16 Biggles Flies North

by Captain W E Johns

saw McBain take slow and careful aim; saw the jabbing tongues of flame dance from the muzzle of the gun; saw the Rockheed shiver as the burst of fire struck her.

  Ginger could hardly bear to watch, but he could not tear his eyes away. A kind of fascinated horror kept them glued to the machine. He was not quite certain what had happened, but it seemed that either whoever was flying it had been hit, or else the controls had been damaged.

  The Rockheed fluttered like a wounded bird, careering from side to side with a sickening skidding movement. Its nose swung upward and sagged in turn.

  Biggles said nothing. He did not move. With a face nearly as white as the surrounding snow he stared at the swaying machine with brooding eyes. Never in all his experience had he felt so utterly powerless; never before had he found himself in a position where he could do absolutely nothing. Instinctively, aware of the futility of it, he swayed with the machine as if by sheer will power he could correct the faults, leaning back when the nose dropped and pushing an imaginary joystick forward when the machine looked as though it must stall.

  It was now so close that they could see the two men in her; could see Wilks fighting at the controls.

  `He isn't hit, anyway,' muttered Ginger through dry lips. Biggles did not answer. He knew the end was not far away.

  The Rockheed stalled, came out, and stalled again, this time missing the ground by inches. It was obviously out of control. The port wing sagged as it stalled again at the top of its zoom, perhaps a hundred feet above the snow-field. Instantly it began to fall again, the sagging wing heading towards the ground—the first movement of a spin.

  Then, as if by a miracle, the machine righted itself. Neither Biggles nor Ginger could understand why. There seemed no reason for it. The machine turned sluggishly towards them, and the reason for the apparent miracle became revealed. Algy was out on the starboard wing, lying flat, clinging to the leading edge with his hands as, with his body, he counterbalanced the port wing.

  The Rockheed swept down like a tired bird, nearly on an even keel, but not quite. The port wing-tip touched the ground first, flinging the snow up like the bow-wave of a ship.

  After that the result was a foregone conclusion. The whole machine cart-wheeled, flinging Algy over and over across the snow. The nose buried itself. The fuselage tipped up, hanging poised for a moment, and then fell back. Movement ceased.

  The Weinkel, its engines roaring triumphantly, swept up into the sky. It levelled out, its nose pointing to the south.

  Neither Biggles nor Ginger paid any attention to it; they were both racing at full speed towards the crashed machine, which lay about a hundred yards away from the Jupiter.

  `Get to Algy; I'll look after Wilks,' yelled Biggles. His great fear was that the machine would go up in flames before he could reach it, for that is what happens all too often in such cases. He tore open the cabin door and disappeared inside.

  Ginger went on to Algy, who, he was overjoyed to see, was moving, although ineffectually. Reaching him, he dropped on his knees beside him. Àlgy,' he cried, in a voice high-pitched with anxiety. Àlgy, old man, are you badly hurt? It's me—Ginger.'

  Algy managed to get up on his hands and knees, his head thrust forward. His face was twisted in agony. A long-drawn groan burst from his lips.

  Ginger's blood ran cold. The groan convinced him that Algy was mortally hurt. In desperation he looked round for Biggles, but Algy, who apparently divined his intention, shook his head, at the same time groaning again. 'I'm —I'm—I'm—' he stammered, 'on—

  on—only—winded.'

  Ginger gasped his relief and waited for him to recover. There was little he could do.

  Fortunately, although the symptoms of 'winding' can be terrifying while they last, they do not last long, and once Algy managed to get an intake of breath, he recovered quickly.

  `Gosh! ' he groaned, smiling wanly. 'Sorry to make such a fuss. How's Wilks? Is he hurt?'

  Ì don't know,' replied Ginger. 'Take your time. I'll slip across and find out.'

  He found that Biggles had managed to get Wilks out of the wreckage. He was sitting in the snow near by, very pale, while Biggles mopped blood from a cut in his forehead.

  Angus was binding a bandage tightly round his left wrist which, it subsequently transpired, he had sprained slightly.

  `How's Algy?' Biggles asked Ginger as he ran up.

  `Not had, apart from being winded. I don't think there is much wrong with him.'

