CHAPTER XX
THE ENEMY IS CORNERED
Mr. McKay, left to himself, prepared for his all-night watch. Hishiding-place consisted of a crevice which commanded a view of the routehis companions had taken. Standing upright he could also see over therock in which he was concealed, though prudence urged him not to showhis head above the gaunt stone walls of his lair.
He rested himself on a convenient ledge, and waited, with his rifleacross his knee. Then, as the sun set and intense darkness broodedover the land, he braced himself for his task. Instinct told him thatthe fugitive would skulk in the rocks till the moon rose; then in allprobability he would prowl for food.
More than once Mr. McKay fancied he heard the crunching of a boot uponthe pumice stone. Twice he grasped his rifle, as a dark shadow seemedto loom up against the darkness.
"Imagination," he remarked to himself. "What is the matter with mynerves?" But a finger pressed upon his wrist showed him that his pulsewas beating regularly.
Then came a sound that could not possibly be mistaken--a smotheredsneeze.
Blight was within a few yards of Mr. McKay, but in which direction thelatter was unable to decide.
Then came the scuffling of feet. The fugitive was scuffling blindlyacross the rock. At any instant he might pitch into the crevice rightinto the arms of his pursuer.
Nearer and nearer he came, cursing under his breath as his feet came incontact with the ruts and sharp corners of the rocks. Mr. McKay couldeven hear the laboured breathing of his quarry.
Realising the danger of making his way over the pitfalls, Blight satdown, muttering angrily at being baulked, at the same time abusing themoon for its tardy appearance.
Mr. McKay waited, rifle in hand, feeling almost pleased. He picturedthe fugitive's consternation when the moonlight revealed his trackercovering him at ten paces. It was the old animal instinct, the joy ofthe chase, whether hunter and hunted be human beings or mere beasts ofthe field.
Above the tops of the distant palm-trees a pale yellow light dawned inthe eastern sky. Stronger and stronger it grew, till the golden discof the queen of night appeared, the brilliant light throwing the rocksinto strong relief.
The escaped prisoner, now that his path seemed clear, prepared to makehis journey towards the trees once more, and obviously fearing nodanger, he scrambled over a flat-topped boulder. Barely had he stooderect when Mr. McKay, rifle to shoulder, shouted:
"The game's up once more. Throw up your hands!"
So great was Blight's surprise that he stood stock still, with mouthagape, staring at the silhouetted form of his enemy; then, recoveringhimself, rushed wildly towards Mr. McKay, shrieking:
"You'll never take me alive, bad luck to you!"
It was the act of a madman. Ere he could cover the intervening apace,Mr. McKay could have shot him dead on the spot. But the Australian wasloath to be the rascal's executioner; the business seemed to him to bemere butchery.
Turning down the muzzle of his rifle, the solitary tracker aimed theweapon at his enemy's feet. This action had a most restraining effectupon the rogue. He would welcome a swift and almost painless death,but to be deliberately crippled, secured at leisure, and dragged backto his prison, did not appeal to him. He turned swiftly and, dodgingfrom side to side as he ran, he sped rapidly across the rocks.
Mr. McKay fired, but the shot went wide. He could have perforated theman's body between the shoulders with the greatest ease, but a pot-shotin the moonlight at a pair of swiftly-moving legs afforded plenty ofopportunities of missing.
The fugitive uttered a yell of defiance, and sped onwards. Anotherfifty yards and he would be lost to sight in the midst of a labyrinthof fantastically-shaped rocks.
Mr. McKay did not attempt to fire a second shot. The success of hislong vigil depended upon keeping the chase in view. Laying his rifleon the ground and making sure that the flap of his pistol-holster wasloose, he vaulted upon the rock and set off in pursuit.
Although "hard as nails" and sound of wind, Mr. McKay forgot for thetime being that the result of his accident on board the _San Martin_had left him somewhat weak in his lower limbs.
