Tom and Huck's Howling Adventure Page 9

  “What fire?”

  “You didn’t hear about that?”

  “No.”

  “Yeah. Fire broke out on the White Cloud. The boats were all packed together, guard to guard, along the waterfront, and the fire spread fast. Burnt up twenty-three boats and fifteen city blocks.”

  “Wow!”

  “City’s been scramblin’ to clear away the wrecks and rebuild, but there ain’t nearly as many berths at the landing now, so we’d best be nosin’ in there early to claim a spot.”

  “Thanks a lot.”

  The pilot waved and clattered down the iron steps toward the boiler deck.

  Zane glanced at his wristwatch—4:11 p.m. If the Millicent was in such a hurry, there was no chance the captain would wait for Tom and Huck to row to the island, deliver the ransom, row back to the steamer and allow the crew to retrieve them and the yawl.

  Of course, that wasn’t the plan from the beginning, but Zane had hoped the boys wouldn’t need to be left on the island. That hope was now dashed; the Millicent would back water only long enough to launch the yawl and then be on its way. Every minute counted. And, judging from the amount of cordwood stacked on the deck below, the boat would not have to stop and wood up this side of St. Louis.

  With these things on his mind, Zane wandered absently toward the stern and joined the boys who were stretched out on canvas deck chairs. He flopped down on a vacant chair, took off his glasses, snapped them into the case that fit snugly in his deep shirt pocket. He was far-sighted and didn’t really need his glasses except for reading or close-up work. He never wore them when playing sports.

  He took a deep breath of the fresh air and relaxed. He wasn’t used to wearing a money belt, and the leather pressed its hard ridge against his back. But he ignored it, and it wasn’t long before the soft breeze and the quiet afternoon lulled him into a doze.

  CHAPTER 12

  * * *

  Sometime later, the change of tempo in the paddle wheels woke Huck. He sat up in his deck chair fisting sleep from his eyes, trying to bring himself back to the present.

  A strong, steady wind was blowing across the exposed hurricane deck, ruffling his hair and shirt. Billowing white clouds towered into the western sky like mountains of snow. But, beneath, barely above the tree line, the sky was dark and heavy as an anvil.

  Tom and Zane were standing by the starboard rail as the paddle wheels slowed, stopped, and then reversed, slapping lazily at the river to hold the boat steady against the current.

  Huck jumped up and sprang to their sides. “Must be Eagles Nest Island,” Huck said, pointing. Downstream nearly a half-mile, an island breasted the current, showing a solid green wall of trees more than a hundred feet tall. It looked like Huck had pictured it from the description. A slight chill went over him, and he reckoned it wasn’t due to the sudden drop in temperature.

  Jim appeared at the head of the stairs and came over to join them.

  Two or three passengers who hadn’t retired below to shelter from the threatening weather were looking downstream, apparently wondering why the boat was stopping.

  The short stocky mate, John Carlson, strode up. “There she be, boys. Best collect your gear. Pilot’s swinging us a bit so we can launch the yawl on the lee side.” He signaled two roustabouts to man the secured lines on the davits.

  “We’ll see you two in a day or three,” Huck said, grippng Zane’s hand and then Jim’s. Tom did the same. “Keep those money belts buckled tight,” Tom cautioned in a low voice.

  Huck felt a sudden reluctance to leave, but tore himself away. He and Tom trotted to the forward end of the Texas. They nearly bumped into Captain Upton, who was unlocking his cabin door. Judge Thatcher and Sheriff Stiles were there with him.

  Without a word, the captain opened the floor safe and delivered one canvas bag of coins to each boy. Huck marveled again at the weight of the small bag—at least twenty pounds, he guessed.

  “Good luck, gentlemen,” the captain said, gravely, shaking each boy’s hand.

  “Deliver that quickly and we’ll see you downriver,” the judge said. “Look for us along the St. Louis waterfront. The sheriff and I will stay close by the landing until we see you and then we’ll sell the yawl and all return to St. Petersburg by steamboat.”

