by W E Johns
They had proceeded a little way into the gloomy ravine when Ginger let out a sudden cry. ‘Tracks! ‘ he shouted excitedly. ‘This must be the place!’
They hurried towards a long straight mark in the snow, but when they reached it Biggles stopped suddenly. There were two tracks, one wider than the other. ‘They weren’t made by human beings,’ he said firmly. ‘I’ve got it. Those two bears we saw must have come this way.’
Ginger’s face fell. ‘Confound it,’ he muttered, ‘I thought we’d struck lucky at last. Hello! What’s that?’ He looked ahead at a tiny moving object that was floating slowly downward in the still air in front of him. It was not unlike a small grey feather.
‘Snow,’ said Biggles, grimly. ‘That’s the first flake. We’ve got to find Angus pretty soon—or else—’
‘How about shouting?’ suggested Ginger. ‘I should think sound would carry a long way in a place like this.’
‘We can try it,’ agreed Biggles. ‘I think this will be better than shouting, though.’ He put his hand in his pocket and took out his automatic. Pointing the muzzle in the air, he pulled the trigger three times at equal intervals.
Ginger flinched as the shots crashed out, reverberating again and again between the towering rock walls. The noise was more like a salvo of artillery fire than mere pistol reports. ‘Gosh!’ he murmured in an awestruck voice, as the echoes finally rolled away to silence. ‘What a din! If Angus is within fifty miles I should think he’ll hear that.’
Biggles smiled. ‘A little hectic, wasn’t it?’ he agreed. ‘The question is, do we go on or do we wait here?’
‘We’d better go on a bit,’ suggested Ginger. ‘If he comes here he’ll see our tracks and follow us. The trouble is, even if he showed a light it is doubtful if we should see it down here in the bottom of this gully.’
They moved on again, pausing from time to time to listen.
They had covered perhaps a hundred yards in this way, with big flakes of snow falling regularly, when Ginger suddenly pulled up short. ‘There’s something moving ahead,’ he said quietly.
‘I can see it,’ came the swift answer. ‘Stand fast. It’s a bear. He’s coming this way—following the tracks of the others. Don’t shoot whatever you do. Gosh, what a monster! He must be the father of that cub we saw. Here, let’s get over to one side; he may go past. If he comes for us then we shall have to use our pistols—not that they’ll be much use against that brute.’
Dropping their loads, they both ran as fast as they could towards the side of the ravine, giving free passage to the bear, which was following the tracks down the middle, snuffling and grunting to itself as it ambled along without any great haste. When the airmen could get no farther on account of the cliff, they turned to watch.
The bear, an enormous shaggy brute that looked grey in the half-light, snuffled along until it came to the place where the two airmen had stood. For a moment there seemed to be a chance that it would go on, but the human taint seemed to upset it, for it sat up on its haunches and looked around. After a moment or two spent like this, during which time it did not appear to see the airmen crouching against the cliff, it dropped on to all fours again and began following their tracks towards where they waited breathlessly. It moved hesitatingly, grunting and snuffling in the footmarks, occasionally stopping to sit up and look around in a manner which, in a small animal, might have been funny. But a full-grown polar bear is a very large animal, and neither Biggles nor Ginger saw any humour in the situation as the huge beast slowly drew near to them.
Then, suddenly, during one of its sitting-up periods, it saw them. Instantly it raised itself on its hind legs and let out a deep snarling grunt.
‘Look out, he’s coming!’ jerked out Biggles. ‘It’s no use running. Wait until he gets close and then make every shot tell.’
With his heart hammering against his ribs, Ginger whipped out his automatic and waited. The pistol seemed a futile weapon against such a great beast, but it was all he had.
When the bear was about twenty yards away Biggles let out a yell, which caused it to pull up dead, emitting a rumbling growl deep in its throat. Then, with its head held low and muzzle thrust forward, it came on again.
Biggles took a pace to the right. ‘Keep to the other side of it,’ he jerked out.
As the words left his lips the beast rose up on its hind legs and ran forward in a stumbling charge. Biggles fired, and a choking grunt told them that the bullet had found its mark.
