Dick Merriwell's Pranks: or, Lively Times in the Orient

“Close to the shore in that cove yonder.”

“What do you see?”

“Looks like the black hulk of a boat in the shadow of those thick palms.”

“It sure does look that way!” palpitated Buckhart.

“But it may be one of these river boats, don’t you know,” said Coddington. “They find many places where they swing in to the shore and tie up.”

“She shows no light,” said Colonel Stringer.

Dick spoke to the pilot.

“Can you run in there?” he asked. “We think we see a boat near the shore.”

The pilot explained that the river was quite deep there, such current as there was being thrown near the bank by its winding course. He sounded the bell for half speed and the steamer glided toward the deep shadows.

Professor Gunn was very nervous.

“We must be near the site of old Memphis,” he said. “The ruins are covered by a great palm grove, and you can see plenty of palms there, on the shore.”

But the others were watching the small, dark hulk that lay near the shore close under the shadow of the palms, through which the light from the low-lying moon sifted in spots.

“Whoever is on board there, they ought to know we’re coming,” growled Buckhart, disgusted by the fuss made by the little steamer, which was snorting and wheezing in a manner to be heard afar in the wonderful silence of that Egyptian night.

“I think some one is stirring, don’t you know,” said Coddington. “I fancied I saw something move.”

Dick had fancied the same. To him it seemed as if some dark figures left the steamer and slipped away into the gloom of the palms. Once something like a muffled cry came out across the water, but the wheezing of the steamer prevented them from hearing it distinctly. Even though it were a cry of some sort, they knew it might come from a night bird or a prowling wild beast amid the ruins of the ancient city.

Suddenly and unexpectedly a bar of light shot out from the black hulk near the shore. It struck in their faces, dazzling and blinding them.

Involuntarily they half crouched, while several of them reached for their weapons.

“A searchlight!” exclaimed Dick. “We’ve found the yacht! Look out for trouble!”

“There sure is liable to be some shooting!” breathed Buckhart; “and we’re mighty fine targets here in this light. Look out for bullets!”

Then a voice hailed them. Some one called to them in Turkish. It was a challenge, although they did not understand the words.

“Talk English,” cried Dick. “We don’t understand that lingo.”

“No, we don’t savvy it any at all,” said Buckhart.

“Are you trying to collide with me?” demanded a voice from behind the searchlight. “Keep off!”

“He savvys United States all right,” said Brad, in deep satisfaction. “Now we can powwow with him.”

The captain of the steamer gave a signal for the engineer to reverse his engines.

“Who are you?” demanded Dick.

“What right have you to ask?” was the indignant retort.

“We take the right. Better answer.”

“I am a peaceful individual seeking to get some sleep. Why do you come pounding in here with your noisy old boat and disturb my rest?”

“He’s a whole lot saucy,” growled the Texan.

“We are looking for a private yacht, owned by a Turkish gentleman,” explained Dick.

“A Turkish gentleman – not!” muttered Buckhart.

“You are friends?” was the inquiry from behind the source of the light.

“Not exactly; but we have important business with the gentleman.”

“What’s his name?”

“What’s your name?”

Dick was talking to give the captain time to bring the steamer alongside the yacht, which was no simple task under the circumstances.

Evidently the unknown did not fancy Dick’s manner of speech, for he again commanded them to keep off.

“If you touch my boat you will mar her,” he said. “I don’t know you. You may be scoundrels, robbers, assassins.”

“We’re looking for some scoundrels,” said the Texan, in a low tone; “and I certain reckon we’ve found them. Get ready to board that boat, and be prepared to fight.”

“I warn you to keep off!” angrily shouted the voice of the unseen man. “We’ll have to defend ourselves.”

“If you’re on the level,” said Dick, “you have nothing to fear from us; but we are determined to make an investigation and find out who and what you are.”

“We may fire on you.”

“Better not.”

“We can. You are in the light, while it is impossible for you to see us.”

“If you do any shooting, you’ll regret it.”

During this “game of talk” the pilot was manipulating the steamer as skillfully as possible, the bell tinkling nervously and frequently in the engine room.

Dick felt something touch his leg and glanced down. Dunbar Budthorne, agitated and cowering, was crouching on his knees in the shadow of the rail at the boy’s feet.

“Get up!” muttered Dick, in a low tone. “Don’t let them see they have frightened anybody. We must bluff this thing through.”

