Chambers Robert William
Quick Action

XXVII

And on Tuesday he kept his word and the land was his for a few hundred dollars – all except the half of Lot No. 210, which it appeared the "party" declined to sell, refusing to consider any profit whatever.

"It's like a woman," remarked Munsell.

"Is your 'party' a woman?"

"Yes. I guess she's into some game or other, too. Say, what is this Seminole County game, Mr. White? – if you don't mind my asking, now that you have taken title to your – h'm! – orange grove."

"Why do you think there is any particular game afoot?" inquired the young man curiously.

"Oh, come! You know what you're buying. And that young lady knew, too. You've both bought a few acres of cypress swamp and you know it. What do you think is in it?"

"Snakes," said White coolly.

"Oh, I know," said Munsell. "You think there's marl and phosphoric rock."

"And isn't there?" asked White innocently.

"How should I know?" replied Munsell as innocently; the inference being that he knew perfectly well that there was nothing worth purchasing in the Causeway swamp.

But when White went away he was a trifle worried, and he wondered uneasily why anybody else at that particular time should happen to invest in swampy real estate along the Spanish Causeway.

He knew the Spanish Causeway. In youthful and prosperous days, when his parents were alive, they had once wintered at Verbena Inlet.

And on several occasions he had been taken on excursions to the so-called Spanish Causeway – a dike-shaped path, partly ruined, made of marl and shell, which traversed the endless swamps of Seminole County, and was supposed to have been built by De Soto and his Spaniards.

But whoever built it, Spaniard, Seminole, or the prehistoric people antedating both, there it still was, a ruined remnant of highway penetrating the otherwise impassable swamps.

For miles across the wilderness of cypress, palmetto, oak, and depthless mud it stretched – a crumbling but dry runway for deer, panther, bear, black wolf, and Seminole. And excursion parties from the great hotels at Verbena often picnicked at its intersection with the forest road, but ventured no farther along the dismal, forbidding, and snake-infested ridge which ran anywhere between six inches and six feet above the level of the evil-looking marsh flanking it on either side.

In the care-free days of school, of affluence, and of youth, White had been taken to gaze upon this alleged relic of Spanish glory. He now remembered it very clearly.

And that night, aboard the luxurious Verbena Special, he lay in his bunk and dreamed dreams awake, which almost overwhelmed him with their magnificence. But when he slept his dreams were uneasy, interspersed with vague visions of women who came in regiments through flowering jungles to drive him out of his own property. It was a horrid sort of nightmare, for they pelted him with iron-bound copies of Valdez, knocking him almost senseless into the mud. And it seemed to him that he might have perished there had not his little red-haired neighbour extended a slender, helping hand in the nick of time.

Dreaming of her he awoke, still shaking with the experience. And all that day he read in his book and pored over the map attached to it, until the locomotive whistled for St. Augustine, and he was obliged to disembark for the night.

However, next morning he was on his way to Verbena, the train flying through a steady whirlwind of driving sand. And everywhere in the sunshine stretched the flat-woods, magnificently green – endless miles of pine and oak and palmetto, set with brilliant glades of vast, flat fields of wild phlox over which butterflies hovered.

At Verbena Station he disembarked with his luggage, which consisted of a complete tropical camping outfit, tinned food, shot-gun, rifle, rods, spade, shovel, pick, crow. In his hand he carried an innocent looking satchel, gingerly. It contained dynamite in sticks, and the means to explode it safely.

To a hackman he said: "I'm not going to any hotel. What I want is a wagon, a team of mules, and a driver to take me and my outfit to Coakachee Creek on the Spanish Causeway. Can you fix it for me?"

The hackman said he could. And in half an hour he drove up in his mule wagon to the deserted station, where White sat all alone amid his mountainous paraphernalia.

When the wagon had been loaded, and they had been driving through the woods for nearly half an hour in silence, the driver's curiosity got the better of him, and he ventured to enquire of White why everybody was going to the Spanish Causeway.

Which question startled the young man very disagreeably until he learned that "everybody" merely meant himself and one other person taken thither by the same driver the day before.

Further, he learned that this person was a woman from the North, completely equipped for camping as was he. Which made him more uneasy than ever, for he of course identified her with Mr. Munsell's client, whose land, including half of Lot 210, adjoined his own. Who she might be and why she had come down here to Seminole County he could not imagine, because Munsell had intimated that she knew what she was buying.

