It was the girl who at last broke the silence. “See!” She spoke in a voice that was mellow as the tones of a cello. “See! The light that beckons!”
As Red looked away across the surging sea he caught the gleam of a lamp that, winking and blinking, cast its beams from afar.
“The Passage Island light,” he murmured huskily. “The light that shall guide us safely when the time comes. But to-night—”
“To-night we dare not.”
Rising as if to break the spell that had been cast upon her, Berley Todd went whirling through a wild dance. A weird place for a dance. Sea gulls, wakened by this sudden commotion, circled aloft screaming. The very waves appeared to lapse into silence, a silence that was to be broken at once by such a mad onrush as threatened to seize her and drag her away into waters as black as night.
“Come!” she cried. “We must go!”
Shoving their boat off the rocks, they paddled silently back to the island shore where, after concealing their boat, they made their way cautiously through the spruce trees to Ed’s cabin, and one more steaming bowl of Mulligan stew.
The day, however, was not over. Wild adventures awaited them in the night.
As Johnny Thompson returned to Drew Lane’s room in the early evening of that day, he found himself now in a mood of high exaltation and now in one of deep depression. He felt that he had, half by good fortune and half by earnest endeavor, come close to the solution of a crime that had filled the front pages of the nation’s press for days. At the same time he found the accusing hand of Fate pointing straight at a friend.
To Johnny friendship was a sacred thing. He worshiped often at the altar of friendship. To his friends he gave his utmost in loyalty and devotion. Never until now had he asked himself the question: “What am I to do if one of these friends proves unworthy of this loyalty and devotion?” There had been no need. But now—
“There’s the matter of the jimmy bar found in the speed boat,” he told himself gloomily. “There is the shoe that made the invisible footprint on the sheet. There is the wrist-watch band studded with green stones from Isle Royale. There is that place down by the river front from which I was ejected. Ejected!” He chuckled at this. They had put him out of the place, right enough. But he had done plenty to them after that, those two bouncers. “Yes,” he sighed, “it sure looks bad!”
He was relieved to find that both Drew and Tom were away. Letting himself in by a key Drew had given him, he dropped into a chair and for a full half hour sat there alone in the dark, thinking; and those were long, long thoughts.
“After all,” he sighed, as at last he sat up in his chair, “one’s first duty is to his nation and her laws, to the whole community and not to one individual who has gone wrong.”
At this he switched on a light and began to write. When he had finished he placed on Drew Lane’s desk a concise statement of all that had come under his observation regarding the kidnaping of the Red Rover. To this he attached a single newspaper clipping. He had found this after hours of search in a humble sheet which bore the name “Mining Gazette.” This paper was published in a small city far up on the North Peninsula of Michigan. The clipping read:
MYSTERIOUS PLANE HEARD OVER ISLE ROYALEPierre LeBlanc, the head lighthouse keeper on Passage Island, four miles off Isle Royale, reports by radio this morning that late in the night he heard the drum of an airplane motor in the direction of Isle Royale. It is his belief that the plane landed in one of the bays or harbors of the island. Whether it took off later, he was unable to tell.Since the only persons on the island are a fisherman or two and a care-taker at Rock Harbor Lodge, the reason for this mysterious landing will not soon be known.
MYSTERIOUS PLANE HEARD OVER ISLE ROYALE
Pierre LeBlanc, the head lighthouse keeper on Passage Island, four miles off Isle Royale, reports by radio this morning that late in the night he heard the drum of an airplane motor in the direction of Isle Royale. It is his belief that the plane landed in one of the bays or harbors of the island. Whether it took off later, he was unable to tell.
Since the only persons on the island are a fisherman or two and a care-taker at Rock Harbor Lodge, the reason for this mysterious landing will not soon be known.
“Drew,” Johnny wrote after pinning the clipping to a sheet of paper, “this newspaper was printed the day after the Red Rover’s disappearance. I have stated all the facts as I have them, and leave you to draw your own conclusions.
“Here also is an envelope containing some shavings. Have Tom examine them. They may have been made by the knife he has been seeking.
