She wanted to ask the pilot what happened to the D.X.123. She could not. At last she rose from her place.
“I—I’m going for a little walk,” she said. “All alone. I won’t get lost. I’ll watch the light from the house. It will guide me back.”
The crisp night air was like ice on a hot summer day to her burning cheeks. Her mind was full of wild thoughts. How strange life was!
Then she looked up at the heavens. The stars were there, had been there since earliest history of man, and long before that. Back of the stars was God. And God was from everlasting to everlasting.
“God guide me aright!” she prayed reverently.
So she wandered on and on over the trail that ran up the ridge and led to a view of the great Lake Superior. She wanted to see the moon as it shone upon the dark waters of night.
She was not destined to have her wish. Suddenly as she rounded that clump of spruce trees, she heard a groan that sent a chill of terror coursing up her spine.
Turning quickly about, she saw, not ten paces behind her, the most gigantic moose that had ever lived, or so it seemed to her. His antlers were like broad flat beams and his eyes, as she threw her flashlight’s glow upon them, shone like fire.
“Oh!” she exclaimed. “Go back! Go back!” But the giant moose came straight on.
CHAPTER XX
SOME CONSIDERABLE TREASURE
June Travis felt her hand tremble as she took down the receiver to call Florence. “Whose hand would not tremble?” she asked herself. And indeed the events of the past few days had been exciting. Now Florence had left word to call her. “Something very important to talk about!” That was her message.
“Hello! Hello!” she heard. “Yes, this is Florence.
“Oh, June, the strangest things do happen!” she exclaimed. “You remember that little story I wrote about your lost father?”
“Yes. I—”
“Well, today while I was out, a little lady in gray called at the office. Frances Ward talked to her. And was she mysterious! Wanted to talk to me, no one else. After that, she said she would talk to you, or to both of us at once. Had something tremendously important to tell you. It—it’s about your father.”
“Oh!” June gasped.
“Of course—” the voice at the other end of the line dropped. “Of course, you must not expect too much. She said something about mind-reading, mental telepathy and all that. She may be just one more fortune teller. But somehow I can’t help but feel that she isn’t. She lives in quite an exclusive section of the city. Mrs. Ward says she wouldn’t be allowed to put out a sign in that section. And what’s a fortune teller without a sign? So—”
“Oh, I’m all excited!” June thrilled.
“Well, you mustn’t be—at least not too much. Tomorrow I’ve got to go after something else. Remember that gypsy fortune teller who stole four hundred dollars? I’ve got to find her.”
“But won’t that be terribly dangerous?” June’s voice wavered.
“Danger? What is danger?” Florence laughed. “Anyway, it’s part of my job. I really haven’t accomplished much yet. Been drawing my pay all the time. Perhaps this will be a scoop.”
As you shall see, it was a “scoop” in more ways than one.
If Florence was anticipating trouble, Jeanne, on far-away Isle Royale, was in the midst of it at that very moment.
Who can describe Jeanne’s fright as she turned about on the wintry trail to look into the gleaming eyes of a giant moose? She expected nothing less than a wild snorting charge from the monster.
And where should she go? To swing about and dash back over the trail was impossible. The way was too narrow. To go forward meant that she would come at last to the brink of a rocky precipice. At the foot of this precipice, piled up by an early winter storm, were great jagged masses of ice.
“Go back!” she screamed at the top of her voice. “Go back!”
But the moose did not go back. Instead he lowered his great antlers, took three steps forward, then after opening his great mouth and, allowing an apparently endless tongue to roll about, he let forth a most terrific roar.
To say that Jeanne was frightened would be not to express her feelings at all. She was fairly paralyzed with fear.
As if this were not enough, her startled eyes caught some further movement in the brush that grew to the right of the trail. As her trembling fingers directed the light of her torch there, a second smaller pair of eyes gleamed at her, then another and yet another.
“Wolves—bush wolves!” Her heart sank to the depths of despair.
