The Second Girl Detective Megapack: 23 Classic Mystery Novels for Girls

by Julia K. Duncan

  “I’ll be back in ten days,” she shouted back as the wreck began to grow small in the distance.

  “Will she?” Florence whispered. “I wonder.”

  CHAPTER XII

  GOLD

  Bihari and his gypsy band in their Ship of Joy had scarcely passed from sight around Blake’s Point when the sun went under a cloud and a damp, chill wind came driving in from the north.

  “Boo! How cold!” Greta wrapped her sweater tight about her.

  With the gay flags down, the hilarious music stilled, the wreck seemed a cold, dull and lifeless place. “Something sinister and threatening about it,” Florence thought.

  To Greta she said, “Pack up the things you’ll need for ten days, plenty of warm stockings and the like. We’re going camping on the island. We’ll tramp all over Greenstone Ridge and sleep where night overtakes us.”

  “That,” Greta cried, “will be grand! Shall I take my violin?”

  “Surely. You might be able to take a few lessons from your mysterious phantom,” Florence laughed as she began packing away eatables that were both light and nourishing.

  “There are streams and small lakes,” she murmured half to herself. “We shall have fish to fry, and some berries are ripe, blueberries, raspberries and a sort I have never seen before.

  “Here,” she said to Greta as her feet touched the shores of the camping ground on Duncan’s Bay, “here we shall camp for the night. Tomorrow we will go on. I mean to do a little digging.”

  “For gold?” Greta stared.

  “For a barrel of gold.” Florence smiled. “Well, anyway, for something.”

  Dragging a small trench spade from her pack, she studied the lay of the land.

  “Now where would one make camp?” she said thoughtfully as her keen eyes surveyed the narrow patch of ground. “Not too far back. Campfire might be blown into the forest and set the hillside blazing. Not too close to the shore either. Wind might come up and drive the waves over you while you slept.

  “About here.” She set her spade at the very center of the level stretch of ground that in all is not larger than one city lot.

  “You know, Greta,” she said thoughtfully as she began to dig, “it really doesn’t matter whether we find a barrel of gold. Very often people are harmed by having too much money. It’s good for us to work. There are ways of getting things we need—good stout clothes, plain food, and all the education that’s good for us, if we are wise and really work hard.

  “We may find gold. No one could be sure we will not. We may find charcoal and scorched bones. If we study these carefully we can say, ‘This fire was kindled two hundred years ago, before ever white men set foot on these shores.’ We will be adding a sentence or two to Isle Royale’s strange history. That’s something.

  “And we might—” she was digging now, cutting away the thin sod, then tossing out shovelfuls of sandy soil. “We might possibly find some copper instruments crudely made by the Indians.

  “That—” she stood erect for a moment. “That would be a great deal. Any museum would pay well for those. Some may have been found on the island, but I doubt it. But it is known that the Indians came here from the mainland to take chunks of solid copper from the rocks.

  “They had to heat the rock, build great fires upon it, then drag the fire away and crack the brittle hot rock.

  “Copper!” She breathed a deep breath. “That’s why we have the island instead of Canada. History, Greta, is truly fascinating if you study it as we are doing now, right on the ground. We—what’s that!” she broke short off. Some metal object had clinked on her spade.

  “Its a coin!” she exclaimed a moment later. “A very old coin, I am sure!” She was all excitement. “Money! I told you, Greta! Gold!”

  It was indeed a golden coin, very thin and quite small for all that. By careful scouring they managed to make out that the words stamped on its face were French. They could not read the date.

  “Gold!” Greta seized the spade to begin digging vigorously. “Gold! There was a barrel of gold! The barrel rotted long ago. But the gold, it is still there. We will find it!”

  In a very short time the slender girl found her breath coming in deep pants. Blisters were rising on her hands. She might soon have exhausted herself had not Florence shoved her gently to one side and taken the spade from her.

  Strangely enough, the big girl had thrown out but three shovelfuls of sand when again her blade rang.

