Three ropes, with nooses already made, were thrown over it.
Ìt's hard to believe that this is really happening, isn't it said Algy, looking at the tree and then at the eager crowd in a dazed sort of way.
'It is,' agreed Biggles.
`Silly sort of way to die,' complained Algy.
Ànd all my fault for bringing you out here,' muttered Wilks, in a voice heavy with remorse.
'Rot! ' said Biggles. 'You've nothing to blame yourself for. It's just a bit of luck that nobody could have foreseen. My greatest regret is that that hound McBain looks like getting away with it.'
'No use trying to get the crowd to listen to us, I suppose?' suggested Algy without enthusiasm.
'Not the slightest,' returned Biggles. 'I should have tried it had there been any hope of them listening, you may be sure. Look at 'em. They won't even listen to Delaney, who most of 'em must have known for years. No, I don't usually give up easily, but I must confess that there seems to be no way out of this pickle.'
A noose was slipped round his neck. Turning, he watched the others being treated in the same way, regardless of Delaney's frantic expostulations.
'Keep your eyes on McBain, Delaney,' called Biggles loudly. 'He's the man who murdered Mose.' Then, quick to the others, 'Poor old Ginger. Looks as if he's not coming back after all.'
A Life or Death Struggle
WHEN GINGER had fallen outside the remote cabin he had not been killed. He had not even been hit by the shot which had been fired at him. He felt the whistle of the bullet as it passed his cheek, and the shock had caused him to stumble. And even as he stumbled he realized with a lightning flash of inspiration that the moment he recovered himself he would be a mark for a second shot. So he dived headlong to the ground.
This was, primarily, an act of pure self-preservation, for in this position he offered a smaller target than in any other, and he was well aware of it.
In moments of extreme peril the brain often works faster than at any other time, and hard upon Ginger's first thought came another, the recollection of a trick that is as old as the hills. Men have practised it from the beginning of time. Animals still practise it—some regularly. Indeed, after one of them has the ruse been named—playing 'possum. In short, Ginger feigned death hoping that the man who had fired at him would be deceived and might give the pretended corpse a chance to turn the tables.
Lying absolutely still on the turf, Ginger heard the cabin door open, heard some one emerge and walk towards him. It was a nasty moment, and it required all his fortitude to remain as he was, because, for all he knew, the man was even then sighting his rifle to make sure of his work. It was not to be wondered at that Ginger's scalp tingled—almost as if it was conscious of what was about to happen to it.
The grass rustled as the unseen man approached. There was a momentary pause, then a hand closed over the back of Ginger's head, and he knew it was time to move.
With a grunt he sprang to his feet, looking wildly for his attacker, and saw a man whom he recognized at once—the Indian member of McBain's gang.
With the scalping knife in his hand, the Indian had instinctively started back at Ginger's unexpected return to life; but the withdrawal was only momentary; with his smile of victory replaced by a snarl of disappointment and anger, he leapt forward again to attack.
But the brief respite had given Ginger a chance to get his balance. His right hand flew to his pocket and came up grasping his automatic, but before he could pull the trigger the Indian, with a lightning sweep of his left arm, had knocked the weapon aside so that the bullet crashed into the end of the cabin. What was more, the blow knocked the automatic clean out of Ginger's hand; it described a short flight through the air and came to rest on the turf some ten yards or more away.
Ginger did not attempt to run, for he knew that the fleet-footed Redskin would quickly overtake him. In desperation, he leapt forward to seize the arm that held the knife; he did this before the Indian had time to recover fully from the blow he had struck at the automatic, with the result that they both went down with a crash, Ginger falling across the arm which he had seized so that the knife was not six inches from his face. To prise the weapon from the Indian's hand would be, he knew, beyond his strength, so he resorted to a method which he once saw employed during a fight between two drunken miners. He used his teeth. Taking the bones in the back of the brown hand between his jaws, he bit with all his strength. Under the excruciating agony the Indian let out a scream, and the hand jerked open convulsively. But before Ginger could possess himself of the knife, the Indian, with a tremendous effort, flung himself sideways, with the result that they both rolled over away from the weapon.