  Huck nodded, a lump in his throat. He and Tom went down the companionway to the main deck and waited by the larboard side as the falls were loosened and the yawl came slowly into view from above. To keep his mind occupied, he wondered why the boats were cradled on the hurricane deck. Then the obvious answer hit him: if they had to be used as lifeboats in an emergency sinking, the yawls could be cut loose and floated off the upper deck at the last minute when the rest of the vessel was submerged.

  The boat struck the water with a light splash. Two crewmen appeared beside them and unhooked the falls, then held the boat until the boys heaved the bags of coins into the bottom and climbed in after. Huck pulled on his old shoes and tied them. Tom slipped his feet into his shoes on the floorboards.

  Huck carefully pushed the boat away from the side of the steamer with an oar. Taking seats on the thwarts, one behind the other, they unshipped their oars, and took a few strokes to row clear.

  The pilot, far above, raised his hand in salute and the portside paddle wheel began to slap the water at half speed.

  “Shoot for the upper end and we’ll ground ’er on the bar!” Huck cried above the rising wind.

  Tom nodded and the boys settled to their work, stroking in unison. Even with only two oarsmen, Huck was surprised how the yawl responded and knifed through the short chop being thrown up by the stiff wind countering the current. This was nothing like the cumbersome raft he and Jim had handled. It was as fast and easy to handle as a canoe.

  The boys were rested by a day of idleness. With their backs to the wind, but slightly aided by a four-mile-per-hour current, they worked the yawl down toward Eagles Nest Island.

  Seconds later Huck saw a flash of lightning reflect from the back of Tom’s shirt. Then the celestial artillery burst over them in booming waves, drowning all other sound. He glanced to his left. The sun had disappeared, swallowed up by a solid black mass—a typical thunderstorm buildup in the heat of late afternoon. Huck ground his teeth as he heaved back on the oar handles. Why today, of all days? He could have done without this. Providence is kicking a few bricks in our path to see if we’ll stumble. Maybe this errand had been too easy from the start.

  C’mon, faster! Maybe we can reach shelter before this hits. He picked up the tempo. Tom sensed it and increased his stroke. Drops of spray flew off their oar blades.

  The sleek white yawl skimmed over the waves and Huck looked over his shoulder a minute later, surprised to see they were nearly keeping pace with the steamer that was passing the island on the Missouri side, oil lamps and torches lit, firebox doors open, resembling a giant firefly in the gloaming.

  Ahead of their own boat, the sandbar was rushing toward them. For the last ten yards, Huck laid on his oars and let Tom drive the prow up onto the sand.

  They clambered out and pulled the boat higher. Nobody in sight.

  “Let’s find the tree first,” Huck said, smelling the rain on the westerly breeze. It was coming fast.

  The boys ran toward the tree line where the tangled driftwood and underbrush blocked access to the forested interior.

  “Here!” Tom yelled.

  A dead tree, bleached white, was half buried in the sand, canted over at a severe angle. Chest high was an oval opening.

  Huck saw immediately it was the only tree around that fit the description. He dashed back to the boat and grabbed a bag of coins. Tom snatched up the other and threw it on his shoulder. They staggered through the soft sand toward the dead tree.

  Up close Huck realized the opening was higher than he’d guessed. He was taller than Tom, but still had to heft the bag over his head with both hands to reach it.

  Bang!

  His heart gave a mighty leap and he jumped
back, dropping the bag. A bolt of lightning had struck the tree, throwing chips of wood. He turned to shout at Tom when he saw two men and a girl approaching, one of the men holding a gun. Not lightning, he suddenly realized—a lead bullet had struck the tree three feet from his hands.

  Tom let his bag fall to the ground. Huck was stunned, frozen by surprise and fear.

  “Grab the gold,” the man holding the pistol said to his companion. The shorter man ran forward.

  The kidnappers had sprung the trap, Huck thought as he and Tom backed away several steps. The man picked up each bag by its tied top and waddled awkwardly with the weight. Neither man wore a mask.

  “Throw ’em in our boat,” the gunman ordered, then shoved the disheveled girl ahead of him as they came forward.

  “Becky!” Tom cried.

