe. “Did he—did he get my letter?”
“I don’t know whether it was your letter or not,” said the keeper. “One came for him the day after he left. It’s here yet. It was from Flagstaff, Arizona, I believe.”
“That’s my letter!” exclaimed Joe. “And he never got it! Poor Dad, he doesn’t yet know that I’m alive!” and he turned away with tears in his eyes.
CHAPTER VIIIBLAKE LEARNS A SECRET
Blake, looking on from a little distance, saw Joe turn aside from the aged man.
“That’s rather queer,” thought the lad. “If that was his father it isn’t a very cordial welcome.”
As he looked, he saw Joe walking out of the garden.
“Queerer still,” Blake mused. “Even if that isn’t Mr. Duncan, he must be somewhere around, for lighthouse keepers can’t be very far away from their station, as I understand it.”
Joe came walking toward his chum. His face showed his disappointment so unmistakably that Blake called out:
“What’s the matter, Joe?”
“He’s gone—he isn’t here! He never got my letter!”
“Where has he gone?” asked Blake, always practical.
“I—I don’t know. I didn’t ask.”
“Look here, Joe!” exclaimed his chum. “I guess you’re too excited over this. You let me make some inquiries for you. Suppose he has gone? We may be able to trace him. Men in the lighthouse service get transferred from one place to another just as soldiers do, I imagine. Now you sit down here and look at the sad sea waves, as C. C. would say if he were here, and I’ll go tackle that lighthouse keeper. You were too flustered to get any clues, I expect.”
“I guess I was,” admitted Joe. “When I found he wasn’t there I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t feel like asking any questions.”
Blake placed his arm around his chum’s shoulder, patted him on the back, and started toward the aged man, who was still leaning on his hoe, looking in mild surprise at the two lads.
“I’ll find out all about it,” called back Blake.
“Ha! Another boy!” exclaimed Mr. Stanton, as Blake approached. “I didn’t know this was going to be visiting day, or I might have put on my other suit,” and he laughed genially. “Are you another son of Mr. Duncan?” he asked.
“No,” replied Blake. “I’m Joe’s chum. We’re in the moving picture business together. But he says his father has left, and, as he naturally feels badly, I thought I’d make some inquiries forhim, so we can locate him. Do you know where Mr. Duncan went?”
“No—I can’t say that I do,” was the slow answer. “And so you are chums; eh?”
“Yes, and we have been for some years.”
“That’s nice. You tell each other all your secrets, I suppose?”
“Well, most of ’em.”
“Never hold anything back?”
“Why, what do you mean?” asked Blake, for there seemed to be a strange meaning in the old man’s voice.
“I mean, lad,” and the lighthouse keeper’s tones sank to a whisper; “I mean, if I tell you something, can you keep it from him?”
“Why—yes—I suppose so,” spoke Blake, wonderingly. “But what is the matter? Isn’t his father here?”
“No, he’s gone, just as I told him. But look here—he seems a nice sort of lad, and I didn’t want to hurt his feelings. I’d rather tell you, as long as you’re his chum, and if you can keep a secret.”
He looked to where Joe was sitting on the rocks, watching the waves roll lazily up the beach and break. Joe was far enough off so that the low-voiced conversation could not reach him.
“I can keep a secret if I have to,” replied Blake.“But what is it all about? Is Mr. Duncan—is he—dead?”
The old man hesitated, and, for a moment, Blake thought that his guess was correct. Then the aged man said slowly:
“No, my boy, he isn’t dead; but maybe, for the sake of his son, he had better be. At any rate, it’s better, all around, that he’s away from here.”
“Why?” asked Blake quickly. “Tell me what you mean!”
“That I will, lad, and maybe you can figure a way out of the puzzle. I’m an old man, and not as smart as I was, so my brain doesn’t work quickly. Maybe you can find a way out. Come inside where we can talk so he won’t hear us,” and he nodded toward the quiet figure of Joe on the beach.
Blake wondered more than ever what the disclosure might be. He followed the aged man into the living quarters of the house attached to the light tower.
“Sit ye there, lad,” went on Mr. Stanton, “and I’ll tell you all about it. Maybe you can find a way out.”
He paused, as if to gather his thoughts, and then resumed:
“You see I’m pretty old, and I have to have an assistant at this light. I expect soon I’ll haveto give up altogether. But I’m going to hang on as long as I can. I’ve had three assistants in the last year, and one of ’em, as you know now, was Nathaniel Duncan, Joe’s father. Before him I had a likely young fellow named—ah, well, I’ve forgotten, and the name doesn’t matter much anyhow. But when he left the board sent me this Duncan, and I must say I liked him right well.”
“What sort of a man was he?” asked Blake.
