Chapter V · YACHTING PARTY.

The trim white yacht, every inch of its brasswork polished and shining in the hot sun, its paintwork immaculate, lay at anchor in a little bay between Cape Tepoca and Cape Lobos in the Gulf of California. It flew the flag of an exclusive Eastern yacht club.

The bay was one hundred and fifty miles below Port Isabel, fifty-odd miles from Yuma. The owner, sitting with two other men beneath the gayly striped awning over the quarter-deck aft, listened intently to what one of the men was relating.

His face showed unmistakable signs of birth and breeding, but was hard and cold, as was his eyes. The two men with him were of the same type, one about forty, the other ten years younger.

The awning kept the hot sun out, and several electric fans gave a cooling breeze. The wicker table around which they were sitting was loaded with bottles bearing foreign labels, soda bottles, cracked ice, and glasses. Several curiously carved Chinese dishes or bowls held candied fruits and preserves.

"I am very much afraid," the owner said, leaning over and carefully selecting a piece of candied ginger, "that Mr. George Mears has, we shall say, outlived his usefulness to us. You say, Langdon, that he told you frankly that he had—how do you term it?—oh, yes—'put the Kid on the spot.' I say, Carewe, that's a bit of Yankee slang for you to remember."

"I asked him where the Kid was, Monckton," replied Langdon, the young man of the party, "and he told me that; he added that his man Mike seemed to have done it in plain sight of some one who began to shoot his disapproval of such methods."

All three men smiled. They were university men; Carewe an Englishman, who, if he wished, could use one of the proudest titles in England; Monckton and Langdon, Americans. All of them suave gentlemen, and ruthless killers and pirates by choice. They had been born some centuries too late. In Sir Francis Drake's day they would have been captains in his fleet—or have a fleet of their own. Monckton had plenty of money, as did Carewe. Instead of living on it, or being useful members of society, they deliberately used their wealth and their clever brains to prey on the very society that had given it to them.

Langdon was as they were, sans the money. He made up in absolute recklessness and daring what he lacked in that respect. The relationship was practically that of Monckton, captain; Carewe, first lieutenant; Langdon, second lieutenant.

"I wonder," Monckton went on, "if the Kid had told or shown Kentuck who he was?"

"Evidently not," answered Langdon, "or he wouldn't have dared do what he did."

"You say that a Ranger named Earpe killed Mike?"

"Yes. They must have had a tip; probably from the chap that shot at him before. Anyway, Earpe had a warrant for his arrest. It doesn't point to us, as far as I can see."

"Not as far as the killing goes, no. But it does put me in a frightful position with the Chang Kwang. Wang Li has been getting rather uppish lately about losing so many men; now I must go to him with the story of four more of his best hatchet men, and, to crown it, one of his best-liked lieutenants."

"Why go?" drawled Carewe. "Put in to San Francisco and send for him to come on board."

"Send for Wang Li! Old chap, that Five Star must have gone to your head. He's more apt to send for me. Here, you!" to a sailor who had appeared around from the port side of the steam launch, swung in-board. "What are you doing there?"

The sailor, a young man whose flaxen hair, blue eyes and fair skin showed Teutonic blood, came to attention and saluted.

"De—de boson he tell me to the little boat clean," he stammered. "I jus' got de dime to up on deck come."

"Get forward," ordered Monckton curtly, "and pass the word for Captain Davis or Mr. Clark to come aft." To his companions he added: "I wonder how much he heard?"

"Nothing, probably," answered Langdon indifferently; "and if he did, he wouldn't get half of it. Those squareheads are two-thirds moron anyway, except when it comes to the sea. Supposing he did hear something, what could he do with it?"

"That's the first time my rule has been disobeyed," said Monckton sternly. "You are no doubt right, Langdon, but we were talking rather freely."

Mr. Clark, the first officer, came hurrying up. He was a tall, well-built, rangy man about twenty-eight years of age. Hard-faced, with cold blue eyes and tight lips.

"Captain Davis is indisposed, sir," he began to Monckton.

"For that, read drunk," sneered Carewe, helping himself to a big drink of brandy.