“One thing more. I found the picture of your friend of the scar and the fiery eye in the Rogues’ Gallery. Can’t be any mistake. He is Bat Morgan. His home is in St. Louis. That is probably why you did not find him when you really wanted him.”
After scribbling “Johnny” after this note, he dropped a paper weight on it, pulled his cap down over his eyes, caught an elevator and was soon out in the cool air of night.
* * * * * * * *
“I wonder!” There was a look of longing in Berley’s eyes as she stared at Ed’s half burned out fire. “Wonder if we dare venture out into the night.”
“Why?” The scout shot her a glance.
“I was thinking of our summer home. Do you have the key?”
“Yes.”
“It would be fine if Red could see it. I—I want him to come back when summer comes.” A dreamy look overspread her face. “Good old summer time,” she murmured, “with southern breezes whispering softly, birches gleaming white in the moonlight and strange birds singing one another to sleep. Summer time—” She was singing softly now: “Good old summer time. Will you come and play with me?”
Red grinned in spite of himself. Then his face sobered as he replied huskily:
“Perhaps—if summer ever comes again for you and me.”
He had not forgotten, would not forget as long as they were on the island, that they were escaped victims of kidnapers, that those men were still about and that he carried in his pocket the magneto parts that would keep them from escaping from the island.
Why did he not cast these bits of metal into the lake where water is deep? Because he had hopes, rather wild hopes, but hopes all the same, that some one would arrive at the island who could pilot that powerful plane. He could not. Ed could not, but there were many who could. So he clung to his hopes and to the magneto parts.
“Come!” said Berley Todd, snuffing out the candle. “Come with me to the place where I have always found happiness—my summer home.”
Obeying her command, Ed strapped on one “shootin’ iron,” handed the other to the young football star, and then led the way out into the night.
The darkness at this moment was complete. Later there was to be a moon, a fact long to be remembered. With the unerring instinct of a woodsman, the scout led the way over the winding path. Berley and Red followed silently.
There were sounds in that night of darkness. Off to the right the snapping of a twig sounded like the report of a gun.
“Probably Old Uncle Ned,” the girl whispered.
And then, from Ed: “Here we are. Now for the key.”
Up a tall flight of stairs they tiptoed. Next moment they were inside some place that seemed vast and silent in that darkness.
“Wait!”
Berley moved about. There were sounds of shades being drawn.
“Now.”
A match flared. Shavings on the hearth blazed up. Soon a great fire on the wide hearth was burning freely and the place was as light as day.
They were safe enough for all that. The massive door was locked and barred. The windows were high from the ground, and all were shaded.
Red took the place in with one sweeping glance. The fireplace was immense. Up from this ran a wide chimney covered by a curious rug woven by Indians.
Before the fire were wide-seated, comfortable chairs. On the mantel stood a rustic clock made of birchwood. Berley set this going. Its cheerful tick-tock, tick-tock filled the silent place.
As Berley stole a glance at the young football star she read approval in his eyes, and was satisfied.
“Makes you think of those places you read about in English history.” His smile was good to see. “There should be a whole quarter of beef roasting over the fire, spears and armor hanging on the walls, the head of a wild boar above the mantel.
“But after all it’s great just as it is. I only wish we were here under more happy circumstances.” He dropped into the chair farthest from the blazing fire.
“We’re safe enough for the present, at least,” said Ed, lighting his pipe.
Berley Todd sent him a smile of gratitude. It was evident that for one short evening she wished to feel safe and quite at home.
Our minds are strange. One moment we may be in the dark, surrounded, we imagine, by hostile foes. Our minds are filled with all sorts of forebodings. The next we are before a blazing fire in our own home where we have known peace, and presto! all is changed; fear goes, peace comes, we know not how.
“I’m glad you like it.” Berley Todd spoke as one in a dream. “When I think of the good times we have had here, and of the trips we have planned before this fire! How good it all was!” Her voice trailed off to nothing.
Red saw from the look on her face that she was thinking: “Oh, bury me not on the lone prairee.” He wished she might forget entirely for one short hour.