Both were now disarmed, but of the two the Indian was the heavier and Ginger knew that in the end this must tell against him. The automatic was his only chance. Somehow he must reach it, although, having by this time rolled over several times, he was by no means sure of its exact whereabouts. Meanwhile, all his strength was needed to keep the Indian's hands from his throat.
For perhaps a minute the struggle continued without marked advantage on either side.
Sometimes the Indian was on top, and sometimes Ginger, who, knowing what his fate would be if he weakened, was now fighting with the fury of despair. He managed to get on top again, but before he could break free and make a dash for the automatic the Indian had flung him off again, this time with such force that he rolled some distance away. He was brought up by a stone against which he struck his head with a force that made him gasp. Yet even in his sorry plight he had the wit to realize that it was a stone, and that a stone can be a useful weapon in emergency.
By the time his wildly groping hand had found and closed over the stone, the Indian was more than half-way
towards him, so slightly raising himself, he flung the missile with every ounce of his fast-waning strength, and then twisted sideways.
The stone caught the Redskin full in the mouth, producing an animal snarl of rage and pulling him up short, spitting blood. For a brief moment his sombre eyes blazed into Ginger's; then they went beyond him, and he darted forward.
Ginger was on his feet in an instant, and it took him not more than a split second to see what his adversary was after. It was the rifle which had been left against the tree stump, and which Ginger now saw for the first time. To reach the weapon first was obviously impossible. Frantically his eyes scanned the short turf, seeking the automatic. He saw it, made a rush for it, and reached it at the precise moment that the Indian grabbed the rifle.
Both weapons came up together and two reports rang out, one following the other so closely that the sounds blended. But Ginger's shot had been fired first, by an interval of time so short as to be immeasurable. But it was enough.
Where the rifle bullet went Ginger did not know. It had not hit him, and that was all that concerned him. He was staring at the Indian, whose behaviour was unlike anything he had ever seen before. At Ginger's shot he had appeared to throw the weapon up into the air before taking several running steps backward, then he fell and finished up flat on his back.
Ginger, gasping for breath, concluded, not unnaturally, that he had killed the man.
Reeling with exhaustion, he took a pace towards him, whereupon to his amazement and dismay the Indian sprang to his feet and dashed away.
Ginger was in no mood to let the man get away; he represented too big a danger. Jerking up his weapon, he let drive at the running form, and missed. At least, the Indian continued running; furthermore, as he ran he twisted and turned in a manner that made shooting almost a waste of powder. Three times Ginger fired without any of the shots taking the slightest effect, and by that time the Redskin was out of effective pistol range.
Still running, he disap-
peared from sight in the belt of timber that skirted the water's edge.
With a grunt of mortification Ginger dropped the muzzle of the automatic and walked across to where the rifle was lying; on picking it up he perceive
d the cause of the Indian's strange behaviour. His—that is, Ginger's—first shot had not hit the man; it had hit the rifle. By a strange chance the bullet had struck the trigger-guard, and the force of the impact had, of course, knocked the weapon from the man's hands. Also it must have spoilt his shot. Considering the matter, Ginger could not make up his mind who was the luckier—he or the Indian.
Looking at the sky he saw that the day was fast drawing to a close, so he made his way towards the open door of the cabin in order to pursue the quest that had brought him to the spot.
He did not intend to stay long. The surprise of his encounter with the Indian had left him not a little shaken; moreover, he was rather worried for fear the Indian would find some means of turning the tables on him; he saw that it was going to be difficult to search the cabin thoroughly and at the same time keep a close watch on the trees in which the Redskin had disappeared. To make matters worse, the light was failing. It would soon be dark, and the possibility of his being benighted in the cabin had not previously entered into his calculations. He still hoped to avoid it, particularly as the Indian was at large.
