The Mystery of Rainbow Gulch

by Norvin Pallas

  Awakening quite early, Ted slipped downstairs and returned to his room with a magazine he had noticed earlier. It contained an article on prospecting from the air, and he settled down to read it. He learned a number of things he had not known before: that a measurement of the earth’s magnetism would often disclose the presence of iron ore, and—where the reading was low—other minerals; that a counter to measure radioactivity was not only useful for locating radioactive materials, but low readings would also be useful for finding other things which might shield the earth’s natural radiation; that electrical conduction, as in a military mine detector, was also widely used. Nelson awakened as he was nearly finished, and he explained some of the things he had uncovered.

  “You think that plane was on a prospecting flight, Ted?”

  “It might have been. Have you got a better idea? Maybe it was the hermit that put the idea in my head. There is such a contrast between the way he is probably prospecting, and the way it would be done with an airplane.”

  “Now wait a minute, Ted. If that plane was making a prospecting sweep, it might have had some valuable equipment on board. If a passenger survived the crash, and he left the plane carrying something very heavy with him, could it have been some of this special equipment you are talking about?”

  “That was what I was considering,” said Ted. “He might have had some important reason for this, and not only that the equipment was valuable because in that case he could have left it there until he was rescued. Maybe this equipment would reveal what he was after, and that was why he felt it necessary to conceal it. I don’t know much about these devices, but I suppose they come in various sizes, and in various degrees of sensitivity.”

  There was a brooding silence for a few moments, until Nelson said: “You don’t seem very sure of it, Ted.”

  “No, I can see some objections. I’m not sure that after a crash like that he could expect secrecy any longer. It was certain that he would be questioned and his activities investigated. What good would it do to remove some of the equipment, especially since the photographs remained?”

  “Still the fact is that he hasn’t been found, and he hasn’t been questioned, Ted, so maybe he was right after all.”

  “Yes, that’s so. You’d think that the natural reaction of a man who had escaped an airplane crash would be to stay there and await rescue, but he didn’t. There was some reason why he had to get away from the plane before he was found.”

  “He may have been dazed by the crash, Ted, and not quite certain what he was doing. Or he may have been injured and in need of help.”

  “Still, it looks as if he did carry something away from the plane, and unless he is an extraordinarily heavy man to begin with, the thing he carried must have been heavy. I don’t see how it could have been maps or data, or anything like that, because he could simply put these in his pocket and tell his rescuers not to touch them. Under those conditions, no one legally could.”

  “Unless he was afraid of someone going through his pockets while he was unconscious.”

  “Yes, but his actions in walking away from the plane don’t suggest that he was seriously injured.”

  “Anything else, Ted?” asked Nelson, as Ted paused once more and seemed momentarily lost in deep thought.

  Ted nodded toward the magazine he had been reading. “It doesn’t seem to me that any of these instruments mentioned would have been used in quite the way this flight suggests. It appears to me that they would be used in making a wide sweep over a great amount of territory. Then if something promising was learned, the possibilities would be investigated more thoroughly on the ground. On such a preliminary flight, I doubt if there would be any great need for secrecy—planes are doing those things every day. You needn’t tell anyone else exactly where you’ve been or what you discovered.

  “This flight seems different. I don’t think it was a preliminary flight. I think it was a verifying flight, that something had previously been found, and they were now winding up the details. The flight seemed to have Sandy Hill as its objective. It suggests to me having been some sort of map-making project.”

  “Wouldn’t an aerial survey be a first step rather than a last one, Ted?”

  “Yes, a sweep over promising territory, but not over such a local objective unless something had previously been discovered or suspected. My guess is that they had found something—something valuable—and that the highest degree of secrecy was necessary. They would want to locate this thing accurately from the air, one reason being to determine whether it was on federal or privately owned land. There would be completely different procedures to follow in each case.”

  “Are you thinking of getting mixed up in mineral speculations, Ted?”

  “Not me! And for that matter, not anyone I know. You’re probably right that it would still be a speculation. Suppose they had discovered a large deposit of iron ore, for example. They couldn’t be sure how pure or how extensive it was without making a great many tests. I doubt that they could hope to make tests like that in secrecy. The normal procedure would be to lease or buy up the land, or negotiate a claim or rights with the government, and then make the tests. All that would take a lot more money than most people can afford to risk.”

  “All this still doesn’t answer the question of what the passenger carried away from the plane,” Nelson reminded him.

  “No, and I’m afraid that stumps me. I can’t even make a good guess, except that I don’t think it was equipment and I don’t think it was papers, but I’m sure it was very valuable.”

  “Ore samples, maybe?”

  “But why would they have taken those along on the plane?”

  “You getting anywhere with that code, Ted?” asked Nelson, pointing to the paper Ted had left spread out on the desk from the night before.

  “No, I don’t think I can do anything with it. I don’t believe it’s a code message. It’s a code table used to write a message. But I don’t have a message to read, so what good does it do me?”

  “It’s a funny thing for anybody to be carrying around, though, and it must belong to someone who’s been hanging around this farm—unless it fell out of that airplane!”

  Nelson finally got out of bed, and stretched as his feet touched the floor. “Going to the auction today?”