“Tell me about it, those other days.” There was an unaccustomed gentleness in his tone.
“Those golden days?” Her face brightened. “How we would sit here planning by the fire! ‘To-morrow we will round the Point in the little boat and go far back into Tobin’s Harbor; back to Talman’s Island. There are wild raspberries growing round that cabin. And some great old speckled trout lie in the rocks nearby.’
“Talman’s Island!” Her voice changed. It was shot through with fear and pain. “That is the island where they were holding us prisoners, you and I. There’s another little island close by where they stayed themselves in a tumble-down cabin.
“Tell me,” again the girl changed the subject, “how did they come to get you?”
“Took me in my sleep. Rolled me up in my blankets on the Pullman and shoved me through the window. I went to sleep waiting for the train to move up and pick up the rest of the squad. Carried me down the river in the speed boat, then over to some place where they put me on the plane. Then, thunder through the night, the roar of motors, and there I was in that cabin, there on the island.
“And you?”
“It was all absurdly simple,” she sighed. “One can’t be rich and happy, it seems, these days. Perhaps no one should wish to be. I don’t know.” There was a world of questioning in her tone.
“Our home is large. The grounds that surround it are broad. I loved to walk there in the moonlight alone. Had I been the cook or the maid, I might have walked in peace. But the daughter—
“Well, two men seized me one night and carried me away in a car. I kicked out and bit and tried to scream. It did no good.”
She paused as if exhausted by the very thought of it.
“They brought me up here,” she began again, after a time. “Just as they did you. I had been in that little pen of logs a whole day before they brought you. It—it was rather terrible. But by and by it came to me that I was on Isle Royale.
“Do you know,” a faint smile played about her lips, “if I must leave this gloriously beautiful world, which of course some time I must, I’d sort of like to be on Isle Royale when that day comes. It wouldn’t be so hard, the parting. And somehow I feel that, after all, it’s just passing from beauty to more beauty.”
For a long time after that there was silence in the room. Only the ceaseless rush of waters on the shore, and the friendly tick-tock of the clock disturbed the stillness of the night.
“They wanted you to sign a paper,” Red suggested after a time.
“The kidnapers? Yes, they did. Wanted me to say I was in great distress. Wanted me to beg my father to give them money, twenty thousand dollars, to save my life.”
“And you wouldn’t.”
“No.” Her big blue eyes shone with a new light. “Why should I? They are outlaws of the worst type. If I had done what they wished I would have been helping them. I have not much strength. I have a little. If they get my father’s money they will be encouraged, will go on with their terrible business. They will take some one far weaker than I, a defenseless baby, perhaps.
“Some time one must die.” Her eyes were large and round. “Why not now, if need be, and for a good cause? If they catch me again and put an end to me, my father will spend his fortune hunting them down. What finer tribute could one have to one’s memory?”
“What indeed?” Red’s eyes shone with true admiration. “But they’ll not get you.”
Berley Todd did not reply. Instead she rose and began walking slowly back and forth in the large room. She was humming, and the words were these: “Oh, bury me not on the lone prairee.”
“Now,” said the boy with a laugh that came perilously near being a sob, “it’s time we were going back.”
The moon was out when they took the trail that led to Ed’s cabin. By moving along single file in the shadows they were able to keep themselves concealed.
They had covered more than half the distance to the cabin when of a sudden Berley, who was in the lead, stopped short to press her companions back into the deeper shadows.
“Some—some one skulking about the cabin!” she whispered tensely.
And there he was. There could be no doubt about it. The moon, skirting a corner of their cabin, left there for a space of seconds the wavering shadow of a man. Ten seconds passed, and the shadow vanished.
“Do—do you think it’s the kidnapers?” Despite her bravest efforts the girl could not prevent her teeth from chattering.
“Don’t know who it is,” the scout grumbled in a hoarse whisper. “Only one way to deal with a skulker. Go after him!