No doubt she meant to play a similar game to Munsell's, and had come down to take a look at her villainous property before advertising possibilities of perpetual sunshine.

Yet, why had she brought a camping outfit? Ordinary land swindlers remained comfortably aloof from the worthless property they advertised. What was she intending to do there?

Instead of a swindler was she, perhaps, the swindlee? Had she bought the property in good faith? Didn't she know it was under water? Had she come down here with her pitiful camping equipment prepared to rough it and set out orange trees? Poor thing!

"Was she all alone?" he inquired of his cracker driver.

"Yaas, suh."

"Poor thing. Did she seem young and inexperienced?"

"Yaas, suh – 'scusin she all has right smart o' red ha'r."

"What?" exclaimed White excitedly. "You say she is young, and that she seemed inexperienced, except for her red hair!"

"Yaas, suh. She all has a right smart hank of red ha'r on her haid. I ain't never knowed nobody with red ha'r what ain't had a heap mo' 'sperience than the mostest."

"D-d-did you say that you drove her over to the Spanish Causeway yesterday?" stammered the dismayed young man.

"Yaas, suh."

Horrified thoughts filled his mind. For there could be scarcely any doubt that this intruder was his red-haired neighbour across the aisle at the library sale.

No doubt at all that he already crossed her trail at Munsell's agency. Also, she had bid in one of the only two copies of Valdez.

First he had seen her reading it with every symptom of profound interest. Then she had gone to the sale and bid in one of the copies. Then he had heard from Munsell about a woman who had bought land along the Causeway the day before he had made his own purchase.

And now once more he had struck her swift, direct trail, only to learn that she was still one day in advance of him!

In his mental panic he remembered that his title was secure. That thought comforted him for a few moments, until he began to wonder whether the land he had acquired was really sufficient to cover a certain section of perhaps half an acre along the Causeway.

According to his calculations he had given himself ample margin in every direction, for the spot he desired to control ought to lie somewhere about midway between Lot 200 and Lot 210.

Had he miscalculated? Had she miscalculated? Why had she purchased that strip from half of Lot 210 to Lot 220?

There could be only one answer: this clever and astoundingly enterprising young girl had read Valdez, had decided to take a chance, had proved her sporting spirit by backing her judgment, and had started straight as an arrow for the terrifying territory in question.

Hers had been first choice of Mr. Munsell's lots; she had deliberately chosen the numbers from half of 210 to 220. She was perfectly ignorant that he, White, had any serious intentions in Seminole County. Therefore, it had been her judgment, based on calculations from the Valdez map, that half of Lot 210 and the intervening territory including Lot 220, would be ample for her to control a certain spot – the very spot which he himself expected to control.

Either he or she had miscalculated. Which?

Dreadfully worried, he sat in silence beside his taciturn driver, gazing at the flanking forest through which the white road wound.

The only habitation they passed was fruit-drying ranch No. 7, in the wilderness – just this one sunny oasis in the solemn half-light of the woods.

White did not remember the road, although when a child he must have traversed it to the Causeway. Nor when he came in sight of the Causeway did he recognise it, where it ran through a glade of high, silvery grass set sparsely with tall palmettos.

But here it was, and the cracker turned his mules into it, swinging sharply to the left along Coakachee Creek and proceeding for about two miles, where a shell mound enabled him to turn his team.

A wagon could proceed no farther because the crumbling Causeway narrowed to a foot-path beyond. So here they unloaded; the cracker rested his mules for a while, then said a brief good-bye to White and shook the reins.

When he had driven out of sight, White started to drag his tent and tent-poles along the dike top toward his own property, which ought to lie just ahead – somewhere near the curve that the Causeway made a hundred yards beyond. For he had discovered a weather-beaten shingle nailed to a water-oak, where he had disembarked his luggage; and on it were the remains of the painted number 198.

Lugging tent and poles, he started along the Causeway, keeping a respectful eye out for snakes. So intent was he on avoiding the playful attentions of rattler or moccasin that it was only when he almost ran into it that he discovered another tent pitched directly in his path.

Of course he had expected to find her encamped there on the Causeway, but he was surprised, nevertheless, and his tent-poles fell, clattering.

A second later the flap of her tent was pushed aside, and his red-haired neighbour of the galleries stepped out, plainly startled.

