Biggles Flies North

by W E Johns

  ‘They weren’t opened till they got to Edmonton,’ returned the constable curtly.

  ‘I see. And what was in them?’

  ‘Lead.’

  ‘Oh!’

  ‘The dust was taken out of those boxes between Moose Creek and Edmonton.’

  In a flash Biggles understood the meaning of McBain’s detour. The gold had been taken out of the boxes at the cabin, and lead substituted. There was one thing he did not understand, though, and this for the time being remained a mystery.

  ‘I thought the boxes were always sealed at Moose Creek?’

  ‘Quite right,’ returned the constable. ‘When these boxes were taken out of McBain’s machine the seals were intact, or I should have noticed it.’

  ‘If the seals were unbroken, then lead, not gold, must have been put into the boxes in the first instance.’

  ‘Any reason why the Moose Creek outfit should send out a parcel of lead?’

  ‘None that I can think of.’

  ‘Nor me.’

  ‘I don’t see how or where we could have got near it,’ protested Biggles.

  ‘You’re the only other outfit besides McBain’s that was at Moose Creek yesterday—and here. That being so you’re under suspicion till the dust’s found,’ said Delaney firmly.

  While he had been speaking he had walked into the office, his keen eyes scrutinizing the walls, floor, and furniture. He came striding towards a cupboard when he stopped dead in his tracks, in the middle of a small rug. He stamped. The boards rang hollow. In a flash he had bent down and whipped the rug aside, disclosing the trap-door of Wilks’s secret locker.

  ‘Hello, what’s this?’ he exclaimed.

  Biggles remembered Mose’s gold, which had temporarily escaped his memory. He saw their danger instantly, and hastened to try to rectify the oversight, but his very haste was in itself suspicious.

  ‘Oh, yes—I forgot—there is some gold in there,’ he said quickly.

  Delaney started. His eyes hardened and he reached for his revolver. ‘Oh, yeah? Just remembered it, eh?’

  ‘Believe it or not, but that’s the truth.’

  ‘A pile o’ gold’s the sort of thing you easily forget—huh?’

  ‘I was waiting for you to come along to tell you about it,’ said Biggles, realizing with dismay how thin the story sounded.

  The constable knelt down, lifted the trap aside, put his hand into the aperture and lifted out a heavy doeskin bag. As he stared at it, turning it round and round, his whole manner became tense. Suddenly he tossed the bag on to the table and, whipping out his revolver, covered the three airmen menacingly. ‘So that’s it, eh?’ he snarled. ‘You dirty skunks! Stand still.’

  ‘Why, that’s the sort of poke old Mose allus used,’ cried McBain. ‘He allus used doeskin.’

  ‘Yes, and his initials are on it,’ grated Delaney. ‘Now we know who killed Mose—and why. This isn’t the dust I was looking for—but it’ll suit me better than the other.’

  ‘Just a minute, Delaney, you’ve got this all wrong,’ protested Biggles desperately. ‘Don’t jump to conclusions. I know how this must look to you—naturally; but you’re making a mistake. I can explain it.’

  ‘You wouldn’t have the nerve to suggest that this isn’t Mose’s poke, I reckon?’

  ‘Of course not. We were going to give it to you to hand over to his next-of-kin—he has a daughter—’

  McBain burst into a roar of laughter. ‘By thunder, that’s a good one! It’s your turn to tell one, Delaney.’

  The constable’s lips were dragged down at the corners. ‘So you killed an old man for his poke, did you?’ he sneered.

  ‘angus Stirling gave us that gold yesterday when we told him that Mose was dead,’ said Biggles quietly.

  ‘What’s this? You trying to tell me that you saw Angus yesterday?’

  ‘I am telling you.’

  ‘Oh—shut up. He’s on Eskimo Island, and he’s froze in.’

  ‘He may be now, but he wasn’t yesterday.’

