A Mystery Story for Boys

Riddle of the Storm

By
ROY J. SNELL

The Reilly & Lee Co.
Chicago

COPYRIGHT 1932
BY
THE REILLY & LEE CO.
PRINTED IN THE U. S. A.

CONTENTS

CHAPTER PAGE [I The Gray Streak] 11 [II In Swift Pursuit] 36 [III Trailing the Gray Streak] 55 [IV Pitchblende] 65 [V Racing the Storm] 77 [VI A Shot in the Night] 87 [VII The Winged Messenger] 96 [VIII White Foxes] 105 [IX Eagle Eyes] 118 [X The Voice of the Wilderness] 124 [XI The Clue] 131 [XII The Voice Speaks] 137 [XIII Curlie Sleeps on the River] 144 [XIV Drew Lane on the Wing] 151 [XV Over the Rapids] 168 [XVI Pawns] 184 [XVII “Here’s Hoping”] 191 [XVIII Fluttering from the Clouds] 197 [XIX A Three Days’ Quest] 203 [XX The Hunchback Bowman] 208 [XXI Bowled Over Like a Tenpin] 216 [XXII Great Good Fortune] 229 [XXIII Whither Away?] 237 [XXIV A Face at the Window] 245 [XXV A Pocketful of Gold] 258 [XXVI Walls of Light] 269 [XXVII The Black Cube] 281 [XXVIII Joy Cometh] 296

RIDDLE OF THE STORM

CHAPTER I
THE GRAY STREAK

Curlie Carson’s eyes widened first with surprise, then with downright terror. His ears were filled with the thunder of a powerful motor. Yes, he heard that. But what did he see? That was more important. A powerfully built monoplane with wide-spreading wings was speedily approaching. Even through the swirl of snow all about him he could see that the plane was painted a solid gray.

“The ‘Gray Streak’!” he murmured.

Could it be? What tales he had heard of this mysterious plane! During his three weeks of service on the Mackenzie River Air Route in northern Canada, extravagant tales had reached his ears. “This gray plane bears no identification mark, no name, no letters, no numbers. It swoops down upon some lone cabin, robs the owner of food and blankets, and is away. It is a phantom ship, a Flying Dutchman of the air. No pilot at the stick!” What had he not heard?

But now—now it was directly over him. Cold terror gripped his heart. A part, at least, of the reports was confirmed; the plane carried no insignia. No name, no letter, no number gave it identification. And these were required by law.

“The ‘Gray Streak’,” he murmured again.

His fear increased. The plane was flying low along the river. He was standing close to his own plane, the one entrusted to his care by the Midwest Airways. It was a superb creation, and almost new. Suppose this stranger, the man of mystery, outlaw perhaps, should drop to the smooth surface of the river’s ice and compel him to exchange planes!

“Suppose only that he should descend to rob me of my cargo!” His heart raced. It was a valuable cargo and had come a long way by air.

While these terrifying possibilities were passing through his mind, the plane moved steadily onward. He was able to study every detail: her skids, her wings, her cabin, her motor.

The drumming of her motor did not diminish.

“They are passing!” he whispered. “Thank God, they are going on. I—”

His words were checked at sight of some white object that, whirling with the wind, seemed at first a very large snowflake.

“But no. It—it’s—”

He was about to dive forward in pursuit of it when an inner impulse born of caution caused him to halt.

Dividing his attention between the vanishing plane and the fluttering object, he stood for a space of seconds motionless. Then, as the snow-fog closed in upon the plane, he dashed forward to retrieve a small square of cloth.

“A handkerchief!” He was frankly disappointed.

“But—a woman’s handkerchief.” His interest quickened. One did not associate a woman with this mystery plane.

“Perhaps, after all, it’s a boy’s,” he told himself. “But a boy? One—”

His eyes had caught a mark in the corner. There were words written there, very small words.

Hurrying to his airplane, he climbed into the cabin; then, switching on a powerful electric torch, he studied the words.

“I am a captive,” he read.

And beneath this was a name: “D’Arcy Arden.”

“D’Arcy,” he murmured. “What a strange name! Would it be a boy or a girl?”

For a long time he sat staring at that square of white, trying at the same time to patch together the rumors that had come to him regarding this mystery ship of the air.

“No use,” he told himself. “Can’t make head nor tail of it.”

The truth was that until that hour no aviator of this northern country had laid eyes on this gray phantom. They had one and all agreed that it did not exist, that it was the creation of an over-wrought imagination; that some mineral-hunting plane on a special mission had passed over here and there and had created the illusion.

“But now,” he assured himself, “I have seen it. I will vouch for it. And here,” he held the square of white up to the light, “here is the proof!

“But why is that plane here? Where is it going? Why is that person a captive? What type of outlaw rides in that cockpit? All that is the riddle of this storm, a riddle I am bound to aid in solving. But now—”

His ears caught the beat of snow on the cabin window. “Now there is nothing left but to eat, sleep a bit, and wait out the storm.