XXVIII

She seemed to be still more startled when she saw him: her blue eyes dilated; the colour which had ebbed came back, suffusing her pretty features. But when she recognised him, fear, dismay, astonishment, and anxiety blended in swift confusion, leaving her silent, crimson, rooted to the spot.

White took off his hat and walked up to where she stood.

"I'm sorry, Miss Sandys," he said. "Only a few hours ago did I learn who it was camping here on the Causeway. And – I'm afraid I know why you are here… Because the same reason that brought you started me the next day."

She had recovered her composure. She said very gravely:

"I wondered when I saw you reading Valdez whether, by any possibility, you might think of coming here. And when you bought the other copy I was still more afraid… But I had already secured an option on my lots."

"I know it," he said, chagrined.

"Were you," she inquired, "the client of Mr. Munsell who tried to buy from me the other half of Lot 210?"

"Yes."

"I wondered. But of course I would not sell it. What lots have you bought?"

"I took No. 200 to the northern half of No. 210."

"Why?" she asked, surprised.

"Because," he said, reddening, "my calculations tell me that this gives me ample margin."

She looked at him in calm disapproval, shaking her head; but her blue eyes softened.

"I'm sorry," she said. "You have miscalculated, Mr. White. The spot lies somewhere within the plot numbered from half of 210 to 220."

"I am very much afraid that you have miscalculated, Miss Sandys. I did not even attempt to purchase your plot – except half of 210."

"Nor did I even consider your plot, Mr. White," she said sorrowfully, "and I had my choice. Really I am very sorry for you, but you have made a complete miscalculation."

"I don't see how I could. I worked it out from the Valdez map."

"So did I."

She had the volume under her arm; he had his in his pocket.

"Let me show you," he began, drawing it out and opening it. "Would you mind looking at the map for a moment?"

Her dainty head a trifle on one side, she looked over his shoulder as he unfolded the map for her.

"Here," he said, plucking a dead grass stem and tracing the Causeway on the map, "here lie my lots – including, as you see, the spot marked by Valdez with a Maltese cross… I'm sorry; but how in the world could you have made your mistake?"

He turned to glance at the girl and saw her amazement and misunderstood it.

"It's too bad," he added, feeling profoundly sorry for her.

"Do you know," she said in a voice quivering with emotion, "that a very terrible thing has happened to us?"

"To us?"

"To both of us. I – we – oh, please look at my map! It is – it is different from yours!"

With nervous fingers she opened the book, spread out the map, and held it under his horrified eyes.

"Do you see!" she exclaimed. "According to this map, my lots include the Maltese cross of Valdez! I – I – p-please excuse me – " She turned abruptly and entered her tent; but he had caught the glimmer of sudden tears in her eyes and had seen the pitiful lips trembling.

On his own account he was sufficiently scared; now it flashed upon him that this plucky young thing had probably spent her last penny on the chance that Bangs had told the truth about "The Journal of Pedro Valdez."

That the two maps differed was a staggering blow to him; and his knees seemed rather weak at the moment, so he sat down on his unpacked tent and dropped his face in his palms.

Lord, what a mess! His last cent was invested; hers, too, no doubt. He hadn't even railroad fare North. Probably she hadn't either.

He had gambled and lost. There was scarcely a chance that he had not lost. And the same fearful odds were against her.

"The poor little thing!" he muttered, staring at her tent. And after a moment he sprang to his feet and walked over to it. The flap was open; she sat inside on a camp-chair, her red head in her arms, doubled over in an attitude of tragic despair.

"Miss Sandys?"

She looked up hastily, the quick colour dyeing her pale cheeks, her long, black lashes glimmering with tears.

"Do you mind talking it over with me?" he asked.

"N-no."

"May I come in?"

"P-please."

He seated himself cross-legged on the threshold.

"There's only one thing to do," he said, "and that is to go ahead. We must go ahead. Of course the hazard is against us. Let us face the chance that Bangs was only a clever romancer. Well, we've already discounted that. Then let us face the discrepancy in our two maps. It's bad, I'll admit. It almost knocks the last atom of confidence out of me. It has floored you. But you must not take the count. You must get up."

He paused, looking around him with troubled eyes; then somehow the sight of her pathetic figure – the soft, helpless youth of her – suddenly seemed to prop up his back-bone.

"Miss Sandys, I am going to stand by you anyway! I suppose, like myself, you have invested your last dollar in this business?"

"Y-yes."

He glanced at the pick, shovel and spade in the corner of her tent, then at her hands.