“Look!” He turned to Red. “In another moment a cloud will be over the moon. Only a small cloud. Soon pass. But time enough. When it gets dark, you go scooting down the Tobin’s Harbor trail. He went that way. Go down two hundred feet or more, then drop off into the bush. I’ll go round the cabin and come in from the left. When the moon comes out I’ll flush him some way. After that the best man wins.
“You—you’d better stay here,” he said to Berley.
Berley did not stay there. As Red went skulking down that trail in the dark, she followed. She was afraid, but being in the darkness alone with prowlers about, who might carry her away, was worse than being on the firing line.
Obeying instructions, Red followed the trail a hundred paces or less, then dropped away into the shadows.
Finding a place where the moss grew thick before a great rock, he drew the girl down beside him. “Really there’s no reason to be excited.” He felt her heart’s wild beating. “Probably we’ll not see him again this night. He’s just scouting around to see who’s here. Not likely to find out much. He—”
The girl’s hand pressed hard on his arm. Off to the left there was a sound of movement. And then the moon came out.
Instantly from the bush an automatic barked. The shot had been fired at the scout. He dropped—not with a bullet wound, for the rascal had missed—but for the purpose of securing a safe position and waiting his turn. It had been many years since any one had presumed to shoot at this scout; years of peace they had been, and now this, a shot in the night. His mighty “shootin’ iron” roared its reply.
The thing that happened after that will never be fully credited by either Red or the girl, and that in spite of the fact that they saw it with their own eyes.
The moon was out in all its glory. From their observation post before the great rock they thought they made out a skulking figure off to the right and not far off the Tobin’s Harbor trail. At the same time they caught a sound of movement still further back in the bush.
“There are more, perhaps three or four of them.” Berley pressed Red’s arm hard. “They—they’re trying to surround us!”
How wrong she was they were soon enough to know, for the skulking figure, having come to rest, lifted his head so far above the thimbleberry bushes as to leave it in clear view.
“That—” Red’s voice was a bit unsteady. “That’s one of them. Sha-shall I shoot?”
“No, no. That one in the bushes will get you if you do.”
Then astonishing things began to happen. The man on the moonlit trail lifted his gun, took quick aim and fired, not at the scout, not at Red, but at the moving spot in the bushes.
Instantly from out those bushes came a charging terror. All legs and head and saber-pointed antlers, he came straight at the offender who had fired that last shot. Old Uncle Ned, veteran bull moose of Isle Royale, had beyond doubt been nicked by a bullet. Revenge he would have, and did.
At sight of him the terrified gangster leaped high in air to clear the bushes. He was caught squarely by those murderous antlers. Then moose and man plunged forward into the dark clump of evergreen growing by the trail.
There came the sound of crashing boards, followed by the hoarse breathing of some creature engaged in a life and death struggle. There were many seconds of this and then, staggering like a drunken man, Old Uncle Ned came out to the trail and went slowly plodding his way into the distant dark.
They waited for the man to appear. A moment ticked its way into eternity, a second and a third. From far away came the maniacal laugh of a loon.
“Red,” the girl whispered at last, “did you hear that cracking sound?”
“Yes. What was it?”
“Red, do you know what there is by that clump of black trees?”
“No. What is it?”
“Red, can you guess what has happened?”
“No.” Red was very patient. “What has happened?”
“Red,” she drew a long breath, “Red, there is a hole, a very deep hole, ninety feet they say, at the edge of that clump of black trees. It’s an old mine, almost full of water, green slimy water. There—there was a fence around it, a very poor fence. Old Uncle Ned pushed the man in there! He—he fell part way in, Uncle Ned did, but he came out again. The man did not come out. He will never come out.”
“Is—is that true?” Red half rose on one elbow. “Then we must try to save him. He’s bad. But he’s a man. Can’t let a man die that way.”
Red went creeping away in the shadows. The girl followed. When they reached the edge of the clump of trees they found the scout flat on his stomach, flashing a light into the dark hole that had once been a copper mine.
“Gone, I guess,” he said in a very even tone. “His cap is floating down there. Some bubbles came up, but he—he hasn’t come.”