“Get a bite to eat,” he told himself. “Something hot. Fellow has to keep himself fit on a job like this, when you—”

He did not finish. A sudden thought breaking in upon him had startled him. He had believed himself safe from the peril that had threatened. But was he? What if the plane turned about and came back?

He opened the cabin door. The throb of a motor smote his ear, and once more sent tremors of fear coursing up his spine.

Once more consternation seized him. What was to be done? He couldn’t lose his plane. He must not!

“Only three weeks,” he said aloud, “and then!”

It had been a glorious three weeks. Rising off the field at Edmonton. Greeting the dawn. Skimming through the clouds. Sailing over a great white world, ever new. This was his task as a northern pilot.

“So safe, too,” he had said more than once. “The river’s ice, a perfect landing field, always beneath you.”

No, he could not lose his plane. Reaching up to a niche at the top of the low cabin, he took down a powerful yew bow and a handful of arrows. The arrows were of ash, light and strong. They were perfectly feathered. Their points were of razor-edged steel. “Might help in an emergency,” he told himself. “And this D’Arcy person might be able to do a little if I could free him. Even if it were a woman, she might help; you never can tell.”

The pulsating beat of motors grew louder.

“If I lose my plane it means we lose the mail contract. I won’t!” He set his lips tight. “I must not!”

Gripping his bow, he stepped out of the cabin.

The next moment his face broadened in a grin.

“Fooled myself!” he exclaimed.

The plane that loomed out from the snow-fog for a space of seconds, only to lose itself again, was not gray. It was blue, with streaks of white. It bore on its wings the letters E F—R A C.

“Speed Samson,” he murmured. “He’s going through. He trusts his motors.”

A frown overspread his usually cheerful face. The frown had a meaning. He admired Speed. Speed was a wonderful pilot with thousands of hours of flying to his credit. Yet Speed had, only three days before, disappointed him. Perhaps disappointed is not the word. However that may be, this is what had happened. Curlie had said,

“You have to learn to trust God in a very real way when you fly in the North, don’t you?” He had not meant to preach; but Speed had said rather shortly:

“I trust my motors!”

“He trusts his motors,” the boy repeated. “‘Trust God and keep your powder dry.’ Some one has said that. Up here you have to trust God and keep your motors right. But I for one am not going to trust to my motors alone. God made the iron and steel, the copper and all that goes into my machine. He made the gas and oil, too. And He made my brain, and I’ll use it to the best of my ability. This is not safe flying weather. And orders are, ‘Always play safe.’”

Having thought this through, he returned to his cabin.

“Danger is all over,” he told himself. “But this D’Arcy person? How I’d like to help! Wonder if I will in the end?"

“Hot chocolate,” he murmured to himself. “A cold chicken sandwich and a big pot of beans, warmed over the alcohol stove. Boy! A fellow sure does get an appetite up here!”

An hour later, wrapped in his eight foot square eiderdown robe, he lay on the floor of the narrow cabin prepared for sleep.

Sleep did not come at once. There were many troubles of the day that must first be put to rest. He thought of his motor, going over it piece by piece. In this land of the North much depends upon the pilot’s care of his motor. Curlie was not neglectful. Even in his hours of repose his thoughts were upon his task.

That his was a position of grave responsibility he knew right well. Until his coming into this land he had thought of aviation as a pleasant luxury, mostly to be indulged in by the rich and the near-rich; a necessity in war, a luxury in time of peace. But in this far-flung land of snow the airplane has come to be a thing of great service. Journeys that required three months of hard mushing after dog teams; of sleeping in rough, uninhabited cabins at night; of facing cold, hunger and darkness, are now accomplished with great comfort in three days. In this land the airplane has made a village a thousand miles from Edmonton one of that city’s suburbs. Curlie had not been slow to sense all this.

“And there’s gold,” he told himself. “‘Gold hunters of the air.’ That’s what Johnny Thompson called them. I wonder how it’s done.”

Yes, Curlie had seen Johnny Thompson. You remember Johnny. He had been Curlie’s pal in more than one strange land and with him had participated in many a mysterious and thrilling adventure.

He had not come upon Johnny this time by accident. Neither was Curlie’s presence in northern Canada an accident. He was here because he had a friend, and that friend was Johnny Thompson.

Curlie, like many another young fellow, had bumped squarely into the regretted “depression” that, sweeping like a tidal wave over the land, had left many a man high and dry, with no home and no place to eat. Having been in the air mail service in America, he was dropped when demand slackened and fewer men were needed. Men who had more flying hours to their credit had been retained.

In time of depression one must often rely upon his friends. Little groups of true friends, drawn closer together by the winds of adversity, stand back to back, fighting the battle together.

So it happened that Johnny, finding himself in the North and learning of a temporary vacancy, spoke a good word for his friend Curlie Carson.

“And now,” thought Curlie, “here I am. And here I stay until my last dollar is spent. A land where airplanes are a real necessity, that’s the land for me!

“‘Gold hunters of the air,’” he repeated once more. “Wonder how they do it? Perhaps I’ll learn that business. Sounds thrilling. And gold! Man! It might make a fellow rich!