  She tore loose from the grip on her arm and ran to him, throwing her arms around his neck with a strangled cry. “Oh, Tom, I’m so glad to see you!”

  “Are you hurt?” Tom asked, his voice muffled by her blond hair.

  “No, no.” She hugged him convulsively. “I never thought I’d see you two again.”

  “Okay, enough of that!” the gunman snapped. “Stand away from him.”

  Becky backed off.

  “You two—this way!” the man ordered.

  With the broad-brimmed hat and the dark storm clouds, Huck could make out nothing of the man’s face except the fact that he had a thick mustache.

  “Where?” Tom asked.

  “Over there.” The tall man pointed with his long pistol barrel toward the west side of the sandbar.

  Huck began walking in that direction.

  Tom followed, holding Becky’s hand.

  On the downslope of the sandbar, they spied a boat drawn up close to the tree line. It was a flat-bottom riverboat about eighteen feet long, square at both ends. The shorter man placed the bags of gold under the middle thwart.

  Huck’s stomach began to knot up. His joy at seeing Becky was tempered. Were they about to be shot and thrown into the river? Why didn’t the kidnappers take the ransom and leave the three of them?

  “You two—into the boat!” the tall man ordered.

  The three looked at each other. Who did he mean? Huck wondered. Tom and Becky?

  “You boys, into the boat!” the man ordered again.

  Huck cringed. What was this?

  With the prodding of the pistol barrel, Tom let go of Becky’s hand and stepped toward the boat.

  The shorter man grabbed Huck and flung him at the boat. Taken by surprise, Huck stumbled on the gunwale.

  The tall man looked away from Tom at the disturbance, and Tom grabbed the man’s gun arm, gripping it with both hands and thrusting down.

  The cocked hammer fell with a deafening explosion. The man’s free arm crooked around Tom’s neck and yanked him back in a choke hold. The smaller man jumped in to help.

  “I got this one!” the tall man yelled. “See to the others.”

  Huck scrambled up, grabbed an oar, and swung it. The flat of the blade smacked the smaller man on the side of the head. He fell back onto the sand and Becky kicked him in the ribs. The small man gasped and rolled over, struggling to get up.

  But the taller one threw Tom aside and fired at Huck’s feet. The bullet tore up the sand, and the three young people froze.

  Tom stood, massaging his windpipe. Huck realized they didn’t have a chance. They had to submit before one of them was shot.

  “All right, no more foolishness!” the tall man said. “You boys sit down in the back of the boat. You—Becky—over there.”

  A crash of thunder interrupted him. Huck felt a few large drops of cold rain on his face.

  The shorter man untied the painter from a bush.

  “Wait! See if there’s anything in their boat we can use,” the gunman said.

  His companion jogged toward the head of the bar.

  A minute later he returned with a sack in hand. “A ham and fishing lines, lucifers—some other stuff.” He flung the bag into their punt and climbed in after it.

  The tall man shoved the bow of their boat back with a booted foot.

  “What about me?” Becky asked in a querulous voice.

  “There’s a boat—go home!” He pushed the punt into the water and climbed in, handing his gun to the shorter man. “Here, keep guard on them boys. I’ll row.” The boat swung into the current and he dropped the oars into the oarlocks.

  Huck looked back at Becky thirty yards away, her dirty dress showing as a white blob in the gloom. He couldn’t distinguish her face.

  “Becky! Take our boat and go downriver!” Tom shouted. “Hail the first steamboat you see!”

  “Shut up!” The man facing him struck him across the face with the pistol. Tom reeled, blood showing from a gash on his cheek.

  Becky didn’t move.

  A wicked stroke of lightning struck a giant tree on the island and lit up everything in sharp detail for two heartbeats.

  If Becky replied, her voice was lost in the thunderous boom that followed. This time, the storm burst with all its fury and a solid wall of rain roared across the river, engulfing them.

  Momentarily blinded by the lightning flash, Huck could see nothing but brilliant light for several seconds. By the time his vision cleared, the boat had been carried past the tree line and Becky was lost from view.

  CHAPTER 13

  * * *

  “Zane, dat’s a gunshot!” Jim said, as the two of them headed for the stairs and their cabin on the boiler deck.

