Bert Wilson's Twin Cylinder Racer

But just then came a diversion. With a yell and a rush the sheriff and his men swept down upon the astonished outlaws, firing as they came. The bandits were caught like rats in a trap. They were the center of a ring of flame, but they fought back savagely. There were cries and curses, as men emptied their revolvers and then clinched in deadly struggle. The bandit leader, leaving the express car, plunged headlong into the fight, battling like a fiend. When his revolver was empty he flung it into the sheriff’s face and made a break for his horse. But Bert was too quick for him, and tackled him, just as he had put one foot in the stirrup and was swinging the other over his mount. With a mighty wrench he dragged him from the saddle. The “Kid” uttered a fearful oath and reached for his knife. Bert’s hands closed around his throat and they went to the ground rolling over and over like two panthers.

At gun or knife play the outlaw would have been the victor. But in this hand-to-hand struggle, Bert was easily his master. His tremendous strength, reinforced by clean living and athletic training, soon triumphed over the rum-soaked body of the “Kid.” But the latter’s ferocity was appalling, and Bert had to choke him almost into unconsciousness, before his muscles relaxed and he lay there limp and gasping.

As Bert rose, breathless but victorious, he saw that the fight was over. Two of the outlaws were dead and another fatally wounded. The other two were in the hands of their captors, and the sheriff coming up, snapped handcuffs on the “Kid” and jerked him to his feet.

Passengers and trainmen came pouring from the cars, and there was a Babel of excited questionings. The conductor, full of relief and gratitude at his train’s escape from looting, offered to carry the party to the next town on the line. But the sheriff elected to take his prisoners across country to the county seat, and after another exchange of congratulations, the train moved on.

Then the triumphant posse, with one of its members severely, another slightly wounded, took up their homeward trip. They had made one of the most important captures in the history of the State, and the next day the country would be ringing with their praises. They were naturally jubilant, and the sheriff urged Bert earnestly to come with them as the real hero of the roundup. But he stoutly refused and the only favor he would accept was the loan of a guide to take him over to Lonsdale.

“Well,” said the sheriff at last reluctantly, “I suppose you know your own business best, but I shore am sorry to say good-bye. You’ve made an awful hit with me, son. That was a lovely scrap you put up with the ‘Kid,’ and I’ve never seen a prettier bit of rough housing. I hope you win your race and I believe you will. Anybody that can put one over on ‘Billy the Kid’ can pretty near get anything he goes after. If ever you’re looking for work,” he joked, “come out to Wentworth County and I’ll make you assistant sheriff. Perhaps, though, you’d better not,” and his eyes twinkled, “cause it wouldn’t be long before you’d have my job.”

CHAPTER XV

A Murderous Grip

Bert was having his first glimpse of the sea since he started on his trip. He was weary of the land which he had traversed so swiftly and steadily for two weeks past. The impression stamped upon his brain was that of an endless ribbon of road, between whose edges his motorcycle had sped along, until he seemed like a living embodiment of perpetual motion. That ribbon had commenced to unwind at the eastern end of the continent, and there were still a good many miles to be reeled off before the race was ended. But now, as he sat on the veranda of the beach hotel facing the sea whose surf broke on the sands a hundred feet away, he could feel his weariness dropping away like a cast-off garment. The tang of the ocean was a tonic that filled him with new life, and his nostrils dilated as they drew in great draughts of the salt air.

“Ponce de Leon was wrong when he looked for the elixir of life in a fountain,” he thought to himself. “He should have sought for it in the sea.”

Before him stretched the mighty Pacific, its crested waves glittering in the sun. Fishing vessels and coasting craft flashed their white sails near the shore, while, far out on the horizon, he could see the trail of smoke that followed in the wake of a liner. Great billows burst into spray on the beach, and the diapason of the surf reverberated in his ears like rich organ music. He drank it all in thirstily, as though storing up inspiration for the completion of his task.

A man sitting near by looked at him with a quizzical smile, frankly interested by Bert’s absorption in the scene before him. With easy good-fellowship, he remarked:

“You seem to be getting a lot of pleasure out of the view.”

