Riddle of the Storm

  CHAPTER V RACING THE STORM

  While Johnny Thompson with his friends in one camp and Joyce Mills withher companions in another were seated comfortably about their fireslistening to the singing of the wind that foretold an approaching storm,Curlie Carson, who had at one time played so important a part in theirlives and might, for all they knew, yet play a stellar role in the dramaof the North into which their lives had been cast, was passing throughone of the unique experiences of his not uneventful life.

  Having watched the gray outlaw plane lose itself in the solid bank ofclouds that was a storm bearing down upon the land of eternal ice, hehad, as we have seen, chosen the safer part and, turning, had raced away.

  He had chosen what appeared to be the safest way. In this he wasinfluenced by the recollection that he bore in the fusilage of his planethe samples of pitchblende that might mean a bright future for his oldpal Johnny and his companions. But was the way he had chosen really asafe one? He was soon enough to know.

  Even as he turned, the vast gliding monster that was a storm appeared toreach out a shrouded arm to grasp him, as if enraged by the sight of avictim escaping from its grasp.

  Snow-fog gathered about him. Particles of sleet rattled like bird-shotagainst his fusilage.

  Setting his teeth hard, he tilted the plane upward; but all in vain. Theshrouded arm followed.

  Abandoning these tactics, he righted his plane to shoot straight awaytoward the south. A hundred, a hundred and twenty-five, a hundred andforty miles an hour he sped on. But the storm rode on his tail. It sethis struts singing. It fogged the glass before him. It set up a chillthat no insulation could keep out, no heat from the exhaust dispel.

  "I'll beat it!" he told himself grimly. "I must! It will last for hours.No one could land safely in such a storm. And one may not stay upforever."

  Strangely enough, even in such a time of stress his mind went on littleholidays, moments long, to wonder about many things. The "Gray Streak"?What could have happened to her? Had she gone right on through the stormand, coming out into the uncertain light of waning day, had she landedsafely on the frozen surface of some lake or had she cracked up? If shehad cracked up, would the wreck be discovered? If it were, what would itreveal? Once more he thought of master criminals, of Russian exiles andsporting young highbloods; but he found no answer.

  At other times he thought of Johnny Thompson and his problems. Johnny hadtold him of the stolen films that might mean so much to the mineralhunting world. What would come of all this? Would the thief bediscovered? Would the swift and sure punishment that belongs to thisnorthland be meted out to him? Would the rival camps come together atlast? And would there follow a bloody combat? For the sake of Joyce Millsand her heroic father, he hoped not.

  So, with his mind one moment filled with the strain of battle, the nextrelieved by restful speculation, he raced the storm.

  The brief Arctic day came to its close. He tried to imagine his friendsseated by their fire, but succeeded only in bringing to his ownconsciousness a desire for warmth and food.

  "Better the storm than that," he told himself. At once his mind wasfilled with grim pictures of the gray specter that now followed him intothe night. It was a monster spider weaving a web as great as the universeitself and at the same time reaching out one hairy leg to seize him. Itwas an octopus in a fathomless sea extending a tentacle to grasp him.

  "It will end," he told himself. "All storms have an ending."

  This, he knew to be a half truth. Arctic gales blow days and nightsthrough. He could not last. His supply of gas must become exhausted. Andthen? Grim rocks of the "Barrens" awaited them.

  "Why did we follow them?" he thought.

  Then, for the first time in all this storm he thought of Jerry. He turnedto speak to him. To his great surprise he found him fast asleep.

  Fear seized him. Jerry might not be sleeping. The cold might haveovercome him. He prodded him vigorously. Jerry opened one eye.

  "Jerry!" he shouted. "We're in one whale of a storm!"

  "Absolutely." Jerry closed the eye and once more lay back in his corner.

  "Well," Curlie thought, "there's courage for you, and confidence aplenty.If he believes I can bring him through safely, I can!"