Standing the rifle against the door, ready for action should it be needed, he looked around.
The first thing he saw was a fur coat hanging from a peg on the opposite wall. Its presence gave him something of a turn, for he recognized it at once from its unmistakable white blaze. It was McBain's. He had worn it, he recalled, on the night of the murder of old Mose. What it was doing there he did not know, but it seemed evident that McBain had either left it behind by accident or else he had lent it to the Indian—
probably the latter. Anyway, he reflected, its presence proved, if proof were needed, that McBain was
closely concerned with the cabin even if he did not actually own it.
A preliminary examination of such objects as were in view revealed nothing more of particular interest. There were a few pieces of furniture, mostly home-made, and of the roughest possible character. A packing case, on which were strewn some odds and ends of food, served for a table. Two chairs, a bench, an iron stove of the covered-in variety, a heap of firewood, a lamp of the hurricane type, a small pyramid of stores—that was all.
In the ordinary way Ginger would have looked no further, for there was nothing suspicious about such articles; indeed, they were more normal camp equipment, and it would have been more surprising had they not been there; but two circumstances combined to make him feel sure that there was more in the cabin than met the eye. In the first place, why had McBain's machine landed there when there was every reason to suppose that it had the gold on board? Secondly, why had the Indian been left there?
McBain was not the sort of man who would do anything without a good reason, certainly not when he was in the middle of a carefully prepared scheme: The presence of the Indian indicated that there was something in the cabin that needed guarding, and, in the circumstances, what could be more likely than that it was the gold?
Satisfied that his reasoning was correct, Ginger broke off in his ruminating and looked steadily in the direction of the trees, but there was no sign of the Indian, so without further loss of time he proceeded with the search. If the gold was there, then he would not rest until he had found it, he decided.
There was no question of there being a concealed cavity in the walls, for they were of solid tree-trunks set one above the other in single thickness. The roof was of split pine, through which daylight showed in many places, and clearly offered no hiding-place.
There remained only the floor, and this, as far as it was visible, was solid enough.
Ginger regarded the heap of firewood reflectively. 'If the gold is here it is under this pile,' he told himself confidently as he began dragging the branches aside. It took him some time to get down to floor level, for he was still rather worried about the Indian, and he broke off from his task several times to study the landscape. However, at last he pushed the remaining few branches aside and dropped on his hands and knees, feeling for the trap door which he felt certain was there. He could hardly believe it when he discovered that nothing of the sort was there. Again and again he examined the floor inch by inch, but in the end he was compelled to admit to himself that he had been mistaken. The floor at that point was as solid as the rest.
Half sick with disappointment, he stood up and stared down at the spot as though he still found the obvious truth difficult to believe. If the gold was not there, he thought with fast sinking hopes, then it must be buried somewhere outside, in which case he would be very lucky indeed if he found it. It might be anywhere within a hundred yards, which meant that he might dig for a week, or even a month, without striking the spot. The more he thought about it the more depressed he became. It was infuriating to be so near and yet so far, for he was still convinced that the gold was there. He began to hate the sound of the word.
Remembering the Indian, he crossed again to the window and looked out over the darkening landscape. Somewhere out there was the Indian, he mused, unless he had started off on foot for Fort Beaver to warn the others of *hat had happened, which did not seem likely.
He started as a thought flashed into his mind. The Indian! He would know where the gold was hidden. What a pity he had got away; otherwise he would have made him divulge the hiding-place. Perhaps he was not far away—perhaps—Ginger caught his breath as the idea took root. 'It's my only chance,' he muttered. 'I've got to find that blighter. I've got his rifle, so it shouldn't be very difficult.'
Three swift strides took him to the door, where he had left the rifle. He put his hand out for it, confidently, only to draw back with a little gasp of amazement. He stopped, staring at the place where it had been—where he was certain he had put it. But it was no longer there.
