“Well,” she sighed, “I didn’t find out everything, because no one seems to know whether it was put in its present form by the grinding of glaciers or by the heat of a volcano. I did find out a great deal, though.
“Then,” she hurried on, “one day while I was hoeing in our garden I found this.” She held up a copper spear point. “It belonged to the time when Indians roamed the island, building huge fires; then cracking away the rocks, they uncovered copper. I read all I could about that.
“Then—” she caught her breath. “Then Mr. Tolman over at Rock Harbor gave me this.” She held up a curious sort of pistol. “They called it a pepper-box. It is more than a hundred years old. Perhaps it belongs to fur-trading days, perhaps to the beginning of the white copper-hunter. Anyway, it took me along in my study. And—”
“And the first thing you knew,” Jeanne laughed, “history and geography had come alive for you.”
“Yes, that’s it!” Vivian smiled her appreciation.
“But look!” Jeanne exclaimed. “What’s this? And where did it come from? Looks as if it had been at the bottom of the sea for a hundred years.”
“Not quite a hundred years perhaps,” Vivian said slowly, “and not at the bottom of the ocean; only Lake Superior. It’s an old-fashioned barrel-churn, and we caught it in a net.”
“How very strange!” Jeanne examined it closely. “It’s all screwed up tight.”
“Yes,” said Vivian, “the fastenings are all corroded. You couldn’t open it without tearing it up, I guess. It’s empty.” She tapped it with the ancient pistol butt, and it gave forth a hollow sound. “So what’s the use of destroying a fine relic just to get a smell of sour buttermilk fifty or more years old?” She laughed a merry laugh.
“But you got it in a net at the bottom of the lake?” Jeanne’s face wore a puzzled look.
“About fifty feet down.”
“If it’s full of air it would float,” Jeanne reasoned, “so it can’t be quite empty.”
“Lift it. Shake it,” Vivian invited.
Jeanne complied. “That’s queer!” she murmured after shaking the small copper-bound barrel-churn vigorously. “It’s heavy enough to sink, yet it does appear to be empty.”
As Jeanne lay in her tiny chamber that night with the distant roar of old Superior in her ears, she found herself confronted with two mysteries. One was intriguing, the other rather startling and perhaps terrible. The first was the mystery of the unopened churn, the other that of those figures and letters with a circle, D.X.123.
CHAPTER XVIII
D.X.123
“There it is. Or is it?” Rodney Angel turned enquiring eyes upon June Travis. They had traveled by the third-rail line twenty miles into the country. There before them stood a large stone building topped by a circular tower. Rodney held his breath. If the girl said “No,” all this work had gone for nothing.
June half closed her eyes. A dreamy expression overspread her face. Once again she was thinking back, back, back, into the dim, misty realm of her childhood.
“Yes,” she said quite simply, “yes, that is the tower. I have seen it before. That must have been when I was very young.”
“Then—” the word was said with a shout of joy. “Then right over there is the brick house you once lived in with your father.”
“Our house!” Who can describe the emotions that throbbed through June’s being as she looked upon the home of her earliest childhood?
She was not given long to dream. “Come on,” said Rodney. “There is a little cottage next door to it. Looks as if it were half a century old and been owned by the same person all the time. That person should be able to help us.”
“That person” turned out to be a little old dried up man with a hooked nose.
“Do I know who lived in the red brick house ten years ago?” He grinned at Rodney. “Yes, and forty years ago. There was Joe Green and Sam Hicks, and—”
“But ten years ago!” Rodney insisted.
“Oh, yes. Now let me think. It was a—oh, yes! That was John Travis.”
“J—John Travis!” June stammered, fairly overcome with joy. “Oh, Rodney, you surely are a wonder!
“Please!” There were tears in her eyes as she turned to the old man. “Please tell me all about him! He—he is my father.”
“Your father? Yes, so he might be. There was a small child and a woman, a little old woman that wasn’t his wife nor his mother—
“But I can’t tell you much, miss,” he went on, “not a whole lot. He didn’t live here long. Wanderin’ sort, he was. A gold prospector, he was. Made a heap of money at it. Short, jolly sort of man, he was, short and jolly.”