She raced forward in a mad hope of finding foothold for descending the cliff that led down to the lake’s shore. She caught the magnificent picture of dark waters white with racing foam, a path of gold that was moonlight, and beyond that, limitless night. Then a strange thing happened. The giant moose, having given vent to a second roar, took one more step forward; then stumbling, fell upon his knees.
Strangest of all, he did not rise at once. Instead, as if the great weight of his towering antlers were too much for him to bear, he allowed his head to drop forward until his broad nose rested on the ground. For one full moment he remained thus.
As for Jeanne, she raced on to the edge of the precipice. Instantly she shrank back. Surely here was no way of escape. A sheer drop of fifty feet, and beneath that, up-ended fragments of ice standing like bayonets waiting for one who might drop. This was what met her gaze.
Strangely enough, in the midst of all this terror, the glorious scene—limitless water, golden moon and night, so gripped her that for the instant her mind was filled with it.
“The heavens declare the glory of God,” she murmured.
Perhaps it was just this consciousness of the nearness of God and the glory of His world that quieted her soul and gave her the power to see things as they truly were.
As she turned back from the precipice, she saw the moose struggling to regain his feet. “Until he is up again, he is harmless,” she assured herself. Having thrown her light full upon him, she cried out in surprise.
“Why! The poor fellow! He is like a walking skeleton! He must be starving!”
Like a flash all was changed. Fear gave way to pity and desire to aid. She recalled the moose-trapper’s words: “We think they are underfed—perhaps starving.” Here was one who had failed to find food. How could she help him?
For a moment she could not think. Then it came to her that the food in the moose-trap was branches of white birch, mountain-ash and balsam. Close to the moose, who still struggled vainly to rise, was a clump of birch trees.
“They are small, but the branches are too high for him,” she told herself. “If I cut down the one that leans toward him, it will almost touch him. If I do—”
She hesitated. At her belt hung a small axe in a sheath. Dared she use it? Could she take the dozen steps toward that moose and wield her axe upon that tree with a steady hand? Her heart pounded painfully. Then, as if whispered in her ear, there came to her, “He notes the sparrow’s fall.”
There was no further hesitation. Gripping her axe, she advanced boldly. As she did so, the moose gave vent to one more terrifying roar. But Jeanne scarcely heard. She had formed a purpose. It should be carried out.
Thwack! Thwack! Thwack! Her axe sounded out in the silent night. Came a cracking sound. The small tree swayed, then went down. The top branches switched the great beast’s nose. He did not appear to mind, but, reaching out, began eating greedily.
“There!” Jeanne breathed. “Now we’ll do one more for good measure.”
A second tree tottered to a fall; then, still gripping her axe, Jeanne sped on the wings of the wind toward the cabin where the lamp still sent out its inviting gleam.
One sound gave speed to her swift feet. The blood-curdling howl of a bush wolf was answered by another and yet another.
“I’ll fix those wolves!” Mr. Carlson exclaimed as Jeanne, five minutes later, in excited words told her story. Taking down hi
s rifle, he disappeared into the dark outside. Shortly after there came the short quick crack-crack-crack of a rifle. After that the night was silent.
“That moose,” said Violet, the quiet, studious sister of Vivian, who took an especial pleasure in watching all manner of wild creatures, “must have been Old Black Joe. We called him that,” she laughed, “because he was almost black, and because he was so old.
“How he does love apples!” She laughed again.
“Yes, and you fed him almost half a bushel!” said Vivian reprovingly. “As if there were apple trees on Isle Royale.
“We had to buy them,” she explained to Jeanne. “Brought them all the way from Houghton.”
“But think what I got out of it in the end!” Violet reminded her sister.
“Yes,” Vivian agreed.
“You see,” Violet explained enthusiastically, “Old Black Joe got so tame after I had fed him a peck of apples, one at a time, that he’d follow me about like a pet lamb. And oh, the noises he’d make way down in his throat asking for more apples!
“Then one day a man came here to get pictures of wild life. Old Black Joe and I put on a real show for him. I didn’t quite ride the old fellow’s back, but I did almost. The picture came out fine. When the man left he gave me a whole twenty dollar bill for our boat. Wasn’t that grand?”