“I am,” replied Bert promptly; “I can’t get enough of it.”

“There are plenty of people who have got enough of it,” he observed drily, “your humble servant among the number.”

Bert scented a story, but repressed any sign of curiosity.

“It’s the infinite variety that appeals to me,” he said. “The sea is full of wonders.”

“And tragedies,” supplemented the other.

He settled back in his chair and lighted a fresh cigar. As he struck the match, Bert noticed that his right hand was horribly scarred and disfigured. It looked as though it had been drawn through a harrow whose teeth had bitten deep. Great livid weals crossed each other on the back, and two of the fingers were gone. And Bert noted that, although his face and frame indicated that he was not more than thirty years old, his hair was snowy white.

“Of course, that’s true,” said Bert, reverting to the stranger’s last remark; “storms and shipwrecks and typhoons and tidal waves are things that have to be reckoned with.”

“Yes,” was the reply, “but I wasn’t thinking especially of these. They’re common enough and terrible enough. What I had in mind was the individual tragedies that are happening all the time, and of which not one in a hundred ever hears.”

“Do you see this hair of mine?” he asked, removing his hat. “One day at noon it was as dark as yours. At three o’clock on that same day it was like this.”

He paused a moment, as though battling with some fearful recollection.

“I don’t know how familiar you may be with the Pacific,” he resumed, “but on this coast there is every variety of monster that you can find in any other ocean, and usually of a fiercer and larger type. Nowhere do you find such man-eating sharks or such malignant devil-fish. The sharks don’t come near enough to the shore to bother us much. But it’s safe to say that within half a mile from here, there are gigantic squids, with tentacles from twelve to twenty feet long. More than one luckless swimmer, venturing out too far, has been dragged down by them, and there are instances where they have picked a man out of a fishing boat. If those tentacles ever get you in their murderous grip, it’s all over with you.

“Then, too, we have what is called the ‘smotherer,’ something like a monstrous ray, that spreads itself out over its prey and forces it down in the mud at the bottom, until it is smothered to death. It’s a terror to divers, and they fear it more than they do the shark.

“But these perils are well known and can be guarded against. If I’d got into any trouble with them, it would probably have been largely my own fault. But it is the ‘unexpected that happens,’ and the thing that marked me for life was something not much bigger than my fist.

“Have you ever seen an abalone? No? Well, it’s a kind of shellfish that’s common on this coast. It has one shell and that a very beautiful one, so that it is in considerable demand. The inside of it is like mother of pearl and there are little swellings on it called ‘blisters,’ that gleam with all the colors of the rainbow. It’s a favorite sport here to get up ‘abalone parties,’ just as you fellows in the East go crabbing. Only, instead of getting after them with a net, we use a crowbar. Queer kind of fishing, isn’t it?”

“I should say it was,” smiled Bert.

“Well, you see, it’s this way. The body of the abalone is a mass of muscle that has tremendous strength. It is so powerful, that the natives of the South Sea Islands use the abalones to catch sharks with. Fact. They fasten a chain to the abalone, and it swims out and attaches itself to the under side of a shark. Then they pull it in, and no matter how hard the shark struggles and threshes about, it has to come. The abalone would be torn to pieces before it would let go. It’s the bulldog of the shellfish tribe, and a harpoon wouldn’t hold the shark more securely.

“On the coast, here, they fasten themselves to the rocks, and as these are usually covered at high tide, you have to hunt them when the tide is low. You wade out among the rocks until you catch sight of an abalone. Then you insert the crowbar between the shell and the rock. Only the enormous leverage this gives enables you to pry it off. The strongest man on earth couldn’t pull it away with his bare hands.

“Usually, we went in parties, and there was a good deal of rivalry as to who would get the largest and finest shells. I forgot to say that, besides the shells themselves, once in a while you can find a pearl of considerable value and great beauty. This occurs so seldom, however, that it is always a red-letter day when you have such a bit of luck.

“One day, a friend had arranged to go abalone hunting with me, but just as we were getting ready to start out, a telegram called him away from town, on important business. It would have been the luckiest thing that ever happened to me if I had got a telegram too. We were both much disappointed, as on that day we were going to try a new place, where we had a ‘hunch’ that we would make a good haul.

