Chapter XII: Curlie Gets Their Goat

You have not forgotten the strange plight into which a jeweled monkey, a storm and a strange craft had led Johnny and Doris. They had arrived at night on some strange shore. This must be an island. But what island and how inhabited? Who could say? There were questions enough in their minds but none were asked as Doris and Nieta, in the prow of the strange ship, following Johnny began feeling their way out of the dark little forward cabin into the moonlight.

As they stood upon the gunwale ready to drop silently to the sandy beach, they saw circling to the right and left of them a narrow bay. Back from the beach was a fringe of palms.

The night was still. Only the faintest murmur of wavelets lapping at the sand whispered of the ocean's age-long unrest.

Back from the shore all seemed lost in slumber. Not a light glimmered, not a camp fire glowed. There was no sound. Even the soaring bats appeared to have gone to rest.

"Wha--where are we?" Doris shivered though the night was not cold.

"Who knows?" In a few words Johnny told all he knew of the night's curious adventure.

"All we can do," he said in conclusion, "is to find some sheltered spot where we can hide till morning. Then I'll have to go out scouting to discover if I can find what island this is and what sort of people live upon it."

Even as he spoke he was conscious of the fact that he was reading into the present some of the romance and adventure of the West Indies' colorful past. But for all that their position, two girls and a boy on a strange shore at night, was perilous enough.

Silently, in single file, they crossed the sandy beach to come at last to the edge of the cocoanut grove. There, by following the shore for a short distance, they found a well trodden path leading into the forest.

"We won't follow that, at least not to-night," said Johnny. "There are dogs, dangerous native dogs. Natives always have them. And the natives--who knows?"

They continued along the beach until they came to a spot where the land rose quite abruptly up from the sea.

There they found a second trail, little more than a wild animal's trail to water. The tracks they found there were the sharply cut marks of goats' hoofs.

"We'll go up here," said Johnny leading the way. "We'll get up high where there are no mosquitoes. There we can rest and think things over."

A half hour later they found themselves seated upon a mossy bank beneath low-growing palms. The night was soon to end. Then would come morning. What of that morning? Who could answer?

As Johnny sat there listening for some sound that might spell danger, trying at times to peer into the darkness, his mind was filled with many strange thoughts. At times he found himself wondering about the secret Curlie Carson had hidden away in his laboratory up there in the Citadel.

"He's something like my old pal, Panther Eye," he told himself. "Always working something out, springing some surprise; always mysterious. Wonder where old Pant is now."

He thought of the 'Rope of Gold'. "Guess we'll never find it," he told himself gloomily. "Never can tell, though. One thing's sure--never will find it by chasing jeweled monkeys and getting caught out all times night and day on boats and islands with a pair of girls."

He couldn't be sure he regretted his latest experience. Doris was a regular sport. He liked her. Hadn't made the least fuss when she found herself marooned on a strange island. "Be a great joke if she and this native girl really followed up that jeweled monkey and found the black queen's treasure and we never as much as had a look at the 'Rope of Gold'. Things come out that way sometimes."

He thought of the natives who tried to kidnap him. "Something strange about that," he thought. They had not laid a hand on him from first to last. He wondered what would have happened if he had really resisted. As it was he had walked out on them and they were quite powerless to stop him. He wished now that he had seen the thing through.

"That's the way with life," he whispered to the darkness. "We have a feeling that life is short, that we must hurry here, hurry there, get out of this and into that; that we really haven't time to see things through. And the joke of it all is life is very, very long and we've time for almost everything, plenty of time if only we think so."

In the meantime Dorn, with old Pompee at his side at the camp by the Citadel, watched and waited for Johnny's return. At times he wondered if Doris and Nieta had found their way safely home.

"Of course they did," he said aloud once.

"Did what?" Pompee asked.

"Did find their way home. The girls."

"Yes, yes. To be sure."

Had he seen what at that moment was happening at his home he would have been not a little startled. Curlie Carson, Dot and the aged native woman were at the gate prepared to follow the sound of the drums in search of the secret meeting of the would-be rebels, when there sounded on the flagstone walk outside the rattle of a donkey's hoofs.

