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[Illustration: There was a sudden flash of flame and the roar of an
explosion.—_Page_ 52.]

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                                  THE
                             MOTOR RANGERS’
                            WIRELESS STATION


                                   BY
                              MARVIN WEST

          AUTHOR OF “THE MOTOR RANGERS’ LOST MINE,” “THE MOTOR
                RANGERS THROUGH THE SIERRAS,” “THE MOTOR
                   RANGERS ON BLUE WATER,” “THE MOTOR
                  RANGERS’ CLOUD CRUISER,” ETC., ETC.


                         _WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY
                           CHARLES L. WRENN_


                                NEW YORK
                            HURST & COMPANY
                               PUBLISHERS

------------------------------------------------------------------------




                            Copyright, 1913
                                   BY
                            HURST & COMPANY

------------------------------------------------------------------------




                                CONTENTS

      CHAPTER                                                PAGE
           I. THE WIRELESS ISLAND                               5
          II. A PASSENGER FOR THE SHORE                        15
         III. IN THE GRIP OF THE STORM                         28
          IV. WHEN THE ENGINE FAILED                           36
           V. NAT TO THE RESCUE                                48
          VI. SAVED FROM THE SEA                               56
         VII. ON “WIRELESS ISLAND”                             65
        VIII. AN AERIAL APPEAL                                 78
          IX. A STERN CHASE                                    91
           X. MORE BAD LUCK                                   100
          XI. “THERE’S MANY A SLIP”                           108
         XII. THE SMUGGLER AT BAY                             117
        XIII. TRAPPED!                                        125
         XIV. NAT A PRISONER                                  134
          XV. UNDER THE EARTH                                 145
         XVI. DRIFTING THROUGH THE NIGHT                      153
        XVII. ABOARD THE LIGHTSHIP                            164
       XVIII. JOE RECEIVES VISITORS                           176
         XIX. AND ALSO GETS A SURPRISE                        187
          XX. HANK EXPLAINS                                   201
         XXI. IN THE MIDST OF ALARMS                          213
        XXII. AN UNEXPECTED STUDENT                           221
       XXIII. A CALL FROM THE SHORE                           229
        XXIV. WHAT JOE DID                                    239
         XXV. LIKE A THIEF IN THE NIGHT                       247
        XXVI. DING-DONG’S CLUE                                256
       XXVII. A LONELY TRAIL                                  265
      XXVIII. AT THE OLD MISSION                              276
        XXIX. CORNERED AT LAST                                291

------------------------------------------------------------------------




                           THE MOTOR RANGERS’
                            WIRELESS STATION




                               CHAPTER I.

                          THE WIRELESS ISLAND.


The drowsy calm of a balmy afternoon at the Motor Rangers’ wireless camp
on Goat Island was abruptly shattered by a raucous, insistent clangor
from the alarm-bell of the wireless outfit. Nat Trevor, Joe Hartley and
Ding-dong Bell, who had been pretending to read but were in reality
dozing on the porch of a small portable wood and canvas house,
galvanized into the full tide of life and activity usually theirs.

“Something doing at last!” cried Nat. “It began to look as if there
wouldn’t be much for us on the island but a fine vacation, lots of
sea-breeze and coats of tan like old russet shoes.”

“I ter-told you there’d be ser-ser-something coming over the
a-a-a-a-aerials before long,” sputtered Ding-dong Bell triumphantly,
athrill with excitement.

“What do you suppose it is?” queried Joe Hartley, his red, good-natured
face aglow.

“Don’t go up in the air, Joe,” cautioned Nat, “it’s probably nothing
more thrilling than a weather report from one of the chain of coast
stations to another.”

“Get busy, Ding-dong, and find out,” urged Joe Hartley; “let’s see what
sort of a message you can corral out of the air.”

But young Bell was already plodding across the sand toward a small
timber structure about fifty yards distant from the Motor Rangers’ camp.
Above the shack stretched, between two lofty poles, the antennæ of the
wireless station. Against these the electric waves from out of space
were beating and sounding the wireless “alarm-clock,” an invention of
Ding-dong’s of which he was not a little proud.

Ding-dong had become inoculated with the wireless fever as a result of
the trip east which the Motor Rangers had taken following their stirring
adventures in the Bolivian Andes in Professor Grigg’s air-ship—which
experiences were related in the fourth volume of this series, The Motor
Rangers’ Cloud Cruiser. On their return to California—where all three
boys lived, in the coast resort of Santa Barbara—nothing would suit
Ding-dong but that they take a vacation on Goat Island and set up a
wireless plant for experimental purposes.