“See?” Rodney reminded her, “Your memory was O. K.”
“Short and jolly—” June murmured, “I can’t understand. In the crystal ball—”
The little old man was talking again. “He seemed to like me, this John Travis. When he went away in an airplane, he—”
“Airplane!” June breathed.
“Why, yes, child! Didn’t you know? He went in an airplane. He invited me to the airport. I saw him off. Just such a day as this one, fine and clear, few white clouds afloatin’. I can see that plane sailin’ away. Recollect the number of it even. It was D.X.123.
“And they say,” he added slowly, “that he never came back!”
“Wh—where was he going?” June’s voice was husky.
“That’s what I don’t know. He never told me that.” The old man looked away at the sky as if he would call that airplane back.
“And that,” he added after a time, “is just about all I can tell you.”
That too was all they found out from anyone that day. The other people living close to the red brick house were recent arrivals. They knew nothing of John Travis.
When June, weary and sleepy from travel and excitement, arrived at her home, she found a telephone number in her letter box.
“Florence wants me to call,” she thought. “Wonder if she’s found out something important. I’ll have a cup of tea to get my nerves right. Then I’ll give her a ring.”
CHAPTER XIX
ONE WILD DREAM
Jeanne watched a blue and white airplane soar aloft over a lake of pure blue. Now the plane was two miles away, now one mile, and now—now it was right over her head. But what was this? A tiny speck appeared beneath the airplane. It grew and grew. Now it was the size of a walnut, now a baseball, now a toy balloon, now—but now it was right over her head! It had fallen from the plane. It was big, big as a small barrel. It would crush her!
But no! She would catch it. She put out her hands and caught it easily as she might have a real toy balloon.
She looked at it closely. It was a barrel-like affair, an ancient churn.
“Not heavy at all,” she whispered.
But what was this? She was sinking, going down, down, down. She was in the lake, sinking, sinking. But that did not appear to matter. She could breathe easily. The churn was still in her hands when she reached bottom.
Fishes came to stare at her and at the churn, friendly fishes they appeared to be. They stood away and stared.
But now they were gone, scooting away in great fright. A scaly monster with big staring eyes rushed at her. She screamed, made one wild rush—then suddenly awoke to find herself sitting up in bed. She had been dreaming.
But what bed was this—what place? For one full moment she could not tell. It was all so very strange! The ceiling was low. There were two other narrow beds in the room. A large black pipe ran through the center of the room. The place was cold. She shuddered, then drew the covers over her. Then, of a sudden, she remembered. She was in a fisherman’s cottage on Isle Royale in Lake Superior. She had come there by airplane with Sandy, who was to watch men trap wild moose.
Her real airplane ride was to be a long remembered adventure. To go sailing over miles and miles of dark blue waters, then to catch sight of something very white that really was an island but which, at a distan
ce, looked like a white frosted cake resting on a dark blue tablecloth—oh, that had given her a real thrill.
“All that was no dream,” she assured herself, “for here are my two good friends, Vivian and Violet Carlson, sleeping close by me in their own beds. And that,” she decided, “is why I dreamed of an airplane.”
But was it? And what of the barrel-churn? The churn—ah, yes, she remembered now. Vivian had shown it to her in her curiosity shop. It was closed tight, all rusted shut, and it had been picked up from the bottom of the lake in a fisherman’s net.
“But it’s heavy,” she told herself. “I’d like to know what’s inside it, if anything at all. I’ll find out, too. You can make things unscrew, even if they’re terribly rusted, by putting kerosene on them. I’ve seen father do that. I’ll ask Vivian if I may try to do it, perhaps tomorrow.”
For a moment, lying there listening to the crackling of the fire in the stove below their room, she felt all comfortable and happy. She was in a strange little world, a fisherman’s world on Isle Royale. Everything was new and lovely. There were sleds and snowshoes, wild moose to trap, everything.
Then of a sudden her brow wrinkled. She had recalled the airplane in that dream. What did it mean? Then, as in a vision, she saw a circle, and inside the circle D.X.123.
