by Roy J. Snell
CHAPTER III TRAILING THE GRAY STREAK
Still endeavoring to think through the things which Johnny Thompson hadrevealed to her, Joyce Mills rode home beneath the great, golden Arcticmoon.
More than once she murmured: "One of them is a thief. But how could hebe?"
Three weeks spent in the company of very few persons in the lonely landof the North reveals much. In three weeks, under such conditions, he is asly person indeed who does not reveal his true nature. Joyce had believedthat by this time she knew the young men of her camp as well as she didJohnny Thompson, Drew Lane, or any other person with whom she had beenclosely associated.
"How hard it is to judge people!" She sighed deeply. To discover that wehave been deceived in a friend is always a shock.
"I cannot doubt Johnny's word," she assured herself. "And yet--"
She could form no real answer to the questions that came unbidden to hermind.
"I will watch," she told herself, "watch and wait. 'Be sure your sin willfind you out.' I read that somewhere and I believe it is true. If thereis a thief in our camp he will steal again, perhaps many times. In theend, his sin will find him out."
With these matters settled in her mind, she whistled sharply to her dogsand sent them spinning away with redoubled speed toward the three rudecabins that were a prospector's camp and her present home.
Arrived there, she unharnessed her dogs and chained them to their placesbefore their kennels; then she went in to prepare supper.
She was not the only cook in this outfit. They all took a hand. Supperfell to her lot. Since the days were still short everyone worked tilldark, searching rocky ridges and river banks for elusive signs of wealthand then walking home over long miles after dark.
She was engaged in the mixing of baking powder biscuits when there came asound of sudden commotion outside. Flinging open the door, she all butran into Jim Baley, one of the three young prospectors in her outfit, whowas just home from work. Jim, however, was not the cause of thecommotion. The sounds of trouble came from the kennels. Dogs were howlingand snarling. Mingled with this was a sinister snap-snap of jaws.
"Wolves! Timber wolves!" Jim exclaimed, seizing an axe. "Big as men, theyare. Savage brutes. They'll kill the dogs and eat 'em, like they wasrats."
He was about to leap away to the battle when the girl held him back.
"Jim, you'll be killed!"
"I'll not. Besides, what of it? You can't let the defenseless bemurdered. In a country like this dogs are your best friends. They'rechained. Can't you see?"
Feeling the grip on his arm loosen, he sprang away into the dark.
Standing there erect, motionless, she tried to look away into theblackness of the night. At the same time a warm feeling crept in aboutthe portals of her heart as she whispered to herself:
"It can't be Jim! Oh, no! It can't be Jim!" She was thinking of thethief, the one who had stolen those priceless films.
An instant later she, too, seized an axe and raced away to the defense ofher four-footed friends.
* * * * * * * *
The mysterious gray plane which Curlie Carson, with characteristicpromptness of decision, had resolved to follow, sailed straight away intothe east.
Jerry, the one who sat beside him, was, Curlie thought, a strange fellowin many ways. He was a mechanic, and a good one. Self educated, hethought all day long of bolts and nuts, pliers, wrenches, spark plugs,valves and all else that goes to make up an airplane motor. He was,apparently, quite fond of his youthful pilot. His answer to any suggestedcourse of action was always the same, "Absolutely."
"Will he stick in a pinch?" the boy asked himself. "If need be, will hefight?" He believed so.
It certainly seemed strange to be sailing away into a totally unknownland, following an airplane that carried a captive, and who could saywhat other manner of men?
"Are they kidnappers?" he asked himself, "escaped convicts, foreignexiles?" To these questions he could form no answer. One thing he didknow; they were robbers. They stole that which in this barren land mightmean life or death to many: gasoline.
A thought struck him. Instinctively he slowed his plane a bit. "What ifthey turn on me?"
What, indeed? They were flying over a barren land. The land beneath themrose in rounded ridges of solid rock. No landing there. Not a chance.True, here and there he made out an oval of dead white which he knew tobe the frozen surface of the lake.
"Whose plane is the faster?" This he could not know.