Lost
GINGER'S FIRST SENSATION 011 discovering his loss was one of utter amazement.
He was incredulous. It was followed by one of doubt. In his mind he was absolutely certain that he had leaned the rifle against the doorpost. True, he had performed the action subconsciously, for at the time his thoughts were concentrated on the interior of the cabin; but, nevertheless, casting his mind back—as one often can in such circumstances—he had a clear recollection of standing the weapon against the doorpost as he surveyed the interior of the room. Was it possible that he had been mistaken? Had he, without thinking what he was doing, moved it again afterwards? He could not remember doing so, but it was just possible. With a frown of perplexity lining his forehead, he looked at all the likely places in turn—the walls, the table, and even the stove. But there was no sign of the rifle.
As he stared, almost bewildered, vaguely into his mind came stories he had read of the stealth with which an Indian could move; skill in the art of self-effacement, born of a thousand years of inter-tribal warfare, had been the theme of many of the stories he had read in his not-verydistant school-days. Without giving the matter serious thought, he had always regarded this alleged cunning with a certain amount of scepticism. It made good reading, but that did not necessarily mean that it was true. It now began to look as if it were. Somehow the Indian must have crept up to the cabin and recovered the rifle.
There was no other explanation.
For nearly a minute Ginger stood still, deep in thought, conscious that the loss of the weapon completely altered
the circumstances. It meant that he would have to abandon his recently formed plan, for to go out into country which he did not know, armed only with a pistol, to look for a man who probably knew every inch of the ground, and was, moreover, in possession of a rifle, would be sheer lunacy. Still pondering, he became aware that it meant a good deal more than that. If the Indian was still in the vicinity, which seemed most likely, the chances were that he would remain as near to the cabin as possible, covering the door, waiting for him—Ginger----to step outside. With a fresh twinge of alarm, he perceived that he would not be able to get back to the machine without running the gauntlet of the Indian's fire.
Reproach
ing himself bitterly for his carelessness, he looked up, and saw that he was standing in line with the small window, not much more than a loop-hole, that looked out from the rear of the cabin. Instinctively he stepped aside. He was only just in time. A bullet ripped a splinter of wood from the side of the window and buried itself with a crisp zut in the opposite wall.
Although thoroughly startled by the narrow margin of his escape, Ginger realized that the shot settled any remaining doubt as to the whereabouts of the weapon. The Indian had got it, and the direction from which the shot had come gave him a rough idea of his position; and since the ground on that side of the cabin was level as far as the trees, he realized that the Indian had probably taken up a position on the edge of the wood.
Ginger, keeping well away from the window, examined the situation in this new light. He no longer-entertained the idea of going out to look for his enemy. He was more concerned with preserving his life, and the machine; and he experienced a fresh pang of apprehension when the thought flashed into his head that the Indian might, under cover of darkness, set fire to the Jupiter, or put it out of action in some other way. At all costs he must prevent that, he thought desperately.
Still racking his brain for a solution to the difficult problem with which he was now faced, he fell back on his old
resort. What would Biggles do in such a case? A careful reconnaissance near the door confirmed his belief that it was possible, by making a rush, to reach the machine; but the idea of becoming the fugitive, leaving the Indian in command of the situation, was repugnant to him, quite apart from which it meant, definitely, that his mission had failed.
In any case, it was nearly dark, and his common sense told him that it would be an act of the greatest folly to try to find his way back to Fort Beaver in the dark. Even if he found the aerodrome, which was not very likely, the business of landing the big machine without lights of any sort was a responsibility he preferred not to shoulder. If he started and lost his way, the machine would probably be wrecked in the inevitable forced landing when his petrol was exhausted. Having seen the country, he knew that it would be hopeless to try to get down anywhere in the inhospitable region between the place where he was and Fort Beaver. If he crashed it might be months before he was found. He might never be found.
16 Biggles Flies North Page 13