The first American King

The movements of the pursued craft, which Professor Dean described as signals, continued for only a short time and then once more the pursued rose to a great altitude. The “Royal Dean” tenaciously followed.

“I thought we were going back to earth, but now it seems that we are heaven-bound,” remarked the Professor.

“Whether they make for heaven or the other place, we’ll follow them as long as there is a follow left in us,” answered Mortimer grimly.

For some twenty miles the mysterious craft kept its way, then, still at the same altitude, suddenly described a great semicircle, and laid a course due south.

“What are they up to now?” questioned Mortimer.

“Blessed if I know,” replied the Professor. “It looks very much as if we were going back the way we came.”

“Curious!” commented Mortimer. “I suppose we can only follow and await developments.”

“That’s all,” assented the Professor.

The opinion expressed by Professor Dean that they were returning over practically the same course proved to be correct. Back they went for some twenty miles, and then the pursued began to descend, followed, of course, by their obstinate pursuers.

The occupants of “The Royal Dean” perceived they were dropping into a great valley, shut in on all sides by towering mountain tops.

“It seems we are to make a landing at last,” remarked Mortimer, scanning the valley beneath.

There was no reply to this remark. Mortimer turned leisurely to address the Professor again, but was startled to see the latter staring with dilated eyes into space.

“See!” he gasped. “There! Ah, and there!”

Mortimer looked in the direction indicated and was dumbfounded to perceive to the westward, slightly above them, another air-ship bearing down.

“Look over there!” exclaimed the Professor, pointing to the East.

Mortimer shifted his glance to another air-ship. An instant later two more appeared, the one to the North and the other, beyond the line of the pursued air-ship, to the South.

“We’re surrounded,” gasped the Professor, amazed. “What’ll we do? Try to escape? I fear, though, it will be useless, judging from the speed which I see they develop.”

“Useless or not,” replied Mortimer obstinately, “we started out to follow that air-ship and follow it we will to the bitter end.”

Even as they spoke, the four air-ships were rapidly closing in upon them and they could see that they were several times the size of the “Royal Dean” and that they carried a number of men. As they drew nearer, they saw what appeared to be miniature cannon protruding from their quarters. An instant later the air-ship to the West came within hailing distance. A man stepped to the prow and shouted something which they did not clearly hear.

“They evidently want to speak to us,” said Dean, and he slowed down and came to a stop.

The air-ship to the West also checked its speed, but still kept slowly approaching. The other three air-ships were fast closing in.

“Why did you stop?” asked Mortimer with some annoyance. “We don’t want to let those fellows get away from us.” He nodded in the direction of the pursued.

“No fear,” answered the Professor. “They are descending straight into the valley.”

“Hello!” shouted Mortimer to the air-ship to the West.

“Hello!” came back the answer. “Who are you?”

“His Majesty’s air-ship, the ‘Royal Dean’,” replied Mortimer, adding with an aside and a chuckle to the Professor: “How’s that?”

The reply appeared to exercise a strange effect upon the men addressed. The man in the bow turned to those behind him and a brief parley seemed to ensue. Finally he turned about and again hailed them.

“You are our prisoners!” he shouted.

“Prisoners!” roared back Mortimer. “By what authority do you dare thus address an officer of the King’s Guard?”

All four air-ships had now drawn quite close and had come to a stop. All were drifting in the air currents.

“Authority!” called back the spokesman. “You’ll learn that later. Surrender!”

Mortimer was standing in the extreme bow of the air-ship. He turned to his companion.

“Professor, hand me that rifle.”

Professor Dean bent forward and picked up the rifle from the floor of the air-ship. As he rose with the weapon in his hand there came a warning shout from the spokesman.

“Fire one shot,” he cried, “and we will blow you to the moon!”

“You scoundrels!” called back Mortimer, “try it!” And he turned to the Professor, holding out his hand for the rifle.

The Professor calmly drew back and dropped it over the side of the air-ship.

“What have you done—what have you done?” cried Mortimer furiously.

“Saved you from yourself!” replied his companion coolly. “I don’t mind your fighting when you have half a chance, but to resist here is sheer madness.”

Captain Mortimer paused an instant, hesitatingly.

“I suppose you’re entitled to some consideration in this matter,” he said sulkily. “There may be some truth in what you say. Perhaps I can best aid the cause I serve by exercising diplomacy for the moment and biding my time.”

“Now you’re talking concentrated sense,” replied the Professor. “That’s the proper way to look at it.”