“They may begin shooting any moment,” chattered the cowering fellow. “If they do, they can pick us all off easily. You’ll be the first one killed, too, for Bunol thirsts for your blood.”

Not another one of the group had sought shelter. Colonel Stringer, his gray mustache bristling, was standing erect with his shoulders squared toward the enemy, while John Coddington was planted near, his hands on his hips. Buckhart was close to the rail, his square jaw set, fire in his eyes. The professor, inspired by the others, had not betrayed any alarm, although Dick fancied he was ready to drop and seek shelter the instant any trouble began.

In the very forefront was Merriwell.

The enemy seemed in doubt, and while they hesitated the steamer bumped against the side of the yacht.

The moment the two boats touched Dick and Brad were on the jump. The searchlight no longer bore on them. They leaped to the rail and went over it. From the steamer they sprang to the deck of the yacht.

Colonel Stringer followed, only he was somewhat more cautious. He was a moment ahead of Coddington.

Dick had a pistol in his hand when his feet struck the deck of the yacht. Buckhart also had drawn a weapon.

They found themselves confronted by two men, both of whom seemed unarmed.

“Is this the way peaceable persons behave?” asked a cuttingly sarcastic voice. “You have boarded my yacht in defiance of my wishes, and, if my eyes do not deceive me in this light, you have weapons in your hands.”

“We shall not use our weapons unless you force us to use them,” said Dick. “Have no fear of that.”

“Under the circumstances,” said the stranger, “you must confess that you have given us great provocation. We should have been justified in firing on you as you drew near, for your movements have been hostile all along.”

“I reckon there was a right good reason why you did no shooting,” put in Brad.

“And that reason was – what?”

“You didn’t dare.”

“Oh, but any man has a right to defend himself and his property. You are wrong in thinking we did not dare. What had we to fear?”

“The row it would raise if you did fire on us. You bet your boots shooting of that sort would have kicked up a rumpus.”

“Your logic is poor. However, I do not intend arguing with you. Now that you are here, be good enough to state your business instantly. As soon as possible I wish you to retire.”

“I presume you haven’t the least idea of the nature of our business?” said Dick sarcastically.

“Not the least, I assure you.”

“Where is Miguel Bunol?”

“Who is that?”

“Miguel Bunol.”

“You will pardon me, but I fear I have not the pleasure of the gentleman’s acquaintance.”

“You are a Turk?”

“Yes.”

“You own this yacht?”

“Yes.”

“You are the man so often seen watching our party in Cairo.”

“I think you must be mistaken. I do not seem to remember you. However, if you will step forward a little, I’ll have the searchlight turned on you. I may be able to recognize you then.”

“Trick, pard!” hissed the Texan. “At close range they may begin the shooting if they get us into the light.”

“Wait a minute,” invited Stringer. “Let me say something, if yo’ please.”

Then he addressed the owner of the yacht.

“Suh,” he said, “I am Stringer, suh, Colonel Weatherby Stringer, at one time of the khedive’s army. I am visiting Egypt again after a lapse of some years, suh, but I assure yo’ I have friends of power and influence in Cairo and Alexandria. In case harm comes to me, suh, the whole affair will be investigated, and yo’ will find yo’self the sufferer if yo’ are in any degree at fault. That’s all I have to say, suh. Now go ahead and use your old searchlight as much as yo’ like.”

This was the little man’s defiance.

“Perhaps you may not know me?” broke in the Englishman. “I am John Coddington, and I have a large business interest in Cairo. If I should happen to get shot to-night, I assure you, don’t you know, that it would be a very serious matter for any one who did the shooting.”

The stranger bowed.

“It happened, gentlemen,” he said, “that I fancied I recognized you both when the searchlight was turned on your boat.”

That seemed to explain why no shooting had been done. The presence of Stringer and Coddington had held the enemy in check.

The enemy? Were these two men the only ones on the yacht? Surely not. Our friends knew there must be more, but where were they?

“Now,” said Dick, “as we are beginning to understand each other, we will inform you further that we are looking for a Spaniard by the name of Miguel Bunol. It is known that he proceeded up the river on the private yacht of a Turkish gentleman. I hardly fancy there is another such yacht on this part of the river.”

“And so you think this man you seek must be on board my boat?”

“Exactly.”

“He is not.”

“Do you deny that he has been? Do you deny that he brought a young girl on board this yacht against her will?”

