H. Bedford-Jones

“ Garcia had not betrayed them, for the Mexican had died there—and yet the schooner had been as a trap, vomiting unsuspected men. Whose guile had set this trap? Not that of the crafty peon spy, for he had died under the silver knife, obviously. As he lay thus wondering, Hampton suppressed a sudden groan; around him were men stamping on the deck, voices issuing orders, the click of capstan pawls and the squeak of ungreased sheaves. Movement thrilled all the deck. The schooner was getting under way! ”

“ This altered everything, promising a short fight aboard the schooner, and after that a safe evasion; the craft could be towed out to catch the breeze, if necessary. The moonlight, filtering through the mist, made all things more deceptive.
“Looks good,” observed Job Warlock softly, as they got into the boat and pushed out. “Looks good, Dick! Now we got Nelly Barnes dead ahead.”
“I hope so,” returned Hampton. The Indian made a gesture for silence, and laid out his oars. ”

“ Whatever her objective, the schooner had attained it, for now she wore around; Hampton could catch the orders, which were in Spanish, and by these and the level deck detected that she was running wing-and-wing before the breeze. Then, almost at once, the stifling tarpaulin was jerked from above him and he found himself in full moonlight, with a group of men around. All were strangers. ”