“I want to try it and away from home where a bunch of fellows won’t be
hanging about and joking me if I make a fizzle,” he explained.

As the lads while in the east had done a lot of business, some of it
connected with Nat’s gold mine in Lower California and some with
interests of Professor Griggs, they decided that they were entitled to
at least a short period of inactivity, and Ding-dong’s idea was hailed
as a good one. Goat Island, a rugged, isolated spot of land shaped like
a splash of gravy on a plate, was selected as an ideal camping place.
The wireless appliances, shipped from San Francisco, were conveyed to
the island on board the Rangers’ sturdy cabin cruiser _Nomad_, and three
busy, happy weeks had been devoted to putting it in working order. Since
the day that it had been declared “O. K.” by Ding-dong, the lads had
been crazy for the “wireless alarm” to ring in, and when it failed to do
so Ding-dong came in for a lot of good-natured joshing.

For some further account of the three chums, we must refer our readers
to the first volume of this series, The Motor Rangers’ Lost Mine. This
related how Nat, the son of a poor widow, unexpectedly came into his own
and from an employé’s position was raised to one of comparative
affluence. For a holiday tour when they returned from Lower California,
where Nat by accident had located his mine, the chums took an eventful
trip through the Sierras. What befell them there, and how they combated
unscrupulous enemies and had lots of jolly fun, was all set forth in the
second volume devoted to their doings, The Motor Rangers Through the
Sierras. Some sapphires found by them on this trip led to a strange
series of incidents and adventures attendant on their efforts to restore
them to their rightful owner. The precious stones were stolen,
recovered, and lost again, only to be delivered safely at last. These
exciting times, passed by the lads on their cruiser, the _Nomad_, which
took them half across the Pacific, were described in the third volume of
the young rangers’ doings, The Motor Rangers on Blue Water. Their voyage
in Professor Grigg’s wonderful air-ship, the _Discoverer_, has been
already referred to. With this necessarily brief introduction to the
young campers, let us return to Goat Island.

Directly Ding-dong reached the hut housing the apparatus, he flung
himself down before the instruments and hastily jammed the head-piece,
with its double “watch-case” receivers, over his ears. He picked up a
pencil and placing it conveniently above a pad of paper that was always
kept affixed to the table holding the sending and receiving appliances,
he began to send a storm of dots and dashes winging out in reply to the
wireless impulse that had set the gong sounding.

“_This is Goat Island!_” he banged out on the key, while the spark
leaped and writhed in a “serpent” of steel-blue flame between the
sparking points. It whined and squealed like an animal in pain as
Ding-dong’s trembling fingers alternately depressed and released the
“brass.”

“_Goat Island! Goat Island! Goat Island!_” he repeated monotonously, and
then switched the current from the sending to the receiving instruments.

Against his ears came a tiny pattering so faint as to be hardly
distinguishable. Yet the boy knew that the instruments must be “in
tune,” or nearly so, with whatever station was sending wireless waves
through space, else the “alarm” would not have been sprung.

He adjusted his instruments to take a longer “wave” than he had been
using. Instantly the breaking of the “wireless surf” against the antennæ
above the receiving shed became plainer.

“_This is the steamer_ Iroquois, _San Francisco, to Central American
ports_,” was what Ding-dong’s pencil rapidly transcribed on the pad,
while the others leaned breathlessly over his shoulder and watched the
flying lead. “_A passenger is dangerously hurt. We need assistance at
once_.”

The young operator thrilled. The first message that had come to the
island was an urgent one.

“_Where are you?_” he flashed back.

“_Thirty miles off the coast. Who are you?_” came back the reply.

“_Thirty miles off where?_” whanged out Ding-dong’s key, while he
grumbled at the indefiniteness of the operator on the steamer.

“_Off Santa Barbara. Who are you and can you send out a boat to take our
injured passenger ashore? Hospital attention is necessary._”

“_Wait a minute_,” spelled out the young Motor Ranger’s key.

He turned to the others.

“You see what I’ve got,” he said indicating the pad and speaking
perfectly plainly in his excitement; “what are we going to do about it?”

