by W E Johns
That he was right in this assumption was soon made apparent. The Weinkel banked sharply, and putting its nose down, dived at the stranded Jupiter.
For an instant longer Biggles watched it. Then he let out a warning yell. ‘Lie flat.’
Ginger flung himself down just in time. Above the bellow of the Weinkel’s engines there came the vicious chatter of a machine-gun, and the line of the bullets could easily be followed by the splinters of ice and flecks of snow that leapt into the air in line with the machine.
As it swept past Ginger clearly saw McBain himself behind the gun, which he had thrust out of the side window of the control cabin.
A stream of belligerent imprecations from Angus made Biggles turn. ‘You hit?’ he asked anxiously.
‘Och, mon, not I,’ shouted Angus. ‘If I ever get ma’ hands on that—’
‘You keep down,’ shouted Biggles, seeing that the Weinkel was coming back.
Angus’s rifle cracked as the Weinkel roared past again, cutting a trail in the snow with its gun. Some of the shots went very near the prone airmen.
‘You’ll never hit him with that,’ Biggles told Angus. ‘He’ll hit one of us in a minute if we aren’t careful. We’d better scatter.’
The third time the Weinkel hurtled past the gun was silent. Instead, a small square object crashed down near the Jupiter; it bounced over and over and came to rest very close to the machine. Biggles started forward with the idea of finding out what it was, but before he could reach it, the Weinkel, which had swung round almost on its wing tip, was coming back. A signal light cut a flaming line through the air; it struck the snow very near the square object, and a sheet of flame leapt upwards.
‘It’s petrol! ‘ yelled Biggles. ‘He threw a can of petrol with the cap off. Now he’s fired it with the pistol. He’s trying to burn the Jupiter.’
Two gallons of petrol make a considerable flame. The scene was bathed in a lurid glow, but it was soon clear that in this case, at any rate, the Jupiter would not be damaged.
Owing to the snow the petrol did not spread far, and the flame was ten yards from the machine.
Seething with impotence, Biggles told the others to get farther away in order to reduce the chances of anyone being hit. It was as well that he did so, for thrice more the Weinkel dived at them, the gun spitting. Another can of petrol was thrown down, and Ferroni, who was actually flying the machine, almost stalled as he turned slowly above the Jupiter in order to allow McBain to take careful aim.
Biggles sprang to his feet and blazed away with his automatic. It is probable that he hit the machine, for it dived away and climbed up out of pistol range. A signal flare came screaming down, but Biggles had not wasted the brief delay; running forward, he had snatched up the can, still nearly full, and carried it clear. The flare burnt itself out harmlessly in the snow.
For the next few seconds the movements of the Weinkel puzzled the watchers on the ground. The plane turned away sharply and began climbing steeply.
‘I think he’s going,’ said Biggles, rising to his feet. ‘He’s thought better of it. Maybe he was afraid of running out of petrol himself.’
‘No, that isn’t it,’ cried Ginger. ‘Look!’
Biggles followed the direction indicated. What he saw made him catch his breath sharply. ‘It’s Algy!’ he muttered hoarsely.
Heading straight towards the scene was a Rockheed Freighter, attracted, no doubt, by the signal flares.
In normal circumstances this would have given Biggles and Ginger cause for jubilation, but now they both went cold with horror, for the Weinkel was racing towards the other machine, and they both knew that whatever Algy might have in the way of weapons, he would certainly have nothing capable of competing with a machine-gun.
‘Judging by the way he flies, I don’t think Algy has seen the Weinkel,’ muttered Ginger, in a hopeless voice.
‘He’s probably got his eyes fixed on us,’ returned Biggles tersely.
Helpless, they could only stand and watch.
The affair—it could hardly be called a combat—was over even more quickly than they had imagined it would be.
The Weinkel, confident, no doubt, of its superior armament, climbed straight up under the tail of the Rockheed, which had now cut its engines and was gliding down slowly, obviously looking for a place to land. An arm appeared out of the window, waving, making it obvious that those inside the machine had not the slightest suspicion of danger.
Ginger groaned aloud in his misery.
Biggles ground his teeth. ‘What would I give for a single-seater and just one drum of ammunition—just one,’ he forced out through his set teeth.
The two machines were within a quarter of a mile of the stranded Jupiter when the end came; the horrified watchers on the ground saw the whole thing clearly. They saw the Weinkel’s side window open and the gun appear; 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. ‘Algy,’ he cried, in a voice high-pitched with anxiety. ‘Algy, old man, are y
ou 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?’
‘I 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 bad, apart from being winded. I don’t think there is much wrong with him.’
‘Snow probably broke his fall,’ returned Biggles shortly.
‘I 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, too—dead—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.’
‘I’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 swap 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.’
‘I 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.
‘Is 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?’
‘Ay.’
‘You’d rather stay for months in this forsaken place than come back to civilization?’
‘Ay, I’ll stay.’
Biggles shrugged his shoulders. ‘Well, I suppose you know 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 tak
e 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.