"It is Doris," Dot exclaimed. "Doris and Nieta. I am glad. We have been worried about them. Of course, we thought they might have stayed at your camp two nights, but that they did not intend to do. The storm must have delayed them. But now here they are. They--

"Who--what?" She stared as the donkey came into view. His baskets were empty. He was riderless and alone.

"What can have happened?" She looked at Curlie as if expecting an answer. But Curlie had no answer for her. When he had reached his camp that day the girls were already gone. This he told her in the kindliest tone he knew.

At once there was commotion in the household. Doris and Nieta were lost; lost alone in the night and the jungle, perhaps kidnapped, robbed, killed. Who could say? Curlie thought of Johnny's disappearance and of the strange camp on the mountain; thought too of the plotted rebellion.

"We can do nothing to-night," said Dot. "We must be up and away on the search at dawn."

"In the meantime?" said Curlie.

As if in answer to his question, to their ears there came once more the distant tum--tum--tum of native drums.

Curlie looked at Dot. Dot looked at her aged servant. Then, without a word they walked out of the gate bound for the hills, the three of them, ready to follow the sound of the drums, ready for any peril or adventure to which this might lead.

It was strange, this marching up a little known trail in the night, following the sound of the drum that grew louder, ever louder as they advanced.

The night was strange too. The moist air laden with the odor of blossoms and tropical spices was a constant delight. The stars shone as no stars had ever shone before. Here some creeping thing set the dry leaves rustling, there a strange bird piped his shrill night tune.

The trail was steep. As they paused beside a massive rock a breath of wind came sweeping up from the sea to fan their cheeks. Then, quite unexpectedly Dot's heart gave a leap. From up the trail came a sound as of a host rushing through the brush.

"Oh--Ah!" she whispered sibilantly, gripping Curlie's arm and backing into the brush.

Curlie began to laugh. "Do you not recognize the sound?" he asked. "It's only a 'chattering woman'."

"O, yes, so it is a 'chattering woman'. How stupid of me to get all excited," she exclaimed as she stared away in the direction of the curious tree.

Dot told herself that she must get better control of her nerves if she was to be of any service on this strange enterprise.

"Listen! The dance grows wilder," she said. "If we are to learn anything, be of any service, we must hurry."

"You see," she explained as they moved steadily up the trail, "the United States Government is doing all it can for this republic, especially for the common people, who most of all appreciate and deserve it.

"There are a few in the cities, who were used to growing fat on graft under the old rule, who do not like the Americans. Then too there are traders, white men with black hearts, who will do anything they can to stir up trouble. In the old days they grew rich selling arms and supplies to rebels. It is rumored that a boat loaded with rifles and ammunition is hiding away somewhere among the islands and that a rebel chieftain is here in the hills exciting the hill people to rebel. If only the Marines were here and the native police," she sighed, "they'd put an end to it. But we must do what we can.

"If rebellion is started, cruel leaders will go roving through the hills forcing the people to follow them. In that way many innocent ones will be killed. If it can only be stopped, lives will be saved. And think what it means to live!"

Curlie did think. Every morning was a delight. Every day brought some fresh revelation from the natural world. Each night brought sweet repose. Ah yes, life was good.

The life of the hill people was simple and beautiful--children playing about their small, grass thatched, white plastered homes, men hoeing corn, women picking wild coffee, and always the simple songs of the hills were on their lips.

As they rounded a rugged cliff that overhung the trail, the sound of the drums grew louder and mingled with it was the chant of many voices.

"It is very near," said the native woman.

"Listen!" said Curlie impressively. "When Columbus visited this island on his first great voyage, he heard those drums. All down the centuries they have sounded until now."

"Yes," said Dot. "And always for war. If only we could get their goat," she said once more. "They will not go into revolt before the black goat is sacrificed."