As he spoke, the air-ship on either side had drawn close in upon them. Each of these air-ships threw out a long, powerful prong, resembling a giant boat-hook, and held “The Royal Dean” securely. Words of command rang out and an instant later the two air-ships began descending at moderate speed to the valley below, drawing down the captive craft between them. Mortimer picked up his sword and buckled it about his waist. The Professor was silent. Both stood in their respective positions, expectant and alert but offering no further resistance.

They reached the bottom of the valley and gently grounded upon tufted grass. As they did so, the captives glanced about and saw that they were surrounded by a number of rough-looking men, who had evidently been awaiting the landing. They also saw with some astonishment that in the forward rank stood a young woman, jauntily attired in a natty hunting costume. A short skirt of some dark material fell over a pair of high-laced russet shoes and a pert red feather peeped forth from the saucy little hat which covered her short black curls. As she stood watching the captives, her cheeks flushed with excitement and her black eyes sparkling, she presented a remarkably pretty picture of a brunette of the slender, sinuous type.

There were hurried exclamations, greetings and questions—addressed by the men on the ground to the men in the arriving air-ships. The answers seemed to cause considerable perturbation and excitement. At a word of command two men stepped forward and seized Captain Mortimer roughly by the shoulders.

In an instant he had shaken them off, and with two smashing blows sent them sprawling to the ground.

“I surrender,” he said; “not to you, you scum; to the lady!”

And he raised his hand in military salute.

One of the men struck lay on the ground, apparently stunned, but the other sprang to his feet with an oath. His hand flew to the back of his belt and out flashed a long, ugly-looking knife. Mortimer sprang lightly over the quarter, set his back against the side of the air-ship and drew his sword. A murmur—half-angry, half-excited—went up from the surrounding groups of men. At the prospect of a fight their curiosity and interest were whetted. The man with the knife crouched as if seeking an opportunity to spring in and attack, while Mortimer stood coolly on the defensive, a half smile upon his face, as he watched the man’s awkward points.

At this juncture the girl turned and hastily whispered to a tall, rawboned man who had just climbed out of one of the capturing air-ships. He instantly broke through the ranks and came forward.

“Back, Jackson,” he cried to the man with the knife; “quit now!”

“He hit me,” replied the man, with a savage growl, “and I’m going to rip him up. Out o’ the way, Cap’n.”

“It looks as if two could play at that game,” replied the man addressed as Captain, with a grin. “Back, I say. This man is a prisoner and goes before the Colonel.”

With some hesitancy the man sheathed his knife and slunk back among his fellows.

“Follow me!” said the Captain to Mortimer; “and you, too,” he added, nodding to the Professor.

The latter clambered over the side of the air-ship.

“I’m ready,” he said.

“But I don’t know whether I am,” cried Mortimer, still standing sword in hand. “Who are you? A military organization, or a band of outlaws? I hear you speak of captains and colonels! And by what authority do you talk of prisoners?”

“I can’t answer your questions,” replied the other, civilly enough; “but if you follow me, you’ll perhaps learn all you want to know.”

“Diplomacy!” whispered the Professor. “Let me again urge diplomacy.”

“Very well,” said Mortimer, sheathing his sword; “let’s see this farce through to the end.”

They accordingly fell in on either side of their conductor, who led the way for some little distance down the valley, abruptly turning to the right into a broad, deep cañon. Packed in the cañon in long rows and heaps were what appeared to be quantities of stores covered with huge tarpaulins. Here and there were large, cave-like openings in the sides of the hill, with men passing in and out. It was evidently an extensive encampment and these cave-like openings either led into quarters for the men, or were storing places for more material.

The most astonishing spectacle of all presented itself at the further end of the cañon, where a big, roughly-built, black-bearded man, dressed in buck-skin and broad-brimmed felt hat, a leather belt about his waist and drawn sword in hand, was drilling a squad of men. A short distance away was a large tent, with a smaller one on either side.

As soon as he perceived the three approaching, the man in command of the squad gave an order to a subordinate and advanced toward them. He stopped when some twenty paces away and motioned to the man in charge of the two prisoners to approach. The latter did so and in a low tone made his report, whereupon the leader turned abruptly upon his heel and made his way to the central tent. The man who had been conducting Mortimer and Dean returned to them.

“You’re to go before the Colonel,” he said.

“The Colonel!” exclaimed Mortimer, with a guffaw. “Colonel of what? May I inquire what regiment this is?”

“Ask that of the Colonel,” was the answer.

“At least tell us the name of this Colonel?”

Their conductor hesitated a moment.

“You may call him Colonel Henry,” he said.

“And you? You bear the rank of Captain, it seems. How may we address you?”

“I am second in command here and you may call me Captain Robert.”

“Ah, indeed!” exclaimed Mortimer with sarcasm; “an un-uniformed body of men, whose officers all seem to be known by their first names. I’ll be much interested to discover the nature of this organization.”

