Part 38

At the sight of the schooner sweeping out to sea, Wilbur was for an instant smitten rigid. What had happened? Where was Moran? Why was there nobody on board? A swift, sharp sense of some unnamed calamity leaped suddenly at his throat. Then he was aware of a crattering of hoofs along the road that led to the fort. Hodgson threw himself from one of the horses that were used in handling the surf-boat, and ran to him hatless and panting.

“My God!” he shouted. “Look, your schooner, do you see her? She broke away after I'd started to tell you--to tell you--to tell you--your girl there on board--It was horrible!”

“Is she all right?” cried Wilbur, at top voice, for the clamor of the gale was increasing every second.

“All right! No; they've killed her--somebody--the coolies, I think--knifed her! I went out to ask you people to come into the station to have supper with me--”

“Killed her--killed her! Who? I don't believe you--”

“Wait--to have supper with me, and I found her there on the cabin floor. She was still breathing. I carried her up on deck--there was nobody else aboard. I carried her up and laid her on the deck--and she died there. Just now I came after you to tell you, and--”

“Good God Almighty, man! who killed her? Where is she? Oh--but of course it isn't true! How did you know? Moran killed! Moran killed!”

“And the schooner broke away after I started!”

“Moran killed! But--but--she's not dead yet; we'll have to see--”

“She died on the deck; I brought her up and laid her on--”

“How do you know she's dead? Where is she? Come on, we'll go right back to her--to the station!”

“She's on board--out there!”

“Where--where is she? My God, man, tell me where she is!”

“Out there aboard the schooner. I brought her up on deck--I left her on the schooner--on the deck--she was stabbed in the throat--and then came after you to tell you. Then the schooner broke away while I was coming; she's drifting out to sea now!”

“Where is she? Where is she?”

“Who--the girl--the schooner--which one? The girl is on the schooner--and the schooner--that's her, right there--she's drifting out to sea!”

Wilbur put both hands to his temples, closing his eyes.

“I'll go back!” exclaimed Hodgson. “We'll have the surf-boat out and get after her; we'll bring the body back!”

“No, no!” cried Wilbur, “it's better--this way. Leave her, let her go--she's going out to sea again!”

“But the schooner won't live two hours outside in this weather; she'll go down!”

“It's better--that way--let her go. I want it so!”

“I can't stay!” cried the other again. “If the patrol should sig-storm coming up, and I've got to be at my station.”

Wilbur did not answer; he was watching the schooner.

“I can't stay!” cried the other again. “If the patrol should signal--I can't stop here, I must be on duty. Come back, you can't do anything!”

“No!”

“I have got to go!” Hodgson ran back, swung himself on the horse, and rode away at a furious gallop, inclining his head against the gusts.

And the schooner in a world of flying spray, white scud, and driving spoondrift, her cordage humming, her forefoot churning, the flag at her peak straining stiff in the gale, came up into the narrow passage of the Golden Gate, riding high upon the outgoing tide. On she came, swinging from crest to crest of the waves that kept her company and that ran to meet the ocean, shouting and calling out beyond there under the low, scudding clouds.

Wilbur had climbed to the top of the old fort. Erect upon its granite ledge he stood, and watched and waited.