Red squatted down beside him. The girl stood looking down. For five minutes, like figures posed for a piece of statuary, they held their positions. Then, as he rose stiffly, the scout said:
“Gone, all right enough!” Then in a tone that was like a church bell tolling in the night: “He was bad, probably all through; but for all that he was a man. It’s our duty to ask peace on his soul.”
For a moment their heads were bowed in silent prayer. Then, like a squad that has fired a salute over a comrade’s grave, they right-about-faced and marched solemnly away into the night.
The scout led the way in silence back to the cabin. He did not stop there, but marched straight on. The others, not a little puzzled at his actions, paused and then followed. Before a stone slab standing out black in the uncertain light, he paused.
“That,” he said, “marks the grave of an honest man, a copper miner. No word is inscribed on that stone, yet the fact that he worked as a miner marks him as one who at least was willing to labor for his bread.
“It seems a little strange,” there was a curious huskiness in his voice, “that more than fifty years ago this one, whom his comrades honored with a marked grave, should have labored to dig that deep hole in the earth that, never a success as a mine, has now become a grave for one who deserved little honor. Sort of seems to prove that no man labors in vain.”
Having delivered this simple sermon, he turned and led the way back to the cabin.
A few moments later he left once more to return with a heavy object in his hands.
“Here. Take this,” he said to Red.
Red reached out for the thing, sank forward, all but dropped it, then exclaimed:
“Whew! How heavy!”
“Native copper,” said Ed with a smile. “Taken from the earth when the foundation for the lodge was laid.”
“Looks as if it had been melted,” said Red.
“Probably was, before man came upon the earth. Float copper, they call it. Indians mined it on Isle Royale many generations before the white men came. It was a prized possession. Spear points, arrow points, skinning knives, knives for fighting could be made from it.”
“But why are there no mines here now?” Red had visions of becoming a pioneer copper miner. Next to steel he loved copper best of all.
“That was tried more than fifty years ago. That’s what that miner’s grave means out there. Copper mining was tried in many places. Had it not been for the supposed wealth of copper deposits here, the United States would never have owned Isle Royale. It would have gone to Canada. We bought it from the Indians. And, after years of labor, the copper miners discovered that copper mining on Isle Royale would never pay.
“And now,” he concluded, “it is one great big beautiful playground, the safe home of wild life, and will be, I hope, for years to come.”
“I believe,” he said, after a period of silence, “that some time to-morrow the wind will fall. To-morrow night you may have an opportunity to tackle the great adventure—your row to Passage Island. To-night and to-morrow you must rest.
“I’d gladly go with you when the time comes,” he added thoughtfully, “but I am large and heavy. I have a left arm that goes back on me when I row hard and long. Got a bullet there once. But you’ll make it all right. You’ll make it. Never fear.”
After leaving Drew Lane’s room, Johnny Thompson had walked the streets for hours. He needed to think. He could think best while walking, so he walked.
He had gone back on a man he thought of as a friend. Or had he? At least, it appeared that way to him now. Does there ever come a time when it is one’s duty to turn his back upon a friend? A hard question. He could not answer it.
Three times he passed the flower shop by the bridge. The shop was closed, yet a light cast upon the flowers in the window displayed Angelo’s skill as a florist. He was an artist in this field. No one could equal him. Could a man be an artist and yet be a rascal? Angelo loved music. Often he had talked to Johnny of symphony concerts, and of grand opera. Could one love the best in music and yet be a villain at heart?
He walked across the bridge and back again. The place below the shop was completely dark to-night. No procession of men was passing down that flight of stairs. Perhaps Angelo had nothing to do with that which went on below his shop. Perhaps he knew nothing of it.
Once again his mind took up the problem. Angelo had always been friendly. His smile was contagious. Was it true that a man could “smile and smile, and be a villain”?
He gave the problem up at last, returned to his room, and was soon fast asleep.
He was awakened next moment by the jangling of the telephone. Snatching the receiver, he said:
“Good morning! Johnny Thompson speaking.”