  As he spoke Biggles realized with increasing horror just what the fact of Angus being frozen in was likely to mean to them. Not for six months would it be possible to make contact with him. As a witness he might as well not exist. The only scrap of evidence they had in support of their story was the transfer, and even so there was nothing to prove that Angus had given it to them with his own hands.

  Delaney jerked his head towards the door. ‘Get going,’ he said.

  ‘Where to?’ asked Biggles.

  ‘You’ll see,’ was the harsh reply. ‘We’ve got a place for your sort.’

  ‘But —’

  ‘Cut it out. Anything you’ve got to say you’d better save for the court.’

  ‘Wait a minute. There’s another one of ‘em,’ cried McBain suddenly. ‘Where’s the kid?’

  As if in answer, the Jupiter’s engines burst into life.

  Delaney cursed and dashed outside, but the big machine was already on the move. ‘Stop!’ he yelled. Seeing that his words had no effect, he blazed away with his revolver, McBain and Ferroni joining in with theirs.

  ‘You kill that kid and it will be the worst day’s work you’ve ever done!’ shouted Biggles furiously. In the swift sequence of events he had forgotten about Ginger and his coffee-making. To his heartfelt relief he saw the Jupiter run across the aerodrome untouched. A faint smile played about the corners of his mouth as he watched it climb into the air. ‘You’ll have a job to catch him now,’ he told Delaney, with savage satisfaction.

  The constable whirled round furiously. ‘You won’t crow so loud presently,’ he snapped.

  ‘Nor, I fancy, will you,’ replied Biggles, with a good deal more confidence than he felt.

  ‘That’s enough. March,’ ordered Delaney. ‘Any one of you who tries to make a break won’t know what hits him.’

  Ginger Acts

  WHEN GINGER had gone through to the rear of the hangar to make the coffee he had little reason to suspect the desperate events that were soon to follow. As it was, he whistled softly under his breath as he waited for the pot to boil.

  There is an old oft-used proverb to the effect that a watched pot never boils and, while this may not be literally true, there is no doubt that whoever first coined the expression had good reason for it. So it was with Ginger. Impatient to return to the others, he was about to pump more pressure into the Primus stove when the sound of voices reached his ears. From the loud and concise tones he realized that visitors had arrived, and unfriendly ones at that. With pardonable curiosity he decided to find out who it was; meanwhile the pot could take its own time to come to the boil.

  He did not go round to the front of the office. Had he done so, this story would certainly have ended differently. A few paces from where he stood a small square window allowed light to enter the back of the office, and towards this he made his way.

  A description of the scene which met his astonished eyes is unnecessary. He was just in time to hear Delaney accuse Biggles of the murder of the old prospector. And, looking from the tense faces of his friends to the grim countenance of the constable, he realized the desperate nature of the trap into which they had unwittingly fallen. He forgot all about the coffee. The trend of the conversation, which he could hear distinctly, banished everything from his mind except the dire necessity for immediate action. While he had his freedom he might be able to do something. Just what he hoped to achieve he did not know; he had no time to think about it; he only knew that if all four of them were put behind prison bars anything could happen, and for this reason he decided to avoid arrest if this were possible. But how?

  On the spur of the moment he could think only of the machine. If he could get it into the air he would be safe—anyway, safer than in any hiding-place on the ground. He lingered only long enough to assure himself that Biggles and the others were, in fact, under arrest; then, dropping everything, he retraced his steps to the rear of the hangar and so reached the machine, which, in accordance with t
heir usual custom, during the hours of daylight, had been left on the tarmac.

  Working quietly and methodically, he made his preparations for a swift take-off. He realized that there would be no time to run up the engines; once they were started the noise would bring Delaney out with a rush—as we know was the case.