“I saw it at the bottom of that little lost lake,” she told herself as a chill ran up her spine. “Anyway, I thought I saw it. And I must know!” She clenched her hands hard. “I must know for sure! I’ll just make Vivian come there with me. I’ll tell her to look down there, ask her to tell me what she sees, then I’ll know for sure whether it is real or only a sort of day-dream.
“I must,” she whispered, “must—must—must—”
Once again she was lost to the world, this time to a land of dreamless sleep.
When she awoke, Vivian was sitting up in bed.
“Hello, there!” was Vivian’s cheery greeting. “Sleep well?”
“Fine!” Jeanne laughed. “Everything seems strange, but I love it.”
“Not quite like a city,” Vivian agreed, “but we all like it. We seem so secure. Father earns enough in summer to buy flour, sugar, hams, bacon and lots of canned stuff, so we won’t go hungry. The lake brings us some wood and the ridges give us plenty more. We won’t get cold. So—”
“So you’re safe as a meadow mouse in his hole!” Jeanne said happily.
A half hour later she was seated at a long table pouring syrup on steaming pancakes. A sturdy, bronze-faced young man sat at her side.
“Are you the moose-trapper?” she asked timidly.
“Why, yes.” The young man’s hearty laugh reassured her. “Yes, that’s what you might call me.
“Like to see one trapped?” he asked suddenly.
“Yes! Oh, yes, I’d love it!” Jeanne cried quickly.
“All right. You and Vivian come along with me after breakfast. We’ve baited the trap with some very tempting birch twigs. We’ll watch it from the ridge above. I shouldn’t wonder if we’d get one. Anyway, you’ll see the trap.”
Donning mackinaws and heavy sweaters a half hour later, they crept out into the frosty air of morning—Jeanne, Vivian, Sandy MacQueen, and the moose-trapper.
Snow lay thick everywhere. About the ends of ridges it had been blown clear, only to be found piled in drifts not far away. In quiet spots it was soft and deep. Only the use of snowshoes made travel possible. In silence they marched single file up the rise at the back of the house, then through a forest of spruce and birch to the barren rocky ridge above.
From this vantage point they could see far out over the dark endless waters of Lake Superior. But this did not interest them. Their eyes were focused on a narrow stretch of low growing timber almost directly beneath them.
“You can’t see the corral fence for the trees,” the moose-trapper explained in a whisper. “Only here and there you catch a glimpse of it. We built a four-foot fence of woven wire at first. But the moose,” he chuckled, “they didn’t know it was a fence, so they lifted their long legs and hopped over the top of it. After that we put poles above the wire. That worked better. We—”
“Listen!” Jeanne broke in. “What was that?” Her keen ears had caught some sound from behind.
“Might be a moose,” Vivian whispered. “It is a moose. Look!”
“Oh!” Jeanne started back.
“He won’t harm you,” Vivian whispered.
The moose, not a stone’s throw away, was trying in vain to reach the lowest branch of a balsam tree.
“How huge he is! And such terrible antlers!” Jeanne crowded close to her companions.
“He’ll be losing those antlers soon,” Vivian whispered back. “They grow new ones every year. He—”
At that moment the moose, whose keen ear had apparently detected a sound, made a quick, silent move. Next instant he was gone.
“He—he vanished like magic!” Jeanne exclaimed. “And with never a sound.”
“Most silent creature in the world.” The moose-trapper’s voice was low. “And one of the most harmless. It seems strange that anyone should wish to kill such an attractive wild thing. And yet, thousands pay large prices for the privilege of shooting them! It’s up to the younger generations to be less cruel.”
“Girls don’t wish to kill wild things,” said Jeanne.
“That’s right. Most of them seem to have a high regard for the life of all creatures,” the moose-trapper agreed. “They have their part to do, though. They can teach the boys of their own neighborhood and especially their own brothers to be more humane. We—
“Look!” he exclaimed. The quality of his whisper changed. “Down there is the trap. See that large square made of boards that seem to hang in the air?”