"But you can't get their goat," Mona whispered in an awed tone. "The _Papa Lou_ has thrown a spell about the black goat. He throws spells over men and all living things. If he says 'come' the nightingale lights on his shoulder and the wild parrot eats from his hands. Twenty days ago the black goat ran wild in the mountains. Now he will not leave the _Papa Lou_. You do what you will, you cannot get the black goat. It is a spell that is cast over him."

"Some part of what you have said is true," said Dot, "but not all, I hope. We can get their goat. At least I hope so. Somehow we must do it."

At that they began moving forward, now bending low to glide along on tiptoe, and now creeping on hands and knees toward their strange goal.

"There! There they are!" Mona whispered, as she at last parted two broad palm leaves.

"And there! There is the black goat!" Dot breathed. "And see!" Her words came in an excited whisper. "See! There is no spell upon him. He is tied with a slender rope."

"Someone else has done this," the aged native woman's tone was one of calm assurance. "The _Papa Lou_ did not tie him. There is no need."

"If we could but get the goat!" Dot whispered once more. "You see," her low whispered tones were tense with suppressed excitement, "these voodoo people have always been great believers in sacrifice. They have even been accused of human sacrifice, but this I cannot believe to be true. However that may be, they have always sacrificed animals. The goat, a black goat with not a white hair, has always been their choice, yet, when Christophe prepared to defend his people against the French, he and his followers pledged themselves to fight until death over the carcass of a freshly killed wild boar.

"Black goats are rare. This _Papa Lou_, by some chance, has found one running wild in the mountains. He captured it. They have it now, as you see. After the drumming, dancing and singing will come the ceremony of sacrifice. And after that will begin--"

"The revolution," Curlie whispered.

"The revolution," she repeated. "And our little village may be attacked and destroyed at once. For we are white and there are few to protect us."

In his mind's eye Curlie saw the beautiful white chateau standing out like a castle of Spain in the moonlight. He pictured himself once more in that beautiful garden with this splendid girl pal across from him and thereupon resolved that, come what might, all this beauty and happiness must not be destroyed.

"Yes," he said aloud. "We must get their goat to-night."

But how was this to be done? The goat stood at a spot not five feet from the edge of the circling throng. The flare of the camp fire lighted the scene. To approach near enough to free the goat was to court disaster.

"Listen." Dot held up a hand.

The drumming had ceased quite suddenly. The chanting died away. Exhausted dancers threw themselves upon the grass. A dark figure, a man unmistakably from the city, a black man with an evil face, rose up from among the people. He began to speak in French creole, the language of the people.

For a time the three there in the shadows listened spell-bound. The man's words came forth in wild explosive outbursts. The people murmured assent, or sat in stolid silence, listening to the harangue.

"What does he say?" Curlie whispered.

"He," Mona answered, "he say what is not true. But how are these simple ones to know? He say white men have come to enslave us, even as French men enslaved our grandfathers. Already we work roads we do not travel. Time will come when we work on plantations, in sugar mills, in mines and have no pay. That he says. Better he says that we die fighting."

"People have worked the roads always," said Dot. "Now they work on the most needed roads. It's part of America's efficiency."

"I know," said Mona. "But how can these understand? After the speech--the sacrifice."

Curlie repeated, "We must get the goat. But how?"

He thought of his bow and arrow. He was a fair shot. The arrow point was sharp as a razor blade. One twang of the bow, one wild bleat, perhaps, and the goat would be no more. Yet he shrank from killing such a beautiful creature. Besides, such a course was fraught with danger. They might be caught. There must be another way.

And then like a flash, to his mind came a suggestion of a possible way out. At once he began groping about on the ground and about the bark of the ancient tree that spread its protecting branches above them. It was a pine.

"Listen!" said Mona. "He is telling them that a boat load of arms and ammunition awaits them in Deception Bay. After the sacrifice--the rebellion."

"We must get their goat," whispered Curlie. He was smearing his arrowhead with a sticky substance. "Now!" he breathed. "Now!" He nocked his arrow. Then, with a whispered word he thrust something into Dot's hand.

"It's a match," his whisper was low. "A sulphur match. Strike it and apply it to the head of my arrow."