With elbows pressed close to his sides he ran, but ere forty yards werecovered he found himself lurching dangerously. Setting his jaw firmly,he persevered, keeping his eyes fixed upon the form of the fugitive,yet he was forced to confess that he was losing ground.
Blight was now within twenty yards of the sheltering rocks. Dare thepursuer use his revolver and stop this headlong flight? The odds weretoo great, for with the exertion of running his aim would be erratic.No, he must continue to run and trust to chance that his quarry mightbe cornered somewhere.
Suddenly Blight stumbled, kicking up a cloud of pumice dust that lookedsilvery in the moonlight. Two yards he traversed ere he fell headlongin the soft lava, and before he could stagger to his feet his pursuerwas almost within arm's length.
"Give in, you idiot," shouted Mr. McKay, drawing his revolver.
For answer Blight laughed, and, bending low as he ran, he doubled awayto the right, where the ground sloped downwards towards a line ofirregularly-shaped cliffs. He was crippled. He had twisted his ankle,and everything was in Mr. McKay's favour.
Unwilling to close with the desperate fugitive, Mr. McKay prepared tomaim him with a bullet through his leg; but even as he levelled theweapon, Blight disappeared from sight with a shriek of terror.
Instinctively Mr. McKay threw himself flat on his back, digging hisheels into the soft yielding dust; but surely and gradually he foundhimself slipping towards the mouth of a gaping abyss. The very groundon which he was sprawling was moving. He could hear the rustle of thesand and small stones as they dropped over the ledge into theapparently fathomless chasm.
Desperately Mr. McKay plunged his arms into the sliding sand; but hisefforts were unavailing. He was being launched towards the yawninggulf, the horrors of which seemed worse in the moonlight.
Just as he was on the point of slipping over the edge--his heels werealready over the abyss--his hand, buried arm's length in the pumice,came in contact with a piece of hard rock.
Would it hold? he wondered.
Slowly his outstretched arm began to change from a vertical to analmost horizontal position as his body still continued its downwardmotion. The rock afforded but a slender hold: either the fabric mightbecome loosened, or his hand might be unable to keep up the strain, andthen----?
Mr. McKay ceased to struggle. He could feel the sand slipping fromunder him, streaming past like a solid cataract. So long as he keptquiet he was comparatively safe, but directly he commenced to find afoothold, his peril increased threefold. Yet he knew that every momenthis grip upon the small pinnacle that stood between him and instantdeath was gradually becoming weaker.
In those awful moments of peril he could hear the laboured breathing ofhis enemy, coming apparently from a great depth beneath his feet.Blight, then, was still alive, but his gasping breaths sounded ominous.
At length, regaining his self-possession, Mr. McKay put forth a finaleffort in an endeavour to draw his feet clear of the awful chasm.
Inch by inch he worked himself upwards, against the increasing torrentof sand, when suddenly the rocky ledge was wrenched from its base, andthe next instant he was swept into the gulf.
Amidst a shower of dust and stones he felt himself hurtling through thepitch dark air, then everything became a blank.
* * * * *
The first rays of the rising sun filtering through the narrow neck ofthe inverted funnel-shaped chasm strove to disperse the darkness.
Stretched upon the thick carpet of powdered pumice were two motionlessfigures, partially covered with the flow of dust that trickled from theopen air like the sand of a gigantic hour-glass.
The head and shoulders of one of the victims were pillowed upon thebody of the other, who lay, with arms outstretched, gazing upwards withsightless eyes at the narrow slit of sky that was v
isible between thelips of the abyss.
Blight had gone to his last account.
Slowly opening his eyes, Mr. McKay blinked stupidly at nothingness fora few seconds, then stretched out his arms. It was the action of a manawakening from slumber. He felt no pain; he had no idea of where hewas, or of what had occurred.
With the intention of going to sleep again he turned his head on itsghastly pillow, but on drawing up his arms to compose himself, his headcame in contact with the cold face of his companion in misfortune.