  This time the earth yielded a greater treasure—not gold, but copper. A small knife with a thin blade and round handle of copper, it showed the marks of the crude native smithy who fashioned it.

  “From the past!” Florence’s eyes gleamed. “The very distant past! How Doctor Cole of the museum will exclaim over that!”

  So engrossed were the two girls in their study of this new treasure, they failed to note three facts. Darkness was falling. A stealthy figure was creeping upon them in the shadows of the forest. A short, powerful motor boat had entered the Narrows and was headed for the camping grounds.

  In the meantime Jeanne had made an important discovery. The Ship of Joy had gone cruising round Blake’s Point to turn in at a narrow circular bay known as Snug Harbor.

  Jeanne thought this one of the most beautiful spots she had ever known. White lodge building, more than half hidden by fir and balsam, little cottages tucked away at the edge of the forest, and about it all an air of quiet and peace. They were at the door of Rock Harbor Lodge.

  “We will disturb their quiet,” Jeanne thought to herself, “but not their peace, I am sure.”

  While Bihari was talking with the owner of the lodge regarding a night of music and dancing, she stole away over a path shadowed by mountain ash and fir. At the end of the path she came to a long, low, private cottage, boarded up and closed. Before this house a long narrow dock ran out into the bay. Tied to this dock was a schooner.

  “The black schooner!” Jeanne shuddered.

  Yet drawn toward it as a bird is drawn to a snake, she walked slowly down the dock to find herself at last peering inside the long, low cabin.

  At once she sprang back as if she had seen someone. She had seen no one. The schooner was for the moment deserted. What she had seen, hanging against the wall, was a diver’s helmet.

  “The black schooner!” she murmured once more as she hurried away, losing herself from sight in the shadow of the forest.

  * * * *

  Back on the camping ground, the first intimation Florence and Greta had that there was anyone about was when, with a startling suddenness, a bright searchlight flashed into their eyes. The light came from the water. At the same time there came the sound of movement in the dry leaves of the forest at their backs. Instinctively Florence whirled about. Her bright eyes searched the forest. No one was there.

  * * * *

  When Jeanne once more reached the lodge dock where the Ship of Joy was tied, a crowd of people from the cottages had gathered about Bihari and his band. She grasped the sleeve of a tall young man to say in a low, agitated tone, “Do you know what schooner that is?”

  “Schooner?” He smiled down at her.

  “Yes, the one by that other dock. Over—why!” she exclaimed, “it is gone! It was a black schooner. But now it is not there.”

  The tall young man looked at her in a manner that seemed to say, “You’ve been seeing things.” This embarrassed her, so she lost herself in the crowd.

  But not for long. One moment, and a pleasing voice was saying in her ear, “And are you the golden-haired gypsy who will dance with the bear tonight?”

  CHAPTER XIII

  THE HEAD HUNTER

  When the searchlight from the water had been switched off, Florence saw the dark gray power boat approaching the camping ground.

  “Greta,” she groaned, “we should have gone up the ridge at once! There’s no peace or privacy anywhere!”

  As the boat came nearer they read in large letters across the prow one word, “CONSERVATION.�
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  This brought momentary relief to the startled girls. Conservation men are government men and these, Florence believed, could be trusted.

  Pulling in close to shore, the boat dropped anchor. A sturdy, sun-tanned man leaped into the small boat they had in tow, and rowed rapidly toward land.

  “Who’s the man who went into the bush just now?” he demanded the instant his feet touched land.

  “M—man?” Florence stammered. “There is no man.”

  “So I see,” the newcomer grumbled. “There was one, though. Don’t try to deceive me! I saw him! He’s short, stoutly built, rather dark, with a week’s beard. Now then! Does that convince you?”

  “Yes.” Florence found her knees trembling. “Perhaps,” she thought, “these Conservation men have saved us from trouble without knowing it.”

  “Yes,” she repeated, “I believe you are telling the truth. You did see a man. But—but he doesn’t belong to us. Truly he does not! Wait! I’ll tell you about him.”

  “Tell me about yourself first. What are you doing here?” The man did not smile.