A small blue flame appeared. It wavered for a second at the arrow's head. A larger golden flame replaced it.

The next instant that yellow flame shot forward to lodge in the bark of the pine tree to which the goat was tied. It was a perfect shot. The flames of burning rosin were licking their way toward the rope that held the goat captive.

Mona stared with all her eyes. The tiny golden flame had not been noted by the throng. They were too intent on their leader's words.

The arrow and the pine rosin flame burned fiercely now. The rope was already singed. In ten seconds it would be burned away. The goat's keen senses warned him of fire. He strained at his rope. One second, two, three, five, then with a wild _blaa_--he threw his full force into one terrific tug. It was enough. The rope gave way. He fell. Rolling over and over, he at last scrambled to his feet and with a final _blaa_ dashed away into the darkness that was the jungle.

For a space of ten seconds there was silence. Then pandemonium broke loose.

"The goat! The goat! The black goat!" the natives screamed in a chorus.

Then, with one accord, they went dashing away into the night, in a wild but futile attempt to recapture the goat.

"The goat," said Dot, rising from among the ferns, "is free. And Mona," she said quietly, "there was no spell woven about him. The moment his bonds were burned away he ran into the forest."

"There was no spell," said Mona.

"There will be no revolution now," said Dot.

"Not at once," said Mona. Then as if a new thought had come to her, "There is a great white shadow in the sea at Deception Bay. That is where the ship with rifles is hiding. They had better be careful. The great white shadow--he makes men disappear. They never come back."

"That," said Dot to Curlie in a tone so low the aged native woman could not hear, "is another of her wild Voodoo notions."

They made their way unmolested down the mountainside. In time, after a long march, they entered the sleeping village. Once more, as Curlie's eyes took in the beauty of it all, the few white chateaux, the many modest homes of the natives, he said with increasing conviction, "It must not be destroyed by a revolution. It must not!"

When they had entered the garden of the chateau, Dot put out a cool hand and gave Curlie a strong handclasp and a good night.

"Now," she said, in a tone that was deeply serious. "We have had two adventures. Something tells me the third will come very soon. Where there are two there are always three. You will not forget?"

"I will not forget," said Curlie.

"May you sleep well."

"Sweet dreams."

She was gone. The room that had been assigned to Curlie was on the ground floor. The door opened on the broad porch. He was free to come and go as he chose. Because the night had been an exciting one and his blood was not yet cooled for sleep, he decided to take a turn about the village streets. In this way he chanced upon a man who was destined to play a large part in the near future, not alone of himself but of his friend Johnny Thompson as well.

The man was standing before a low door over which a feeble kerosene lamp burned. Curlie recognized him at once. True he had never seen him, but he fitted so well the description of the short, broad man who had played the good Samaritan to Johnny when he fell among the wild natives on the road to the Citadel that there could be no mistaking his identity.

Strangely enough the man recognized Curlie Carson.

"You are one of the young men from up at the Citadel," he said without waiting to be spoken to. "You are looking for the 'Rope of Gold'. What strange fancy tells you it is there? And where is your companion?"

"I should like to know that last myself," said Curlie.

"I thought you might," said the short, broad man, blinking his eyes in a strange way. "Well, I can tell you this much: he left some native friends, left them flat when they were bent on doing him a good turn, a very good turn. Left them flat I tell you. Walked right out on them."

Curlie was astonished at the man's talk. How, he wondered, could the man know so much about Johnny?

"You know a great deal," he said. "Perhaps you can tell me where he is now."

"No," said the man. "I can not. If he is lost, it is his own fault. The natives would have guided him safely back to the Citadel and perhaps he would have brought back with him that which he could not have carried, though I dare say he is a very strong boy."

The man's talk got Curlie in more and more of a tangle. He had assumed that Johnny had been kidnapped. But here was a man saying the natives were his friends bent on loading him down with presents he could not carry alone.

All this was too much for Curlie's weary mind to grasp. In an effort to think it through, he looked down at his feet. When he looked up once more, the short, broad man was gone. He had vanished into the night.