“Johnny,” came back an excited voice, “it’s Drew! We’re on the right trail at last. The old G.G. was right, has been right all the time. The trail leads north, five hundred miles, I’d say. Going in the red racer just after noon. Want to see this thing through with me?”
“You—you mean go—” Johnny was shaking all over.
“Sure! Go north with me.”
“You—you know I do.”
“Right! I’ll be over here at twelve. We’ll have a bite of chow; shoot over to the aviation field, and be on our way.” The receiver clicked. He was gone.
Johnny sat down on his bed. He was dizzy. “The trail leads north,” he muttered. “He didn’t say: ‘Johnny, you’re a brick!’ or any of that sort of stuff, or ‘You put us right.’ Nothing like that. Just ‘The trail leads north.’
“Well,” he thought more soberly, “perhaps I’m not a brick. Perhaps I didn’t put them right. Perhaps I’m a hundred per cent dumb.”
As he sat there alone he realized that he hoped with all his heart that he had been entirely wrong. “And yet,” he murmured, “and yet—
“Oh, well!” he exclaimed, “‘A cup of coffee, a piece of pie and you.’ To-morrow’s another day. To-morrow we shall probably know.
“But five hundred miles due north!” His mind sobered. “Just Drew Lane and I.
“Drew’s developed into a swell pilot. He’ll take us there O.K. But after that?”
He had been through some tight places with Drew Lane, as you will know if you have readThe Arrow of Fire.
“Tight places,” he muttered. “Looks like this might be tighter!
“But, as I said before, ‘A cup of coffee, a piece of pie and you.’”
* * * * * * * *
As Johnny Thompson and Drew Lane sped northward in the red racer that afternoon, Johnny found plenty of time for thought. Sober thoughts were his. At the airport Drew had said never a word regarding their coming adventure, nor the facts that had led him to take this wild dash into the north.
Like a mill set to grind out products by electrical power, the boy’s mind went over the facts that lay before him. As he closed his eyes he could see a rusty jimmy bar lying in the back of young Angelo’s boat. He could feel the weight of it as he carried it home and he experienced again his sharp surprise as Tom Howe discovered that this was the very bar that had pried open Red’s car window.
“But that proved nothing,” he told himself. “Any one could have hidden the bar in that speed boat.
“But there is the invisible footprint.” His mind was off again. He saw the footprint appearing under the eerie purple light, saw it fade, then appear again.
“And the shoe that made that footprint on the Red Rover’s sheet was found close to the door beneath Angelo’s flower shop.
“Butthatproves nothing.” He said the words aloud to the thundering motors. “Any one can drop a pair of shoes by your door.
“And yet—” He saw again the figures in that room of mystery beneath Angelo’s shop. Who were those men? Why were they there? Why were so many of them wearing black looks? And why had they attempted to throw him out?
“After all,” he told himself, “it all depends upon the last bit of evidence I turned in, the shavings made by Angelo’s pocket knife. If Tom Howe can show that the shavings found near the Red Rover’s car were made by that same knife, then I shall be convinced. And once one is convinced that a supposed friend is a law-breaker there is but one thing he can do: see that he is brought to justice. No enemy of my country can continue to claim me as a friend.”
But what had Tom and Drew found out? This remained to be seen.
Suddenly his attention was caught by Drew Lane. Drew was leaning far over, looking at something. There was a worried look on his face. But at last he settled back in his place.
Again Johnny saw in his mind’s eye the picture of that glassy-eyed one with the scar. Then a thought struck him all of a heap. “Suppose we are going after that man and his pals. Suppose they are all there, the glassy-eyed one, the big man like a baboon and his son, the three all alike, and the others!” A thrill coursed up and down his spine. A not entirely comfortable feeling took possession of him. They were but two, he and Drew. There was a small black bag at Drew’s feet. It was full of blue-black weapons and ammunition. He knew that. “But two—just two of us.”
He dismissed the thought. Drew was game, game to the last drop. But he was no fool.
Once again Johnny closed his eyes. This time it was a different sort of person who walked across the walls of his memory; a tall man with smiling eyes; very tall and very thin; Jimmie Drury, the reporter from the News.
