There was but one place by which the castle could be reached and that place had a barred gate with a huge lock which stood out even at the distance from which Phil was observing it.
A wall ran around the castle, a wall that was surmounted with jagged coral and broken glass. The rock dropped away on all sides in a sheer slope that was smoothed over by the aid of concrete so that its sides were as glass. The trail ran up the winding zigzag, passed under the barred gate, and came to another gate, a mere opening in the wall.
Gunpowder might have reduced the fortress, but as far as the simple savages were concerned, armed as they were only with crude weapons, it represented an absolutely impregnable retreat in which one man could live unmolested.
Now that Phil knew the truth about the people who inhabited the island, he realized the gravity of the position in which he had left his companions, knew that it was vitally necessary that they be warned, given the real facts of the situation without delay.
He slid down the slope of the ridge, picked up the landmarks which gave him the location of the shelf of rock where he had left Stella Ranson and Professor Parker, and plunged into the dense shrubbery.
He was afraid to follow any man-made trails, and the forest growth was too thick to penetrate without losing too much time in forcing his way through the tangled mass of creepers and vines, to say nothing of the noise that would be made by such a means of progress.
But the place was cut up with trails made by hogs, trails which led in zigzags or ran directly through tangles of brush. Phil dropped to all fours and followed those trails, trusting to his sense of direction to carry him to his ultimate goal.
Twice he disturbed bands of hogs that were resting in the thickets, and they tore away with great gruntings, startled squeals, their short legs rattling and clumping over rock and down timber.
Aside from those, he encountered no sign of life, either man or beast, and finally arrived at the bottom of the ridge where he had left his party. He gave a low whistle.
There was no answer.
Fearing the worst, he started the laborious ascent, up the rock slope which led to the shelf where he had established camp.
He slipped around the screen of a bush, and came upon that which he had feared to find. The camp was in a state of confused disorder, blankets torn and scattered, the canned goods either cut open or rolling about on the rock floor. There was no sign, either of the professor or the girl, save a torn bit of cloth which had come from the girl’s skirt.
Phil knew much of woodcraft, and he had trailed pack-horses over long and difficult stretches of country. Now he set himself the task of trailing the raiding party which had captured his companions.
And the task was absurdly easy. The trail led up the slope and around a shoulder, where a broad, well-used trail led along a ledge of rock below which flashed the blue of the ocean.
Looking along this rocky ledge, down toward the ocean, Phil could see what appeared to be a gigantic serpent, writhing along the rocky trail. It was, in fact, a long line of men, naked, excited, walking in single file along the narrow trail, and in the center of this writhing line of brown backs and black heads appeared the light colors of the garments worn by Professor Parker and Stella Ranson.
Phil left the trail and kept to the ridge, keeping just below the skyline. He worked his way along until he could see the party below him enter a dense clump of trees. They did not emerge.
Closer inspection showed Phil the tops of thatched houses showing dimly through the trees. He knew that something had to be done, and done fast, but he was alone and virtually unarmed.
Then he thought of the strange hermit, of the gun which the hermit had held, of the big automatic which was strapped to the cartridge belt which circled the hermit’s waist.
Phil had to possess himself of those weapons. How?
And, as he stood there thinking, the natives themselves furnished him with the idea which he needed. They started throbbing out a message on the big master drum.
Phil could make out the drum now, and the drummer. The drum was made of wood, and a huge savage swung a mallet as one would swing a sledge. The resonant wood boomed out its deep note, a series of signal calls.
Phil crawled on his stomach, slipping over the skyline of the ridge, like a deer slipping through a pass on the approach of hunters. Once he had passed the skyline he got to his feet, slipped down the slope until he came to the trail he had followed earlier in the day, and raced along at top speed.
His heart was pounding and his lungs laboring by the time he came to the forks in the trail. There was no time for caution, so he flung himself blindly forward, half expecting to see some hostile native arise in front of him.
But things were as he had left them when he had started to trail the killer. The two natives were sprawled out, stark in death. The big drum still hung from the tree.
Phil inspected that drum closely.
It was suspended by a long rope, and there was a sufficient surplus of rope to answer Phil’s purpose.
He picked up the drumstick, swung it in a powerful blow, squarely upon the head of the drum. The booming note resounded over the island. Phil, trying to remember the sound sequence of the drumming he had previously heard, repeated the blows, imitating the first signals which had been given by the savage as nearly as possible.
He swung the drumstick for a full five minutes. Then he picked up a native spear which lay near the dead warrior, planted it in the ground, fastened a springy branch to it, tied the drumstick to the branch, and raced up the trail to a place from which he could see the castle.
He found that his ruse was working.
The owner of the place, armed to the teeth, probably seething with indignation, was coming down the steep trail from the castle with long strides, his rifle thrust forward.
Phil timed his approach, then ran back to the drum, gave a few more beats, and started twisting the ropes which held the drum. When he had them twisted tightly, he adjusted the spear at just the proper angle, affixed the drumstick and springy bow in place, and let the drum go.
The untwisting ropes swung the drum in a half circle, brought the head against the drumstick. There came a low, abortive, yet plainly audible sound from the drum, which was arrested in its progress. Then the spring of the limb slowly let the drum head slide past the stick, and the drum made another revolution, again hitting the drumstick.
It was a makeshift device, good only for a matter of a few revolutions, but it served Phil’s purpose.
He ran back up the trail, plunged into the brush by the side of the divide just in time. He could see the long legs of his man coming on the run.
The drum continued at intervals to send forth low noises far different from the deep booming that had come from it when it had been struck a smart blow with the padded striker, yet noises which were of a sufficient volume to be plainly audible.
And, over all, there sounded the deep booming of the master drum.
But the long-legged giant, striding up with murder in his mind, was not a simple, trusting soul to be caught in a trap unaware. Evidently natives had tried to ambush him before, and he slowed his progress to peer cautiously into the brush when he entered the region where the undergrowth was thick enough to furnish cover.
Phil knew that it would only be a matter of seconds before the drum would cease to give forth sound, due to the relaxing of tension on the rope.
He tensed his muscles, finally determined on a rush. The man was peering cautiously and intently into the shadows. A rush seemed suicide, yet Phil could think of no other way.
He worked his feet firmly in under him, and the drum gave forth a low moaning sound, due to the rubbing of the hide-covered head of the striker, rubbing against the drum head, just as he was preparing to rush. That peculiar sound aroused the curiosity of the long-legged ruler of the island sufficiently to overcome his prudence. He started forward.