The owner of the yacht laughed disdainfully.

“Deny it?” he exclaimed. “Of course I do!”

“Then you lie!” shouted a voice, as Dunbar Budthorne came leaping from the steamer to the yacht and rushed forward to confront the cool Turk. “I saw her brought on board! This is the yacht! She is here! Search the boat!”

CHAPTER XXX – HIS JUST DESERTS

The Turk did not shrink before Budthorne. He remained unruffled as he said:

“Very well; search the boat, gentlemen. As I know two of you to be responsible, you have my permission to look the yacht over from stem to stern.”

“It’s a bluff!” growled Buckhart.

But in his heart Dick was beginning to fear that neither Nadia nor Bunol would be found on the yacht.

Budthorne was greatly wrought up, and he urged the others to come on.

The Turk spoke to his companion, who stepped aside and disappeared.

A moment later lights flashed up all over the yacht.

The Turk stood smiling in the light of an electric lantern, his manner indicating his confidence in the result of the impending search.

The lights showed two men forward, where they had been standing in the shadow of the pilot house.

They were the pilot and engineer. One was a Greek and the other an Armenian.

“Are these all of your crew?” demanded John Coddington.

“Yes, sir.”

Now that the lights were on, Professor Gunn came crawling cautiously over the rail onto the deck of the yacht, to which the steamer had been made fast.

“Hum! ha!” he coughed. “I must see that nothing is neglected. Proceed with the search, gentlemen.”

Medjid Bey, the owner of the yacht, lighted a Turkish cigarette and puffed away with indifference as the boarders began searching the yacht.

It did not take long to search the small, but elegant craft from one end to the other, and not a trace of Nadia or Bunol was found.

Budthorne was infuriated. He seemed almost deranged.

“What have they done with her?” he cried. “What have they done with my sister?”

Brad and Dick held a consultation in low tones.

“We’re tricked, pard,” said the Texan. “The Spanish snake and the dirty Turk have fooled us. What can we do? They’ve carried Nadia off. I’m for taking that Mohammedan varmint by the throat and squeezing the truth out of him.”

“I’m afraid we can’t get at the truth that way,” said Dick. “It is a bad piece of business.”

“Bad! Pard, if that Spaniard harms a hair of Nadia’s head I’ll skin him alive! You hear me warble! I’ll kill him by inches!”

Dick walked toward the stern of the yacht, which had swung quite close to the shore. Indeed, not more than twelve or fourteen feet of water lay between that end of the yacht and the bank, showing that the water was very deep there.

Merriwell stood looking into the shadows of the palm grove, feeling desperate and baffled. Suddenly in the gloom of the grove there was a red spout of fire.

The report of a pistol startled the peaceful night. Dick Merriwell dropped on the deck of the yacht. A roar of fury burst from the lips of Brad Buckhart. With two great leaps he reached the rail of the yacht and perched on it. Then he uprose and flung himself forward in a spring for the bank.

He cleared the space and landed on the shore. Recklessly he charged into the palm grove, a pistol in his hand. The Texan believed his comrade had been shot down in a dastardly manner, and his heart was filled with a mad longing for vengeance.

He ran toward the spot where the flash of the weapon had been seen. Through a dim bit of moonlight ahead of him a figure seemed to flit. That glimpse was enough for the Texan. He flung up his hand and his pistol barked twice.

“Give me a fair look at ye, and I’ll certain get ye!” he panted.

He came to some ruined steps of stone and stumbled down them, losing his footing and falling sprawling at the foot. But he was up in a moment, and again he fancied he caught a glimpse of a flitting form.

Crack! Once more he fired.

“Bet I nipped him then!” he snarled.

He continued the mad pursuit, little reckoning what might happen, thinking only that he might reach the person who had shot down his friend and wreak vengeance for the dastardly act.

Suddenly right ahead of him the red fire spouted and a singing bullet brushed his ear. At the same moment Brad struck his foot against a broken column of marble which had been unearthed from the ruins and went headlong to the earth.

It must have seemed that he had been dropped by the bullet. At any rate, with a cry of satisfaction, a man leaped up and came at him.

Buckhart rose to his knees. He had dropped his revolver, else he could have shot the other. As it was, the man flung himself on the Texan, hurling him backward to the earth.

“I have you,” snarled a voice, “and when I am done both my enemies will be dead and out of the way!”

It was the voice of Bunol!

