by W E Johns
Biggles eased the stick back and climbed slowly to a safer height.
At the end of an hour the forest had become broken into small, isolated groups of wind-twisted trees, and shortly afterwards even these failed to appear, giving way to a dismal panorama of gaunt rock. Ahead, and on either side, mountains towered upwards majestically, their peaks white with the first snow.
‘I don’t know about a forced landing, but if Wilks had to go down and land on that stuff I should say he hadn’t a hope,’ observed Biggles moodily, as he stared down at the weather-torn rock. ‘From the time we started I haven’t seen half a dozen places where there was the slightest chance of getting a machine down without a crack-up. Goodness me! What a country!’
‘It looks as if it levels out a bit farther ahead,’ remarked Algy, who had turned to look forward through the windscreen.
‘Yes, I agree, it does,’ returned Biggles. ‘But what sort of surface is it? I shouldn’t care to have to put a machine down on that stuff. It wouldn’t be so bad if you had engine power to fall back on in an emergency—but with a dead stick1 it would be an anxious business. Hello, what’s that ahead? That looks like something on the ground there... is it? Yes, by heaven, it is! It’s a machine. There’s somebody beside it—look, he’s moving. He’s seen us. He’s waving.’
The roar of the Jupiter’s engines died away abruptly as Biggles cut the throttle and began gliding down to what, by this time, was obviously an aeroplane.
‘It’s on even keel, anyway,’ remarked Algy, who had opened a side window in order to see more clearly.
‘It’s got its tail cocked up, which looks to me like a broken undercart,’ cried Ginger.
‘It must be Wilks,’ declared Biggles. ‘Nobody else would be flying up here. As long as he’s all right, I don’t care much if he has smashed the machine. Give him a wave.’
With Algy hanging out of the window with an arm outstretched—for to wave literally in the open air when one is travelling more than a hundred miles an hour is practically impossible—the Jupiter dropped lower and lower until at last it was circling in a steep bank at not more than fifty feet above the other machine.
‘What’s the ground like, Algy?’ asked Biggles anxiously. ‘Can you see a decent place to get down? It all looks pretty rotten to me.’
Wilks is pointing. I think he means that there is a place over there where we can get down. He’s moving off in that direction—but he’s limping. He must be hurt.’
The man on the ground was, in fact, hobbling away from the stationary machine, from time to time stopping to pick up a piece of stone and throw it aside.
‘He’s clearing a runway for us,’ declared Algy.
‘So I see,’ answered Biggles, with a worried frown. ‘I don’t relish the thought of getting down on it, all the same.’ Nevertheless, he started lowering his undercarriage, which had, of course, been drawn up during the flight. He looked at the ground on which he would have to land, and shook his head.
‘We can’t leave Wilks down there,’ murmured Algy.
‘Of course we can’t,’ agreed Biggles irritably, ‘but I don’t want to bust a perfectly good aeroplane costing me the best part of forty thousand dollars. Nor do I want to walk home.’
‘I don’t think it’s too bad,’ muttered Algy, who was still staring down at the ground. Wilks is beckoning, so it can’t be as bad as it looks.’
Biggles turned the big machine slowly until it was in line with the runway; then he allowed it to sink slowly towards it. Flattening out a few inches above the ground, he held the stick firmly, holding the machine off as long as he dared.
The Jupiter vibrated from nose to tail-skid as her wheels rumbled over the uneven ground, but they stood up to the strain, and the machine finally came to rest about two hundred yards from the lone figure which at once began hurrying towards them. There was no longer any doubt about who it was.
‘Biggles, by all that’s wonderful! ‘ cried Wilks enthusiastically.
‘Well might you say “by all that’s wonderful”,’ grinned Biggles, as he shook hands with his old war comrade. ‘What sort of a country do you call this?’
‘It’s a grand country when you get to know it,’ declared Wilks firmly.
‘Maybe you’re right,’ agreed Biggles doubtfully. ‘What happened to you?’
‘How the dickens did you know where I was?’