“But I wonder—”

He had asked Johnny how it was done, this gold hunting in the air. Johnny had said,

“How much time you got to spare?”

“Two minutes. Must get back to my motor,” Curlie had replied.

“Not enough by two hours,” had been Johnny’s laughing rejoinder. “Drop in and stay all night on your next trip and I’ll tell you all about it.

“And by the way!” he had exclaimed. “Be sure not to pass us up on that next trip. May have something mighty important to send down by you. New stuff; that is, new to us. Worth about a million dollars an ounce. How does that strike you between the ears?”

“Million an ounce,” Curlie murmured sleepily. “Million dollars an ounce! Wonder what that could be?”

* * * * * * * *

Curiously enough, at the very hour in which Curlie had decided to sleep out a storm, Johnny Thompson, many miles away in a place where the storm had not yet struck, was telling some one else, an old-time friend of Curlie’s as well as his, some things about gold hunting in the air. He was talking in no uncertain terms, and the facts he revealed were as much a surprise to the listener as they might have been to Curlie.

He had left his camp early that morning, had Johnny. It was well into the afternoon when, as a sudden smile spread over his close-knit, winter-hardened face, he sighted the person he had hoped to meet.

A slim girl in her teens, this girl handled her dogs extremely well for a novice who had been in the North only three short weeks.

“Bravo!” Johnny fairly shouted, as she rushed ahead to seize her leader and throw him back on his haunches. “She picks things up quickly. Many a girl would have allowed her team to come straight on to mine. Then our teams would have mixed, her team against mine, like two football teams on a gridiron. Best team wins. What a rumpus that would have been! Bad business. Dogs all crippled up, like as not.”

Swinging his own dogs off the trail, he issued a sharp command which they instantly obeyed by throwing themselves upon the hard-packed snow in a position of repose. Dog teams in the North were not new to Johnny, though this was his first trip into the far northwest of Canada.

The girl, who stood silent and expectant beside her team, was Joyce Mills. Johnny had learned of her presence in the North quite by accident. For months he had not heard from her nor from her father, Newton Mills, the retired city detective. You will remember Joyce and her father well enough if you have read The Arrow of Fire and The Gray Shadow. A brave, resourceful, independent girl, this Joyce Mills. And her father, before a nervous breakdown, had been one of the most feared detectives on the New York force. Now, here they were in the North. Strange, do you say? In this day nothing is strange. “Foot loose and fancy free,” that’s the phrase. We go where we will, we Americans.

Joyce had not known Johnny was in the North. And now here they stood face to face.

“Jo—Johnny Thompson!” she breathed, her eyes widening as he approached.

“Johnny!” she cried aloud. “When did you get here?”

Johnny grinned broadly. “Three weeks ago to-day, same as you.”

“Three—three weeks. And you knew I was here!” Her eyes reproved him.

“Not until yesterday,” he explained. “Of course I knew there was a lady in your outfit. Yesterday an Indian told me who you were.”

“An Indian. I haven’t talked to one. How did he know my name?”

“He didn’t. He knew you. That was still better. There may be two Joyce Mills in the world. There is only one you.”

“Knew me!” A puzzled look overspread the girl’s face. “I don’t understand.”

“You wouldn’t unless you knew Indians. In their own way they are clever beyond belief; some of them at least. They see everything, can imitate every action, your smile, your gestures, your walk, everything. They can describe the fillings in your teeth, the shape of your fingers and every bit of toggery you wear. This man had not been speaking three minutes before I knew it must be you.”

“Indians,” she murmured as Johnny came closer to her sled. “Are they as clever as that?”

“They sure are!”

“But, Johnny!” she exclaimed. “What are you doing here? And how does it happen that we arrived on the same day?”

“I am doing,” said Johnny slowly, “just what your outfit is doing, searching for mineral, gold, silver, platinum, radium.

“As for that other question—” His words came with great hesitation. “That—that’s a deep secret. I wonder if you know the answer yourself. No. I am sure you don’t, nor your father either. You are square shooters, you are. Your father is the straightest detective that ever guarded the streets of New York. He wouldn’t be in on a thing like that, not if he knew it.”

“Johnny!” the girl cried out in alarm. “What are you saying? Are you telling me that in our camp some one is unfair, dishonest? How could they be? We are searching for mineral in a wild, open country that belongs to no one save the Provincial Government. How could we be dishonest?”

“And yet,” Johnny said as he sat down upon the sled, “a very mean trick, yes, a dishonest, dishonorable one has been played by—. Not by your father,” he hastened to explain, “but by at least one of the young men with whom he is associated.

“Sit down and I will tell you.”

The girl sank to a place beside him.

“Listen.” His tone grew impressive. “You have seen those enlarged photographs?”

“You mean the ones taken from the air, showing the surface of rocks, the sides of ledges, the ones our men work by? The ones they study and find signs that save them months of travel?”

“Yes.”

“I have seen them many times.”

“Then you know,” the boy went on, “that they are invaluable as an aid in the search for mineral, that an expert mineralogist like your father can sit down before those photographs and can, after studying them carefully, tell where mineral is likely to be found.