The lads exchanged glances. It was evident as their eyes met what was in
each one’s mind. The _Nomad_ lay snugly anchored in a cove on the
shoreward side of the island. A run of thirty miles out to sea was
nothing for the speedy, sturdy gasolene craft, and the call that had
come winging through the air from the steamer was an appeal for aid that
none of them felt like refusing to heed. It was clear that the case was
urgent. A life, even, might be at stake. Each lad felt that a
responsibility had been suddenly laid at their door that they could not
afford to shirk.

“Well?” queried Ding-dong.

“_Well?_” reiterated Joe Hartley as they turned by common consent to Nat
Trevor, the accepted leader of the Motor Rangers at all times.

“You’d better tell the man on that ship that we’ll be alongside within
two hours,” said Nat quietly; and that was all; Ding-dong, without
comment, swung around to his key again. Like Joe, he had known what
Nat’s decision would be almost before he gave it. Nat was not the lad to
turn down an appeal like the one sent out from the _Iroquois_. The sea
was smooth, the weather fair, but even had it been blowing half a gale
it is doubtful if Nat would have hesitated a jiffy under the
circumstances to perform what he adjudged to be a duty.

Ding-dong speedily raised the _Iroquois_.

“_We’ll take your injured man ashore_,” he flashed out. “_Lay to where
you are and we’ll pick you up without trouble. Expect us in about two
hours_.”

“_Bully for you, Goat Island_,” came the rejoinder, which Ding-dong
hardly waited to hear before he disconnected his instruments and
“grounded” them.

“Now for the _Nomad_,” cried Nat. “Hooray, boys! It’s good to have
something come along to relieve the monotony.”

“Di-di-didn’t I ter-ter-tell you so!” puffed Ding-dong triumphantly, as
the three lads set out at top speed for their hut to obtain some
necessary clothing and a few provisions for their run to the vessel that
had sent out the wireless appeal for help.




                              CHAPTER II.

                       A PASSENGER FOR THE SHORE.


“All right below, Ding-dong?” hailed Nat, as he took his place on the
little bridge of the _Nomad_ with Joe by his side. The anchor was up,
and astern towed the dinghy, which had been hastily shoved off the beach
when the boys embarked.

Through the speaking tube came up the young engineer’s answer, “All
ready when you are, captain.”

Nat jerked the engine room bell twice. A tremor ran through the sturdy
sixty-foot craft. Her fifty-horse-power, eight-cylindered motor began to
revolve, and with a “bone in her teeth” she ran swiftly out of the cove,
headed around the southernmost point of the island and was steered by
Nat due westward to intercept the steamer that had flashed the urgent
wireless.

As the long Pacific swell was encountered, the _Nomad_ rose to it like a
race-horse that after long idleness feels the track under his hoofs once
more. Her sharp bow cut the water like a knife, but from time to time,
as an extra heavy roller was encountered, she flung the water back over
her forward parts in a shower of glistening, prismatic spray. It was a
day and an errand to thrill the most phlegmatic person that ever lived,
and, as we know, the Motor Rangers were assuredly not in this category.
Their blood glowed as their fast craft rushed onward on her errand of
mercy at fifteen miles, or better, an hour.

Nat, his cheeks glowing and his eyes shining, held the wheel in a firm
grip, his crisp black hair waved in the breeze and his very poise showed
that he was in his element. Joe, clutching the rail beside him, was
possessed of an equal fervor of excitement. The Motor Rangers all felt
that they were on the threshold of an adventure; but into what devious
paths and perils that wireless message for aid was to lead them, not one
of them guessed. Yet even had they been able to see into the future and
its dangers and difficulties, it is almost certain that they would have
voted unanimously to “keep on going.”

“What a fine little craft she is,” declared Nat, as the _Nomad_ sped
along.

“She’s a beauty,” fervently agreed Joe, with equal enthusiasm; “and what
we’ve been through on board her, Nat!”

“I should say so. Remember the Magnetic Islands, and the Boiling Sea,
and the time you were lost overboard?”

Chatting thus of the many adventures and perils successfully met that
their conversation recalled to their minds, the two young Motor Rangers
on the bridge of the speeding motor craft kept a bright lookout for some
sign of the vessel that had sent the wireless appeal into space.

Nat was the first to catch sight of a smudge of smoke on the horizon.
“That must be the steamer! There, dead ahead!”

“Reckon you’re right, Nat,” agreed Joe. “The smoke seems stationary,
too. That’s the _Iroquois_ beyond a doubt.”