‘Just a minute, old boy; let’s take one thing at a time,’ suggested Biggles. ‘I’ll tell my story first, if you like. We’ve been to Fort Beaver—landed there about lunchtime to-day. We found McBain, and I might tell you that he and I had a few sharp words. He didn’t seem overjoyed to see us; in fact, we parted on anything but the best of terms. Constable Delaney blew in while the argument was in progress, and under interrogation McBain admitted that you’d flown off and hadn’t come back. In the circumstances we decided that you must have started for Moose Creek but failed to reach it, so we came along to pick up the pieces. What happened to you?’
Wilks’s smile faded as he told his story. ‘You were right about me starting for Moose Creek,’ he said bitterly. ‘Somebody was kind enough to put a handful of loose cotton-waste in my second tank and it choked the petrol leads. The engines packed up and I had to come down. As it happened I had enough juice in my gravity tank to enable me to reach this place, which I knew all about, having flown over it several times. Naturally, as it is one of the few places between Fort Beaver and Moose Creek where it is just possible to get a machine down, I had made a note of it. All the same. I was lucky to make it.’
‘The cotton-waste was McBain’s work, I reckon?’
‘Of course.’
While they had been speaking they had been moving slowly towards Wilks’s machine.
‘Did you knock your leg when you came down?’ asked Biggles, noting that Wilks was still limping.
‘I hit my knee a crack against the dashboard when we tipped up,’ returned Wilks briefly.
‘Machine damaged?’
‘Busted tyre and a bent prop; luckily, being metal it didn’t break. But of course there was no question of getting off again. With a groggy knee I was in no shape to start walking three hundred miles back to Fort Beaver, so I just sat here and waited, hoping that I should be missed and that some one would pass the word to the Canadian Airways fellows. They’re a grand lot of chaps, and would have come looking for me when they heard I was down.’
‘You would have waited a long time, I’m afraid,’ replied Biggles. ‘Only McBain and his gang knew that you were missing, and they told no one. Indeed, they were so certain that you were gone for good that they were making free with your office when we landed.’
‘The dickens they were!’
‘I told Delaney about it and he warned them to keep off, so I don’t think they’ll touch anything—not for a little while at any rate.’
‘I don’t wonder they didn’t expect me back,’ observed Wilks. ‘This is no country for a forced landing.’
‘So I’ve noticed,’ returned Biggles dryly, as he examined the damaged machine with professional ability. Smyth was already at work on it. ‘I see you’ve got a load on board,’ continued Biggles, as he looked into the cabin.
‘Yes. I was running some spare machine-parts up to Moose Creek; they were wanted urgently, so I am afraid the people up there will be fed up with this delay. They’ll probably refuse to give me any future work as I have let them down once or twice already, through no fault of my own you may be sure.’
Biggles bit his lip thoughtfully. ‘It’s too late to get the stuff up to them to-day,’ he said slowly, ‘but we might be able to manage it to-morrow. I think this is our best plan. We’ve brought all our pals and spare parts with us; luckily we hadn’t time to unload them at Fort Beaver. We’ll put all your stuff into my machine and fly it back to Fort Beaver. Tomorrow, I’ll take it up to Moose Creek. Ginger can come with me. Smyth and Algy had better stay here and get to work on your machine. There’s nothing you can’t
fix up, is there, Smyth?’
‘I don’t think so, sir.’
‘Good. All right, let’s get to work. Algy, you’d better stay here with Smyth, and as soon as the machine is ready fly her back to Fort Beaver. We’ll leave you some grub and you can sleep in the cabin. I shall take Wilks back with me. He needs a rest. How long will it take you to fix things up, Smyth?’
‘I think I can get her finished by this time to-morrow, sir,’ was the confident answer.
‘Then we’ll expect you back to-morrow evening, but don’t take off unless you can get back to Fort Beaver before dark; it would be better to stay here another night than risk that. Is that all right with you, Algy?’
‘As right as rain.’