“Of course,” his voice dropped a little, “of course, a skilled observer may fly over the territory and tell something of the rock formation from mere eye observations. But photographs are much better.

“Did it ever occur to you,” he demanded suddenly, “to ask yourself the question: ‘Where did those photographs come from? Who took them?’”

Joyce started. “N—no, it didn’t.”

“I’ll tell you. But first let me assure you that the taking of such pictures is difficult, tiresome and often dangerous work. It requires a great deal of time. Those prints are only a hundred or so selected from more than a thousand. To take those pictures required many days of soaring in a powerful airplane, close to the surface of the earth. For such work an airplane is expensive. Those pictures cost a pretty large sum of money. They were the property of two men, an aged prospector and a young man. They invested their joint fortunes in the undertaking, hoping for large returns. They had made one enlargement from each film when all the films were stolen.”

“Stolen!”

“Stolen.”

“By whom?”

“I leave you to guess.”

The expressions that flitted across the girl’s face, as clouds pass over a landscape, were strange to see. Despair, distrust, sorrow, hope, then despair again—all these.

“My father,” she murmured at last, “my poor father.”

“He knows nothing of it. That goes without saying,” Johnny hastened to assure her.

“But—but it’s not that.” She seemed undecided. There was a strange hoarseness in her voice as she turned her face to his.

“Johnny, you know my father.”

“Yes,” he replied simply, “I know.”

He spoke the truth, as you will know if you have read that other book, The Arrow of Fire. Johnny did know Newton Mills. He knew that he had been one of the finest detectives the city of New York had ever known. He knew, too, that after many years of service he had fallen as a last sacrifice to the battle against crime. Johnny had done much to reclaim him.

“You know,” Joyce went on, “that he can never again fill a post on a city detective force. His nerves are too far gone for that. We are poor. The depression reached us. We were in despair. Then this opportunity came. He may never have told you, but he was in the Yukon gold rush. He found no gold, but instead, a lifetime hobby—the study of minerals. These studies have fitted him for the work he is now doing. This opening came. He took it. I came to be with him.”

She said “with him” softly, did this slim, dark-haired girl. She loved her father.

“And now,” her tone changed, “now it’s all over.” There was no bitterness in her voice, only weariness, the long, long weariness of one who has battled long for a great and noble cause, only to feel that defeat lies directly ahead.

“I can’t see it that way.” Johnny spoke calmly. “The work can go on. If something really comes of it, your father will receive his full share.”

“But who would want a share of anything obtained by dishonest means?” The girl’s cheek flushed.

“Well,” Johnny replied quietly, “in the first place, I doubt if all three of the young men working with your father know of the theft.”

“I am sure they don’t!” the girl exclaimed, ready to weep. “It doesn’t seem possible that one of them could do such a thing. They seem so honorable. They have been so very kind to me.”

“And yet, here are the facts staring us in the face,” Johnny continued. “If you had our set of pictures to compare with those your people are using, you would find them identical. And they were taken by Scott Ramsey who is one of the partners in our camp, a real gold hunter of the air.”

“And one of our men is a thief!” the girl spoke slowly. “Who would believe that?”

“Your task,” Johnny added gently, “is to find the thief. You are the daughter of a detective. Often you have helped your father in his work. This should be easy.”

“I will.” The girl stood up. “I will find him. And when I have, what shall I do?”

“Nothing.”

“Nothing?” She stared unbelievingly.

“Exactly that. Can’t you see?” He, too, sprang to his feet. “As long as we know what they are doing, they are in a way working for us. If they make a strike, find gold or other rich mineral deposits, we will share with them.”

“You would take—”

“No. We couldn’t take the claims they file on; at least we would not. They should have their share. I am sure the men of our camp will deal fairly, even generously with them.

“But this is the way it works.” He was explaining quietly now. “If they make a strike, find gold or radium, they will rush outside in an airplane and bring in friends to file on the land. There will be room for many, many claims. When they have a broad stretch of ore-bearing territory staked, they will sell out to some rich company.

“But you see,” he added, “if they make a strike we will know it at once. Nothing prevents us from moving over and filing on the most promising spots; in fact, it’s the fair thing to do since they are working with our pictures.”

“I see.” The girl spoke slowly. A new light of hope shone in her eyes.

“But, Johnny,” she asked suddenly, “how will you know when they make a strike, if they do? You wouldn’t expect me to—”

“No, we wouldn’t expect you to let us know. But we have a way—the Moccasin Telegraph.”

“Moccasin Telegraph? What’s that?”

“You will learn much about that before you are here long.” His eyes were smiling mysteriously.

“And be assured of one thing,” he added. “Whatever comes of it, your father will have his fair share.”

“Sha—shall I tell him?”

“I think not. His work calls for all his energy. It might disturb him. This is your case. Work it out. Find the man.”

“I shall find him if—if there is such a one.”

“If? What do you mean? The evidence is conclusive.”

“I find it hard to believe.”

