THE LOST AVIATOR
“A piece of an airship!” repeated Bob excitedly. “Ours?”
“The _Dart_, yes. The piece here is discolored and looks old, but a
day’s knocking around with this Indian here would do that.”
“Then you figure out that he has discovered the _Dart_ and utilized
what he fancied about it to make a game bag, and this is it?”
“That is my guess.”
“Mine, too,” declared Bob. “If that is true, Ben, then the Indian
must know the spot where the _Dart_ is.”
“Undoubtedly.”
“Let’s find out. Hey, hi, hello, guide, my friend Powhattan! This
way, old fellow!”
The Indian, just through with his morning swim, arrived speedily,
smiling and as placid as ever.
“I say, look here,” said Bob, picking up the impromptu game bag,
“yours?”
“Me, yes—yes,” replied the Indian promptly.
“Did you make it?”
The Indian bowed assent.
“Where did you get this?” asked Bob, patting the canvas.
The Indian spoke a string of mingled words accompanied by vivid
pantomime. He imitated the movement of wings and practically
described an airship.
“Can you take us to the place where you found this?” asked Ben.
The Indian pointed southwest. He held up six fingers.
“He means about six miles from here,” translated Bob.
“I guess he does. You take us. Understand? Then to the town, will
you?”
The Indian held up two fingers now.
“He means two dollars,” declared Bob. “All right my friend, twenty
dollars, if you say so. That’s the ticket, Ben. We’ll locate the
_Dart_ first, so as to be sure we can find it later, and then have
our guide take us to the settlement. Zip! but we’re getting action at
last.”
The Indian seemed to understand what they wished him to do. He ate
his fish, using nearly all the salt left, acted unusually satisfied
and brisk, and, breakfast despatched, the boys followed him single
file as he led the way from the spot.
They had gone about four miles when their guide struck a narrow
trodden path near the river. Its banks were densely fringed with
heavy underbrush for over a mile. Then there was a break, an open
place of perhaps three hundred feet. Just before reaching it, the
Indian paused. He looked deeply serious, almost alarmed, Ben fancied,
as he placed his finger warningly to his lips with the ominous words:
“Follow—quick—run fast.”
“What’s the reason, Powhattan?” asked Bob.
“Shoot. Prisoner. Bad white men.”
“Oh, an enemy around, you mean?”
“Yes—yes. Come.”
The Indian shot past the break in the shore line like a flash. Ben
and Bob followed his directions. As they did so, they noted an island
in the river. In its center stood a large log-framed building.
“That’s queer,” remarked Ben.
“Yes,” observed Bob, “it looks like some fort.”
“I wonder what there is to fear about it!”
“Can’t guess. I saw no one about, did you?”
“No,” replied Ben, “it looked deserted to me.”
“Well, our guide is going ahead. Let us follow him.”
Half a mile further on, the Indian turned into a maze of high willow
bushes. Abruptly these ended in a kind of a swale. It was dry now,
and they crossed it without difficulty. Then, as Ben and Bob came to
the middle of it, they halted dead short.
“Hello!” projected Bob, “an airship.”
“But not ours!” cried Ben, lost in wonderment, “not the _Dart_.”
The two friends stood bewilderedly staring at the wreck of a
monoplane lying flat upon the ground. It was all in pieces. Some
of the planes had been cut into and trampled on. The wheels were
missing, and it had been stripped of many of its mechanical parts.
“Ben, what does it mean?” inquired Bob blankly.
“You can see for yourself. It is simply another airship than our own.
It landed here by chance, just as ours landed where it did. Some one
has carried away part of it.”
“Probably some one living in that queer place on the island in the
river.”
“Very likely.”
Their first surprise over, the young aviators made a closer
inspection.
“It is a Zenapin model, and was a good one,” reported Ben. “I wish I
knew where it started from.”
“Here’s something that may tell,” said Bob, abruptly tugging at the
front dip board. “It’s smashed, but part of the name is left.”
“What is it?” inquired Ben, coming quickly to the side of his
companion.
“T—E—O—”
“Only part of a name. What can it stand for?”
“Teodor? Hardly. Matteo? No, I give it up.”
“Hold on,” cried Ben, fishing among the scattered debris. “Here’s
another letter, or rather a part of one.”
“An E,” said Bob excitedly. “Now, where does that belong—before or
behind?”
“Before—I’ve got it, Bob.”
“What—quick!”
“M-E-T-E-O-R.”
“Whew!”
Bob uttered such a gasp that it staggered him. He repeated it, as he
rapidly fumbled in his coat pocket with the words:
“The _Meteor_? Why didn’t I think of it before.”
“Then you know something about the _Meteor_.”
“I guess I do.”
“What?”
“I’ll show you in a minute.”
Bob drew out his memorandum book. He extracted several newspaper
clippings from its inner pocket. He selected one of these and read
its heading:
“The Lost Aviator.”
“Who was it, Bob?”
“Count Eric Beausire, a French aviator. Made a flight from
Minneapolis last month. The _Meteor_ never heard from since. Supposed
lost in the wilds of Canada. One thousand dollars reward for any
information concerning the whereabouts of Count Beausire or his
airship.”
“And this is the _Meteor_,” murmured Ben, immersed and spellbound in
a maze of speculation.
“And where is the lost aviator? Where is the missing Count Beausire?”
It was decidedly gruesome to think of that. Involuntarily, both boys
looked all about them.
“He must have left the airship at some other place,” said Ben.
“There is no trace of him here. It looks as if a good many people
had visited this place. If he fell with the _Meteor_ he has been
discovered.”
“What shall we do?” asked Bob.
“What can we do except to get to some settlement and report what we
know, and have a search made for both the missing aviator and the
_Dart_.”
“It’s a thousand dollars for us, what we have already discovered,”
remarked Bob. “I’d give it to find the count. He must have been a
fine man, for this newspaper clipping says that the reward is offered
by the big International Aviation Club of New York.”
The Indian had been pacing about and looking around him in a restless
uneasy way ever since they had arrived at the uncanny spot. He seemed
greatly relieved to start again on the course for the settlement.
When they reached the break in the river hedge, he again displayed
anxiety and seriousness.
“Run fast,” he directed.
The boys started to follow his suggestions to humor him. Half the
open distance accomplished, however, Ben came to a standstill. He
looked over towards the fort, like a structure on the island.
“What is it, Ben?” inquired Bob, coming back to where he stood, while
with every indication of terror their guide scurried to cover.
“Did you hear a shout?”
“No, Ben.”
“Well, I did. It sounded like a cry of distress. And see,” added
Ben excitedly, “from that cellar window. Some one is waving a
handkerchief.”
“I see it—I see it,” said Bob.
“A shout for help and a signal of distress,” said Ben thoughtfully,
“Bob, I’m going to investigate this mystery.”