“The weather was so fine and I had my mind so set upon the trip, that I determined to go it alone. The tide that day would be at low water mark at about twelve o’clock. I threw a lunch together, got out my bag and crowbar and started.

“A tramp of a couple of miles down the beach brought me to the place we had in mind. It was a desolate stretch of shore, with no houses in sight except an occasional fisherman’s shack, and the crowds that frequented the other beaches had left this severely alone. It was this, added to the fact that an unusual number of rocks was visible at low tide, that had made us fix on it as a promising location.

“The day was bright and clear and the sea had never appeared so beautiful. Looked to me, I imagine, a good deal as it did to you just now. It has never seemed beautiful to me since.

“The tide was on the ebb, but had not yet run out fully, and I had to wait perhaps half an hour before the rocks were uncovered enough to permit me to see the abalones in their hiding places. I spent the time lying lazily on the sand with half shut eyelids, and basking in the inexpressible charm of sea and sky. I never dreamed of the horror the scene would inspire in me a little later on. There was a long swell but little surf that day, and there was nothing cruel in the way the waves danced in the sunlight and came gliding up, with an air that was almost caressing, to where I lay stretched out at perfect peace with myself and the world.

“Soon the ebb had reached its limit and there was that momentary hesitation before the tide, as though it had forgotten something and were coming back for it, began to flow in. Now was the time, if I wanted to fill the sack that I had brought along with me to hold my spoil. I remember chuckling to myself, as I looked around and saw that there was not a soul in sight. If this should prove the rich hunting ground I believed it to be, I would have first choice of the finest specimens.

“I slung the bag over my shoulder and holding the crowbar in my left hand, began to make my way out to the rocks. I had stripped off my outer clothing, and was in the swimming suit that I wore underneath. The water was deliciously refreshing, after the sun bath I had been enjoying, and I went leisurely along until I came to where the rocks were thickest. The slope was very gradual, and, by the time I got among them, I was some distance from the shore. Then I became alert and alive, and buckled down to my work.

“My friend and I had made no mistake. The rocks were full of abalones and my bag was soon filling rapidly. I exulted in the thought of the virgin field that we too would exploit together.

“But, although the shells were numerous and unusually fine in their markings, I could not find any that contained a pearl. That was the one thing necessary to make my day a perfect success. I began to hustle now, as the tide was beginning to come in strongly, and before long the rising waters would cover the rocks.

“Suddenly, I saw under the green surface a large abalone with its shell gaping widely. And my heart gave a jubilant leap as I saw a large pearl just within the edge of the shell. How I came to do such a fool thing I don’t know, but, with a shout, I reached out my hand to grasp it. I slipped as I did so, and, in trying to steady myself, the crowbar flew out of my left hand and fell several feet away. And just then the shell began to tighten. I tried to withdraw my hand, but it was too late. That closing shell held it against the rock as though in an iron clamp.

“A sweat broke out all over me and icy chills chased themselves up and down my spine. I pulled with all my might, but the shell, as though in mockery, closed tighter. The feeling of that clammy mass of gristle and muscle against the flesh filled me with a sick loathing that, for the moment, overbore the pain of my crushed hand. So, I imagine, a man might feel in the slimy folds of a boa constrictor.

“Instinctively, I raised my other hand, as if to insert the crowbar. Then I realized that it had fallen from my hand. I could see where it lay between two rocks, not six feet away. Six feet! It might as well have been six miles.

“I was trapped. The full horror of my situation burst upon me. I was alone, held fast by that powerful shell that recognized me as an enemy and would never relax of its own accord. And the tide was coming in.

“In a fury of rage and terror, I struck at the abalone with my left hand while with all my strength I tried to tear away my right. But I could have as soon succeeded in pulling it from beneath a triphammer. There were gaping rents in the flesh opened by my struggles and I could see my blood mingling with the green water.

“You have heard of bears and lynxes caught in traps who have chewed at their imprisoned leg until they left it behind them and hobbled away, maimed and bleeding, but free. I swear to you that I would have done the same with that hand of mine, if I had been able.

