The Treasure of El Patron (2 page)

Tag scowled at his friend. “For what? Waking me out of one of the best dreams I ever had?”

“I got something better than an old daydream about Spanish gold. I got tourists.”

“Where?” Tag jumped up, leaned over the bait shop counter, and searched the narrow strip of beach. “I don’t see anybody.”

Cowboy, whose real name was Kevin Trace, whipped the tattered straw hat that had earned him his nickname off his head in exasperation. “I didn’t bring them with me, mate. They asked where was a good place to get fishing equipment and bait. I gave directions to your shack here on the beach and then hurried up here to tell you. Besides, I figure you don’t want to be caught sleeping by a couple of rich tourists.”

Tag stretched and ran his hand through his sandy brown hair. “What makes you think they’re rich?”

Cowboy grinned. “I been following them for a while. They’re handing out money right and left.”

Tag’s face brightened. He fingered the worn Spanish coin that hung on a chain around his neck. “Maybe we’ll get enough to get my reserve tank fixed and we can go down again.”

“Shooo. Is that all you think about? Diving by those reefs? There ain’t nothing down there. Every treasure hunter on these islands done been all over them reefs. Nobody ever come up with nothing.”

“Then where did this come from?” Tag held out the gold coin.

“Your daddy was one of the best divers around here. He gave that piece to you before he died. And I know all about his diary telling how he thinks there’s more where that come from. But if he were here right now, he’d tell you he didn’t know for sure.”

“He knew.” Tag pulled a T-shirt over his deeply tanned upper body.

The sound of two approaching mopeds interrupted their conversation. Cowboy wisely stepped around the corner of the small thatched building, out of sight. He didn’t want the potential customers to think he had been scamming them.

The men were tourists. That was easy to spot. But there was something about them that made Tag uneasy.

The taller man wore his blond hair pulled
straight back in a tight, greasy ponytail. His eyes looked over a sharp nose in an icy blue stare. The other man had a shiny bald head. He was shorter and heavier and did most of the talking.

“My friend and I are interested in renting some equipment to go fishing.”

Tag nodded. “Sure thing. What are you going after?”

The man hesitated. “Does it matter? We just want to fish. You set us up and we’ll pay you and be on our way.”

Tag scratched his head. “Are you going to be close to shore or out in deep sea?”

“Why do you want to know?” the tall man growled.

The bald man put up his hand. “It’s all right, Spear, the kid asked a perfectly logical question.” He turned to Tag. “We thought we’d go out in the bay a ways. Maybe fish around the reefs some. You have any suggestions?”

Normally Tag would have given them some advice, but the way the blond man spoke made him uncomfortable. “I hear they’re having
some luck out in the harbor.” Tag gathered up two long, thin poles and bagged some bait. Then he set a rental agreement on the counter. “Sign here, mister. Oh, and you need to have the poles back by this time tomorrow.”

The heavyset man signed the slip, paid him, and gave him a generous twenty-dollar tip. “Thanks a lot, kid. We’ll see you tomorrow afternoon.”

Cowboy stepped back into the shack and the two boys watched the men drive away. “You made a killing, mate. And on top of that, they’re coming back tomorrow.”

Tag split the tip with his friend. “There’s something wrong with those guys. They didn’t know the first thing about fishing.”

“Who cares? They’re probably just tourists who want to brag to their friends back home. Besides, they pay good.”

Tag shrugged. “You have a point there. What do you say we close up shop and go into town and get that tank of mine fixed?”

“Now you’re talking.”

The road into town was crowded with slow-moving taxi-cabs, mopeds, bicycles, and colorfully dressed pedestrians. The native Bermudians were either related to or knew everyone in the village. They waved and smiled at the boys.

A tall, muscular policeman dressed in military-style shorts, which exposed a long, puckered scar on his right leg, stood in the center of the street directing traffic. He stopped the oncoming cars and motioned for the boys to cross. “How’s your mama, Tag?”

“She’s fine, Thomas.”

The officer raised one eyebrow and slowly
limped across the street with them. “Some saying maybe she works too hard down at that tourist café.”

Tag smiled at the man, who had been one of his father’s closest friends. “
Some
would probably know. See you around, Thomas.”

Thomas winked at Cowboy. “You try and keep this no-account white boy out of trouble, hear?”

“It’ll be hard, but I’ll try.” Cowboy ran to catch up with Tag. “Want me to carry your tank?”

“No thanks, I’ve got it. Come on, we better hustle if we’re gonna catch Gamell before he closes.”

Tag led the way to the other side of town and up a steep road to a small, run-down shop with a sign above the door that said
DIVING
.

A small silver bell tinkled as they burst through the screen door. An old man with wrinkled grayish black skin and streaks of white in his hair looked up and smiled, showing that he was missing two front teeth. “Tag, boy. What do you know?”

“I need you to look at my tank if you have time, Gamell.”

The elderly man put on his glasses and examined the tank in silence. He tapped the gauge. “Here’s your problem. I’ll have it fixed in no time.” He took it apart and began replacing fittings. “You boys going down this evening?”

Tag nodded. “Thought we’d take another look at Tiger Head reef.”

Gamell shook his head. “Just like your daddy. Always searching for the big treasure.”

“It’s out there, Gamell, and I’m gonna be the one to bring it in.”