But it did nothing to stop the beast’s progress. At a distance of five or six yards Biggles fired again, at which the animal let out a roar and turned to bite at the place where the shot had struck. But its halt was only momentary, for with a roar of fury it darted forward again.
Biggles side-stepped and blazed point-blank at the pointed head, but without stopping its berserk progress. Then, in his haste to step aside, he slipped and measured his length in the snow. In a flash the bear was over him.
To Ginger the moment was one of stark panic. His one conscious thought was that he must save Biggles. Hardly knowing what he was doing, he rushed up to the bear and, thrusting the muzzle of the pistol into the thick fur behind the animal’s ear, pulled the trigger. The next instant he was swept off his feet as the bear turned on its new aggressor; a hairy paw caught him a sweeping blow on the shoulder and he went over backwards, the pistol flying out of his hand as he fell. A sickening stench of bear filled his nostrils. A roaring report almost deafened him. Then a great weight seemed to settle on his body, crushing the life out of him. He felt himself being pressed farther and farther into the snow, but he still fought with the panic of despair. Something seized him by the arm and he let out a scream, thinking that it was the bear’s jaws. Then the scene seemed to change and he scrambled to his feet, panting and muttering incoherently.
‘Ach, now! Take it easy,’ said a strange voice in a strong Scots accent.
Ginger stared at a short, broad-shouldered figure, with a rifle in the crook of its arm, that suddenly appeared in front of him. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Biggles picking himself up out of the snow. Then he understood.
‘Are you Angus Stirling?’ he blurted out.
‘Ay, mon, that’s me name,’ was the casual reply. ‘And what might ye be doin’ in these parts, if I may ask?’
Ginger rubbed his shoulder ruefully. ‘We were looking for you,’ he said, thinking how silly the answer sounded. ‘Did you shoot this brute?’ he went on, pointing to the body of the bear.
‘I did so,’ replied Angus. ‘’Twas about time, too, I reckon.’ Beyond that the bear did not appear to interest him. ‘And what might your name be?’ he inquired.
‘Let’s go to your shack and I’ll tell you all about it,’ put in Biggles.
‘Ay, mebbe that’d be best,’ agreed Angus, and, turning, led the way up the ravine.
An Unpleasant Shock
IT WAS NOT FAR to the old Scotsman’s cabin, which was situated on the side of a hill which faced south, for which reason it had been seen by the airmen out on the icefield when he had opened the door to bring in some peat for the fire. He told them that he was just going to sleep when he heard the three shots fired by Biggles, and three shots at equal intervals being a universal summons for help, he had at once set off expecting to find Mose, even though it was early for him to return.
After they had shaken the snow from their clothes, Biggles asked the question that was uppermost in his mind. ‘What about the weather?’ he said. ‘Is the snow going to keep on?’
Angus threw some lumps of peat—the only fuel available—into his stove before he replied. ‘It might only be an early flurry, and stop again presently, or it may be the real fall,’ he said.
‘What’s your opinion?’ asked Biggles.
‘I ain’t got none; and it would be a wise man as ‘ad any in these parts,’ was the non-committal reply.
‘If it’s the real fall—what then?’ inquired Biggles.
‘We shall all be dead
afore the break-up,’ returned Angus with disconcerting frankness.
‘We’ve got some food out yonder,’ Biggles told him.
‘Eh, mon, if this is the big snow it’ll be buried afore morning. ‘Twouldn’t be no use thinkin o’ fetchin’ it.’
‘And there wouldn’t be enough here without it to last us till spring?’
‘Not half enough,’ said the old man calmly. ‘Where’s Mose? Did he tell you I was here? What did you come up here for, anyway?’
‘I’m coming to that,’ replied Biggles, realizing that in his anxiety to try to discover what the weather was likely to do, he had told Angus nothing about his mission. For another moment or two he hesitated, wondering how to begin.
‘I’ve got some bad news for you, Angus,’ he said at last. The Scotsman threw him a sidelong glance.
‘Hm?’
‘Mose won’t be coming back.’