"Who," he asked politely, "was going to wield these?"

She let her eyes rest on the massive implements of honest toil, then looked confusedly at him.

"I was."

"Did you ever try to dig with any of these things?"

"N-no. But if I had to do it I knew I could."

He said, pleasantly: "You have all kinds of courage. Did you bring a shot-gun?"

"Yes."

"Do you know how to load and fire it?"

"The clerk in the shop instructed me."

"You are the pluckiest girl I ever laid eyes on… You camped here all alone last night, I suppose?"

"Yes."

"How about it?" he asked, smilingly. "Were you afraid?"

She coloured, cast a swift glance at him, saw that his attitude was perfectly respectful and sympathetic, and said:

"Yes, I was horribly afraid."

"Did anything annoy you?"

"S-something bellowed out there in the swamp – " She shuddered unaffectedly at the recollection.

"A bull-alligator," he remarked.

"What?"

"Yes," he nodded, "it is terrifying, but they let you alone. I once heard one bellow on the Tomoka when I was a boy."

After a while she said with tremulous lips:

"There seem to be snakes here, too."

"Didn't you expect any?"

"Mr. Munsell said there were not any."

"Did he?"

"Not," she explained resolutely, "that the presence of snakes would have deterred me. They frighten me terribly, but – I would have come just the same."

"You are sheer pluck," he said.

"I don't know… I am very poor… There seemed to be a chance… I took it – " Tears sprang to her eyes again, and she brushed them away impatiently.

"Yes," she said, "the only way is to go on, as you say, Mr. White. Everything in the world that I have is invested here."

"It is the same with me," he admitted dejectedly.

They looked at each other curiously for a moment.

"Isn't it strange?" she murmured.

"Strange as 'The Journal of Valdez.'… I have an idea. I wonder what you might think of it."

She waited; he reflected for another moment, then, smiling:

"This is a perfectly rotten place for you," he said. "You could not do manual labour here in this swamp under a nearly vertical sun and keep your health for twenty-four hours. I've been in Trinidad. I know a little about the tropics and semi-tropics. Suppose you and I form a company?"

"What?"

"Call it the Valdez Company, or the Association of the Maltese Cross," he continued cheerfully. "You will do the cooking, washing, housekeeping for two tents, and the mending. I will do the digging and the dynamiting. And we'll go ahead doggedly, and face this thing and see it through to the last ditch. What do you think of it? Your claim as plotted out is no more, no less, valuable than mine. Both claims may be worthless. The chances are that they are absolutely valueless. But there is a chance, too, that we might win out. Shall we try it together?"

She did not answer.

"And," he continued, "if the Maltese cross happens to be included within my claim, I share equally with you. If it chances to lie within your claim, perhaps I might ask a third – "

"Mr. White!"

"Yes?"

"You will take two thirds!"

"What?"

"Two thirds," she repeated firmly, "because your heavier labour entitles you to that proportion!"

"My dear Miss Sandys, you are unworldly and inexperienced in your generosity – "

"So are you! The idea of your modestly venturing to ask a third! And offering me a half if the Maltese cross lie inside your own territory! That is not the way to do business, Mr. White!"

She had become so earnest in her admonition, so charmingly emphatic, that he smiled in spite of himself.

She flushed, noticing this, and said: "Altruism is a luxury in business matters; selfishness of the justifiable sort a necessity. Who will look out for your interests if you do not?"

"You seem to be doing it."

Her colour deepened: "I am only suggesting that you do not make a foolish bargain with me."

"Which proves," he said, "that you are not much better at business than am I. Otherwise you'd have taken me up."

"I'm a very good business woman," she insisted, warmly, "but I'm too much of the other kind of woman to be unfair!"

"Commercially," he said, "we both are sadly behind the times. To-day the world is eliminating its appendix; to-morrow it will be operated on for another obsolete and annoying appendage. I mean its conscience," he added, so seriously that for a moment her own gravity remained unaltered. Then, like a faint ray of sunlight, across her face the smile glimmered. It was a winning smile, fresh and unspoiled as the lips it touched.

"You will take half – won't you?" she asked.

"Yes, I will. Is it a bargain?"

"If you care to make it so, Mr. White."

He said he did, and they shook hands very formally. Then he went out and pitched his tent beside hers, set it in order, lugged up the remainder of his equipment, buried the jars of spring water, and, entering his tent, changed to flannel shirt, sun-helmet, and khaki.