“Depends on how good a boat it was,” said Jeanne.
“We haven’t the boat yet. We’re saving for it,” said Violet.
Jeanne looked puzzled. “I thought you sold him a boat for twenty dollars.”
“Oh, no!” Violet laughed merrily. “He gave that money to us so we could apply it on the boat we are going to buy. But of course,” Violet paused. “You wouldn’t understand. For quite a long time Vivian and I have been saving up to buy a boat, a smart little motor boat we can use for taking people on picnics, fishing trips and cruising parties. You saw the cabins at the foot of the hill. Tourists come to the island and rent them in summer. Vivian and I could help father out with the family expenses if we had a boat.”
“And next year we want to go to high school on the mainland,” Vivian put in.
“We’ve got nearly sixty dollars,” Violet concluded, “but of course that’s not nearly enough.”
For a moment there was silence in the room. Then Violet said, “If that really is Old Black Joe, we must manage to get him into the corral. There are a few apples left. I’ll just lead him right in.”
“Y-yes,” drawled the moose-trapper, “and after he’s in, you’ll have to feed him. He’s so old he’s almost sure to die on our hands. What we’re after is good live young moose that will stand shipping.”
“All right! All right, sir! We’ll feed him!” the girls agreed as with one voice. “And you’ll see. He’ll be the prize picture of the big show in the spring.”
Jeanne did not go over Greenstone Ridge and down to her Lost Lake next morning. It was a day of wild storm. The wind whistled and sang about the cabin. The spruce trees swayed and sighed. The wind, like a white sheet, rose and fell as it swept across the frozen surface of the harbor.
Despite all this, the three girls hunted up Old Black Joe. He had fallen asleep beneath a cluster of cedars. Had the girls not found him, this sleep might well have been his last. As it was, only by eager coaxing and reluctant flogging were they able at last to usher him into the trap that was in truth a haven.
“There!” Vivian exclaimed. “Now we have let ourselves in for a winter’s work. That moose-trapper does not like bringing in boughs any too well. He’ll surely hold us to our bargain.”
“But I’m sure poor Old Black Joe needs a friend,” said Jeanne.
“And he’ll pay us back, you’ll see!” said the sentimental Violet. “Don’t forget that line about casting your bread on the waters.”
“We’ll cast our brush on the snow,” Vivian laughed, “but it’s really all the same.”
When they were back at the cabin and well thawed out, Jeanne found herself thinking once more of the mysterious airplane, D.X.123, that had vanished, and the strange coincidence of her seeing those signs at the bottom of Lost Lake. Soon she found herself brooding over the possible discoveries she might make in the very near future.
“This won’t do!” she told herself stoutly. “Surely dread has spoiled many a fine life, and more often than not there is really nothing to be feared.”
To clear her mind of this dark shadow, she began searching about for some bright dream when, with a mental “I have it!” she sprang to her feet. She had thought of the ancient churn. “Another mystery,” she told herself, “and this will be a joyous one, I feel sure.”
She went in search of Vivian and, to her vast astonishment, found her cooped up in a tiny room heated by an oil stove. Over the girl’s head a pair of ear-phones were tightly clamped. By the expression on her face, Jeanne knew her to be so absorbed as to be completely lost to the world.
For a full five minutes Jeanne stood patiently waiting. Then, with a start, Vivian looked her way. “Oh!” she exclaimed, “I didn’t know you were there.”
“But what are you doing?” Jeanne asked. “There is a radio in the living room. Surely you don’t have to—”
“Coop myself up in here to listen?” Vivian put in. “No. But this is not just a receiving radio. It is a radio station; short wave. We are licensed to send messages free of charge. And we do send them.” Her eyes shone with pride. “We are the only station on the island. We saved a boy’s life by calling a doctor from the mainland. We called for the coast guard when a hydroplane crashed on Rock Harbor. Oh, yes, and we’ve done much more. But now, I was about to get off a message telling of the moose trap. You see, we’re the radio news reporter for this corner of the world.”