  `Snow probably broke his fall,' returned Biggles shortly. Ì expect so,' agreed Ginger.

  Algy, his back slightly bent so that one hand rested on a knee. came limping over to them. 'I've had nearly enough of this "farthest north" stuff,' he declared. 'One thing and another, we seem to be in a pretty bad way.'

  `Not so bad as it looks,' grinned Biggles cheerfully. Actually, he was so relieved that neither Algy nor Wilks had suffered serious injury that he did not worry about anything else. 'By the way,' he went on, 'this is Angus. Angus, this is my partner, Mr. Lacey. You and Wilkinson are already acquainted.' He stood up and looked round.

  Did you see that skunk McBain shoot us down?' grated Algy.

  `Saw the whole thing,' replied Biggles. 'He was having a go at us when you arrived on the scene.'

  Did he shoot you down, too?'

  `No. Sarton was responsible for that. He's down, toodead—and Chicot with him.' Briefly Biggles described the incident.

  `Well, what are we going to do?' asked Wilks.

  `We'd best be makin' tracks for the shack,' chipped in Angus. 'If it starts to snow we may have a job to make it, and the snow's due to arrive at any minute.'

  `Do you mean that we're here for the winter?' cried Algy aghast.

  `Looks that way to me, mister.'

  Ì'm not so sure about that,' put in Biggles. 'We may have a chance yet. Had you got plenty of juice in your tanks?'

  `Fifty gallons, I reckon.'

  `Then if we can find the hole in our tank, and mend it, and swop the petrol over, we can still get back in the Jupiter.'

  Algy looked from Biggles to the Jupiter's wheels, more than half buried in the snow. '

  You'll never get her off out of this stuff,' he muttered. 'Those wheels must be frozen in by this time.'

  Ì agree,' answered Biggles, `but we've got a pair of skis inside, don't forget. If we can jack up the undercart while we get the wheels off, and put the skis on, we might still do it—if the snow will hold off for a little while longer.'

  Algy sprang to his feet, his stiffness forgotten. 'Then let's get at it,' he cried. 'It's our only chance.'

  `See if you can find that bullet hole, Ginger,' ordered Biggles. 'It's a race against time now.'

  Southward Again

  FOR THREE HOURS the airmen worked feverishly. Ginger repaired the punctured tank, bemoaning the fact that Smyth, who was an expert sheet-metal-worker, was not there to help him. Algy explained that he had decided to leave him at Fort Beaver—where they had arrived as arranged in the. Rockheed which now lay smashed in the snow—for two reasons: first, to leave a guard at the aerodrome, and, secondly, to reduce the load of the aircraft, and consequently the petrol consumption.

  The others laboured at the undercarriage, the transformation of the Jupiter into a ski-plane being impeded to no small extent by the cold. However, at last it was done. Ginger had already repaired the tank, so the labourers' task of transferring the petrol from the Rockheed to the Jupiter began.

  Ìs there anything at the cabin you'll be wanting?' Biggles asked Angus, who was helping as far as he was able. Meanin' what?' answered the old Scotsman.

  `Well, I take it you'll be coming with us.'

  `Na, mon. I'm staying here.'

  Biggles stopped work long enough to stare unbelievingly. `Do you mean that?'

  Ày.'

  `You'd rather stay for months in this forsaken place than come back to civilization?'

  Ày, I'll stay.'

  Biggles shrugged his shoulders. 'Well, I suppose you kn
ow best what you want to do. All right; we'll taxi you back to the shack as soon as we are ready; that will save you dragging the stores through the snow. You can then give us the transfer and we'll get away before it starts to snow.'

  Angus cocked an eye heavenward. 'Then ye've no time to waste,' he observed dispassionately. 'Here she comes.'

  Following his eyes, Biggles saw one or two big flakes floating downwards languidly. He made no comment. There was no need. The others had seen the dreaded flakes, and were working with desperate speed.

  It took them some time to start the Jupiter's engines, for they were stone cold, but a little petrol inserted into each of the cylinders finally did the trick. They all got aboard. A few moments to take the chill off the engines and the Jupiter began gliding across the snow in the direction of the island.

