“Has anybody got word off the island yet?” I asked.
“Can’t,” another informed me. “They blew up the bridge first thing.”
“Can’t anybody swim?”
“Not in that wind. Young Catlan tried it and was lucky to get out again with a couple of broken ribs.”
“The wind’s gone down,” I pointed out.
The sharp-featured man gave his rifle to one of the others and took off his coat.
“I’ll try it,” he promised.
“Good! Wake up the whole country, and get word through to the San Francisco police boat and to the Mare Island Navy Yard. They’ll lend a hand if you tell ’em the bandits have machine guns. Tell ’em the bandits have an armed boat waiting to leave in. It’s Hendrixson’s.”
The volunteer swimmer left.
“A boat?” two of the men asked together.
“Yes. With a machine gun on it. If we’re going to do anything, it’ll have to be now, while we’re between them and their getaway. Get every man and every gun you can find down there. Tackle the boat from the roofs if you can. When the bandits’ car comes down there, pour it into it. You’ll do better from the buildings than from the street.”
The three men went on downhill. I went uphill, toward the crackling of firearms ahead. The machine gun was working irregularly. It would pour out its rat-tat-tat for a second or so, and then stop for a couple of seconds. The answering fire was thin, ragged.