“Traitors are apt to turn up in every cause,” was the grave answer, “although this cause has never known one so far. Hence it’s wise to take every precaution.”

“Cause—what cause?” inquired Mortimer.

“No more questions, please,” answered Captain Robert. “I bear you no ill-will and I want to give you a word of friendly advice. Speak to the Colonel softly and civilly. He’s a hard man at times and it will be well to remember you are in his power.”

Mortimer was about to reply, but the Professor hastily interposed.

“I take your advice in the spirit in which it is given,” he said, “and I thank you.”

Captain Robert led the way to the central tent, ushered in his two prisoners and retired. As he did so, a squad of six men, armed with rifles, fell into line behind Dean and Mortimer. The latter found themselves confronted with Colonel Henry, who was seated before a large table facing the entrance to the tent.

“Your names,” he asked curtly, with a scowl.

“I’m Captain Mortimer, of the Imperial Guard, and this is Professor Dean,” was Mortimer’s reply. “Who are you?”

“Since when have prisoners taken to doing the questioning?” asked the other, with an ugly sneer.

“Prisoners!” retorted Mortimer, scornfully, “to whom—to what authority?”

“Yes, prisoners!” was the answer with rising fury, “and if you’ve any doubt on that score, I’ll soon convince you of the fact.”

He paused a moment and calmed himself with an effort.

“You are prisoners,” he continued, “just as the rest of the Imperial Guard will be soon—prisoners or dead.”

Captain Mortimer laughed derisively. Trained in the roughness of service in camp and field, he was no great adept in the milder methods of diplomacy and the soft answer that turneth away wrath.

“Since when did you escape from safe-keeping?” he asked contemptuously.

Henry rose to his feet, his face flushed with anger.

“You may laugh,” he cried, “but what I say is true. They’ll all be prisoners, or dead!”

Mortimer shrugged his shoulders, with the air of a man who declines to pursue an utterly nonsensical proposition further.

“Enough,” exclaimed Henry. “What I want to know is where you got that air-ship?”

“That’s for you to find out,” replied Mortimer.

“And I will,” retorted Henry, with growing anger. “That air-ship was stolen from one of our camps. There’s been a traitor somewhere and that traitor I propose to discover.”

“Yes?”

“Yes; if I have to drag the secret out of you by main force.”

“You certainly stand an excellent chance of doing it!” sneered Mortimer. “This much I’ll tell you, though, so that no innocent person may possibly come under suspicion: The air-ship is not stolen property. It was built by an honest man and is the property of His Majesty, the King.”

A look of mingled astonishment, incredulity and anger came into Henry’s face as Mortimer spoke. At the closing words he startled perceptibly.

“You lie!” he cried.

Quick as a flash of light, Mortimer’s long, sinewy arm shot across the table and closed upon the other’s throat. Henry was a big, strongly-built man, but struggle as he would he could not free himself from that vise-like grasp. Over went table and chair, and back they staggered to the side of the tent, Mortimer’s death-like grip neither shaken nor loosened. In an instant Henry’s men recovered from the first shock of surprise and the whole file rushed in to the rescue of their chief. The shouts of the men and the sounds of strife reached the outside of the tent and other men, headed by Captain Robert, rushed in and lent their aid. The struggle was sharp but brief and, overborne by numbers, Mortimer was finally dragged away, a stout rope wound about his arms. Dean, too, they seized and secured.

Henry had been thrown down in the struggle. He rose to his feet, black in the face and gasping, and staggered against the side of the tent, his hands pressed to his throat. Some of the men stood bunched around Mortimer, to restrain any further outbreak; others busied themselves picking up the various articles scattered around the floor in the struggle. Recovered somewhat from the fearful choking, Henry walked across the tent, his face working with anger. He confronted Mortimer, standing bound amid his captors.

“Curse you!”

And he struck the prisoner with his open hand full across the face.

The blow was a heavy one and would have taken a weaker man off his feet. A great shiver of rage convulsed Mortimer’s powerful frame, he strained furiously at his bonds and his blue eyes blazed with fury as he glared into the dark face of his opponent.

“You hound! Should we ever meet face to face, you’ll pay for that with your life!” he muttered between his teeth.

A furious retort was upon the lips of Henry, when Captain Robert abruptly interposed.

“You dare to interfere!” cried Henry, beside himself.

“No, but—” and Captain Robert whispered, his face close to that of his chief. The bystanders caught only the words “treatment of prisoners,” “general orders” and “High President.”

“Enough!” broke in Henry, with a violent effort keeping down his rage. “Take him away. I’ll deal with him later. Take him away, I say, before I kill him where he stands!”