“Yes, yes!” Jeanne replied eagerly.
“That’s the door to the trap. The moose springs the trap. You see there’s a narrow corral. It’s half full of birch and balsam boughs. The moose smells these. He is hungry. He goes through the door, munches away at the branches, at last pulls at one. This drags at a string and down goes the door. He’s a prisoner.
“But a happy prisoner,” he hastened to add. “There are ten moose in the big corral. When we got them they were little more than skin and bones. Now they are getting fat. We feed them well.”
It is doubtful if Jeanne heard more than half that was said. Her eyes were upon a brown creature that moved slowly through the thin forest below. “He’s going toward the trap—our moose,” she was saying to herself. “Now he’s only fifty yards away. And now he walks still faster. He’s smelled the bait in the trap. He—
“What will happen to those who are trapped?” she asked quite suddenly.
“Probably be taken to a game sanctuary on the mainland where there’s plenty of moose feed,” the trapper said.
“Oh!” Jeanne whispered. “Then I hope we get him.”
“Looks as if we might.” The moose-trapper’s face shone with hope. “He’s the finest specimen we’ve seen yet.”
Moments passed, moments that were packed with suspense. Now the great brown creature stood sniffing at the entrance to the trap. Now he advanced a step or two. Now he thrust out his nose in a vain attempt to reach a branch that was inside. Jeanne laughed low. He surely cut a comical picture, long legs, extended neck, bulging eyes.
Another step, two, three, four, five.
“He—he’s inside!” Jeanne breathed.
Yes, the moose was inside. He was munching twigs and small branches, yet nothing happened. The suspense continued. Would he satisfy his hunger and leave without springing the trap? Jeanne studied the moose-trapper’s face. She read nothing there.
Of a sudden the moose, seeming to grow impatient of his small twigs, reached far out for a large balsam bough, and bang!—the trap was sprung.
Startled, the moose sprang forward. Next instant he was racing madly about the small enclosure. Almost at once an opening appeared and he dashed through it to disappear from sight. “He—he’
s gone!” Jeanne exclaimed.
“Only into the larger corral.” The moose-trapper chuckled. “He’ll find a number of old friends there. They will tell him they’ve found a good boarding place. Soon he will be as happy as any of them. And say!” he cried, “What a grand big fellow he is! Jeanne, I believe you have brought good luck with you.”
“I—I hope so.” Jeanne beamed.
That bright winter’s day passed all too soon. At times Jeanne thought of asking Vivian to accompany her to the top of the ridge and down to the little lost lake, but always she was busy with household duties. Night found the request lingering unexpressed on her lips.
“Darkness fell on the wings of night.”
Lamps were lit, kerosene lamps that gave forth a steady yellow glow. Pulpwood logs, gathered from the shore where they were stranded, roared and crackled in the great stove.
Jeanne sat dreaming by the fire. Not all her dreams were happy ones. One thought haunted her: she must take Vivian to that little lost lake. What would she see? What would she?
Jeanne was asking herself this question when her thoughts were caught and held by a conversation between the young airplane pilot who had flown them to the island and Sandy MacQueen, the reporter.
“I’d think you could write a whole book about mystery planes,” the pilot suggested.
“Mystery planes?” Sandy sat up straight.
“Yes,” the pilot replied. “Planes that have flown away into the blue and just vanished. There have been several, you know.” His tone was earnest. “During the war there were aces of the air that vanished. What happened? Did they grow sick of the terror of war and just fly away?
“There have been several in recent years,” he went on. “One started for Central America, the X.Z.43. Nothing was ever heard of it. One headed for Japan, the B.L.92. And then there was the D.X.123. Queer about that!”
“The D.X.123!” Jeanne whispered the words. She wanted to scream them. She said nothing out loud, just sat there staring. D.X.123! Those were the letters and figures she had seen down at the bottom of the lost lake. Or, had she seen them? Had she just imagined them? Had she seen them in a paper and was this only an after-image?
The Second Girl Detective Megapack: 23 Classic Mystery Novels for Girls Page 144