Chapter IV: He Who Walks Alone

Dorn, the young French boy, awoke early on the morning after Johnny's disappearance. He had fallen asleep in the middle of the night confident that he would find his good American friend sleeping peacefully by his side in the morning. That he was not there alarmed him.

Like most French boys of the better class, Dorn was endowed with a sense of responsibility beyond his years. He awakened Pompee and Curlie Carson and was for starting a search at once, even without breakfast.

This plan Curlie vetoed. He had been out prowling around late at night and was hungry. Besides, being something of a soldier of fortune, who had been lost many times himself, he did not share the French boy's apprehension.

"He'll show up," he said, digging in his pack for a match to light the fire. "Pompee won't be any good without his morning cup of coffee; for that matter, neither will I."

A half hour later, having eaten a hasty breakfast of cassava bread, coffee and mangoes, Dorn struck away across the court that led to the main stairway of the Citadel.

His heart was heavy for he had taken a great liking to the frank, free and kindly American boy, Johnny Thompson. He knew, too, what a dangerous thing it is to be lost in a jungle.

With his eyes and ears open, he wandered among the ruins. Up a stair here, down one there, peering here, there, everywhere he went. Always hoping to catch sight of Johnny's sturdy figure yet always disappointed, he spent the whole bright tropical morning hunting.

At times he came upon Curlie Carson or Pompee. They, too, were searching. Curlie was taking the affair seriously at last.

"If we don't find him trapped somewhere in the Citadel," he said to Dorn, "we'll have to take to the jungle trails. He may have been spirited away."

"Spirited away?" The French boy's tone showed surprise.

"Yes, by the natives. There's been a lot of queer doings around this mossy old pile of stone. Remember that native who took the trouble to hang a ladder before my window and look in?"

"Yes."

"He didn't do that just for fun. These natives are serious folks, despite all their drumming, dancing and singing. I've seen natives of other lands, Central America, Alaska, Siberia. I tell you they're different.

"But they're superstitious, too," he went on. "Look at the way I frightened that fellow," he laughed. "Never meant to at all. Didn't even know he was there. But look! A little flash of red light, a little something for him to see and Bim! Down he goes, head over heels. Wonder he didn't break his neck.

"Know what, Dorn?" he suddenly grew serious. "Know what I could do? I could walk from one end of this island to the other and take you with me, and you'd never see a native; at night I mean, always at night."

"But there are thousands of homes right by the roadside."

"Plenty of homes. Homes can't run away. People can. You might see their bare heels. That would be all."

It was Pompee who made the discovery of the day. There were many strange secrets hidden away behind Pompee's wrinkled old brow. As a boy he had wandered many days among these ruins. Fear had been upon him then and a great dread, a dread of the spirits of those who had lived there in the past. Yet a boy's consuming curiosity had led him on and on until he knew every dungeon, every secret passage as an American boy knows the secrets of the woods at the back of his pasture.

While Curlie and Dorn searched every dark corner, Pompee had eyes only for the new, the unfamiliar. In time he found it, a fresh break in the top of the Citadel.

There he dropped on hands and knees to shade his aged eyes and peer into the darkness below.

Long he remained there motionless. Then of a sudden, a low exclamation escaped his lips. Having moved a little to one side, he had allowed a glimmer of light to touch a spot on the floor of that dark hole where Johnny had come upon a misadventure.

Another moment of silence, then he spoke a name:

"Johnny."

He spoke it so softly it could not have been heard ten yards away.

He listened. No answer.

"Johnny," a little louder this time. Still no answer.

"Johnny Thompson!" His lips were at the jagged opening now. His voice sounded out like the roar of a great beast in the hollow enclosure. A bat beat the air with its wings.

Still no answer.

The old man rose to his feet. On his face was a look of fear, the fear that had gripped him here as a boy. His voice trembled, his words came out through chattering teeth as he called again and again:

"Dorn! Dorn! Dorn!"

And this time there came an answering call.

After a long day of weary search Dorn had seated himself on a stone parapet to watch the sun, a fiery red ball slowly sinking toward the sea. As he sat there it seemed to him that the sun of hope for a little valley that he and Johnny and the Professor had learned to love, was sinking never to rise with another morn.

"The valley has seen triumph and tragedy," he told himself. "Time was when one could not have found a richer valley. And yet, even then those who labored there were poor. They were slaves. After that freedom and revolution, a hundred years."

But now, how his hopes had grown. America, the United States, great, strong, beautiful America had come to the aid of little Haiti. Valleys were blossoming as of old. Health was returning to the people. And all this time they were free. "Free," he repeated the word reverently.

"We hoped so much for our little valley too," he told himself. "But there is not money for all. Some must wait. And now," his throat tightened. "Johnny Thompson is lost, perhaps gone forever. And our golden dream will soon be forgotten."

It was at this moment that he heard the call of old Pompee. It was a strange call, he thought. These Haitians express so much in a call. But this call spoke neither of joy nor sorrow.