"Which same he has a perfect right to be, as long as the anchor's over the side," said Monckton suavely. "A very good man, at all times. Allow me to suggest, Carewe, that you tighten up a bit; you know what that brandy does to you. Well, Mr. Clark, you are familiar with the rules and regulations of this yacht?"

"Yes, sir," answered Clark, a flush coming in his cheeks.

"Quite so. And what is the one regarding enlisted men, or any other man for that matter, coming aft on the quarter-deck while the owner is present? Unless sent for, of course."

"Same as on the bridge, sir. Not allowed."

"Right; and yet, not five minutes ago, I looked up from a private conversation with these gentlemen and saw an enlisted man within hearing."

"Some mistake, sir," answered Mr. Clark.

"A bad one, Mr. Clark. I pride myself on the efficiency of my officers. This man stated that the boson had sent him up to clean the launch. Look into it, please, and report to me. The man is the one who passed the word to you to come aft. And by the way, Mr. Clark, cancel any shore leave he may have; and I would suggest that he be given duties that would require his time—below. You understand me, Mr. Clark?"

"Yes, sir," answered Mr. Clark grimly. "He will be sent below, some time to-night."

He gave a brisk navy salute and left.

Langdon whistled.

"My hat, Monckton. You're not going to have that poor devil sent west, are you? What could he do, even if he did hear anything?"

"Better safe than sorry," said Monckton, reaching for some more ginger. "What's his life against mine, or any of ours? A good many organizations have been broken up by letting some little thing go by. We were careless in the first place, but there is no need of being careless twice. You left the plane at the ranch, Langdon?"

Carewe had risen and sauntered around the quarter-deck behind the launch, looked carelessly in it, then returned to his seat. The launch was the only boat swung inward on the quarter-deck, because of its size, requiring extra large davits.

"Go ahead," he said as he came back and sat down. "All clear now. If that sailor just came up, why didn't we see him coming?"

"Chances are he was corked up in there," smiled Langdon. "I know I used to, when I was in France, every chance I got, rules or no rules. Yes, Monckton, I unloaded my two passengers on schedule and took the car. I was heading for Kentuck when I heard the news. You owe Pedro something; he turned the pilot car as soon as he heard the boys were out.

"Say, you chaps, that brings me up to my knitting. I'm done, Monckton. That was my last flight for the outfit. I'm quitting—matter of fact, I'm done done, as the old colored man used to say."

"I don't quite get that, Langdon," said Monckton calmly. "You mean that you are going to pull out, entirely?"

"Yes. I'm fed up. All I get out of this is the privilege of flying, and I had enough of that in France. I'm going on my own for awhile."

"You have always received your share, haven't you?"

"I have," answered Langdon. "No argument there at all. I'm just fed up with this neck of the woods and being dry nurse for a lot of yellow brothers. I'll take my share of the stones, if you don't mind, and go away from here."

"Sorry, old chap," said Monckton. "At the moment they are not available for division; and besides that, it won't be quite convenient to have you pull out."

Langdon laughed.

"Just like that? Well, I never cared much regarding the conveniences—and you had much better get the—shall I say loot?—for division. Pronto."

Carewe, who had been drinking steadily, leaned forward, his eyes contracted to pin points. "I say, old thing, that could be very readily construed as a threat, you know."

"Why, so it could," grinned Langdon. "The brandy has sharpened up your brain, old bean?"

"Steady," warned Monckton evenly. "Let's give each other the credit for knowing that none of us is a man to play with very much. Just what is the basic idea of your wanting to quit the game, Langdon?"

"Well," answered Langdon, smiling at Monckton, whom he really liked, "frankly, I'm going in on my own, without any partners."

"Here?" asked Monckton, reaching for some of the candied fruit.

"Not exactly here, on this spot; farther up the coast."

"Sorry, old dear," said Monckton. "I am afraid that it can't be done—at the moment anyway. It would interfere with several things at the moment."

"No?" questioned Langdon quietly. "Just how do you think you can stop me?"

Carewe leaned forward a little.

"The same way as we have stopped many a man, my lad."