“It is true.” His tone changed. “I must be going. It’s a long way to our camp.” He put out a hand. She gripped it quite frankly.

“What brought you this far?” she asked.

“Thought I might see you. No ladies in our camp. Only a Chinaman for a cook. Fellow gets lonesome.”

“Shall you come again?”

“I think not. It’s not safe. Feeling runs high in this land. Our crowds might mix in the wrong way. That would be bad.”

“Well, so long, then.”

“So long!”

A moment later Johnny and his team vanished behind the cliff, leaving a very much puzzled girl alone with her thoughts. And they were long, long thoughts, I assure you.

CHAPTER II
IN SWIFT PURSUIT

When he fell asleep in his airplane, Curlie Carson was many miles from any human habitation, in the heart of a polar wilderness. In that wilderness foxes barked and gaunt wolves howled. An Arctic gale sent snow rattling against his window. And yet he slept like a child in a trundle bed. A few hours of rest, and then he would, granted the storm had ended, greet the dawn high in air.

Mid-afternoon next day found him circling above the shore of Great Slave Lake for a landing.

“Gas cache here,” he told himself. “Just gas up and be away to Fort Resolution. Far as Speed got, I’m sure, with all his flying in the storm. My record’s as good as his. Contract’s safe enough yet.”

Ah yes, the contract. How they all worked for that, the mail contract from Edmonton to the Arctic! A three year contract, it was to be given to the company that made the best flying record this season. At present Curlie’s own company, Midwestern Airways, was a few notches ahead. But one bad break, and the Trans-Canadian, the rival company, would beat them. Only three weeks remained.

“It’s a race, a race for a grand prize,” he told himself. “And we must win!”

Up to this moment the boy had a right to be proud of his own record. The youngest pilot on the route, only a substitute for a disabled pilot of more mature years, he had exceeded them all in miles flown and service rendered in this wild northland. For all this, his thoughts at this moment were humble ones. Full well he knew the treachery of the skies.

His skis bumped. They bumped again three, four times, and his plane went gliding over the snow. With consummate skill he brought the great bird to rest exactly opposite three steel drums resting on a high bank at the lake’s edge.

Many gas caches such as this had been established during the season of open water when river and lake steamers might operate.

With a rubber hose for siphoning in his hand, the boy climbed the steep bank. But what was this? In a sheltered spot he came upon a footprint in the snow. Consternation seized him. Had some one been there before him? This was his company’s gasoline. None other had a right to it.

“Some trapper passing this way,” he reassured himself.

His hopes were short-lived. One kick at each hollow-sounding drum and he knew they had been robbed.

Who was the guilty one? Speed? No, Speed was an honorable man! The Gray Streak, phantom of the air? That was the answer.

“This must be stopped!” he told himself stoutly. “Not enough gas to reach the next port. And some unfortunate one may be waiting at this moment for my plane to carry him to the hospital. They can’t realize what it means.”

Down deep in his heart he was convinced that they, the pilots of the Gray Streak, did know what it meant. They were outlaws, fugitives from justice, and did not care.

“When they are caught there will be a fight. Well, then, welcome the day! The airways of the North must be kept open to those who have at heart the highest good of all.”

Having made this declaration of war, that in time was to lead him over a vast wilderness into many perils, he slid down the bank to climb into the cockpit, prepared to make the most of his scant supply of gas.

Three hours later, just as dusk was approaching, he was circling once more. Less than a gallon of gas remained in his tank. Fort Resolution was twenty miles away. Night was coming on.

“That means a day lost, a bad record, a black mark, a long loss in the contest!” he exclaimed almost savagely. “And all because some one cares nothing for the welfare of others. Truly the running down of such men is a task worthy of any man’s steel.”

Scarcely had his plane come to rest than fresh perils threatened. There came a strange sound from the bank of the lake.

“What can it be?” His heart skipped a beat. Instinctively he put out a hand for a stout yew bow and a quiver of arrows that always hung beside his cabin door, for like his friend Johnny, Curlie, as you will recall, was an expert bowman.

In ever increasing volume there came to his ears the sound of cracking and crashing.

“Sounds like a forest fire,” he told himself. “But there is no fire. Like a thousand range cattle. But there are no cattle. What can it be?”

Soon enough he was to know. From the brush that grew by the shore bounded a brown mass with four short legs and a tossing head.

“Buffaloes!” He was amazed. His amazement grew. Three, six, nine, twenty, fifty, a hundred of these ponderous creatures landed upon the ice, then came plunging toward him. In a space of seconds, hundreds more joined them in wild stampede.

“They are mad with fear!” He was all but in a panic himself. “What am I to do? The plane will be wrecked. It will be laid up for weeks; the contest lost, everything lost!”

He broke off short. The thread of an old prairie-buffalo story had entered his mind.

“These are woods-buffaloes,” he told himself. “But buffaloes must be the same everywhere. I can but try.”

Gripping his bow, he stepped boldly out from his plane and walked like some young David to meet the onrushing throng. He was a full thirty yards from his plane, the foremost buffalo scarcely more than that from him, when with heart pounding painfully against his ribs, but with fingers that perfectly obeyed his will, he paused to set a steel pointed arrow against his bowstring. Then he took one long breath before the test which must mean victory or defeat.

