Riddle of the Storm
Page 7
CHAPTER VII THE WINGED MESSENGER
Curlie and Jerry were away with the dawn. As they rose from theglistening white of the landing field to the transparent blue of the sky,Curlie's heart sang with joy. It was great, this rising aloft to greetthe sun. With a safe landing place, the frozen river, ever beneath him,with a dependable mechanic beside him and the long, long lane of airbefore him, who could ask for more? Once Curlie did wrinkle his brow. Hewas thinking of the mysterious gray ship he had followed into the storm.
"If that keeps up," he told himself, "the sky will no more be safe. Itwill be full of lurking dangers as was the Spanish Main when pirates andbuccaneers lurked in every cove."
With all his thinking he could not solve the mystery of the nameless andnumberless plane. Instead, from out the air there leaped a fresh mystery.A simple thing in the beginning it was too--only a bird in flight.
Birds are common enough in the Arctic. Even in mid-winter ravens croakfrom the tree-tops, pelicans stand upon icy rocks watching for fish andscreaming jays cut a path of blue across the wintry sky.
But this bird was neither raven, pelican nor jay. Curlie knew that at aglance. Having long watched the flight of birds, he could distinguish thedarting course of one, the soaring flight of another and the steadyflap-flap of a third. This bird, he knew at a glance, was a pigeon.
"A pigeon in such a place!" He fairly gasped with astonishment.
Then a thought struck him squarely between the eyes. "It's acarrier-pigeon! Here may be a clue. I'll follow him."
Fortunately the course taken by the bird was almost the same as that hemust follow to reach his next stopping place, Fort McMurray, theheadquarters of steel. At this place he would unload his cargo of fursand mineral samples entrusted to his care, then wire for further orders.
"Who would turn a pigeon loose in this bleak land?" he asked himself."Only some one in desperate circumstances or a man without a heart." Atonce he thought of the mysterious one who piloted the strange gray plane.
"He's heartless enough," he assured himself. "Holding some one, a womanor a boy, captive! He'd do anything. There'll be a message tied to thebird's foot. I'm sure of that. All I have to do is follow him to hisdestination. Might bump right into the man's confederates. Then themystery would be solved at once."
But what was the bird's destination? How was Curlie to know that? "It maybe Edmonton; probably is," he told himself hopelessly. "I can't followhim there, not just now. Already I am hours behind my schedule. Littlemore and I'll be joining the ranks of the unemployed."
Even as he said this, as if to make an end to this dilemma, the pigeonwavered in his flight, sank earthward, and began to circle.
"Going to alight," Curlie shouted to Jerry.
"Absolutely."
"I'm going to land with him. There's a cabin down there by the river.Seen it many times. Who lives there?"
"Don't know."
"May be a partner to that man of the 'Gray Streak.'"
"Absolutely."
"We'll see about it."
"Absolutely, son. Absolutely."
Graceful as the bird itself, the plane sank lower and lower, went bump,bump, bump three times, and glided away on an unmarked field ofglistening snow.
Ten minutes after this landing they were approaching the cabin. Thecarrier pigeon was nowhere to be seen.
Had it not been for three dogs skulking at the back of the cabin, and afew fresh moccasin tracks in the snow before the door, the place wouldhave seemed deserted.
"Strange the fellow don't come out to meet us," Curlie grumbled, as noone appeared to greet them.
It _was_ strange. In the North the airplane has come to be what coastwisesteamers are to fishing villages along a rockbound coast, or theslow-going local passenger train is to mountain towns. It brings themail, reports news of the outside world, and delivers such necessities asthe land itself does not supply. At the first sound of drumming motorsthe cabin dwellers flock forth to greet their soaring friend.
Not so, here. The place was as still as it might have been had its lastoccupant passed away.
Curlie knocked loudly on the door. No response. He knocked again, moreloudly.
"Asleep or drunk," he muttered. He gave the door a lusty kick. It flewopen. At the same instant a short, scrawny, red-faced man sprang from abunk in the corner.
"Sorry," apologized Curlie. "A pigeon soared down here. Seen it?"
"And if I have?" The man's tone was defiant.
"We want to see it."
"Your pigeon, I suppose? Flyin' 'ere in this 'ere blasted frozenwilderness." The man took a step backward toward the corner. A heavyrifle rested there.
Jerry might be slow at times. Not always.
"As you are!" he commanded. At the same time his hand dropped to his hip.
A queer, cowed look came over the cabin-dweller's face.
"Oh, all right. 'Ave your own way!" he grumbled. "W'at d' y' want?"
"The pigeon."
The man's face worked strangely. He was like a man about to go into aconvulsion. Reading these signs of distress, Curlie spoke more gently.
"We think he carried a message. We--"
"You think!" the little man broke in. "I know. He does! An' 'at messageyou'll 'ave, an' welcome! But not 'im!"
"All right. The message," agreed Curlie.
The little man disappeared into a narrow room at the back, only toreappear with a small billet enclosed in thin oil-cloth.
"There, y' 'ave it!" He seemed greatly relieved. "There's the message!"
With trembling fingers, Curlie unrolled the bit of cloth. He spread themessage on the table and dropped into a chair before it.
For a long time he sat staring at it; yet it would not have required amind-reader to tell that he made nothing of it. And indeed, how could he?The message, more than a hundred words long, was so written that not oneword made any manner of sense with any other that preceded or followedit.
"That," he said to Jerry, "is worse than a cross-word puzzle.
"The worst of it is," he added after a moment's contemplation, "we don'tknow who sent it, nor whether we have the least right to interfere withit.
"You see," he explained, "there are Government posts right up to theshore of the Arctic. The heads of the posts may be trying pigeons asmessengers. Then, too, some lone trapper may have carried that bird athousand miles into the wilderness with the intention of using him incase of distress. This may be a distress message."
"Written in code?" Jerry lifted his eyebrows.
"Don't seem probable. But the Government message would be in code.
"I think," Curlie added after further thought, "that we'll make a copy ofit and send the bird on his way."
"How do you know you will?" The cabin-dweller was again on his feet.There was a dangerous glint in his eye.
Curlie tried in vain to read the meaning in his expression. Was he, afterall, a confederate of those outlaws who had taken to riding the sky in aplane fueled at another's expense?
"I believe you are in with them!" he exclaimed angrily.
"What d' y' mean, in with 'em?" the little man demanded hotly.
"The 'Gray Streak,' outlaw of the air."
Instantly the look on the man's face changed. "Before Gawd, I know less'n you about this 'ere ghost of the air!"
"Then," said Curlie, as his face cleared, "here is the message. It's upto you. The bird came to your cabin, not to ours."
He handed over the carefully wrapped billet, arose and led the way out ofthe cabin. He then climbed into the plane with Jerry following, turnedhis motor over, set it throbbing, and flew away.
If Jerry marveled at all this, he ventured not one question.