"Yeah?" said Langdon silkily. "Well, laugh this off, both of you. I will fly no more yellow brothers, or snow, or chandoo, over the line for you. I want my cut from the stones in, say, ten days."

"If you are very, very lucky," interrupted Carewe, "you may drink your morning coffee twice more. With extraordinary luck, perhaps three times."

"I have a rendezvous with death," quoted Langdon with a laugh. "I did as the Japs do before going into battle, Carewe, a long time ago. I held my own funeral. So really the matter doesn't interest me."

"I will take the deck, Carewe, if you don't mind," said Monckton. "Listen, Langdon; you have always received your share; you have never been asked to do anything more than you agreed to do. I knew you on the western front and know that you are all right in every way—but it will take a better reason than you have advanced to explain your sudden desire to quit the game; at least as far as we are concerned. I know that you would not give out any information, of course, but you might readily fog up our lines if you went in as an independent."

Langdon laughed. "I ran out of reasons last night and forgot to bring any more with me. All the talk is bush-wah as far as I am concerned. I am washed up, Monckton. You can put me ashore again, right here."

"Sorry." Monckton shook his head. "If you persist, Langdon, I'm afraid I'll have to concur in what Carewe said. There are many ways to die—some short and pleasant, some long and—very unpleasant. I am afraid that Wang Li might not care to have competition."

Langdon gave vent to an amused, reckless laugh. "In other words, if I do not continue to play in your yard, I meet Wang Li. Well, I never learned to count costs, and I'm much too old to begin now. So the bet goes as she lays. You can deliver my cut in the stones to Smithie, in San Francisco."

Carewe snarled a laugh. "You can't get by with it, Langdon. You're in with us too far. Who's backing you?"

"Who wants to know?" questioned Langdon silkily.

There was a sudden tension in the air, although none of the three men changed his position in the slightest. When Langdon issued the underworld challenge, it was as if all the softness, culture and breeding had suddenly sloughed off, leaving only the naked, merciless, cruel killers exposed.

"I think it only fair to tell you," Monckton said very softly indeed, "that if Mrs. Monckton has anything to do with your sudden desire to pull out, that I have been fully aware of your plans for some time, and at the moment she is not in a position to join you as arranged. I knew some time ago that you and she had planned to go—Sit tight, Carewe! This is my show!"

The words were intermingled with the whiplike crack of Carewe's automatic. He loved the woman who posed as Monckton's wife, and the sudden knowledge that Langdon was the favored one snapped him into action. He had half risen and fired through the pocket of his immaculate white linen coat.

Langdon's body had swerved out and to the right as he saw Carewe start to rise, and his hand had flashed under his left armpit and out with a .38 Savage automatic.

As he fired straight into Carewe's drink-inflamed face, his left shoulder jerked back from the impact of the steel-jacketed bullet from Carewe's gun.

Monckton slid from his seat like the gray shadow of a jungle cat flitting across a moonlit space among the trees, and before the body of Carewe fell against the table he had tilted it and with all his strength shoved it against Langdon's legs, throwing him off balance for a moment. Kneeling, he fired twice at Langdon, hitting both times. Langdon returned the fire, standing erect, his heels together as if at attention, a smile on his lips in spite of his wounds.

There is one thing about an automatic which many a gangster has found in times of stress. The slender steel-jacketed bullet goes through so fast that it cauterizes the wound and prevents much bleeding. Unless a man is hit in a vital spot, it does not stop him, at least for a little while.

Monckton's face all at once seemed to have a curtain of blood lowered over it, and he slumped to the no longer spotless deck, his automatic sliding from his nerveless hand.

Langdon stood for a moment watching him, looked at the body of Carewe, laughed, holstered his gun, turned and, staggering to the rail, slowly climbed up on it. He poised a moment and took the water in a clean, perfect dive. The shore lay three hundred yards away, and the water between was calm as a mill pond.

From the quiet, peaceful scene of three gentlemen in spotless whites, sitting under the striped awning of a private yacht with their cooling drinks, it had in less time than the count of five in the ring changed to what looked like a shambles.

Men came from both the starboard and port gangways. Monckton stirred and tried to raise his head, then fell back again.