‘That means he’s dead.’
Biggles nodded. ‘Quite right. Mose is dead.’
‘How did it happen?’
‘He was murdered.’
Angus started. ‘Got drunk, I reckon, and talked about —talked too much.’
Biggles noted how the old man checked himself and wondered why. ‘No,’ he said. ‘At least, I only saw him once, and he was sober enough then.’ And thereafter he told the whole story; how Ginger overheard him inquiring for Wilks and the events that followed. This involved, naturally, an explanation of the state of affairs at the aerodrome.
‘You reckon Brindle done the killin’?’ put in the old man shrewdly, when Biggles had finished.
‘I’m pretty sure of it,’ replied Biggles. ‘But that doesn’t mean that I could prove it,’ he added.
‘So you aimed to bring up the grub and get the transfer at the same time?’
‘That’s it.’
‘What happened? How come you to be walking?’
Biggles had to disclose the incident of the air attack by Sarton—not that he had any desire to conceal the fact that he and Ginger had been responsible for the death of Sarton and Chicot.
When he had finished the old man stared at the stove for a long time in silence. ‘I reckon you’re tellin’ the truth,’ he said at last. ‘I know Brindle. He’s bad medicine. Poor old Mose. I never reckoned he’d go out that way. Well, it was mighty kind of yer to come up, stranger, but I guess you was just a day or two too late. You’re here, and here you’ll stop, I reckon. When the snow stops we’ll go and dig out the bear meat; that’ll last us for a bit. There’s just a chance that we might dig the grub out of the aeroplane; mebbe we could make do with that. And since you’re liable to be stoppin’, I’ll tell yer something else. Mose was a rich man.’
Biggles looked surprised. ‘He didn’t look like that to me.’
‘No? Mebbe he wouldn’t. To make my meanin’ plain, me and Mose struck it rich.’
Biggles understood then. ‘You mean you’ve found gold here?’
‘Ay, mon, dust a-plenty. A power o’ good it’s like to do us, though, now. Mose had a tidy poke here; he wouldn’t take it with him ‘cause he was afeared he might get rubbed out for it. Yet he gets rubbed out anyway. Well, it all depends on the weather now; let’s see what it’s doin’.’
Angus crossed over to the door and flung it open. Outside the world lay still and white under the fresh fall, but it was no longer snowing. Once more the stars were twinkling brightly in the cold blue dome overhead.
Biggles went past him out into the snow, and found that it was only six or eight inches deep. ‘This looks like our chance to get the grub up from the machine,’ he said. ‘We shall have to have an hour or two’s sleep first, though. We’re about all in.’
‘Ay, I can see that,’ replied Angus. ‘You take a snooze then, while I go out and fetch the bear meat. Then, if you’re willin’, we’ll go to the airyplane.’
Biggles would have preferred to have gone straight back to the machine for fear the snow started again, but there are limits to human endurance, and he was at the end of his.
Angus took some furs from a heap in the corner and threw them on the floor near the stove. ‘Make a shakedown out of these,’ he said.
Ginger followed Biggles’s example in arranging a rough bed on the floor. He threw himself down on it and was asleep in a moment, so soundly that he did not even hear Angus go out and shut the door.
When he awoke he had no idea of how long he had been asleep. It did not seem long, but he knew it must be several hours because a great pile of raw meat was stacked on the far side of the room, the remains of the polar bear. There was more than a man could carry in one load, so he realized that if Angus had made two journeys it must be the next day. Neither Biggles nor Angus were in the room, but it did not occur to him that they were far away, so he got up leisurely and went outside to look for them. Instinctively his eyes went out across the open plain that lay between the shack and the Jupiter, and he was not a little surprised to see two figures moving across it. Presently he made them out to be Biggles and Angus, and what surprised him even more was the fact that they were returning.
‘Gosh! What a time I must have been asleep,’ he muttered, realizing that the others must have made a trip to the machine. He did not waste any more time in idle conjecture, however, but built up the fire, put the kettle on, and, finding a frying pan, started to fry three large bear steaks, which were just cooked to a turn when the others came in with their loads.