Nat sent a signal below, to apply every ounce of speed that the engines
were capable of giving. The _Nomad_, going at a fast clip before, fairly
began to rush ahead. In a few minutes they could see the masts of the
steamer, and her black hull and yellow funnel rapidly arose above the
horizon as they neared her.

At close range the Motor Rangers could see that the white upper works
were lined with passengers, all gazing curiously at the speedy _Nomad_
as she came on. As they ranged in alongside, the gangway was lowered and
Nat was hailed from the bridge by a stalwart, bearded man in uniform.

“Motor boat, ahoy!” he cried, placing his hands funnel-wise to his
mouth, “did you come off in response to our wireless?”

“We did, sir,” was Nat’s rejoinder. “What is the trouble?”

“A job with a good lot of money in it for you fellows,” was the
response. “Range in alongside the gangway and Dr. Adams, the ship’s
surgeon, will explain to you what has happened.”

Nat maneuvered the _Nomad_ up to the lower platform of the gangway and
Joe nimbly sprang off and made the little craft fast. She looked as tiny
as a rowboat lying alongside the big black steamer, whose steel sides
towered above her like the walls of a lofty building.

The vessel’s surgeon, a spectacled, solemn-looking young man, came down
the gangway stairs.

“This is a matter requiring the utmost haste,” he said; “the man who has
been injured must be taken to a shore hospital at once.”

“We’ll take the job. That’s what we came out here for,” rejoined Nat
briskly. “Who is your man and how was he hurt?”

“His name is Jonas Jenkins of San Francisco. As I understand it, he is a
wealthy man with big interests in Mexico. He booked passage for
Mazatlan. Early to-day he was found at the foot of a stairway with what
I fear is a fracture of the skull.”

“It was an accident?” asked Nat, for somehow there was something in the
voice of the ship’s doctor which appeared to indicate that he was not
altogether satisfied that Jonas Jenkins’ injury was unavoidable.

The doctor hesitated a minute before replying. Then he spoke in a low
voice:

“I have no right to express any opinion about the matter,” he said, “but
certain things about the case impressed me as being curious.”

“For instance?”

The question was Nat’s.

“The fact that Mr. Jenkins’ coat was cut and torn as if some one had
ripped it up to obtain from it something of value or importance.”

“You mean that you think Mr. Jenkins was pushed down the flight of
stairs and met his injury in that way?”

“That’s my theory, but I have nothing but the tear in the coat to base
it on.”

The surgeon was interrupted at this point by the appearance at the top
of the gangway of a singular-looking individual. He was tall, skinny as
an ostrich and had a peculiar piercing expression of countenance. His
rather swarthy features were obscured on the lower part of his face by a
bristly black beard.

“Are these young men going to take Mr. Jenkins ashore?” he asked in a
dictatorial sort of tone.

“That is our intention,” was Nat’s rejoinder.

“Where are you going to land him?”

The words were ripped out more like an order than a civil inquiry. Nat
felt a vague resentment. Evidently the black-bearded man looked upon the
Motor Rangers as boys who could be ordered about at will.

“We are going to run into Santa Barbara as fast as our boat will take us
there,” was Nat’s reply.

“I want to go ashore with you,” declared the stranger. “I received word
early to-day by wireless that makes it imperative that I should return
to San Francisco at once. Land me at Santa Barbara and name your own
price.”

“This isn’t a passenger boat,” shot out Joe.

“We only came out here as an accommodation and as an act of humanity,”
supplemented Nat. His intuitive feeling of dislike for the dictatorial
stranger was growing every minute.

Perhaps the other noticed this, for he descended the gangway and took
his place beside the ship’s doctor on the lower platform of the gangway.

“You must pardon me if my tone was abrupt,” he said in conciliatory
tones; “the fact of the matter is, that I must return as soon as
possible to San Francisco for many reasons, and this ship does not stop
till she reaches Mazatlan. It was my eagerness that made me sound
abrupt.”

“Oh, that’s all right,” rejoined Nat, liking the cringing tone of the
man even less than he had his former manner, “I guess we can put you
ashore.”

The man reached into his pocket and produced a wallet. He drew several
bills from it.

“And here’s something to pay for my passage,” he said eagerly.

“Never mind that,” said Nat, waving the proffered money aside. “As I
told you, we are not running a passenger boat. If we land you in Santa
Barbara it will be simply as an accommodation.”