The touch acted like an electric shock. In an instant the details ofthe tragedy flashed across his mind. He stumbled to his feet, butovercome by weakness, he sank once more upon the dust-covered floor.
How long had he been in this hideous deathtrap? he wondered. Was it anight, or many days and nights? Had his comrades searched in vain andhad they abandoned their quest and left him to his fate?
For quite half-an-hour Mr. McKay sat and thought, striving to collecthis mental and physical powers. He went over the events leading up tothe final tragedy--the ambush, the pursuit, Blight's disappearance, andhis own terrible ordeal on the sliding sand. Then he reflected thathis trail would be fairly well-defined, and that help must beforthcoming. His watch was still going, so that he knew that it wasonly the morning following his night's vigil.
Overhead a dazzling ray of sunlight shone obliquely through theopening, illuminating the shaft-like sides of his prison, but so deadblack was the colour of the rock that hardly any light was reflected tothe bottom of the pit. He could, in fact, just see his own hands andthe grey features of his ill-fated companion.
Mr. McKay groped about the floor. At first his fingers encounterednothing but dust. He plunged his arm up to the elbow in the softyielding deposit; but nothing solid met his touch.
Fearing that he might be lying on a ledge overhanging a pit offathomless depth, Mr. McKay extended his field of exploration, makingwide sweeps with his arms. Presently his fingers encountered a metalobject. It was his revolver.
"At least," he thought, "I can signal for aid."
But on second thoughts he hesitated. Then he remembered his box ofmatches. Fumbling in his pocket he found the little case, and eagerly,like a miser counting his gold, he passed the little sticks one by onethrough his fingers. Ten--ten priceless matches.
He struck one. For the moment his eyes were dazzled by the yellowfire, but ere it burnt out he made sure of two things. He was notlying on the edge of another precipice; that was reassuring. Hissecond discovery was disconcerting. His trusty revolver was chokedwith fine dust, and had he discharged it he would have assuredly beeninjured by the bursting of the barrel.
The match flickered out, and to the imprisoned man the darkness seemeddenser than ever. It pressed upon him like a real substance, till hefelt tempted to shout in his distress.
By degrees he grew calmer, and staggering to his feet he moved hislimbs with extreme caution. To his satisfaction they were still sound,though he was beginning to feel stiff and bruised from head to foot.
The light of a second match showed that Blight was indeed beyond allhuman aid, so, placing his handkerchief over the face of the corpse,Mr. McKay retired a few steps till a third match became necessary.
He found himself within a few feet of one of the walls of his prison.The stone, divided by volcanic agency, was almost vertical at thepoint, though at others it receded so that the base of the abyss wasseveral yards beyond the perpendicular height of the shaft. Close tohim was a deep crack in the wall, known by mountaineers as a "chimney."
It might be possible to scale the rock, he thought, but the knowledgethat the edge of the shaft was "rotten" compelled Mr. McKay to abandonthat attempt. He must wait; yet, unwilling to remain idle, he resolvedto sacrifice four more of his precious matches in exploring theimmediate vicinity of the chasm.
Keeping close to the wall, Mr. McKay proceeded with the utmost caution,till he reached a yawning cavern that descended abruptly.
For a moment he hesitated, fearing the presence of carbonic acid gas,but on holding the lighted match close to the ground the flame burntclear and bright.
To his surprise Mr. McKay found his hand resting on the butt of amusket. The weapon was lying on the hard, rocky floor of the cave, forhere no dust had penetrated. Another match revealed the fact that thefirearm was of an ancient pattern, the combined flint and matchlockbeing of not later date than the end of the seventeenth century.
"By George! This is a find!" exclaimed Mr. McKay.
For the time being he forgot his surroundings, interest being centredin this relic of bygone days.
Then, unwilling to risk using his remaining stock of matches, yetmentally resolving to explore this part of the cavern at the earliestfavourable opportunity, he retraced his steps to that part of the chasmthat lay beneath the narrow shaft. Here he sat down and waited, hopingfor the speedy arrival of Andy and Ellerton.