He had gone to Jimmie to obtain permission to go through the exchange files, and then a curious thing had happened. It puzzled him still. “How’d he know?” he grumbled. “Howcouldhe? And yet, he seemed terribly sure.”
Jimmie had been very cordial. “A fellow that’s Drew Lane’s friend is welcome here any time.” He had smiled a broad smile. “What are you looking up?”
“It has to do with the kidnaping of the Red Rover,” Johnny explained.
“The Red Rover!” Jimmie whistled. “What do you know about that case?”
“Several things.” Johnny had been on his guard. “Got a lot of disconnected facts. Why don’t you get in touch with Drew Lane and find out about it?”
“I am in touch with Drew.” A curious look came over Jimmie’s face. “Closer than even he may—” He had checked himself as if he had said too much.
Johnny looked at him and then a curious suspicion had popped into his mind. Jimmie was long and slim, little more than a skeleton in blue serge.
“A—a skeleton. A—” He had nearly thought another word, but not quite.
What he had said to Jimmie was: “Drew doubts the Galloping Ghost; thinks he’s trying to get him off on the wrong trail.”
Then again a strange look had flashed across the reporter’s face as he exclaimed in a tone suggesting anger: “You tell Drew he’d better stick by the Galloping Ghost. He’s giving him straight dope!”
“How could he know that?” Johnny asked himself now as he looked down once more at the masses of black, white and dull green that were fields, lakes and forests far below.
There was little enough time to study this problem, for suddenly Drew headed the red racer downward at a rakish slant.
Down, down, down they went. Once the motor was off for a second.
“This is the place?” Johnny demanded breathlessly.
“Far from it. Something wrong.” Drew spoke rapidly. “Got to go down and see what. Land on the little lake yonder.”
Once more the motor roared. As the plane circled downward Johnny’s hopes fell. “Something wrong! We’ll be here perhaps for hours. And get there too late. What rotten luck!”
There were hours of rest for the Red Rover and his staunch little companion, a lulling of the wild storm that for many hours had lashed the rocky shores of Isle Royale. Then came darkness and with it a swift resolve to risk all on a night of pure adventure.
A hearty handshake with the guide who had stood by them so staunchly, and they were away.
Slowly the tiny craft crept out upon the black waters of night. They had dressed for the occasion, this girl and boy. He wore a suit of khaki borrowed from the scout, she a boy’s shirt found in one of the cabins, and the patched knickers. Dressed so, and riding in their dark green boat, only with difficulty would they be seen upon the dark waters.
There were reasons for this precaution, the scout had assured them. Having guessed their plan, the kidnapers might even now be lurking in the shadow of some cove, ready to pounce upon them. For this Red was not unprepared. One of the “shootin’ irons” hung at his belt.
Keeping close to shore, they passed great jagged piles of rock that loomed large in the night. They crossed “Nebraska Bay,” skirted more rocks, then, following the scout’s advice, cut boldly away toward the rocky shoals which, because of the darkness, could not be seen.
“Listen!” The boy rested on his oars. There came no sound save the sound of heavy swells breaking lazily over distant rocks.
“There’ll be some roll out there,” he murmured.
Then over the waters there moved a breath of air that, beginning with a whisper, ended with a sigh as it passed on into the night.
“How weird it seems out here!”
“Spooky!”
To break the spell, they took up the oars.
And now, as on that other occasion, they dropped into the steady rhythmic swing that would carry them far and tire them not at all.
They did not sing, nor whistle, nor even hum. That would not be safe. For all that, their spirits blended as one as they swept along to the dreamy swing of “Blue Danube,” “Indian Love Song” and “Where the River Shannon Flows.”
In the steel mill and on the gridiron the young football star had known team work, but never such as this. Forgotten were the perils that lurked in the night; forgotten the danger of darkness and possible storm. For the moment here was life, life as he had never before known it. What else could matter?
So, with the moon just showing over the rocky crest of Isle Royale, they swept across the narrow channel, then took up a course that in time would lead them out into the wide open sea.