  The whir of the self-starter was the first sound that broke the comparative silence, to be followed almost at once by the choking back-fire of the engines as the propeller jerked into life. With the left wheel braked hard, Ginger slowly opened the throttle. The nose of the big machine swung round until it was facing the open turf. With both wheels free he risked a glance at the office, determined to remain where he was as long as possible in order to reduce the risks of taking off with cold engines; but the sight of Delaney racing towards him settled the matter. Picking a mark on the far side of the aerodrome in order to hold the machine straight, he pushed the throttle wide open. He heard the whang of a bullet somewhere behind him, but he paid no heed to it; indeed, there was nothing he could do now but hold straight on.

  His heart missed a beat as the port engine signified its disapproval of this treatment by coughing twice in quick succession; but then it picked up and the Jupiter bored up into the still air.

  At a thousand feet he turned, wondering which way to go. Looking down, he could see the little group outside the office staring up at him; watching, he saw Biggles wave, and he derived some comfort from the gesture, for he was by no means sure that he had done the right thing.

  Still circling, and climbing steadily for height, he switched his thoughts to the immediate future. Where ought he to go? What ought he to do for the best? It occured to him to go to Edmonton, or some other big town, and there lay the whole story before some important official—if he could find one; but he soon dismissed this plan as too risky. He thought of Angus. If only he could get hold of Angus, and fly him back, the Scotsman’s story would confirm their own; then he remembered the snow. He might be able to reach the shack; he might even be able to land without hurting himself or seriously damaging the machine; but once the wheels had sunk into the deep snow no power on earth could get the Jupiter off again. He could see no point in going to Moose Creek, even if the snow had not yet reached there. Canwell would be unable to do anything even if he was willing to come back to Fort Beaver, which did not seem likely.

  Where else could he go with any hope of finding evidence to bear out the story which he imagined Biggles would tell—the true story?

  He remembered the log cabin where the Weinkel had landed on its way down from Moose Creek Thinking about it, he realized that in some way it was connected with the gang—possibly a hide-away in an emergency should their plans miscarry. It had appeared deserted when last he had seen it. It had this advantage; it was not far away. Provided he could locate it, for he was by no means confident that he could, forty minutes should be ample time for him to reach it. There was just a chance that he might find something there: a clue, perhaps, that would lead to something more important. Anyway, he decided, there was no harm in trying. It was better than submitting quietly to arrest at Fort Beaver.

  Satisfied that he was at least doing his best, he swung the Jupiter round until its nose pointed to the north-west, the direction of the cabin.

  Looking down, he observed the sterile desolation of the country below and was conscious suddenly of the loneliness. Not without alarm he passed over several patches of fresh snow; however, the sky was fairly clear except to the far north, where a heavy indigo belt of cloud promised more snow in the near future.

  He picked up a landmark which he recognized, a diamond-shaped wood, and flew on with more assurance, watching for others. Soon afterwards a silver gleam, almost on the horizon, caught his eye, and presently he made it out to be the lake on a bank of which the log cabin was situated.

  Ginger flew on, feeling that it was no use doing anything else; for, if any one was below, the roar of the Jupiter’s engines would make any attempt at concealment futile. He picked out the cabin; it looked pathetically forlorn, he thought, in its lonely surroundings; still, he was relieved to see that there was no sign of movement near it.

  Cutting the engines, he began gliding down, passing, on his way, the higher ground where they had landed while they were trailing the Weinkel. A sleek animal was running low along the edge of the wood. As he got lower he realized it was a wolf. Presently it turned into the timber and was lost to sight. For a moment or two he wondered if it were better to land where they had landed on the previous day, or to go on to where the Weinkel had come on the same occasion. However, there seemed to be no point in giving himself an unnecessary walk, apart from which he did not like the idea of walking about in wolf country. True, he had an automatic in his pocket, but he preferred to avoid using it as long as possible. For these reasons he went on to the cabin, which he was now seeing at close quarters for the first time.

  If the cabin was McBain’s, and presumably it was, since he had called there, the reason for the selection of the site—apart from its isolation—was at once apparent. On the southern side stretched a wide expanse of open prairie land, large enough for any type of aeroplane to land on in any sort of weather. He noted this subconsciously as he lowered his wheels and glided towards it; actually, he was more than a little concerned with putting the machine down safely, for a broken undercarriage at this stage was the very last thing he wanted.