  “You sure? Maybe it’s thunder.”

  “No. I knows de sound o’ guns,” Jim insisted.

  Zane had heard nothing of the kind, and was inclined to think the man was so keyed up that he was imagining things. But Zane’s main concern at the moment was taking refuge below, beyond the frequent lightning strikes.

  A minute or so later Jim was opening the shutters of their stuffy starboard side cabin to the cooler outside breeze.

  Bang!

  This time both of them heard the sharp report.

  “That was a shot, for sure,” Zane said.

  “From de island,” Jim asserted.

  “Maybe not.”

  “Ain’t no houses on dis stretch o’ river,” Jim said. “An’ nobody be out a’ huntin’ in dis weather. Tom and Huck in some kind o’ trouble, you can bet on dat.”

  Thunder boomed and the rain came down with a muted roar, pounding on the overhead deck.

  Zane hesitated. An icy fist of fear clenched his stomach at the thought of launching himself into the blackness of that wild river and a raging storm—in an unstable canoe with no life jacket.

  He looked at the white sheets on the bunk, longing with all his being to stretch out safe and dry and be soothed to sleep by the water rushing under the paddle wheels and rain thrumming on the overhead.

  But even as these comforts pulled at him, he heard himself saying, “We have to go help them.”

  At these words, Jim sprang for the door with Zane right behind him.

  Seconds later they were down on the main deck, fumbling with the ropes that secured the canoe.

  “We have to tell the judge and the sheriff!” Zane shouted above the roar of the storm.

  “Dey be somers on dis boat, but no time to fetch ’em.”

  Zane knew that Judge Thatcher and Sheriff Stiles, being responsible, logical grown-ups, would forbid them to go. Or, they would start wrangling about the wisdom of such a move, perhaps deciding to send a boat back from St. Louis in the morning and search by daylight. In any case, by the time the talking was over, the steamer would be out of canoe range of the island and the chance would be lost. Grown-ups were the same in any time and place.

  Zane made a quick decision. He jumped up and ran to the nearest crewman who was stoking the firebox. “Hey, mister, me and this black man are starting back to that island in this canoe. Tell the captain we left.”

  Somebody had to know they hadn’t fallen overboard.
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  The crewman paused with a log of cordwood in his hands and stared at him. Zane hoped the man understood, and delivered the message. His mind was in a whirl. Was this a virtual reality video game? If so, his thumb could punch it off the screen. But the stinging rain and his cramping stomach told him this was real.

  Jim had the canoe free and was securing the long painter to a lifeline stanchion. He and Zane lifted it over and dropped it into the water.

  “I gits in fust since I be de heaviest,” Jim said, one leg over the railing. “Take dis knife. When you gits in, you cut de rope.”

  Zane, light and nimble, had no trouble following these instructions.

  Luckily, the pilot had ordered the steamboat slowed to half speed when the blinding sheets of rain suddenly cut visibility. In the several seconds it took for Zane to climb over the lines, drop into the front of the canoe, and cut the bow line, Jim was struggling to keep the canoe from bouncing against the hull of the steamer.

  Jim shoved off with his paddle and seconds later the starboard sidewheel churned them out in its wake and sent them bobbing alone into the semidarkness of the Mississippi.

  Zane watched with regret as the friendly lights of the steamer receded into the mist.

  “Dey’s a paddle in de bottom dere,” Jim said.

  As Zane knelt and reached for it, the wind snatched off his straw hat and sent it flying. A small matter, he thought. It was no protection. The wind was driving the stinging drops sideways with such force he could hardly open his eyes.

  He felt Jim thrusting the canoe around and Zane paddled hard, working to help.

  Eagles Nest Island was still visible upstream as a giant, bulky shape, somewhat darker than its surroundings.

  “We gots to buck de current!” Jim shouted. “Dey ain’t no slack water close by.”

  The west wind kept pushing them east on the choppy water, so they bent to their paddles. After what seemed an eternity, they managed to drive the canoe beyond the foot of the island into shelter from the wind. They still had to deal with the current but the water was not as rough and their job seemed much easier.