Somewhere in a book of frontier-day tales, he had read an account of the remarkable manner in which the Red Man, when in danger of being trampled to death by a thousand stampeding buffaloes, had saved his life. He was now prepared to put this practice to the test. It seemed a desperate measure—just how desperate he had not time to judge.

Gripping his bow that was capable of burying an arrow in the heart of any wild creature, he stood quite still until the foremost buffalo, a powerful beast with gleaming horns, was within ten paces of him. Then, quickly bending his bow, he let fly.

No effect. The buffalo came straight on. The thundering herd was behind him. Already the cloud of snow that rose before them was obscuring his vision. Still there was time for retreat to the plane. Once in the cabin, he would be safe from the murderous tramp of their axe-like hoofs. But the plane! It would be wrecked.

He did not retreat. Standing his ground, with incredible rapidity he fired a second arrow and a third.

The very breath of the foremost buffalo was upon his cheek when with a clatter and a thud it fell at his feet.

And now the real test of the Red Man’s ancient plan of action was at hand. No longer was there opportunity for retreat. The herd was upon him. Through the cloud of snow he saw it but dimly. The sound of clashing horns and cracking hoofs was deafening. Casting himself flat in the snow, directly back of the fallen monarch of the forest, he awaited the outcome.

Without knowing why, he began to count. Perhaps he was counting his own wild heartbeats. “One, two, three, four, five.” Would it work? “Six, seven, eight, nine, ten.” Would he be trampled by those hoofs? “Eleven, twelve, thirteen, fourteen, fifteen.” No time to think of that now.

He felt rather than saw, so dense was the cloud of fine snow, that the herd had divided, that the buffaloes were passing in two columns, one to the right, the other to the left of their fallen leader. They were following the manner of their kind as recorded in that story of other days.

“Thank—thank God!” he breathed.

His plane now was, he hoped, quite safe. It was headed toward the herd. Divided, they would pass to right and left of it. They would divide for a fallen comrade. Would they have done the same for an airplane? Who could tell?

Lying there alone while the onrushing herd whirled by, Curlie realized as never before what a joyous thing it was just to live, what a priceless possession the great Father had bestowed upon him when He breathed the breath of life into his lungs.

The sound of horns and hoofs was fading away. The last member of the herd had passed, or he thought it had.

Rising stiffly, he put out his hand for his bow. The snow was settling. At his feet lay a dark mass, the dead buffalo. At his back loomed a gray bulk, his plane, apparently unharmed.

His thoughts regarding the buffalo were sober ones. These buffaloes, he realized, now that there was time to think of it, were not in every sense of the word wild buffaloes. They ranged a wide preserve. They were watched over by buffalo rangers. They might not be killed except in a grave emergency. One who did kill a woods-buffalo was liable to a term in prison.

“But this,” he assured himself, “was a grave emergency.”

But what was this? Even as he stood there thinking there came the crack of hoofs once more. A lone buffalo was passing. A youngster, half-grown and almost spent, he limped painfully after his fast disappearing companions.

And after him came gray streaks in the failing light. Once more the boy’s bow sang. A gray form plunged to the snow and went rolling over and over. A second followed the first. He, too, had felt the sting of the boy’s arrow. And now they were gone, all gone. The tumult died to a murmur, then silently ceased to be.

“Wolves,” the boy grumbled, as he touched a gray form at his feet, “the scourge of the North, killers of all that is good, beautiful and useful among living things. I did what I could for that poor, limping young buffalo. Here’s hoping it was enough. If it was, it evens matters up.” He looked at the fallen buffalo.

“Too bad,” he murmured, “but there was no other way. That plane means more, a hundred times, to human kind than does a buffalo. It has saved human lives, by transporting them to hospitals. It will save others and, please God, I shall have a part.”

Having in this manner adjusted his thoughts and feelings regarding his immediate surroundings, he considered the future.

Prospects were not bright. “No gas,” he told himself. “It’s a march down the river in the dark for me.

“Oh, well. Munch a chocolate bar and some crackers. Hate to leave the old plane. Whew! How good the old feather robe would feel!” He stretched his weary muscles.

“Wolves down the river at night. But I’d fix ’em!” He patted his bow.

A brief inspection of his plane told him that all was well. “A fortunate escape. And now, eats.”

He took his time about his meal. The moon would be higher later in the night. Plenty of time anyway. No one would start back with him to bring a dog sled load of gasoline to his plane before dawn.

He was just pushing away the warm robe he had drawn over his knees when a curious sound reached his ears, a clank-clank like the moving of gears.

“How strange!” he exclaimed. “Up here close to the Arctic Circle. What a night! Will wonders never cease?”

A low dark bulk came gliding over the ice. The clank-clank grew louder.

“It’s a tractor!” he told himself, only half believing. “But here! Hundreds of miles beyond the end of steel! Who would believe it?” He was forced to believe, for, before he could realize it, the thing was upon him.

