A THREE DAYS’ QUEST
Before the parachute, from which Drew Lane had so mysteriously dropped,
had floated out from the cloud, the Red Racer, still manned by Drew’s
pilot, had passed into another cloud.
“He does not know,” Curlie told himself. “He believes that Drew made a
safe landing and will believe it until some one has told him the truth.”
It came to him that it was his duty to hunt out the Red Racer and break
the sad news.
“But what would be the good? One does not fall thousands of feet and
survive. My first duty is to the living.”
He flew into Resolution, drank a scalding cup of black tea, took on his
emergency passenger, and then flew straight back to Fort McMurray. There
Punch Dickinson, who had come to relieve him, took over his task and he
was free.
“Free to think!” he told himself bitterly.
And such thoughts as they were! He lived over again trying days in a
great city when Drew Lane had played the part of a true friend to him,
saw again his quiet smile, seemed to hear his voice. And then, as he
closed his eyes he saw a thing like a white sheet flutter from the clouds
to go drifting away on an all but endless journey, and heard once again
the thunder of motors.
For a long time he tossed aimlessly about in his bed. Then a great
resolve to control his mind won for him rest.
Morning found him with the time and the great desire to follow the “Gray
Streak” to the bleakest shore of the Arctic, if need be.
He called the office and obtained permission to use his plane in this
pursuit for three days.
“At the end of that time you must report for duty at McMurray,” came over
the wire. “Take no chances that will cause you to break this trust.”
He gave his word; then, with Jerry at his side, he flew away into the
morning.
If the news of the arrival of Drew Lane in this land spread rapidly, the
story of his departure into a cloud spread with no less rapidity. It
reached Johnny Thompson’s camp just as he was preparing to venture forth
on another search for radio-active pitchblende. Like his good friend
Curlie, he set his lips tight in a determination to do his utmost in
avenging the death of a friend.
“He planned to drop down and face them single-handed,” he said to Sandy.
“Somehow they must have found out his plans. They weakened the parachute
ropes or his belt, so they would give way under his weight.”
Was this the solution? Who could say? There were many who believed it.
For had not Drew Lane taken off at Edmonton airport? And had not Curlie
Carson been robbed of a code message in his hotel in that very city? Who
could say how many accomplices the “Gray Streak” might have in this
frontier?
And after all, who was the outlaw pilot of this “Gray Streak”? There were
those who believed the plane to be manned by Russians bent on raising a
revolution in Canada and annexing this Dominion to Russia. “What could be
more logical?” they argued. “Like the Russians, we are northern people.
Our problems are their problems. How could they doubt that we would join
them were the opportunity really given?”
In support of this theory, there was the gray mitten fashioned out of the
pelt of a Siberian wolf-hound. It had been found in Curlie’s room. The
thief had lost it.
“And yet,” another pointed out, “there are thousands of gray wolf-hounds
in the United States and Canada. Their pelts are made into mittens. Such
mittens may be bought and are worn in Winnipeg.”
“It’s that Chicago mail plane.” This was Curlie’s opinion. “That city is
making life hard for dangerous criminals. The biggest of them all is out
on bail. He is likely to be sentenced to three years in prison. What
could be more logical than that he, or some one like him, should seize a
plane to fly to the security that is found in wide open spaces?”
Some there were who believed that the “Gray Streak” was manned by
reckless youths. This number diminished as charges piled up against this
pirate of the air.
The news of Drew Lane’s disappearance brought sorrow into the camp of
Joyce Mills and her father.
“He was a true friend,” Joyce said sadly.
“He was indeed!” her father agreed.
One ray of hope cheered their lonely path. The gleam of gold along their
trail seemed to grow brighter day by day.
Thus matters stood as Curlie Carson, with Jerry at his side, sailed away
in the light of the morning sun, bound on his three days’ search for the
“Gray Streak.”