After a hearty meal Angus announced his intention of making another journey to the machine. ‘It’s a bit of luck, the snow holding off like this,’ he explained, ‘and we ought to make the most of it. If it starts again it might go on for a week or more.’
The others agreed with this project, for they realized that their lives depended on their getting sufficient food in to last them through the long Arctic winter. Coats and gloves were, therefore, donned, and they set off towards the distant machine.
As they trudged in single file through the snow, with Angus leading, Ginger discovered that he had lost all count of time. With so little difference between day and night he found that he had completely lost track of how many hours or days had passed since they had left Fort Beaver. Not that it mattered. Their actions in future would be ruled by the weather, not by the clock.
Vaguely he wondered what Algy and Wilks were doing, and what they thought of their non-return. As Biggles had said, it was certain that, weather permitting, they would set off in Wilks’s machine to look for them, but there were long odds against them succeeding in locating them, with such a vast territory to cover. In any case, once the snow started again it would put an end to any idea of rescue, in which event Wilks and Algy would have to fight McBain as best they could.
The newly fallen snow appeared to have raised the temperature considerably, but it started to freeze again just as they reached the machine, a detail which would, Angus said, make their return trip easier, since it would harden the snow so that they would be able to walk on it, instead of ploughing through it as they had on the outward journey.
To Ginger’s surprise the Jupiter was not half buried under the snow as he had expected to find it, but Biggles explained the mystery. On his previous visit, while the snow was still soft, he had brushed it off the exposed surfaces of the machine, so that, on the remote chance of Algy or Wilks finding it, it would be in a condition to fly—provided of course, that it had petrol in the tanks and the bullet hole was mended.
The chances of the machine ever taking the air again seemed so slight that Ginger, although he did not say so, felt that Biggles had wasted his time. He himself thought no more about it, but set to work with the others unloading the remaining stores. This done, he was about to suggest to Biggles that they drained the crank cases of oil, which would be useful in many ways, when he heard the distant hum of an aeroplane. The sound was unmistakable, and his heart leapt when he heard it.
‘Good old Algy!’ he shouted gleefully.
Even Biggles had flushed with ex
citement. ‘A fire! he yelled. ‘Let’s get a fire going!’
They rushed into the cabin and threw out any odd scraps of packing they could find. An old map, a spare pair of gloves, and even the patching fabric went on the pile as Angus put a match to it. A tongue of orange fire leapt upwards, and in a moment the odds and ends were blazing like a beacon.
‘it should be possible to see that for fifty miles,’ declared Biggles, peering into the sky in the direction from which the sound had come. ‘There he is! There he is!’ He pointed with a quivering forefinger at a black speck that had materialized out of the dull haze concealing the southern horizon. ‘He’s seen us!’ went on Biggles gleefully. ‘I saw him turn. He’s coming—coming—’ His voice died away in a curious manner.
Ginger, staring at the fast approaching machine, knew why. It was not Wilks’s Rockheed. It was McBain’s second Weinkel that was roaring low towards them.
A One-Sided Duel
To SAY THAT Ginger was flabbergasted would be to express his feelings only mildly. He was thunderstruck. For some reason the possibility of this development had not occurred to him, although he realized now that there was just as much reason for McBain to come searching for Sarton and Chicot, as for Wilks and Algy to come looking for them.
He turned to Biggles who was still staring at the oncoming machine with an expression of mingled chagrin and disgust. ‘He was looking for Sarton, I expect,’ he muttered.
Biggles nodded thoughtfully, ‘And we were kind enough to light a fire and show him where we were,’ he murmured.
‘He may still think we’re Sarton and Chicot.’
‘If he does, he’ll realize his mistake when he gets a bit closer,’ returned Biggles bitterly. ‘Hello—see that turn? He’s spotted who we are. It will be interesting to see what he does,’ he added. ‘He’ll hardly risk landing.’
Ginger did not reply. He was watching the movements of the Weinkel with a good deal of trepidation, for he felt that whatever McBain did—assuming that he was on board —it would be unpleasant.