  “Oh, is that what we’re doing? Then I guess I’m going. And no remarks, Nel. If they think an auction’s exciting, then it’s exciting.”

  “No remarks,” Nelson promised.

  When they were on their way to the auction on horseback, Ted asked Bob, “Did the Frantons own their farm?”

  “I don’t know as I ever heard. Maybe they did, and that’s why there’s been all this delay in settling matters. After Mr. Franton and his wife died in that fire, it had to be determined if there were any heirs.”

  “How could they have bought the farm, if they were as poor as you say?” Nelson inquired.

  “I suppose they could have put up a small down payment and taken out a mortgage. In a way, their poverty was responsible for the fire. That very morning Mr. Franton had been in town to purchase a new part for his oil heater. Whatever he was doing to it must have been wrong.”

  There were some twenty cars parked in the farmyard, and the auction was low spirited. The stock was the first to go, and most of it was not even available to see. A farmer would simply tell what he had taken off the farm, and offer a replacement from his present stock. Then the bidding would begin, and would usually end with the farmer himself buying back his own animals.

  Like the boys, most of the spectators had come simply out of curiosity and neighborliness, rather than with any desire to bid. The furniture which was next displayed did little to enliven matters. It had been shabby to begin with, and the storage in the barn ever since the fire had not improved it.

  “Three dollars!” Bob shouted as a chair was put up, and though he intended it as a joke, it backfired, for there were no further bids, and he found himself the possessor of a larg
e easy chair which would require recovering if it was to be used.

  “What’s your mother going to say to that?” asked Nelson.

  “I know exactly what she’ll say. ‘Put it up in your room.’ Well, I need a chair, and I’m not fussy about styles.”

  A few more items were sold for small sums, though bidders were a little more wary after Bob’s experience, and a small wagon brought only fifty cents. Then the battered old car went for a hundred dollars, and the sale was over.

  “Weren’t they going to sell the farm?” asked Ted.

  “No, that wasn’t listed.” Bob motioned to the sheriff who was just passing. “Did the Frantons own this farm?”

  “Oh, no. It’s owned by Carl Manners. He bought it just a short time before the Frantons moved here.”

  “That’s queer,” Bob remarked, as the sheriff moved on. “I never heard tell that Mr. Manners had bought this place. I suppose he dealt with the absentee owners, and no one ever bothered looking up his deed. He’s kind of a secretive person, always afraid somebody’s going to find out what he’s doing. But I don’t know why he wanted a second farm when he doesn’t take care of his own.”

  “Is this very good land?” asked Ted, looking at the neglected fields.

  “Scrub,” said Bob scornfully. “I wouldn’t bother with it myself. Somebody could, though, who wanted to put a lot of time and money into it.”

  “Then how did Mr. Franton expect to make a living from it?”

  Bob shrugged. “He couldn’t. He would have failed with it, the way he failed with everything before. Maybe the farm sounded a lot better in the East than it looked after he got out here. If he expected Mr. Manners to fix things up, I think he was due for a surprise.”

  They rode back in a leisurely way toward the farm talking about many things. As they neared the farm, Bob suddenly drew up the reins on Starlight and pointed down into the dirt. Some footprints were to be seen, though they were not very legible. The boys followed along, departing from their normal trail. The prints led them toward the Fontaines’ back meadow. Here they came to an end behind a series of bushes, and there was a great deal of trampling about, as though the man had been there for quite some time.

  “Sort of looks like somebody was hiding here,” Nelson guessed.

  “Or that he was watching something,” Ted suggested.

  “If we could only find a really good footprint,” said Bob, searching about. At last he called to them from some distance away, “Hey, look here!”

  The guests rode to his side, being careful to avoid the print he had discovered. They studied it for several moments. It was pointed away from the meadow, suggesting that the man had been unable to get what he was after, and had finally left.

  “Is it my imagination,” said Nelson, perplexed, “or is that shoe really curved too much along the outside?”

  “Are these the same as the footprints you saw on Sandy Hill?” asked Bob anxiously.

  Ted looked doubtful. “They might be. They aren’t very distinct, so it’s hard to tell, but I’d say they’re about the same size.”

  “You can’t tell much about the weight of the man,” said Nelson, having dismounted to look at the print more closely. “The ground is hard, with a little layer of dust over it. What do you think about this print, Bob?”

  “Oh, I think it was probably made by José. That’s about the way he would do things. He’d come here intending to pick up something, or maybe just to look around to see if there was anything worth picking up. I imagine for some reason he was afraid to approach the farm more closely, and finally left. I’ll tell Dad about it when we get back.”

  Mr. Fontaine also believed that the footprints had been left by José.

  “He has been caught taking small things, and I’ve no doubt he hasn’t changed his habits.”

  “What was going on in the meadow, Dad, that he was afraid to come any closer?”

  “Why, the goat was tethered there, and I believe Tony was out there playing with him most of the morning. Some of the men were keeping her in sight, and I suppose that was the reason José didn’t come any closer. You’re sure those prints weren’t there very long, Bob?”

  “They couldn’t have been, or we would have ridden over some of them on our way to the Frantons’.”