Gamell studied the boy with sharp eyes. “I was hoping you would eventually give it up. But I can see you won’t ever quit until you find it.” The old man blew air through the gap between his teeth. “Maybe it’s time I showed you something.” He shuffled out of the room and returned in a few moments with a polished wooden case. He took a rolled-up piece of paper out of it. Gently he slid a faded red ribbon off the document and slowly spread the paper out on the counter.

The boys crowded in for a closer look. It was a list written in Spanish.

“What does it say, Gamell?” Tag asked eagerly.

“It happens to be a ship’s manifest. A ship called
El Patrón
.”

“I don’t get it—” Cowboy started.

Tag held up his hand to silence his friend. “Let Gamell finish.”

The old man cleared his throat. “
El Patrón
was a galleon on its way back to Spain from a trade mission. It went down in a hurricane and most of the crew and passengers were lost. A few members of the crew escaped with this. This manifest is now more than three hundred years old. It lists the silver, gold and other cargo that was aboard
El Patrón
.” He took a second yellowed piece of paper out of the case. “This is another account of the cargo. The unregistered cargo, that is. It’s signed by an Admiral Bartolomé de Campos, who survived the shipwreck.”

“Shipwreck?” Tag said the word almost reverently.

“The one your daddy was looking for, Tag.”

“You know where it is, Gamell?”

“Not the exact location. All I have is the admiral’s account, which is not too specific.
Here; it’s somewhere under this reef.” He pointed at a map taped to the counter. “That’s where your father thought it was.”

The old man grew solemn and rolled up the paper. “I showed this manifest to your daddy and it was the cause of his death. Thomas lost his job as chief of police because of his hurt leg. I wouldn’t be showing it to you now except I know you’re hardheaded and not going to stop no matter what.”

“My father was killed in a diving accident, Gamell. His regulator malfunctioned at the bottom of the ocean. Thomas tried to save him and lost part of his leg to a barracuda. It wasn’t your fault. No one could have done anything.”

“It could be the treasure.” Gamell looked at Tag sadly. “The ones who practice bush, bad magic, call it cursed. No one else from the island would even think of looking for it.”

“Bush.” Tag spit on the floor. “You believe in that voodoo junk?”

Gamell studied the boy again. “Maybe. But who knows, Tag. Could be you’re just the one to break the spell.”

“Look who’s coming.” Cowboy pointed to a blue-and-white outboard headed toward them on the bay. “It’s those tourists who rented poles from you earlier.”

Tag slowed their boat and waited for the two men to get closer. “Have any luck?” he yelled.

The one called Spear glared at him. The bald man, who had signed his name on the rental agreement as George Davis, waved. “No luck at all, kid. We’re gonna call it a day.” He stared at Cowboy. “Don’t I know you?” Without waiting for an answer, he continued.
“Where are you two headed? Getting a little late for fishing, isn’t it? It’s almost dark.”

“Going out to practice some night diving.”

“Diving? For what?” the man asked.

Tag shrugged. “Nothing in particular. Just diving.” Not wanting to tell them his plans, he gunned the motor and yelled over the noise, “See you around, Mr. Davis.”

When they reached the spot near the end of the reef that Gamell had pinpointed on the map, Tag killed the engine and threw the anchor overboard. Excitement coursed through him as the gentle waves lapped at the side of the boat. He rubbed his hands together. “This is it, Cowboy. Tonight we’re gonna be rich!”

Cowboy slid his tank over his head. “I hope you’re right. I sure wouldn’t mind letting someone else clean those fish down at the market.”

Tag already had his equipment on. He handed Cowboy his extra waterproof flashlight, stuck a Ping-Pong paddle in his weight belt, and gave the thumbs-down sign to go over the edge. Cowboy returned the signal and they rolled backward into the water.

The trip to the bottom was executed in a thick blackness. Tag exhaled, and as his lungs emptied he began to sink farther into the chilly water. Pain shot into his left ear.
Stupid
, he thought.
A first-year diver knows you have to relieve the pressure
. With all the excitement, he had forgotten. Quickly he pinched his nose and blew out.

In a little less than a minute they were on the sandy bottom. Cowboy pointed his light at the red-and-orange coral. A school of yellowtail snapper swam by in front of him.

Tag tapped his friend on the shoulder and pointed to the right. Cowboy nodded. He understood that they had less than an hour’s worth of air and that they would have to split up if they hoped to find any trace of the treasure.

Almost thirty minutes had passed before Tag saw anything that caught his attention. He’d been in this area before but somehow he’d missed this. It was a small round opening the size of a plate near the bottom of the reef.

Tag pointed his light at the hole and peered inside. How could he not have seen it before?
The inside was hollow, like an underwater cave. Something shiny lay near the opening and reflected the beam from his flashlight. He reached inside and pulled it out.

A pewter spoon.

If he could have, he would have screamed with joy. He tucked the spoon into his vest pocket and reached into the hole again. This time he used the Ping-Pong paddle to delicately sweep the sand from the floor of the cave. As if by magic, a plate and knife appeared. Tag put the paddle back in his belt and reached for the two new treasures.

A sharp stab of pain shot through his left hand. Something had hold of the tip of his thumb and was trying to yank him into the hole.

The flesh ripped from the end of Tag’s thumb. A small moray eel gulped it down and then released its grip to try to get a better hold on the rest of his finger.

Tag jerked his arm out and swam back from the hole. The pain was worse than a thousand sharp needles all jabbed into his hand at once. A greenish fluid surged from the end of his thumb. Tag knew it was the color of his own
blood under the water. He held the wound and tried to keep from passing out.