"Keep plenty of distance between," he told himself. "All I can do islocate their base. After that we can invite the red-coated Mounties totake a hand. They'll bring the thing to an end quick enough. They say aMountie always gets his man, and I guess it's true."
One fact comforted him. He had, but an hour before, taken on a goodsupply of gas. Because he was traveling light, he was able to carry itwith ease. "They may be as well supplied as we are," he told himself."But the odds are against them. If I can force them to land, short ofgas, where there is no supply of fuel, they are done. All I have to do isturn back for aid. We'll mop 'em up. And the mystery will be solved, andthis wild land will be free of a great menace."
He had now thought the thing through--at least as far as his limitedknowledge would carry him. The thunder of his motor grew monotonous. Hismind turned to other things.
"Pitchblende. Radium!" he said aloud. "What a thing to dream of!" He wasthinking of the samples entrusted to his care by Sandy MacDonald, ofJohnny's camp. "They say it gives off heat and light; that if you carryit in a tube in your pocket it will burn you, but not the pocket. Howodd! One of nature's unsolved mysteries," he repeated. "I wonder why menspend so much time reading of gruesome murder mysteries when natureoffers them a thousand unsolved riddles many times more interesting?"
Once more his attention was claimed by the outlaw plane. It had changedits course. Heading straight into the wind, it was sailing north.
"Storm ahead," he told himself. "Sure to lose 'em unless--" There wasjust one chance. "Unless they run out of gas before we reach a snowcloud.
"One thing sure," he told himself, "they'll not lead me into a storm. Toodangerous. Safety first, that's the order. Can't find a landing in thisdesolate white world without the light to guide you.
"And yet--" His brow wrinkled. "Storms up here sometimes take on aterrific velocity. What if I run into one that is faster than my plane?No getting out then.
"Oh, well," he philosophized, "it's a chance you take when you agree tofly in the North, especially if you volunteer to chase an outlaw of theair.
"Outlaw of the air." At once his mind was rife with speculation regardingthis mystery ship.
"From time to time," he told himself, "planes are stolen from theirhangars just as autos are taken from garages. Not very common; but ithappens. Suppose a super-criminal wishes to escape justice by fleeingfrom the United States? Suppose he can employ an aviator who is a thief,or even bribe him to carry him into this land of empty spaces? Who wouldknow where to look for either the man or the plane?
"On the other hand, Russia is not far away, just across Alaska. Plenty ofgas stations on the Yukon. It's only a short quarter of an hour in aplane across Bering Straits. Plenty of reasons why some bold Russianaviator might be hovering about up here. Might be a voluntary exile.Might have Russian treasure to sell, jewels, diamonds, rubies and allthat from the old days. Might be preparing to spread propaganda againstthe so-called 'capitalistic nations.'
"But then," he chuckled to himself, "a person always thinks of the mostimprobable solution of a mystery first. Those fellows up ahead may bejust some rich young fellows from Canada or the United States bummingaround up here, having what they'd call 'one whale of a time' at theexpense of the rest of us. There are plenty of fellows who'd do just thatif opportunity offered.
"And if that's the answer," he set his lips tight, "here's where I teachthem a lesson. No matter how rich a fellow is,
he's bound to consider therights of others; and any fellow who takes gas from another's cache in aland like this is not worthy of any consideration."
He put out a hand. His motor thundered a little louder.
Then a look of consternation overspread his face.
"Jerry!" he shouted. "We're headed square into a monstrous storm!"
"Absolutely."
"We'd better turn back."
"Absolutely."
"May be too late," the young aviator told himself. "But one can only doone's best."
Having cut a wide circle, he looked back. The outlaw plane had vanished.It had flown squarely into a bank of the deepest clouds. They were thedarkest gray Curlie had ever seen. And that bank was an Arctic gale atits worst.
"May be the end of 'em," he grumbled. And for the life of him, he couldnot help feeling sorry.
"May be the end of us, too." He took a good grip on himself. "I'll do mylevel best! No one could do more."