‘Fine! Then let’s see about shifting this cargo into the Jupiter. I’d stay here with you but I don’t like leaving Fort Beaver for too long with McBain on the war-path. I’ll fly low over you to-morrow on my way up to Moose Creek, but I shan’t land unless you signal to me to do so. Come on, let’s get to work; we’ve no time to waste.’
It took them, all working hard, about half an hour to transfer the freight from the damaged machine to the Jupiter, and once this was done Biggles lost no time in getting off, for the sun was already low over the western hills. In a few minutes the Jupiter was roaring back over her tracks.
In spite of the fact that Biggles flew on full throttle nearly all the way, it was practically dark when the scattered lights of Fort Beaver came into sight.
Suddenly Biggles started and stared ahead through the wind-screen. ‘Don’t tell me that McBain has thought better of it,’ he jerked out. ‘Are those landing flares on the aerodrome, or am I dreaming?’
‘They’re flares,’ declared Wilks, who was as surprised as Biggles. ‘I’ve never known him do that before, and I’ve had to land after dark more than once.’
Biggles said nothing, but a curious expression came over his face as he stared intently into the gloom. A moment or two later he cut the engines and glided down towards the lights, only to open up again an instant later and roar up into the darkening sky. ‘He must take me for a fool,’ he snarled savagely.
Wilks stared. ‘Who?’
‘McBain.’
‘Why?’
‘To fall into such an elementary trap as the one he has set. Those lights are in the wrong place. Had I landed up the line I should have bashed straight into our hangar. Ginger, drop a signal flare and let’s have a look at things. I’d rather trust to my own eyes than McBain’s flares—the cunning hound. What sort of fellows can his pilots be to try deliberately to crash another machine?’
The signal light burst below the Jupiter, flooding the earth with its brilliant glare, and the trap was exposed to view. As Biggles had said, a machine trusting to the flares must have crashed to destruction in the Arctic Airways hangar. However, Biggles made no further remarks, but concentrated his attention on bringing the Jupiter down safely, and he succeeded in doing. Taxi-ing swiftly up to the shed, he opened the cabin door and jumped down, looking sharply to left and right. Not a soul was in sight. And the flares had disappeared.
Without speaking they got the machine safely into the hangar, but they did not leave it.
‘Where do you usually sleep, Wilks?’ asked Biggles, as he took off his cap.
‘I used to sleep in my hut, in a room next to the office; but lately, as I told you in my letter, I have been sleeping in the hangar. It isn’t safe to leave the machine.’
‘I can well believe that,’ answered Biggles, nodding thoughtfully. ‘Very well, we’ll fix up quarters in the hangar, then the machine will always be in sight. Where’s the pantry? I’m hungry.’
‘Not so hungry as I am,’ replied Wilks. ‘I’ve had precious little to eat for the last three days. By gosh! —that reminds me—I’m almost out of stores. Is there any food left in your machine?’
‘Very little except hard tack—emergency stuff—and I don’t fancy that. In any case, I don’t feel like touching it except in real emergency. You know what happens when you do that. When the emergency arises you go to the locker and find it empty. Where do you usually get your food supplies?’
‘At the stores down in the village.’
‘Whereabouts?’
‘In the main street. There’s only one place where you can get grub—the Three Star Saloon.’
‘Then I’ll go down and lay in a stock. We can’t keep running up and down every day. Will you be all right here alone?’
‘Why not? I’ve had to handle things by myself for a long time.’
‘Good enough. Then I’ll take Ginger with me to help carry the parcels. You get your cooking-things out and fix up sleeping-quarters while we’re away. We shan’t be long. After we’ve had a bite we’ll have a talk about the position.’
* * *
1 Dead stick. A flying expression meaning that the propeller is not revolving.
At the Three Star Saloon
IT WAS A WALK of about two miles to the village of Fort Beaver, most of the way being across rough uncultivated country, from which in many places rugged masses of limestone rose up, worn by the storms of ages into fantastic shapes. Still, there was no risk of losing the way, for a vague footpath wound through the boulders towards the occasional yellow lights that glowed feebly from the log or frame huts which for the most part formed the houses.