“I’m sorry I disturbed you,” Jeanne apologized. “It must be fascinating.”
“But Vivian,” she changed the subject, “do you mind if I look at the things in your museum?”
“No. Here’s the key.”
“And Vivian—I—” Jeanne hesitated, “I’d like to try opening that old churn.”
“Whatever for?” Vivian exclaimed.
“Just a feeling about it.”
“All right. But you won’t break anything?”
“Not a thing.” Jeanne took the key and hurried away, little dreaming that the short wave station she had just seen was to have a large part in the mystery drama that was to be played by the inhabitants of Chippewa Harbor on Isle Royale, in the days that were to come.
Armed with a bottle of kerosene and a small knife, Jeanne slipped into the “museum” and closed the door. It was a wintry spot, that small room, but warmed by her enthusiasm, she began her task without one shiver. Soon she was scraping away at the corroded metal clasps, applying kerosene, scraping again.
For a long time there was not the least sign of success. She was all but ready to give up when, as her stout young hands turned at one screw it gave forth the faintest sort of squeak.
“Oh, you will!” she breathed exultantly. Then she redoubled her efforts.
At the end of another half hour that one clamp was entirely loose. Three others remained. Another half hour and, quite suddenly, as if resistance were no longer possible, two clamps loosened at once. “Oh!” she breathed. “Now I have you!”
This was true, for once three clamps were loosed, the cover could be removed. Here she paused. Though an only child, Jeanne had never been selfish. She had always shared her joys, whenever possible. She was about to open a thing that had been closed for half a century or more. What would she find? “A whiff of sour buttermilk,” as Vivian had prophesied? If more than this, what then?
“A laugh or a secret is always better when shared,” she told herself.
Opening the door, she called softly, “Girls! Come here!”
When Vivian and Violet had entered she closed the door. “See!” she said in the most mysterious of tones. “It’s done like this. You turn this screw, then that one. Now this one, now that one,
and, presto! It’s open.”
It was true the churn smelled of sour buttermilk, and such a sourness as it was! This was not all, however. Wedged into the churn so it could not possibly be shaken about was some heavy object.
“It’s copper!” Vivian exclaimed. “A lump of pure native copper taken from the rocks here on the island. How strange!”
“Look!” Jeanne whispered. “Here, tucked away in a crevice of the copper, is a bit of paper.”
“A note! It’s written on!” Violet cried.
As Jeanne’s trembling fingers unfolded it, at the very center of a small page filled with writing, her eyes caught three words that stood out like mountain peaks. The words were: Some considerable treasure.
CHAPTER XXI
BATTLE ROYAL
“Why can’t people take care of their money?” It was on that same afternoon that Florence found herself asking this question. There was a scowl on her brow as she journeyed slowly toward the home of Margaret DeLane, the widow who had been robbed by a gypsy fortune teller. “Some people are so stupid they don’t deserve any help,” she was thinking as she studied the faces about her on the street car. Stolid and stupid they surely appeared to be. “Not an attractive face among them all. They—”
She broke off to stifle a groan. The woman she sat next to was large. This had crowded her half into the aisle. A second woman, in passing, had stepped on her foot. Instead of appearing sorry about it, the woman grinned as if to say, “Ha! Ha! Big joke!”
“Big joke!” Florence thought grimly. “Life’s a big joke, and the joke’s always on me.” Life had not seemed so joyous since Jeanne had gone away. It is surprising that the absence of one person can mean so much to us.
The street car came to a jerking halt. “My street.” She was up and off the car.
Her street, and such a street as it was! Narrow and dirty, its sidewalks were lined with ugly, blank-faced, staring frame buildings that appeared to shout insults at her. She trudged on.
At last she came to the worst building of them all, and there on the front was her number.
Following instructions, she came at last to a side door. Having knocked, she was admitted at once by a dark-haired girl. This girl, who might have been twelve, wore an apron pinned about her neck. The apron touched the floor.
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