  By the time Angus's stores were thrown out for him to collect in his own time, and the old man had returned from the shack with the precious transfer, it was snowing steadily.

  The last few seconds on the ground were hectic. Angus heaved into the cabin an object that looked like a small sack.

  'What's that?' yelled Biggles, who was itching to be off.

  'Old Mose's poke,' shouted Angus.

  `Mose's what?'

  'Poke.'

  'He means that it is Mose's gold,' called Wilks.

  `What do you want me to do with it?' Biggles asked Angus, not very pleased about the responsibility.

  'Mose didn't want the gold for himself. He's got a darter down in Vancouver. I reckon he'

  d like her to have it. Find her and give it to her.'

  'All right,' shouted Biggles, without enthusiasm. He was not in the least concerned about the gold; all he cared about at that moment was getting away.

  'Stand clear! ' he yelled.

  The cabin door slammed.

  A parting wave to the old Scotsman, who did not seem in the least concerned about his lonely fate, and the Jupiter swung round. There was no horizon, but Biggles did not hesitate. The engines bellowed, and the big machine raced across the snow. A moment later it rose slowly into the air. The ground disappeared from sight immediately, and Biggles fixed his eyes on the instruments.

  'We ought to run out of this in ten minutes,' he told Wilks, who was sitting beside him.

  Wilks agreed, knowing precisely what Biggles meant; which was that the snow was coming from the north, and, as it had only just started, and the Jupiter was heading south for Moose Creek, it would quickly pass beyond the snow area. The thought led to another. They had managed to get off safely, but how about getting down—if there was snow at Moose Creek? He asked Biggles this question.

  'I hadn't overlooked that,' replied Biggles. 'We'll work that out when we get there. The skids may stand up to a turf landing, but whether they do or not, I'd sooner take the risk—even if we bust the machine—than stay in Angus's shack for six months.'

  Wilks nodded. He felt the same about it.

  Already the snow through which they were flying was thinning, and a minute later they caught their first glimpse of the ground. Shortly afterwards they ran into clear weather, although the landscape was still snow-covered, the result of the earlier fall. Flying, however, was now a comparatively simple matter, and Biggles, relaxing, began to think of other things. With the major problem answered, that of their escape from being snowed-in, minor worries presented themselves, as usually happens.

  `Pity we've lost the Rockheed,' he remarked. 'That leaves us only one machine to operate with.'

  'Never mind; we've got the transfer,' Wilks reminded him. 'If we can use that to get McBain off the aerodrome we shall manage all right. By the way, what are we going to do about McBain?'

  'What do you mean—do about him?'

  'Well, this attack on us. He tried to murder us; are we going to let him get away with it?'

  'It's a bit hard to know what to do,' replied Biggles thoughtfully. 'It's our word against his.

  He thinks we are out of the way, certainly for the winter, possibly for good. He'll get a shock when we turn up. He'll probably accuse us of murdering Sarton, but since the remains of the machine will probably be buried under snow for the next six months, he will have nothing to support his story. We've got a witness in Angus, but he won't be available for six months, either. I think our wisest course would be to submit a report of the whole affair to police head-quarters and let them do what they like about it. Delaney, single-handed, can't do much. There is this; our reputation will at least stand investigation, which is more than can be said for McBain, I imagine.'

  They said no more, for it was obvious that the future was so problematical that it was impossible to make plans with any assurance.

  The snow on the ground was now very patchy, and while they were still some distance from Moose Creek it died away altogether. Within a few days the snow coming down from the north would bury everything under a deep blanket, but for the present the ground was clear.

  `There's just a chance that the Creek will be frozen over,' said Wilks, referring to the almost land-locked stretch of water from which Moose Creek took its name. 'It has been freezing pretty hard.'

  `How shall we know?' asked Biggles.

  'I always use the lake in winter,' replied Wilks. 'If the ice is safe they shift the windstocking across to it, because the ice has a much better surface than the aerodrome.

  Being boggy, during the summer it gets churned up by the wheels, and when these ruts get frozen hard in the winter they are awful. However, we shall soon see which it is to be. There's the creek, in the distance. It wouldn't surprise me if we found McBain there.'