  With his nerves braced with anxiety he flattened out for the landing; but he need not have worried: the wheels rumbled for a moment, the tail dropped, and the machine came to rest about a hundred yards from the cabin, which he now saw was an almost new, well-constructed building.

  He did not bother to taxi up to it. There was no real need to do so. Switching off the engines, he glanced round to make sure that everything was in order, then he opened the door and jumped out. For a moment or two he stood watching the building keenly, feeling certain that if any one had been there he would by this time have shown himself. However, as there was no sign of life, he started walking briskly towards it.

  He was still about twenty yards away when a sudden noise pulled him up short. He stood quite still, his eyes running over the building, seeking the cause of the sound, which was very slight, and like the creaking of a tight door or a window being opened. Seeing nothing, he concluded that the sound—if, indeed, he had actually heard anything —was a natural one, such as a piece of loose board giving way, or two branches rubbing together in the belt of fir which began just beyond the but and skirted the northern edge of the lake.

  He was about to move forward again when a shadow flitted across the one window that faced in his direction. This time he knew that there was no mistake; some one was in the cabin. And an instant later all doubt was removed when the light flashed on the window as it was opened. He had no time to think. Regretting his rashness, he looked swiftly around for cover, for the furtive manner in which the window had been opened was at once suggestive of danger; but there was nothing, not even a bush behind which he might hide.

  He opened his mouth to call a greeting—but the sound did not reach his lips. Still staring at the window, he saw something emerging; a split second later he realized what it was—a rifle barrel. He braced his muscles to jump aside, but such movement as he made was still little more than an impulse when the rifle cracked. For a brief instant he swayed on his feet. Then he crashed forward on his face and lay still.

  The cabin door was thrown open and an Indian, a smoking rifle in his hands and a leer of triumph on his face, strode towards the motionless figure with cat-like tread. A few paces away he halted and looked carefully around, presumably to make sure that there had been no witness of what had transpired; then, as if satisfied that all was well, he leaned his rifle against a tree stump, and, drawing a short curved knife from his belt, advanced confidently towards his victim, who was still lying as he had fallen. With his lips parted in a savage smile, the Indian bent over Ginger.

  A New
Peril

  WHILE THESE EVENTS were in progress, Biggles and his two companions had been marched by Delaney towards Fort Beaver. It was a grim journey. Algy raged. Wilks strode along, glowering his annoyance. Biggles was irritated, but endeavoured to preserve a calm front. The fact of the matter was, not one of them realized the real seriousness of their position. They were angry at being taken to the jail like common felons, but this, at the worst, would only be temporary. It had not yet occurred to them that they might not be able to prove their innocence of the crime for which they had been arrested. Nor did they imagine it possible that they would be tried by any but an official court of law.

  Approaching Fort Beaver, McBain hurried on ahead. Biggles attached no special significance to this at the time, but before very long he realized what the man’s purpose had been. Except for this, things might have turned out differently.

  The first indication of McBain’s errand—although this was not made apparent until some minutes later—occurred while the prisoners were still some distance from the town. Several men appeared, hurrying towards them in a manner that was definitely hostile, if not openly threatening. Muttering and casting malevolent glances at the prisoners, they joined the party. Others appeared, with a sprinkling of slatternly-looking women amongst them. At first vague murmurings were heard; then insults and imprecations were thrown at the three airmen.

  Accustomed to civilized administration of justice, Biggles was amazed. He had not supposed that they would be condemned without a fair trial. He noticed that Delaney looked worried, and remarked on it.

  ‘You keep close to me; I don’t like the look of things.’ said the constable. ‘I’d turn back if it wasn’t too late. If this crowd decides to take things into their own hands you won’t stand a dog’s chance. I don’t know what’s set ‘em off like this.’