  “By the way, has anyone seen Cox?” asked Mr. Fontaine. “I thought maybe he took a notion to visit the auction. I couldn’t find him when I was looking for him.”

  “No, Dad, he wasn’t there. Did you ask at the bunkhouse?”

  “I was just about to.”

  The others rode along to the bunkhouse, where Mrs. Jansen came out to meet them.

  “I haven’t seen Henry Cox around,” Mr. Fontaine informed her. “Has he been here?”

  “Yes, he was. I understand he heard that Mike was driving into town, and decided to go along. I thought he had your permission.”

  “No, I didn’t know anything about it. Of course he doesn’t need my permission for every little thing he does, as long as he gets his work done. Do you know when he’s coming back?”

  Mrs. Jansen looked mysterious. “I don’t think he’s coming back. The only luggage he had with him was that little bag, and he took that with him when he left.”

  Mr. Fontaine shrugged as though he didn’t understand, and probably didn’t much care. At the lunch table, further mention was made of Cox’s departure.

  “I’m surprised that he would leave without telling us,” Mrs. Fontaine maintained. “He was such a polite young man. And you owed him for a few days’ wages, too.”

  “Maybe he didn’t need the money,” Mr. Fontaine remarked. “He must have been working at something before this, and it certainly wasn’t farming.”

  “I saw Mr. Cox this morning,” Tony spoke up. “He took my picture. I wanted to get dressed up first, but he said it didn’t matter.”

  “How many pictures did he take, Tony?” asked Ted, his eyes narrowing.

  “Two rolls,” she answered, nonchalantly.

  “Oh, you must be mistaken,” said Bob quickly. “He wouldn’t take two rolls of pictures of you.”

  “He did, too!” she asserted. “I know, because he finished one roll, and took it out of the camera, and put in the other roll, and finished that one, too.”

  The older people exchanged puzzled glances. It was easy to understand that Cox might want a picture of Tony, as a kind of souvenir of his stay at the farm, but why would he take two rolls?

  “Well, I guess it was no crime for him to take your picture, Tony,” Mr. Fontaine remarked, trying to remove any of Tony’s doubts, though the grownups could not be so easily satisfied.

  “Two rolls! Holy cow!” said Bob under his breath.

  And Ted, who had had his suspicions of Cox before, was now even more puzzled over what Cox was up to, and wondered if they had really seen the last of the man.

  CHAPTER 10.

  FATHER WARREN’S COUNSEL

  “I’ve got several errands this afternoon, Nel. Mind if I take your car?”

  “It’s all yours,” said Nelson, handing the keys to Ted. “Sure you don’t want me along?”

  “You’re welcome to come if you want to.”

  “Not necessarily, unless you need me. I think Bob and I have about got that old tractor licked.”

  “Then stick to your grease. I’ll make out all right.”

  “You know,” Nelson offered, “I don’t think it’s so unusual that Cox should take two rolls of pictures of Tony. I’ve occasionally done that myself, when I wanted to enter a picture in a contest, or something like that, and wanted to be sure that I got the best possible picture of my subject.”

  “That’s right, but it does show something more than just a casual interest, doesn’t it?”

  “Undoubtedly. What do you think, Ted? Could this Henry Cox be a newspaperman?”

  “I’d thought of that. He’s certainly got one of the newspaperman’s outstanding traits: curiosity. But I don’t really think so. Usually a n
ewspaperman lets everybody know what he is, and then goes around asking questions of anyone in sight. Cox acts as though he knows more than he’s telling, while a newspaperman usually asks more than he knows.”

  Ted settled himself for a long drive. His destination was the city of Monroe, the county seat where the daily paper was published. If he was to help Mr. Fontaine, he felt it important to know just what kind of publicity Tony’s story had received at the time . . . and while he was about it, he intended to fish around for a few other things, too.

  Though the road was not heavily traveled, he got stuck behind a slow-moving drilling rig, and was unable to pass it for many miles. Probably intended for local use, Ted thought, or it would be traveling the main highways rather than one of these back roads. But he passed it eventually, and made better time after that.

  At the newspaper office, he introduced himself to the editor, who had heard of Mr. Dobson’s reputation.

  “Is this a story for you, Ted?”

  “No, I don’t think so. I’m here on behalf of friends,” and he went on to describe the incident of Tony’s appearance.

  “I’ll turn you over to one of my assistants, and you can look up the back files. But I remember the story quite well. The situation is still the same, then? We run a story, and then if nothing new develops we drop it, and perhaps never hear about it again.”

  “Do you remember what sort of response that story received?”

  “Oh, we got a few dozen letters, I think, some expressing sympathy, some asking questions or offering tips. Anything that looked at all promising we turned over to the police, but nothing ever came of it.”

  “Then I take it the story wasn’t very widely publicized.”

  “No, I don’t believe so. It would depend on each individual editor and how crowded his space was for that particular day. And you know enough about newspapers to know it’s usually pretty crowded. We sometimes get complaints from readers, ‘Look at all the space you’re giving to junk,’ but somebody wants to read that ‘junk’ or we wouldn’t be publishing it.”