FullReads

“That’s main queer,” muttered Anderson, and returned to the beach.

There he spread out the chart–the first look at it we’d had–and set to studying it.

It was a careful piece of work done in India ink, pretty old, to judge by the look of it, and with all sorts of pictures of mountains and dolphins and ships and anchors around the edge. There was our bay, all right. Two crosses were marked on the land part–one labelled “oro” and the other “agua.”

“Now there’s the high cliff,” says Anderson, following it out, “and there’s the round hill with the boulder–and if them bearings don’t point due for that ravine, the devil’s a preacher.”

We tried it again, with the same result. A second inspection of the map brought us no light on the question. We talked it over, and looked at it from all points, but we couldn’t dodge the truth: the chart was wrong.

Then we explored several of the nearest gullies, but without finding anything but loose stones baked hot in the sun.

By now it was getting towards sundown, so we built us a fire of mesquite on the beach, made us supper, and boiled a pot of beans.

We talked it over. The water was about gone.

“That’s what we’ve got to find first,” said Simpson, “no question of it. It’s God knows how far to the next water, and we don’t know how long it will take us to get there in that little boat. If we run our water entirely out before we start, we’re going to be in trouble. We’ll have a good look to-morrow, and if we don’t find her, we’ll run down to Mollyhay[1] and get a few extra casks.”

Footnote: [1] Mulege–I retain the Old Timer’s pronunciation.

“Perhaps that map is wrong about the treasure, too,” suggested Denton.

“I thought of that,” said Handy Solomon, “but then, thinks I to myself, this old rip probably don’t make no long stay here–just dodges in and out like, between tides, to bury his loot. He would need no water at the time; but he might when he came back, so he marked the water on his map. But he wasn’t noways particular AND exact, being in a hurry. But you can kiss the Book to it that he didn’t make no such mistakes about the swag.”

“I believe you’re right,” said I.

When we came to turn in, Anderson suggested that he should sleep aboard the boat. But Billy Simpson, in mind perhaps of the hundred ounces in the compass-box, insisted that he’d just as soon as not. After a little objection Handy Solomon gave in, but I thought he seemed sour about it. We built a good fire, and in about ten seconds were asleep.

Now, usually I sleep like a log, and did this time until about midnight. Then all at once I came broad awake and sitting up in my blankets. Nothing had happened–I wasn’t even dreaming–but there I was as alert and clear as though it were broad noon.

By the light of the fire I saw Handy Solomon sitting, and at his side our five rifles gathered.

I must have made some noise, for he turned quietly toward me, saw I was awake, and nodded. The moonlight was sparkling on the hard stony landscape, and a thin dampness came out from the sea.

After a minute Anderson threw on another stick of wood, yawned, and stood up.

“It’s wet,” said he; “I’ve been fixing the guns.”

He showed me how he was inserting a little patch of felt between the hammer and the nipple, a scheme of his own for keeping damp from the powder. Then he rolled up in his blanket. At the time it all seemed quite natural–I suppose my mind wasn’t fully awake, for all my head felt so clear. Afterwards I realised what a ridiculous bluff he was making: for of course the cap already on the nipple was plenty to keep out the damp. I fully believe he intended to kill us as we lay. Only my sudden awakening spoiled his plan.