Suddenly the clatter and clank ceased. “Hello there!” came in a cheery voice. “What you camping here for? Resolution is just around the corner.

“Oh, it’s you, Curlie Carson?”

The newcomer had dismounted and approached on foot.

“And you, Doctor LeBeau!” came from the boy. “I’m surely glad to see you.

“But that thing—” he pointed at the tractor. “What do you do with that?”

“Many things, my boy. Very useful. Snake out logs. Launch boats. Plenty of work. Just now I am coming from moving an Indian family to their new home seven miles away. Cabin was twelve feet square. Just slid skids under it, hitched on and moved ’em, house, furniture, bag, baggage and babies. Not so bad!” He laughed a merry laugh.

“But answer me. What you doing here?”

“Out of gas.”

“Out of gas!” The doctor whistled. “Thought you were Old Man Preparedness himself.”

“So did I. But when your gas cache has been robbed? What then?”

“Robbed?”

Curlie told him the story of the outlaw plane and the missing gas.

“That’s bad!” exclaimed the doctor. “Have to put a stop to that! Dangerous people who would leave some poor aviator to starve hundred miles from anywhere. Go after him!”

“I will if there’s a chance.”

“But now? Want a tow to town?”

Curlie looked at the tiny tractor, the smallest made, then at his great airplane. He laughed. “Seems a bit odd. Guess you could do it, though.”

“Sure could. Safest way, too. Could give you my gas. Not safe flying at night, though.

“Tell you what!” The doctor’s tone was kindly. “You roll up in your feather robe there in the cabin. I’ll tow you in. You’ll wake up in Resolution. You look like you needed sleep.”

“I’m asleep standing up just now! But you?”

“I’m O.K. We sleep all hours up here. Besides, you fellows have done a lot for us; brought the world to our door, that’s what you’ve done. Just as well do a little something for you.”

So it happened that Curlie arrived at Fort Resolution during the wee small hours of the night. After sleeping straight through until morning, he was as ready as ever for that which a fresh day might bring.

That day passed uneventfully. The dawn of the second day found Curlie once more in the air. He was headed south.

All the glories of the great white wilderness lay beneath him. The glory of the perfect day, sky filled with drifting clouds, air with a tang all its own. But none of these things held the boy’s attention.

His thoughts were divided between his immediate task, the piloting of his plane, and that which lay in the immediate past and the probable future.

At Resolution he had met Speed Samson, his rival. Great had been the other pilot’s astonishment when told of Curlie’s adventure with the “Gray Streak.”

“So it’s true after all!” Speed had exclaimed. “There is a plane running wild in this wilderness. The pilot’s living off other men’s food caches, like as not, and using others’ gas.”

“Yes,” Curlie replied. “What are we going to do about it?”

“Wait for orders.”

“Yes, I suppose so,” the boy agreed slowly. By nature he was a person of action. “But suppose we come upon that ‘Gray Streak’ before orders reach us?”

“Pass ’em up. Let ’em go. That’s me. My record, the record of my company, the mail contract’s at stake.

“And,” he added, meaning to be truly generous, “much as I want to win that award for our company, I’d advise you to do the same.”

“It would count in your favor if you drove such a menace from the air or brought them to justice,” Curlie said thoughtfully.

“If! Pretty big IF, boy. And if you fail, you may be in the sticks somewhere with busted landing gear, out of the running. See?” Curlie did see. And for the time being this seemed good counsel. Long and sober thinking had left the matter unsettled in his mind.

One item that weighed heavily on the safety side was the fact that he carried in his plane that which was to prove of great value to his friend Johnny Thompson and all the world as well—pitchblende.

The venerable giant of a prospector, Sandy MacDonald, with whom Johnny Thompson worked, had prepared his samples sooner than Johnny had thought he might. He had sent those bits of rocks, that gave promise of producing mineral worth a million dollars an ounce, over to Resolution. They were now in the fuselage of Curlie’s plane.

“Guard them well,” had been the prospector’s last word of admonition. “Those samples are pitchblende. From pitchblende comes radium. And radium has been a boon to mankind. Through its mysterious rays of light it has cured thousands of that most dreaded of diseases, cancer. If we can but discover a cheaper supply, we will be benefactors of the whole race. Take them to Edmonton. There’s a laboratory there. If they are not equipped to analyze them, they’ll send them on. In time you’ll bring us the result. And may God speed your flight!”

“May God speed your flight.” Curlie seemed to hear those words now and to feel the gentle touch of a powerful hand on his shoulder.

“This is important,” he told himself. “I must not fail him. The pay is small. The reward may be very great. We—”

His hands gripped the wheel tightly. A great white cloud lay directly before him. Out of that cloud had come a plane. The air was clear, the plane not far distant. His eyes could not deceive him.

“Jerry!” he shouted to the mechanic at his side. (He had taken Jerry on at Resolution.) “Jerry, that’s the ‘Gray Streak’!”

“Absolutely!” Jerry straightened up in his place.