Nor was there any mistaking the Three Star Saloon, a long building of rough-hewn timber, for three lanterns hung at regular intervals above the broad platform which ran along in front of it, enabling the sign to be read.
Without any misgivings Biggles pushed open the door and went inside. He had not given a thought to the possibility of McBain being there—not that he would have stayed away on that account. Nor did he imagine that the bar would be so well attended as it was. The loud buzz of conversation that greeted the ears of the two airmen as they walked in came, therefore, as a mild surprise.
The room was lighted by several paraffin lamps, mostly of the hanging sort, around which eddied a mist of rank tobacco smoke that set Ginger coughing. Along the entire length of one side ran a counter, or bar, one half of which was devoted to the serving of drinks, and the other half to dry goods—mostly foodstuffs.
Biggles’s eyes wandered over the occupants without particular interest. He did not expect to know anyone, nor was he anxious to make new acquaintanceships, for he had no intention of staying. As far as he was concerned the shop happened to be a bar, and his one idea was to get what he came for and depart in the shortest possible time.
With this object in view he started walking down the saloon towards the far end, which, as it so happened, was the section devoted to the sale of foot and he was nearly half-way down before he saw McBain, with the other members of his gang, sitting at a table near one of the two circular stoves which heated the room. He noticed that McBain saw him at the same time, and his conversation ended abruptly. However, Biggles took no notice, but went on until he came to that part of the bar where the counter merged with the food department.
‘Give it a name, stranger,’ said the barman, who, judging by his clothes, was also the proprietor.
Biggles hesitated for a moment. ‘As a matter of fact, boss, I didn’t come in for a drink,’ he answered in a friendly tone. ‘I came in to get a supply of grub, but since you mention it I feel that a drop of something hot would not come amiss while I have a look round to see what you can supply in the food line. Have you got any beef extract or malted milk?’
‘Both, though we don’t get much call for it,’ grinned the proprietor.
‘Then we’ll help to clear your stock. I’ll have a Bovril; you can give me a packet of biscuits to munch with it. What about you, Ginger?’
‘I’ll have some malted milk,’ decided Ginger.
The barman nodded and set about preparing the drinks, while Biggles took an old envelope from his pocket and started jotting down selected items from the things he saw exposed for sale—bread, biscuits, cheese, corned
beef, tinned salmon, sardines, dried beans, and the like. By the time the barman returned with the drinks he had made a fairly lengthy list, and this he handed over for the things to be put together while he had his drink.
Ginger picked up his cup of malted milk, and realizing that there would be some minutes to wait, took it across to a vacant seat near the second stove; that is to say, the one other than that at which McBain and his company were sitting. The two stoves were some eight or ten yards apart. Actually, he did not see McBain until he was on the way to the stove, or it is possible that he would not have left Biggles; but having started he saw no reason for turning back, so he went on to the seat.
Several men, trappers or prospectors judging from their clothes, were sitting near the stove engaged in conversation, but he paid no attention to them, beyond glancing at them curiously, until a name reached his ears. The name was Wilkinson—pronounced Wilkson by the man who had uttered it.
He was an old man, certainly not less than sixty years of age, and he was dressed in the traditional garb of a prospector—thick boots, woollen trousers, and fur jacket. On the back of his head was balanced precariously an ancient and battered hat of the Stetson type. Around his neck was wound a white-spotted red scarf, held together in front—incongruously, Ginger thought—with an opal-headed tie-pin.
‘Ay, trust Angus to think o’ somethin’ for me to do,’ continued the old man in a wheezy voice, as Ginger regarded him with sudden interest. ‘I’m pullin’ out agin termorrer, and I near forgot. “If yer see that feller Wilkson,” ses Angus, “tell ‘im I forgot to give ‘im the transfer, but I’ve still got it.” Maybe ‘e’ll need it and maybe ‘e won’t, so I guess I’ve got to trail across to that pesky airydrome.’
‘Leave word ‘ere, Mose,’ went on one of the others. ‘There ain’t no call for you to go across to Wilkson yourself. One of us is bound to see ‘im sometime, and we’ll pass word on about the transfer.’