It was now a hand-to-hand struggle for life or death, amid the palms which grew above the buried city of Memphis. What little moonlight sifted through and fell upon the combatants simply served to make the desperate struggle seem all the more terrible.

Although taken thus at a disadvantage, Buckhart was a fighter every inch of him, and he was not immediately overcome by the murderous Spaniard.

Bunol had flung his whole weight on the Texan, and Brad’s head struck against a block of stone, causing him to see stars; yet the American lad clutched the wrist of his antagonist and held fast.

It was well he did so, for the Spaniard had drawn a knife, and this he was trying hard to use.

Bunol cursed in Spanish. He twisted and squirmed, seeking to free his hand. He was astonished at the strength of Buckhart, for he believed the Texan had been brought down by a bullet and was sorely wounded.

“You die hard, American dog!” he panted; “but die you shall!”

“Not by your hand, you varmint!” retorted Brad.

“Oh, I’ll kill you yet!”

The Texan was gathering his strength, and suddenly there was an upheaval, Bunol being unable to pin the husky chap to the ground. Snarling like a mad dog, the Spaniard writhed in an eellike effort to escape from the clutch that continued to render his knife hand helpless.

Powerful though he was, Buckhart felt his hold slipping. There was perspiration on Bunol’s wrist and on the Texan’s fingers. The task of maintaining that grip grew more and more difficult.

Still Buckhart realized that it was possible his life depended on his success in clinging to the fellow’s wrist.

Suddenly Bunol snapped his hand free.

“Now,” he snarled; “now I kill you!”

But, even as he struck, Buckhart sent him backward with a surge, and the keen blade merely slashed the sleeve of the American lad.

Brad fancied he knew just where he had dropped his pistol, and he hastily felt round for the weapon.

“Let me get it,” he growled, “and I’ll make a sieve of that cur!”

He was given little time to search. Bunol recovered quickly. He saw the other feeling about on the ground. Crouching, he half rose and launched himself at Brad.

The boy from the Pan Handle country, however, was on the alert, and, with equal swiftness, he sprang aside.

The Spaniard missed his intended victim, but the knife in his fingers struck fire from a stone, on which it was broken near the hilt.

A snarl of dismay escaped the lips of the murderous wretch.

Then Buckhart grappled with him again.

Brad did not know the knife was broken, so he made a grab at Miguel’s wrist to prevent him from slashing.

“Whoop!” came from the lips of the Texan. “This sure is the real thing in the way of a scrimmage. It’s a right long time since I’ve been in one like this.”

Bunol cursed bitterly. At last he realized that his antagonist could not be seriously wounded. Although he did his best to break away, the American lad hurled him down and held him.

One of Brad’s hands found Miguel’s throat.

“Got ye now!” he grated triumphantly. “Tell me where you have taken Nadia! Speak quick, or you’ll never have the chance to speak at all!”

“Go ahead!” gasped the helpless scoundrel. “Kill me! Kill me, and you’ll never set eyes on her again!”

“Where is she?”

“You can’t force me to tell.”

The fingers on the throat of the Spaniard tightened. Bunol’s breath hissed in his throat and then stopped.

“I certain am not in a fooling mood,” said Brad, “and it’s up to you to talk plenty fast.”

Bunol could not talk then, and he could do nothing but gasp when the crushing hold was relaxed.

“I’ll give you about twenty seconds to begin unloading your mind,” said Brad. “Time is flying a heap. Ten seconds gone! Fifteen seconds! Time’s up!”

The cry that Bunol started to utter was cut short by the pressure once more applied to his throat.

Then a figure came flitting through the shadows, dark as night and silent as a phantom. It sped to the spot and was on Buckhart before the Texan realized that another was present.

The boy was hurled aside. He had been attacked by a huge black man.

This fellow flung Buckhart from Bunol and pinned him to the ground, a knee on his breast.

Gaspingly the Spaniard rose.

“Hold him, Kahireh!” he gasped. “Don’t let him get away! Where is your knife? Let me have it quick!”

His hands fumbled in the girdle of the black man. A moment later he uttered a cry of satisfaction. A bit of moonlight that came through the palms fell on the blade of a long knife that gleamed in the Spaniard’s hands.

“Hold him still, Kahireh!” grated Miguel. “Now I will cut his throat!”

Never had Brad Buckhart been nearer death than at that moment, for Miguel Bunol really meant to make his words good. He intended to cut the throat of the helpless boy, who was held for slaughter by the powerful black man.