The young pilot’s mind became a battle field of conflicting emotions. Safety, sure reward, the good of his company, his own personal glory seemed to lie upon the side of his nature that whispered: “Keep straight on. Let them go their way.”

“And there is the pitchblende, the radium,” he said aloud.

At the same time he appeared to hear a voice say, “Times come in our lives when the good of scores, hundreds, perhaps thousands we have never seen, may never see, drives from our minds that which seems good for us and those best known to us. When that time comes we must act for the good of all.”

“Who said that?” he asked himself. He could not answer. Somewhere in the past it had been stowed away in the recesses of his mind. Now here it was. It was as if God had spoken.

“Jerry,” he shouted, “we’ve got to go after them! Follow them to the end. Find their hide-out. Bring them to justice!”

“Absolutely!” Jerry turned his face about to display a broad grin. “Absolutely, son!”

CHAPTER III
TRAILING THE GRAY STREAK

Still endeavoring to think through the things which Johnny Thompson had revealed to her, Joyce Mills rode home beneath the great, golden Arctic moon.

More than once she murmured: “One of them is a thief. But how could he be?”

Three weeks spent in the company of very few persons in the lonely land of the North reveals much. In three weeks, under such conditions, he is a sly person indeed who does not reveal his true nature. Joyce had believed that by this time she knew the young men of her camp as well as she did Johnny Thompson, Drew Lane, or any other person with whom she had been closely associated.

“How hard it is to judge people!” She sighed deeply. To discover that we have 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 her mind.

“I will watch,” she told herself, “watch and wait. ‘Be sure your sin will find you out.’ I read that somewhere and I believe it is true. If there is a thief in our camp he will steal again, perhaps many times. In the end, his sin will find him out.”

With these matters settled in her mind, she whistled sharply to her dogs and sent them spinning away with redoubled speed toward the three rude cabins that were a prospector’s camp and her present home.

Arrived there, she unharnessed her dogs and chained them to their places before their kennels; then she went in to prepare supper.

She was not the only cook in this outfit. They all took a hand. Supper fell to her lot. Since the days were still short everyone worked till dark, searching rocky ridges and river banks for elusive signs of wealth and then walking home over long miles after dark.

She was engaged in the mixing of baking powder biscuits when there came a sound of sudden commotion outside. Flinging open the door, she all but ran into Jim Baley, one of the three young prospectors in her outfit, who was just home from work. Jim, however, was not the cause of the commotion. The sounds of trouble came from the kennels. Dogs were howling and snarling. Mingled with this was a sinister snap-snap of jaws.

“Wolves! Timber wolves!” Jim exclaimed, seizing an axe. “Big as men, they are. Savage brutes. They’ll kill the dogs and eat ’em, like they was rats.”

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 be murdered. In a country like this dogs are your best friends. They’re chained. 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 the blackness of the night. At the same time a warm feeling crept in about the 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 the thief, the one who had stolen those priceless films.

An instant later she, too, seized an axe and raced away to the defense of her four-footed friends.

* * * * * * * *

The mysterious gray plane which Curlie Carson, with characteristic promptness of decision, had resolved to follow, sailed straight away into the east.

Jerry, the one who sat beside him, was, Curlie thought, a strange fellow in many ways. He was a mechanic, and a good one. Self educated, he thought 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 suggested course of action was always the same, “Absolutely.”

“Will he stick in a pinch?” the boy asked himself. “If need be, will he fight?” He believed so.

It certainly seemed strange to be sailing away into a totally unknown land, following an airplane that carried a captive, and who could say what other manner of men?

“Are they kidnappers?” he asked himself, “escaped convicts, foreign exiles?” To these questions he could form no answer. One thing he did know; they were robbers. They stole that which in this barren land might mean life or death to many: gasoline.

A thought struck him. Instinctively he slowed his plane a bit. “What if they turn on me?”

What, indeed? They were flying over a barren land. The land beneath them rose 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 to be 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 is locate their base. After that we can invite the red-coated Mounties to take a hand. They’ll bring the thing to an end quick enough. They say a Mountie always gets his man, and I guess it’s true.”

One fact comforted him. He had, but an hour before, taken on a good supply of gas. Because he was traveling light, he was able to carry it with 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 of gas, where there is no supply of fuel, they are done. All I have to do is turn back for aid. We’ll mop ’em up. And the mystery will be solved, and this wild land will be free of a great menace.”

He had now thought the thing through—at least as far as his limited knowledge would carry him. The thunder of his motor grew monotonous. His mind turned to other things.

“Pitchblende. Radium!” he said aloud. “What a thing to dream of!” He was thinking of the samples entrusted to his care by Sandy MacDonald, of Johnny’s camp. “They say it gives off heat and light; that if you carry it in a tube in your pocket it will burn you, but not the pocket. How odd! One of nature’s unsolved mysteries,” he repeated. “I wonder why men spend so much time reading of gruesome murder mysteries when nature offers them a thousand unsolved riddles many times more interesting?”

Once more his attention was claimed by the outlaw plane. It had changed its course. Heading straight into the wind, it was sailing north.