“I thought of a woodsman whom I knew, who had been caught by a falling tree that had crushed his foot. He knew that if he stayed there that night, the wolves would get him. His axe was within reach and he deliberately chopped off his foot. I didn’t have even that chance. I was in my bathing suit and my knife was in the clothes left on the shore.

“And all this time the cruel, treacherous sea was coming in and the tide was mounting higher and higher. It purled about me softly, gently, like a cat playing with a mouse. I beat at it angrily with my left hand and it seemed to laugh. It felt sure of me and could afford to be indulgent. It was already above my waist and my knowledge of the coast told me that when it reached the flood it would be ten feet deep at the place where I stood.

“I looked wildly around, in the hope of seeing some one on the shore. But it was absolutely deserted. A little while before, I had been gloating over the fact that I was alone and could have a monopoly of the hunting. Now I would have given all I had in the world for the sight of a human face. I shouted until I was hoarse, but no one came. Far out at sea, I could glimpse dimly the sails of a vessel. I waved my free hand desperately, but I knew at the time that it was futile. I was a mere speck to any one on board, and even if they trained strong glasses on me they would have thought it nothing but the frolicsome antics of a bather.

“Now the water was up to my armpits. The thought came to me that if I should keep perfectly quiet, the abalone might think his danger gone and loosen his grip. But, though I nearly went crazy with the terrible strain of keeping still, when every impulse was to leap and yell, the cunning creature never relaxed that murderous clutch.

“Then I lost all control of myself. It wasn’t the thought of death itself. I could, I think, have steeled myself to that. But it was the horrible mode of death. To be young and strong and twenty, and to die there, slowly and inexorably, while six feet away was a certain means of rescue!

“The water had reached my neck. My overstrung nerves gave way. I tugged wildly at my bleeding hand. I raved and wept. I think I must have grown delirious. I dimly remember babbling to the iron bar that I could see lying there so serenely in the transparent water. I coaxed it, wheedled it, cajoled it, begged it to come to me, and, when it refused, I cursed it. The waves were breaking over me and I was choking. The spray was in my eyes and ears. I thought I heard a shouting, the sound of oars. Then a great blackness settled down upon me and I knew nothing more.

“When next I came to consciousness, I was in a hospital, where I had been for two months with brain fever. They had had to take off two fingers, and barely saved the rest of the hand. They wouldn’t let me see a mirror until they had prepared me for the change in my appearance.

“I learned then the story of my rescue. A party had come around a bend of the shore when I was at my last gasp. They caught sight of my hand just above the water. They made for me at once and tried to pull me into the boat. Then they saw my plight, and, with a marlinspike, pried the abalone loose. They tell me that my bleeding fingers had stiffened around the pearl, and they could scarcely get it away from me. They asked me afterward if I cared to see it, but I hated it so bitterly that I refused to look at it. It had been bought at too high a price.

“And now,” he concluded, “do you wonder that I dread that sleek and crawling monster that I call the sea?”

Bert drew a long breath.

“No,” he said, and there was a world of sympathy and understanding in his tone, “I don’t.”

CHAPTER XVI

Desperate Chances

Bert’s stay at the pleasant seaside hotel was limited to a few hours only, but he gained incalculable refreshment from the short rest. It was with regret that he could not spend more time there that he took leave of the proprietor, and repaired to the motorcycle store where he had left the “Blue Streak” to have some very necessary work done on it. The engine had not been overhauled since starting from New York, and the cylinders were badly incrusted with carbon. He had left directions for this to be scraped out, and when he reached the shop expected to find his machine waiting for him in first-class condition. What was his chagrin therefore, when, on entering the place, the first thing he saw was the “Blue Streak” in a dismantled condition, parts of it strewn all over the floor.

He hunted up the proprietor, and indignantly asked him why the machine was not ready according to promise.

“I’m very sorry,” the man told him, “but as one of the mechanics was scraping the front cylinder it dropped on the floor, and when he picked it up he found it was split. So we can’t do anything with the machine until we get a new cylinder.”