The girl too had caught the spell of the night. As they stole into the shadow of a great rock towering up from the depths, she shuddered, but rowed steadily on.
“A real little brick!” Red thought to himself. “Nothing soft.”
He resolved that, should they make it, she certainly must be on the side lines in that greatest of all games that was to come.
The rocks they passed grew lower and lower. The shoal was breaking up here. Soon they would leave it all behind. And then, with only that winking, blinking light to guide them, they would face the swells and go gliding over them to—. Red’s thoughts broke off.
“Listen!”
Had he heard something, the low groan of an oarlock, the mumble of a voice? Who could say? It did not come again.
Swinging the boat about, he headed it straight for the Passage Island light that, gleaming a good four miles away, seemed to send them an encouraging wink.
With a rush of glee a great swell seized them and lifted them lightly. But, like some good-natured giant, it let them down gently to go on their way with a whispering swish of foam.
And now, forgetting their songs, they put their shoulders to the task before them. Meeting the swells at an angle to avoid the dash of chilling waters, they rose on the crest of a high one to drop into the trough, then swept across a half score of low crests, to be again lifted on high.
“Listen!”
This time it was the girl whose instinct told her to rest on her oars. Once again there passed over the waters that whisper that ended in a sigh.
“It is as if voices of the Unseen were trying to tell us something, perhaps to warn us.” Her voice was low. “Do you believe in the Unseen?”
“I—I don’t know.” It was weird, this whisper in the night.
Once again they took up their oars. Not long had they to wait ere they saw that which was creeping upon them in the night. The moon had long been under a cloud. Now it sent its beams across every sweeping swell. And upon one of these swells rode a boat.
“A rowboat,” Red grumbled low. “A boat and two men. Now it is life or death. They are armed. They will not hesitate to shoot.”
Realizing the truth of his words, the girl thrilled to the very center of her being.
There was need for no explaining. The scout had been right; these men had been watching. They had, perhaps, watched from the wrong point. This had given the boy and girl a start. But now here they were, some hundreds of yards behind, two men against a boy and a girl, and half the distance yet to go.
“Now!” The boy’s hiss answered the hiss of a wave that rolled by. “Now we must show them!”
They did show them. They rowed with unity of motion and with all the force God had given them; rowed until even in the chill of night their faces ran with perspiration and their arms became bars of aching fire.
And yet, it was not enough. Those others were rowing with the desperation of those who hear the clanging of a prison gate behind them. Beyond a doubt they knew prison life.Theirs was the frenzy of those whose souls are stirred to the depths by great fear. They knew fear. This was their only emotion. Love, pity, compassion, these they did not know. So they worked with the frenzy of despair.
And they gained now a boat’s length, now another, another and yet another. Each wave crest that lifted them high found them closer to their prey.
They would have won but for one man’s over-reaching hate and the hosts of “Invisible Ones” that the girl believed peopled the heavens.
Of a sudden, weary with rowing, overcome by his burning hate, the man nearest the prow threw down his oars. The next instant a shot rang out and a bullet sang across the waters.
“Lie down in the boat!” was Red’s command to Berley.
The girl hesitated, but obeyed.
On the crest of the wave the boy bent low. Once again a bullet sang close at hand.
In the trough he rowed desperately. Swinging his boat half about, he avoided, as long as he could, rising on the next crest. When at last he did rise, he dropped flat beside his companion.
Just in time. A bullet crashing into the boat passed over them.
“Two can play at that.”
Red crept forward, placed his “shootin’ iron” across the stern, waited his time, then loosed a roar like the burst of a cannon.
The answer came singing over—too high.
Then, as if provoked by the unfairness of the battle, the “Unseen” took a hand. Sudden darkness settled upon the water. A cloud as black as ink came sweeping in from the north. A voice from the air, not a whisper, but a roar, told them that one of those sudden storms that sweep across Lake Superior in November was at hand.
The girl was up and in her place on the instant.
“And now may God have mercy on our souls!” she murmured, as Red seized his oars and they began to row.