  “Why—we—we—we—” Florence was greatly disturbed. “We came over here from the wreck. We—”

  “Oh!” her inquisitor broke in as a smile overspread his face. “You’re the girls living out there on the wreck. That—er—I owe you an apology. We’ve heard of you. You’re O. K. You see, we’re the Conservation men on the island, Dick and I. Got to see that no game is killed, no trees cut, no fires started, all that.

  “But tell me now—” His voice took on an eager note. “Tell me about that man.”

  Florence told him all she knew. He was, she felt quite certain, the man who had intended murdering Old Uncle Ned, the veteran moose, and the man who had fought with her that battle of oars. She trembled now as she thought what might have happened had not these Conservation men happened along.

  “God seems to be keeping an eye on us,” she was to say to Jeanne some time later. And Jeanne was to reply reverently, “He notes the sparrow’s fall.”

  “Excuse me,” the Conservation man said when the story was done. “My name is Mell. As man to man, I’d like to shake your hand. The way you saved the old moose was keen. You’re the right sort. I—I’ll get you a job on our force.” He shook her hand warmly.

  “But this fellow—” his brow wrinkled. “We’ll have to look after him. He’s a head hunter, beyond a doubt. Fellow can get good money for a fine pair of moose antlers. These rascals come over here and kill our best friends of the wildwood, just for a few sordid dollars. Watch us go after him!”

  Leaping into his boat, he was away.

  “He’s—he’s all right.” Florence was enthusiastic. “Question is, shall we camp here or try a return trip to the ship?” For a moment all thoughts of the treasure hunt were forgotten.

  “Moon will be out by ten o’clock,” she said after a moment’s thought. “Be safer on the water then. We’ll make a fire and have something to eat.”

  Their evening lunch over, the girls curled up side by side with the wall of their small tent at their back and the glowing fire before them. All about them was blackness. Not a gleam came from the surface of dark waters. Not a break appeared in the wall of bottle-green that was the forest at their back. For all this, they were not afraid. Swen’s rifle lay across Florence’s knees. Their ears were keen. No intruder could slip upon them unannounced.

  “Gold!” Greta whispered. “We found a tiny bit. I wonder if there can be much more.”

  “Who knows?” Florence murmured dreamily.

  Presently the big girl’s head fell forward. She slept, as the wild people before her had slept, sitting before the fire.

  Greta did not wake her. “I will hear in time if there is any danger,” she told herself. She liked the feel of it all, the warmth of the fire on her face, the little breezes playing in her hair, her sleeping comrade, the night, the mysterious forest—all this seemed part of a new world to her. She smiled as she thought of her own soft bed at home with its bright covers and downy pillow. “Who would wish to live like that always?” she asked herself. “Who—”

  Her thoughts snapped off like a radio singer who had been cut off. Wind was beginning to come down the bay and, wafted along by it was a sound, faint, indistinct but unmistakable.

  “The phantom violin!” she whispered.

  This time the sound came from so great a distance that it was but a teasing phantom of sound.

  She wanted to slip away into the forest and follow the sound. But she dared not.

  * * * *

  Petite Jeanne was with her wild, free friends of other days. In the pale light of Japanese lanterns she danced with the bear the old fantastic dances of those other days. When it was over and she passed the tambourine for Bihari, a great weight of silver coins thumped into it. For a moment she was deliriously happy. When it was all over and she had rowed alone in a small boat out to the center of the narrow bay, her feelings changed. For one short moment she wished herself back on the wreck with Florence and Greta.

  “But I must not!” She pulled herself up short. “Bihari and his people have done much for me. I must not fail them now.

  “Ah! But this is beautiful!” she breathed a moment later. “And I shall see it all—all this marvelous island!”

  The scene before her was like some picture taken from a fairy book. A dark circle of forest with only a pale light gleaming here and there like a star, and at the center of all this the lights of a long, low room casting mellow reflections upon the water.

  Figures moved about like gay phantoms in this light. To her ears came the low melody of guitar and violin.