  Ìt would surprise him, I'll bet,' grinned Biggles.

  `He's been there, anyway,' declared Wilks, who was staring down through the window. '

  There are his wheelmarks on the ice—at least, those are aeroplane tracks, and it's unlikely that any one else has been up here. And there's the windstocking by the side of the creek; that means it is all right to land on the ice.'

  `Well, that's better, anyway. I wasn't feeling too happy at trying to put this big bus down in a frozen field on a pair of skis. Can you see McBain's machine anywhere?'

  `No.'

  `Then he must have gone off again.'

  `Looks like it.'

  `We'll find him at Fort Beaver, no doubt.'

  Nothing more was said while Biggles concentrated on putting the Jupiter down on the lake on her new type of undercarriage.

  To those in the machine the difference was barely perceptible, apart from the fact that the machine ran a long way before coming to a standstill.

  `What are we going to do?' asked Wilks.

  `Refuel, put our wheels back on again, and head south for Fort Beaver,' replied Biggles shortly. 'There is no telling what lies McBain will spread about us if we leave him too long alone—particularly if he thinks we aren't coming back to refute them.'

  Leaving the others to attend to the refuelling and the replacement of the undercarriage wheels, Biggles walked across to the traffic manager's office.

  `Here we are again, Mr. Canwell,' he observed cheerfully.

  The traffic manager looked up from a book in which he was just making some entries. '

  Sorry,' he said, 'but you are just too late.'

  `Too late—what for?'

  `To take the gold down.'

  Biggles nodded slowly. Àh—of course. I remember. So it's gone, eh?'

  `Yep. Biggest shipment we've ever made in one go. I waited as long as I could for you.

  McBain blew in, so I let him take it. I'm sorry—'

  `You will be, I fancy,' put in Biggles dryly.

  Canwell started. 'What do you mean by that?'

  Òh, nothing,' murmured Biggles. 'I fancy you would have found us a bit more reliable in the long run—that's all. How long ago did McBain leave?'

  Àbout ten minutes.'

  Biggles nodded. Right-ho, then. We might as well be getting along, too. See you later, maybe.'

  Biggles wal
ked slowly to the door, but once outside he strode swiftly to where the others were waiting for him. Ìt looks as if McBain's got away with the boodle,' he said crisply. '

  He's got ten minutes start. Not expecting to be followed, he'll cruise; if we run on full throttle we may overhaul him. Get aboard—step on it.'

  An Unexpected Landing

  NOT UNTIL THE Jupiter was in the air, roaring southwards on the trail of the Weinkel, did Biggles settle down to contemplate the situation. The gold was temporarily in McBain's charge; if he intended stealing it, this clearly was his opportunity. In the circumstances it seemed unlikely that he would return to Fort Beaver, where transport from the rail-head would be waiting to take the gold on to the bank at Edmonton. Where, then, would he go? The more Biggles thought about it the more he became convinced that unless he overtook the Weinkel he would never see McBain again. He, with the machine and the gold in it, would disappear. In one way this would be to Wilks's advantage, for the feud for possession of the aerodrome would cease; nevertheless, it was not unlikely that the Moose Creek Company would be so sore at losing the gold dust that they would never again trust gold to an aeroplane, in which case Arctic Airways would die for lack of business. If they could overtake the Weinkel and see where it went they might succeed in bringing the gold thieves to justice, which could hardly fail to cement their friendship with the Moose Creek Company. This opinion Biggles passed on to Algy, who was sitting beside him in the control cabin.

  The Jupiter was now once more in the region of day and night, with the 'bad lands'

  gliding past underneath them. Biggles was staring ahead, striving to pick up their quarry, when Ginger, his eyes alight with excitement, pushed his way into the cabin.

  `Starboard! ' he yelled. 'The Weinkel's bearing west.'

  Biggles did not answer. His eyes switched to the right, far away from the line he had been following. For a moment or two they studied the sky, section by section, before they settled on a tiny moving speck travelling on a southwesterly course at a slightly lower altitude than themselves. It was the Weinkel.

  Ì was right,' he said crisply to Algy. 'McBain isn't going to Fort Beaver; the course he is on will leave Fort Beaver miles to the east.'