A man dressed as a ship's officer stepped from the wheelhouse, a thirty-thirty Winchester in his hands. As Langdon's head appeared for a moment fifty feet away, he calmly raised the rifle and fired once. The head disappeared and a little splotch of blood floated on the surface for a moment.

The man who had shot put the Winchester down, and, going to the bridge ladder, came on deck. As he turned to go aft he ran into the sailor who had caused him to get a "wigging" from Monckton.

"What the hell are you doing forward?" he snarled. "Get below, you damn piece of Dutch cheese! What were you doing to port?"

"I does shots heard," stammered the sailor, "und on deck ran mit de rest. Boson he holler de doctor to get und he forward point."

"Get below," Clark ordered, "and stay below."

Clark then ran aft to find that Monckton had been taken below, as had the body of Carewe. Stewards already were busy with buckets and mops.

The sailor, instead of obeying Clark, went to the side, eased himself gently under the bottom rail, hung by his hands for a moment, then dropped silently into the water. He swam close to the ship's side until he came to the bow, then dived and swam under water as long as he could toward the shore.

The doctor was coming out of Monckton's suite when Clark arrived.

"Did Langdon get him?" Clark asked indifferently.

"No," answered the doctor curtly. He didn't like this paid killer of Monckton's. "The first bullet went high and just missed the lungs, and the second glanced along his skull. It laid his scalp open for seven inches. He'll have a bad scar, that's all."

"Yeah? Is there any chance of seeing him?"

"No," the doctor answered brusquely. "He is under an opiate." He had been a famous surgeon once, respected and honored, before he found that a little, just a little, of the drugs he knew so well would relieve the strain after an operation. Even now, when he had fallen, there remained a trace of his former code, and he looked at Clark through narrowed eyes.

Clark knew how the doctor felt, and it amused him. "Tell him when he wakes up that I got Langdon for him," he said. "Doc"—he knew that the doctor hated to be called that—"you ought to have seen the shot I made; I got him smack center when his head came up, and—"

"You killed Langdon?" asked a cold voice behind him.

He turned to see the woman whom Monckton had mentioned standing at his elbow. The doctor bowed to her and went to his cabin forward, leaving her with Clark.

She was beautiful, this woman who had done the same as the men—given up her position in society, her home, and all that the average woman clings to, solely because of her hatred of restraint of any kind. Beautiful, graceful, with slender ankles and little arched feet, her slim, exquisite body moved with the sinuous grace of a black pantheress.

With a face almost perfect in its clear-cut patrician contour, she was more than beautiful; but her eyes spoiled it. They were blue; not a warm, soft blue, but a blue as cold and deadly as the sheen of northern ice.

"Yes," answered Clark coldly, "I killed him."

"He was in the water, wounded, swimming for what little life he had—and you killed him?" Her eyes were full on Clark's, which were almost as cold as hers. He knew then that he had made an enemy that was more dangerous than a king cobra, and that his life was worth just the trouble to snuff it out if she could compass it; and he also knew that she as well as Monckton had been able several times before to reach that particular consummation.

He was not afraid of her, any more than he was afraid of any man. He believed that when the Three Sisters sitting up there cut the thread, he'd go on the one-way trail—and not before. Which most men and women who belong to the "Lost Legion" believe.

"I couldn't see whether he was wounded or not," he answered. "Not that it would have made any difference. I obey orders, Mrs. Monckton; no one leaves this boat unless Mr. Monckton states that he may."

"I see," she answered, her eyes still holding his. "Mr. Monckton asked me to pass the word for Captain Davis to put the anchor on the bow. He will give him sailing orders as soon as possible."

"Very good, Mrs. Monckton," said Clark, saluting. "Put the anchor on the bow. I will pass the word to Captain Davis."

"Thank you," she answered, stepping by him. "I will tell Mr. Monckton as soon as he awakens that you—'got Langdon,' I think you said—for him."

Clark stood still for a moment after she had gone, then he smiled grimly. "I think," he said softly, "that I will seriously consider Kentuck's offer—and in the meantime be very careful where I step."