“A nice sort of man. He was about middle aged, tall, well built, and strong as a horse. He looked as if he had had trouble, though, and gradually he told me his story. His wife had died when his boy and girl were young——”
“Girl! Was there a girl?” cried Blake. “Has Joe a sister, too?”
“He had—whether he has yet, I don’t know,” went on Mr. Stanton. “I’ll tell you all I know.
“As I said, Nate Duncan seemed to have had lots of sorrow, and he told me how, after his wife died, he had placed the boy and girl in charge of some people, and gone off to the California mines to make some money. When he come back, rich, the children had disappeared, and so had the people he left ’em with. He never could locate ’em, though he tried hard, and so did his half-brother, Bill. But Bill was different from Nate,so I understand. Bill was a reckless sort of chap, while Joe’s father was quite steady.”
“That’s right,” spoke Blake, and then he related how Joe had come to get a trace of his father.
“Well,” resumed Mr. Stanton, “as I said, Duncan came here, and he and I got along well together. Then there came trouble.”
“Trouble? What kind?” asked Joe.
“Trouble with wreckers, lad. The meanest and most wicked kind of trouble there can be on a seacoast. A band of bad men got together and by means of false lights lured small vessels out of their course so they went on the rocks. Then they got what they could when the cargo was washed ashore.”
“But what has that got to do with Joe’s father?” asked Blake.
“Too much, I’m afraid, lad. It was said that the light here was allowed to go out some nights, so the false light would be more effective.”
“Well?”
“Well, Nate Duncan had charge of the light at night after I went off duty. And it was always when I was off duty that the wrecks occurred.”
“Do you mean to accuse Joe’s father of being in with the wreckers?”
“No, lad. I don’t accuse anybody; I’m too old a man to do anything like that. But ugly storiesbegan to be circulated. Government inspectors began to call more often than they used to, inspecting my light—my light, that I’ve tended nigh onto twenty-five years now. I began to hear rumors that my assistant wasn’t altogether straight. He was said to be seen consorting with the wreckers, though it was hard to get proof that the men were wreckers, for they pretended to be fishermen.
“Then come a day when, with my own eyes, I saw Nate Duncan walking along the beach with one of the men who was said to be at the head of the wrecking gang. I could see that they were quarreling, and then Nate knocked the man down. He didn’t get up right away, for, as I said, Nate was strong. I knew something would come of that, and I wasn’t much surprised when that day Nate disappeared.”
“Disappeared?” cried Blake.
“Went off completely, and left me alone at the light. I tended it all night, same as I had done before, many a time, and the next day I reported matters, and I had a new assistant—the same one I have now.”
“But that doesn’t prove anything,” said Blake. “Just because Joe’s father, and a man suspected of being a wrecker, had a quarrel, doesn’t say that Mr. Duncan was a wrecker, too.”
“There’s more to it,” went on the old man. “The day after Nate Duncan disappeared detectives came here looking for him.”
Blake started. There was more to the story than he had suspected. He looked at Mr. Stanton, and glanced out of the window to where Joe still sat.
“So that’s why I say maybe it would be better for Joe if his father was dead,” went on Mr. Stanton. “Disgrace is a terrible thing, and I couldn’t bear to tell Joe, when he asked me about his father.”
“But where did he go?” asked Blake. “Didn’t he leave any trace at all?”
“Not a trace, lad—folks most generally doesn’t when the detectives are after ’em. Hold on, though, I won’t say Nate was guilty on my own hook. I’m only telling you what happened. I’d hate to believe he was a wrecker, misusing this light to draw vessels on the dangerous rocks; but it looks black, it looks black.”
“Did the detectives actually accuse Mr. Duncan?” asked Blake.
“Well, they as much as did. They said some of the wreckers had been arrested, and had incriminated the assistant light-keeper. But Duncan was smart enough—provided he was guilty—to skip out. As I told Joe, his father left justbefore the letter from Flagstaff came, so he doesn’t know his son is alive. Poor man, I’m sorry for him. He told me how he had searched all over for his children, and at last, becoming tired and discouraged, he took this job just to have something to do, for he’s well enough off not to have to work.”
“And there’s no way of telling where he went?” questioned Blake.
“Nary a one that I know of, lad. As I said, maybe he’s better off lost.”
“Not for Joe.”
“Well, maybe not; but for himself. There are heavy penalties for wrecking, and it’s well he wasn’t caught, though, as I say, I don’t accuse him. Only it looks black, it looks black. If he was innocent why didn’t he stay and fight it out? Yes, lad, it looks black.”
“I’m afraid so,” sighed Blake. “How can I ever tell Joe the news?”
“You mustn’t!” exclaimed the old man. “That’s just it. You must not tell him. I’d hate to destroy his faith in his father. It would be cruel. That’s why I asked if you could keep a secret. You won’t tell him; will you?”
“No,” said Blake, in a low voice; “I won’t tell him.”