But Brad’s time had not come.

Out of the near-by shadows leaped still another figure. Bunol was bowled over with a kick. Then the heavy butt of a pistol fell on the head of the black man, who pitched forward across the Texan.

“Brad! Brad!” called a voice that was filled with anxiety; “are you all right?”

Then the strong hands of his dearest friend on earth pulled Buckhart from beneath the stunned giant.

“Pard,” gasped the Texan, in joyous bewilderment, “is it you? Why, I certain reckoned you were dead a heap! I saw the flash and saw you fall on the deck of the yacht.”

“But I saw a moving shadow in the grove and dropped just in time to escape being shot in my tracks,” said Dick. “Are you hurt?”

“None at all. But where is that varmint Bunol? Only for this other galoot I’d choked the truth out of him or finished him. Where is he? There – there he goes!”

Bunol had taken flight, running as fast as possible through the grove. Instantly both lads were off in pursuit, determined not to let the scoundrel give them the slip.

“Shoot, pard!” urged Buckhart. “He may slip us if you don’t!”

“And I may kill him if I do. I want to force him to tell where we may find Nadia.”

“Better kill him than to let him get away,” panted Brad. “If I had my gun – ”

Crack! Dick fired.

There was a cry of pain ahead of them, and they saw the fleeing figure fall.

“Nailed him, Dick!” exulted Brad. “That’s the ticket! That was the way to stop him!”

In truth, Merriwell had brought the fleeing Spaniard down with a single shot. In a moment they reached the fellow, who was lying on the ground, alternately cursing and groaning.

As they came up, Bunol lifted himself on his left elbow. His right hand went back. A shaft of moonlight gleamed on something in his hand.

The Texan uttered a warning cry.

Dick Merriwell dropped as if shot, and for the second time that night he did so barely in time to escape death at the hand of his bitter enemy.

The huge knife Bunol had taken from the black man whistled through the air, barely missing Merriwell as he fell.

Then Buckhart pounced on the young scoundrel.

“You dog!” grated Brad. “I sure will cook you this trip!”

But Dick interfered a moment later, checking the fury of the boy from the Pan Handle country, and preventing him from injuring the Spaniard further.

“Go ahead!” whimpered Miguel, in a way that seemed quite unusual for him. “You may as well finish the job! You have smashed my knee, and I’ll bleed to death, anyhow!”

“I must have hit him in the leg,” said Dick. “I fired low.”

Buckhart struck a match and Dick made a hasty examination, questioning the wounded rascal. He found that Bunol had been wounded in the knee and was bleeding profusely. With his pocketknife Merriwell quickly cut away Miguel’s trousers and exposed the wound.

The Spaniard lifted the upper part of his body and looked at his bloody knee. A groan escaped him, and then he began to sob. All the nerve had been taken out of him.

Dick quickly cut a strip from the lower part of Bunol’s trousers leg, twisted it like a rope, tied it round the fellow’s leg above the knee, inserted his pistol barrel through the loop and began to twist, thus tightening the manufactured cord until it began to cut into the flesh and checked the flow of blood.

In the meantime Brad had been questioning Bunol about Nadia, and the cowered wretch confessed that she was hidden close at hand in a portion of an excavated temple and still guarded by one of the two black men.

A distant call startled the boys. When the call was repeated they recognized it as coming from some of their friends, and they answered it.

Soon Colonel Stringer, Coddington, the professor, and Budthorne came hastening through the palm grove. As they approached, they saw a man dodging away. They ordered him to stop, but this resulted in his fleeing still more swiftly, and he quickly disappeared.

Then the colonel declared he heard a low cry, not far away. The Texan joined them, declaring Bunol had confessed that Nadia was near by. They began searching, and soon they came upon the mouth of an excavation, one of many such, made by scientists in uncovering the ruins of old Memphis.

From the depths of this opening Nadia answered his call. In a reckless, headstrong manner, the Texan let himself down into the opening, released all holds and slid to the bottom.

“Here she is!” he shouted, in delighted satisfaction. “She’s all right! Hooray! Whoop! Whoop-ee! Get a rope from the steamer and yank us out.”

Medjid Bey gave an order to his engineer immediately after our friends left the yacht for the shore. The engineer hastened to get up steam. This was not such a difficult task, as the fires had been kept in a condition that would enable them to move with very little delay.