“But haven’t you got a machine in the place you could take a cylinder from, and put it on my machine?” asked Bert. “I can’t afford to be held up here for a day while you send away for a new part.”

“There isn’t a machine in the place that would have a cylinder to fit yours,” said the proprietor; “if it had been a rear cylinder, it would have been easy enough to give you another, because we could take one off a one-cylinder machine that would fit. But, as it happens, I haven’t a twin cylinder machine in the place.”

“But how long will it take to get the new one here?” asked Bert.

“About half a day, I should say,” replied the other.

“Half a day!” echoed Bert, and his heart sank. “Why, if I lose that much time here it probably means that I’ll lose the race. Do you realize that?”

“I don’t see what we can do about it,” replied the proprietor, shrugging his shoulders. “I’ll get the cylinder for you the first minute I can, but that’s the best I can do.”

Bert saw that there was no use arguing the matter. He walked out of the place without another word, but with a great bitterness in his heart. All his days of heartbreaking riding – the hardships he had undergone – the obstacles he had faced and overcome – all these things were in a fair way of being set at nought because of the carelessness of a stupid mechanician. The thought almost drove him frantic, and he hurried along the pavement, scarcely noticing where he was going. At last he collected his thoughts somewhat and pulled himself together. Looking about him, he saw that he was not far from the postoffice, and it occurred to him that there might be a letter for him from Tom or Dick.

With this thought in mind he entered the postoffice, in one corner of which there was also a telegraph station.

Walking up to the window, he inquired if there was any mail for Bert Wilson.

“No,” said the functionary behind the grating, “but there’s a telegram just come in for a party of that name. Bill!” he called, to the telegraph operator, “here’s Mr. Wilson now, him that you just got the telegram for.”

“Oh, all right,” replied the operator, “here you are, sir. I was just going to send it up to your hotel.”

“Much obliged,” said Bert, and tore open the yellow envelope.

“Ride fast,” it read, “have just heard Hayward is within three hundred miles of San Francisco. Hurry.”

The slip of yellow paper dropped from Bert’s nerveless fingers. Three hundred miles away. Why, Bert was as far from San Francisco as that himself, with mountainous roads still before him, and his machine out of commission!

If he could only do something, anything, that would be a relief. But he was absolutely helpless in the grasp of an unforeseen calamity, and all he could do was to pray desperately for the speedy arrival of the new cylinder.

He hastened back to the repair shop, and found that in his absence everything, with, of course, the exception of the front cylinder, had been put together. “We’ve done all we can,” the proprietor assured him. “A few minutes ago I called up the agents in Clyde and they said that their man was on the way with it. So it ought to get here early this afternoon.”

“Well,” declared Bert grimly, “I’m not going to stir out of this place till it does come, let me tell you.”

He waited with what patience he could muster, and at last, a little before two o’clock, the long-awaited cylinder arrived. With feverish haste Bert fastened it to the motor base himself, too impatient to let anybody else do it. Besides, he was resolved to take no chances of having this cylinder damaged. Ten minutes later the last nut had been tightened, and the “Blue Streak” was wheeled out into the street. Now that the heartbreaking waiting was over, Bert felt capable of anything. As he vaulted into the saddle, he made a compact with himself. “If my machine holds out,” he resolved, “I will not sleep again until I reach San Francisco;” and when Bert made a resolution, he kept it.

He scorched through the streets of the town regardless, for the time being, of local speed ordinances. In a few minutes he was out on the open road, and then, – well, the “Blue Streak” justified all the encomiums he had ever heaped upon it. Up hill and down he sped, riding low over the handlebars, man and machine one flying, space-devouring unit. The day drew into dusk, dusk changed to darkness, and Bert dismounted long enough to light his lamp and was off again, streaking over the smooth road like a flying comet. At times he slowed down as he approached curves, but was off again like the wind when he had rounded them. Sometimes steep hills confronted him, but the speeding motorcycle took them by storm, and topped their summits almost before gravity could act to slacken his headlong speed. Then the descent on the other side would be a wild, dizzy rush, when at time the speedometer needle reached the ninety mark.