At a fork in the trail, Frank and Joe headed to the left, the path leading downhill at this point, and toward the cove. They could hear the boom of the surf not far away and they knew that they were nearing their goal.
When Chet and Biff hastened up they failed to notice, in the inky blackness, that the trail branched two ways. Chet was in the lead and his footsteps brought him to the right. He could not hear the footsteps of the Hardy boys ahead but he judged that they were so far in advance that he could not hear them.
Their pursuers had become scattered. Some were pursuing them down the trail. Others were skirting the grove, intending to watch the shore. In the distance they could see occasional flashes of light. Once or twice there was a revolver shot.
“It won’t go so well with us if they see us this time,” called Frank back to his brother.
“If we can only beat them to the boat we’ll be all right,” panted Joe.
They emerged from the grove. They could see the white line of the surf ahead and the gray shapes of the rocks along the shore. The cove lay below.
The Hardy boys raced down the rocky slope. Only then did they become aware of the fact that their chums were not following.
Frank stopped and turned.
“Where are Chet and Biff?” he asked, startled.
“I thought they were right behind,” replied Joe blankly.
They listened. There were no sounds of running footsteps down the trail. Back in the grove they could hear a frenzied crackling of branches, but whether it was caused by their comrades or by their pursuers they could not tell.
“They must have taken the wrong turning in the dark,” declared Frank, as the solution dawned on him. “Quick—we’ll get to the boat first! If we can find them we’ll bring them with us. If we can’t we’ll have to make for the mainland alone.”
A flash of scarlet light showed against the blackness of the bush as a revolver crashed out, and a scattering of rock close by told them that the bullet had been meant for them. The gangsters were near at hand.
Without another word the Hardy boys turned and dashed down the rocky trail leading to the cove. The path was precipitous and rocky. Joe stumbled once and fell headlong, but he was up again in an instant, spurred on by the fear that they would be recaptured. Frank reached the shore first. The motorboat was just where they had left it, but it was drawn up on the sands.
Joe raced up and the boys placed themselves, one on either side of the bow.
“All right!” gritted Frank. “Ready!”
They shoved desperately at the motorboat, and it began to move slowly out into the water of the cove.
The gangsters were drawing closer. The boys heard heavy footfalls on the rocks at the outskirts of the grove.
Bang! Bang!
The revolver crashed out again. Bullets splashed into the water. Desperately, the Hardy boys struggled with their boat.
At last the keel left the sand, and the boat slid out swiftly into the cove waters. Frank and Joe splashed out into the waves and began to scramble over the side.
Frank had a glimpse of a dark figure racing down the rocky slope toward them. He leaped to the engine.
“Here they are!” roared a voice.
More footsteps came running along the shore. The gangsters were converging toward the cove. Frank worked hastily over the engine. There was a splutter and a roar as the motor responded. The boat began to back slowly out of the cove.
“Keep down,” he cautioned his brother.
Joe ducked, and not a moment too soon, for a fusillade of shots suddenly crashed out from the shore. Bullets whistled overhead. Wood splintered as one of them struck the side of the boat. Frank heard a heavy splashing in the water and judged that one of the gangsters was wading out in pursuit.
The boat moved slowly out to the entrance of the cove. In the darkness it was a ticklish performance. Frank doubted if he could make it. At any time it demanded careful steersmanship, and now there was no time for caution. The cove entrance was merely a faint gray blur against the darkness of the rocks on either side. He guided the Sleuth toward it.
Shots crashed and echoed from the shore. A dark form suddenly rose up beside the boat, with revolver upraised, but Joe launched himself on the man with surprising suddenness. His fist shot out and crashed into the gangster’s face. With a muffled cry, the fellow stumbled back and lost his balance, going beneath the waves. He rose again in a moment, waist-deep in water, spluttering and choking, but by that time the Sleuth was several yards away and the water was too deep to permit the fellow to wade out any farther. His revolver was useless, and he began to make his way back to shore, growling to himself.
The motorboat reached the cove entrance. The rocks loomed high on either side.
Frank held his breath. At any moment he expected to hear the dread sound of the scraping rocks, but the Sleuth glided through the narrow channel without mishap, then shot out to the open sea. He spun the wheel about, brought the boat forward, and a moment later the engine was roaring its staccato defiance to the gangsters in the cove.
Frank looked back. He could see flashlights bobbing up and down on the beach.
“They’re going for their own boats!” he exclaimed.
Then, with a grim smile, he bent forward over the wheel. Instead of heading the motorboat out to the open sea, he directed it along the shore, toward the distant cove where the gangsters had hidden their own craft.
XX
Seizing the Boats
“What are