  “It is so beautiful!” She felt her throat tighten with the joy of it all. “And yet—”

  She was thinking of the black schooner that had slipped away into the great unknown lying away beyond the shrouds of night.

  “The diver was on that schooner,” she assured herself. “What if they return to our home, our poor wrecked ship! They may set fire to it! They may blow it up with dynamite!” She shuddered. “They came there to look for something. I wonder what it could be? Florence is a famous diver. When we are back at the wreck—if we ever are,” she murmured dreamily, “she shall dive into that place and see. She—”

  But someone was calling her name. She must return to the shore. Her brief hour of revery was at an end.

  * * * *

  On the camping grounds at Duncan’s Bay for two hours Florence slept. When she woke the moon was out. The wind too had risen.

  “Waves will be too high,” was her instant decision. “We must stay here for the night.”

  “And tomorrow,” Greta whispered eagerly, “tomorrow at dawn we will go up the ridge.”

  “Why so soon?”

  Greta told of hearing that faint thread of music.

  “We shall see,” said Florence, and began preparation for the night.

  Their tent was small, only seven feet square. It had a floor of canvas. Once inside with the flap buttoned tight, they were as securely housed as the caterpillar in his chrysalis.

  Greta was not slow in creeping down among the blankets. She went to sleep at once.

  As for Florence, she drew on her heavy sweater, thrust her feet under the blankets, propped the rifle against the tent wall and, folding her arms across her knees, sat at half watch the night through.

  The sun had not cleared the tree tops when the Conservation boat appeared. It had a small black power boat in tow.

  “We waited for him all night, that head hunter,” Mell explained. “Didn’t show up. Hoofed it back into the hills, I guess. The boat was stolen. We’re taking it back.

  “No good, his hiding in the forest,” he concluded. “We’ll get him, you’ll see. Tell every ship captain to watch for him.”

  “I hope,” said Florence when they were gone, “that they get him very soon.”

  A half hour later, with packs on their backs, the two girls headed up the rocky slope.

&n
bsp; “Treasure hunt can wait,” was Florence’s comment. “We can go after that when Jeanne is back. Now we’re going to explore Greenstone Ridge.”

  This course, she had thought during the night, might seem a bit dangerous with the head hunter still at large. “But the ridge is a trackless wilderness,” she had reassured herself. “He will never come upon our trail.” Which, as you will see by what follows, was a fair conclusion.

  The events that followed the climbing of Greenstone Ridge on that bright and beautiful day were strange beyond belief.

  CHAPTER XIV

  SECRET OF GREENSTONE RIDGE

  Late next afternoon the Ship of Joy with Bihari and his band, including Jeanne and the bear, went gliding down the long, narrow stretch of water known as Rock Harbor. As Jeanne, seated in a sunny spot on the deck, watched the small island to the left go gliding by, she felt, as one feels the current of galvanic electricity go coursing through his system, the thrill and mild terror that comes when one senses impending adventure, terror, or disaster. She could not tell what was to happen.

  “Something will happen,” a voice seemed to whisper. “You are coming nearer and nearer.”

  She did not doubt the voice. It had come to her before. Such is the gift of wandering people; they feel and know in advance.

  No, she did not doubt. And yet, the low sun shone so mildly, waves lapped the boat’s sides so dreamily, islands of green and brown glided by so like drifting shadows, she forgot all else and, stretching out upon the deck, she surrendered herself to the spell of it all.

  Not for long. A chill wind came sweeping over the tops of the islands. Dark clouds scurried overhead.

  “This is bad!” Bihari grumbled. “Our next stop is Chippewa Harbor. We must go out into the lake to get there. Lake Superior is bad when he is angry. He puts out hands and seizes small boats. He drags them down and they are never seen again.

  “At Chippewa Harbor there are little cabins and just now a large party camping in tents. We will sing and dance for them.

  “But tomorrow—” he laughed a large, good-natured laugh. “Tomorrow. We have with us always tomorrow. That will do.

  “In this harbor we are safe. Tonight we will sing for ourselves.”