  From that time on he felt fresh confidence. How else could he feel aboutit when Jerry, a veteran of the flying corps of the North, could sleepthrough it all?

  "And yet we are in the air. The storm is still with us. I must not growover-confident," he told himself grimly.

  One more resolve came to him in this hour of stress. "If that grayphantom of the air outrides the storm, and if it is my lot to sight heronce more I shall give chase just as I did this day."

  At that he thought of the small square of white cloth with the nameD'Arcy Arden etched in one corner.

  "Who can that person be? And why a captive?"

  But again the storm claimed his attention. It had now taken the form of agray ghost of the night. Slowly, but surely, it was wrapping its mantleabout him.

  "Nothing to do but fly into the south," he told himself as grimdetermination took possession of his soul.

  This, he found soon enough, was to prove a difficult task. The glassbefore him clouded. The gray ghost's mantle was hiding him from earth andsky. His going grew heavy. Sleet was piling, fold over fold, upon hisplane.

  "It won't be long now," he thought to himself with a groan.

  Then, with a suddenness that was startling, the gray ghost's mantleslipped away, leaving before him a gorgeous moon riding high over anearth that seemed to sleep.

  "Peace!" he said. "This is a place of peace." Then realizing how strangethat remark would seem to one who heard it, he laughed aloud.

  To one who first flies over the Arctic wastes of the far Northwest, thelandscape seems as unmarked as the sweeping blue of a landless sea. Nocities, no villages, no roads, no railways, no farmhouses, not so much asa cabin is there to guide him in his skyway wanderings. As time passes,as he flies the same route again and again, that which lies beneath himbecomes familiar. There is the river. Here it forms as an S. There itwinds like a serpent. Here it is thickly bordered by trees, there linedonly by low-growing willows. There are the lakes. Here four of them formthe eyes, nose and mouth of a human face. Here a single large lake with abroad river entering at a narrow end resembles an elephant with aprodigiously long trunk. A hundred forms two thousand feet below mark thelone birdman's way until at last he knows his route as the plowman knowshis homeward road, the seaman his shore or the Red Man his trail.

  It was even so with Curlie. He had not traveled the northern route long,but certain spots had become well marked by his keen eye.

  "Jerry!" he shouted aloud. "Jerry! We have won!"

  "Absolutely," Jerry agreed sleepily.

  "Sure we have! Look! We have outridden the storm. And see! There are thecircles of willows that border Lake Athabaska. And away over yonder is afeeble light. That's at Fort Chipewyan. Be there in twenty minutes!"

  "Absolutely." Jerry straightened up in his place.

  "Pork chops at the Chink's, Jerry," the boy went on. "Pork chops withfried potatoes and coffee and half an apple pie. What say?"

  "Absolutely, son. Absolutely."

  "And after that, old sleepy head, you'll work three hours on the motors."

  "Absolutely, son! Make it four! Can't be too sure about the blastedmotor. You really can't."

  As the skis bumped, and then bumped again on the icy surface that was thelanding field at Fort Chipewyan, Curlie's eyes strayed toward the goldenmoon as a voice seemed to whisper: "Somewhere beyond the sky there is apower that guides and guards our ways."

  All of which has nothing whatever to do with the manner in which he andJerry stowed away the Chinaman's pork chops and fried potatoes while SamKusik, the Russian Jew trader, and Tommy Wooden, the postmaster of thisfar-flung outpost, plied them with questions regarding the radium strikethat had been reported, and the g
ray outlaw plane that had stirred wildrumors in many quarters.

  "We saw the plane." Curlie laughed at their surprise and awe. "We chasedit into a storm. Did it crack up? Who knows? I doubt it. No such luck. Anhonest man meets misfortune many times; a rogue but once, and that whenhis time comes. Their time will come. And we'll do what we can to hastenit. What say, Jerry?"

  "Absolutely." Jerry gulped down a draught of hot coffee. "Absolutely,son. Absolutely."