“And one for which I will be grateful,” was the reply. “I’ll have a
steward put my baggage on board your boat at once. I may be of aid to
you in caring for Mr. Jenkins, too, for I am a physician.”

“Yes, this is Dr. Sartorius of San Francisco,” rejoined Dr. Adams, as
the other ascended the gang plank with long, swift strides and was heard
above giving orders for the transfer of his belongings.

“You know him, then?” asked Nat of the ship’s doctor.

“Well, that is, he is registered with the purser under that name,” was
the reply, “and I have had some conversation on medical subjects with
him. As a matter of fact, I think it is an excellent thing that he
wishes to go ashore, for Mr. Jenkins is in a serious way and really
needs the constant watching of a physician.”

“In that case, I am glad things have come out as they have,” rejoined
Nat. “Joe, will you go below and fix up the cabin for the injured man’s
use, and then, doctor, if you will have him brought on board I’ll be
getting under way again.”

Dr. Adams reascended the gangway and in a few minutes two sailors
appeared carrying between them a limp form. The head was heavily
bandaged, rendering a good look at the man’s features impossible. But
Nat judged that he was of powerful build and past middle age. He
descended into the cabin with Dr. Adams, and under the surgeon’s
directions Mr. Jenkins was made as comfortable as possible. His baggage,
as well as that of Dr. Sartorius, was brought below, and then everything
was ready for a start.

Dr. Sartorius bent over the injured man and appeared really to take a
deep and intelligent interest in the case. The ship’s doctor indorsed
one or two suggestions that he made and the boys, for Ding-dong had
joined the party, began to think that they might have been mistaken in
their first estimate of the doctor’s character.

“After all,” Nat thought, “clever men are often eccentric, and this
black-whiskered doctor may be just crusty and unattractive without
realizing it.”

When everything had been settled, Nat and Joe made their way to the
bridge and bade farewell to the doctor. The two sailors who had carried
Mr. Jenkins on board cast off the _Nomad’s_ lines, and the steamer’s
siren gave a deep booming note of thanks for their act.

“You’d better lose no time in getting ashore,” hailed the captain, after
he had thanked the boys for their timely aid.

“We shan’t, you may depend on that,” cheerily called back Nat, as the
_Nomad’s_ engines began to revolve and the big _Iroquois_ commenced to
churn the water.

“We’re in for a sharp blow of wind, or I’m mistaken,” came booming
toward them through the captain’s megaphone, for the two craft were by
this time some little distance apart.

Nat looked seaward. Dark, streaky clouds were beginning to overcast the
sky. The sea had turned dull and leaden, while a hazy sort of veil
obscured the sun. He turned to Joe.

“Hustle below and tell Ding-dong to get all he can out of the engines,
and then see that all is snug in the cabin.”

“You think we’re in for a blow?”

“I certainly do; and I’m afraid that it’s going to hit us before we can
get ashore. It is going to be a hummer, too, from the looks of things,
right out of the nor’west.”

“But we’re all right?”

“Oh, sure! The _Nomad_ can stand up where a bigger craft might get into
trouble.”

Nat’s tone was confident, but as Joe dived below on his errand he
glanced behind him at the purplish-black clouds that were racing across
the sky toward them. The sea began to rise and there was an odd sort of
moaning sound in the air, like the throbbing of the bass string of a
titanic viol.

“This is going to be a rip snorter,” he said in an undertone. “I’ll bet
the bottom’s tumbled out of the barometer.”




                              CHAPTER III.

                       IN THE GRIP OF THE STORM.


“Phew! Hold tight, Joe; here she comes!”

Under the dark canopy of lowering clouds the leaden sea about the
_Nomad_ began to smoke and whip up till the white horses champed and
careered, tossing their heads heavenward under the terrific onslaught of
the wind.

“Some storm, Nat,” gasped Joe, clutching the rail tightly with both
hands as the _Nomad_ began to pitch and toss like a bucking bronco.

“About as bad a blow as we’ve had on this coast in a long time,” agreed
Nat, raising his voice to be heard above the shrieking tumult of wind
and sea.

“I’ll go below and get the oilskins, Nat,” volunteered Joe.

“You’d better; this will get worse before it’s better.”

Grabbing at any hand-hold to prevent himself being thrown violently on
his back, Joe made his way below once more.

“Goodness, this is fierce,” he muttered, as he went down the
companionway and entered the cabin