"What can it be?" he asked himself as, springing down from his seat, high above the mountain crest, he went racing down at a reckless pace.

"What is it? Have you found him?" he cried as he came near.

Pompee did not answer. He merely stood and pointed at his feet.

Only when the boy stood at his side did he see that he was pointing at a hole in the Citadel's stone top.

Dropping on one knee, he stared into the darkness of that man-made cavern but could see nothing. The sun had sunk too low. The spot of light was no longer there.

Only by lighting a match and allowing it to drop was he able to see. Then he gave forth a sharp exclamation. What he saw was a khaki handkerchief. The ownership of that bit of cloth was unmistakable. A little friend of Johnny's had embroidered a large red J in each of his handkerchiefs.

"It's Johnny's!" he said in a low, tense tone. "He has been down there. He--he fell in."

Pompee nodded.

"Is he down there still?"

Pompee shook his head solemnly.

"Where can he be?"

"How can one say? See!" said the faithful old servant. "The sun is gone. Night comes swiftly. Caught on the top of this place where spirits walk, who can say what may happen to us?"

"Spirits do no harm," said Dorn. "It is only the living ones. But we will go down." He led the way.

* * * * * * * *

And what of Johnny? Where was he?

He had accepted the proffered aid. He had climbed the rope ladder. What else was there to do? The native who looked down upon him, who earlier in the night had looked in upon Curlie Carson at his work, might be a villain. What of it? If he had cared to he might have murdered Johnny, then closed up the hole in the fortress roof. That he had not chosen to do so was in his favor.

"Probably an innocent, kindly fellow," Johnny told himself. "A little curious, that's all. Most of the natives down here are like that."

He did not feel too certain that this conclusion was correct. Nevertheless, up the rope ladder he went. And as he climbed, all unbeknown to him, his handkerchief fluttered from his pocket and dropped to the floor, there to remain as mute evidence that its owner had spent some time in that dungeon-like hole. Hours later, as you have seen, it was found by Pompee.

On clambering over the rough entrance to the pitfall he found himself surrounded by three stalwart brown men. These men were armed only with steel pointed spears and machetes, a thing Johnny marveled at. In the part of Haiti which he had visited, spears were scarce, bows and arrows practically unknown, and rifles very common.

As he thought this through he recalled his own bow and quiver of arrows. He had taken them with him on his lonely ramble; in fact he never left camp without them.

In his fall the bow had been knocked from his hand and the quiver, caught on a jagged bit of rock, had broken the light thong that held it to him.

"Where are they now?" he thought.

Ah, there they were!

With a sigh of relief he stooped to pick up his bow. He was not interrupted in this procedure, but as his right hand gripped the bow, one of the natives seized the quiver of razor-pointed arrows.

A thrill shot through him. His brow grew suddenly cold. "So that's that," he thought. "At least they don't trust me too much."

Turning about, the native who had seized the quiver started away, over a dim trail that did not lead toward the boy's camp.

For a moment the boy stood where he was. Then a hand pushed him very gently forward.

"What's the use?" he thought. "They are three. I am one. It is night. I am unarmed. Whatever they will to do they can do."

He thought of the young French boy. "Shouldn't have brought him," he told himself. "But old Pompee will care for him."

He thought of the needy valley people, of the old Professor and his dreams, of the 'Rope of Gold'.

"This is the end of that," he told himself as he followed on in the darkness.

They led him along the top of the Citadel for a time, then, after descending stone stairways into the heart of the fortress, lost him completely in a maze of rooms and passageways to at last emerge upon the top of a stairway that, hidden as it was by great over-hanging treetops, had escaped the eager eyes of the three boys.

"They know a great deal about this old fortress," Johnny told himself. "Shouldn't wonder if they could lead me to the 'Rope of Gold'.

"But where do we go from here?" he asked himself, as the leader moved on down the moss-grown stairs.

At the foot of the stairs were some twenty natives. Apparently Johnny and his guards had been expected. He noted with a little tremor that two of the men carried light strong ropes.

Without a word the men formed in line, some in front, some behind him. Then, slowly, the procession moved forward single file over a narrow trail Johnny had not known before.

The boy's head was in a whirl. They had not said "Come." They had not said, "You must go with us." They had said nothing. And yet, there was a subtle something about their actions that said plainer than words, "It is useless to resist. You must come with us."

"But where am I going?" he asked himself. "Where will I be when I get there? And why am I going at all?" Since he could find no answer to these questions, he gripped his stout bow (now quite useless without his arrows) and trudged silently on into the night.

Several hours later he found himself lying upon his back beneath a giant mahogany tree. He was far up the mountain side. Greenish-gray moss hung like beards from the tree branches. Here it was cool even in daytime.

They had left the trail a half hour before, he and the strange group of natives. He guessed they were hiding until dark. When darkness came they would travel again. Where would they go? What was the end of the trail? To these questions he could form no answer. He had dined well enough on native food. He was not being disturbed now; watched that was all.

"Strange business," he grumbled to himself.