large cabin.
"Twin-engines, 575 horsepower each," said Hunter. "That's a high-speed
ship."
"Stream-lined down to get every ounce of speed out of it, too," said
Tim. "It cost plenty of shekels to build that flying boat."
Inside the commodious cabin men were preparing to get out through the
hatch at the rear. The first to appear was short, squat, with a nose
that looked like a substantial fist had pushed it back against his face.
"Nice looking customer to meet on a dark night," said Hunter.
Tim recognized the second man to appear as Sladek. He looked to be
about 40 with a strong, hard face and eyes set so far back that they
had a peculiar penetrating intentness and gave you the idea that Sladek
was trying to ferret out your innermost secrets. The owner of the
amphib was followed by a third man, who appeared to be a second-rate
fighter, while the pilot was the last to emerge.
Hunter stepped forward and spoke to the former rum runner.
"We'll have your ship refueled and ready to go in fifteen minutes."
"Thanks. I've got to look at some maps. We'll be here half an hour at
least; perhaps longer."
Tim remained in the background. He'd pick up as much as he could from
the conversation of the visitors before stepping in and asking for a
story. It was evident that the two with Sladek and the pilot were
bodyguards, for they kept close to their employer and scanned everyone
with suspicious eyes.
Sladek went into the administration building and scanned the large
scale map of the state which hung on one wall. Tim, loitering behind,
started involuntarily as he saw the section of the state which
interested Sladek. It was the Cedar river country--the same section
into which his mysterious "Mr. Seven" had gone.
CHAPTER SEVEN
On the Trail of "Mr. Seven"
The field manager, who had been supervising the refueling of the
amphibian, came into the office and Sladek turned toward him.
"What do you know about the Cedar river country?" he asked.
"It's bad business for flyers," replied Hunter. "The entire valley is
wooded, with many high bluffs, and if your motor goes bad there isn't a
safe place to set down. All you can do is aim at some tree top and hope
for the best."
"That's one reason I flew out here in an amphib. There shouldn't be
much trouble landing on the river."
"Not unless you smack down and ram a sand bar or have a snag come up
and smash in the bottom of your ship."
"That's encouraging. Doesn't look like we could go much further
tonight. You'd better roll my ship into one of the hangars. We'll want
to get an early start in the morning."
"If there's some particular place you want to know about in the valley,
Tim Murphy may be able to help you," suggested Hunter.
"Who's Tim Murphy?" demanded Sladek.
"He's the flying reporter for the Atkinson _News_. He's flown all over
that country and with the exception of a small field near the village
of Auburn there isn't another place to land safely and then a big ship
like yours couldn't make it."
"You can leave reporters out of this," snapped Sladek. "I guess I'll be
able to get along all right."
Tim, standing behind him, grinned. He was certain that "Mr. Seven" and
Jack Sladek were bound for the valley of the Cedar on the same mission.
Neither one wanted publicity.
Sladek, his two bodyguards and his pilot, left the airport in a
taxicab. After the amphib had been rolled into a hangar and berthed for
the night, Hunter turned to Tim.
"What do you make of him?" he asked.
"He's after something big," said the flying reporter, "or he wouldn't
have flown out here. Another thing, he doesn't want any publicity on
his arrival. All of which makes me sure that there is a big story over
in the valley of the Cedar."
"That means you'll be heading that way tomorrow morning."
"Maybe before that."
"Trying to land there in the dark would be suicide."
"I don't think a plane will do a whole lot of good on a story like
this. I've a hunch that a car and a good pair of legs may be best."
It was eight-thirty when Tim returned to the office to plunge again
into the files in quest of the identity of "Mr. Seven." A scrub woman
at the other end of the office looked at him curiously, then went about
her work. There was no explaining the action of these newspaper men who
came and went at all hours of the night.
The day by day record of events slipped through Tim's fingers as he
went through the file with new enthusiasm. Six months, then nine months
and finally a year of action passed. A clock outside boomed eleven but
still there was no clue to "Mr. Seven." Tim went to the library for a
new supply of files and spread them out on his own desk and Ralph's.
His eyes were getting heavy but he kept at the task.
Footsteps sounded on the stairs and he looked up to see the managing
editor appear in the doorway.
"What's up, Tim?" asked Carson.
"Just trailing a story," replied the flying reporter, "and right now it
looks like a mighty slim trail with the scent growing fainter every
minute."
"Let's hear about it."
Tim recounted briefly the arrival of "Mr. Seven" and how he had aroused
the interest of the flying reporter. Then he told of the arrival of
Jack Sladek and linked the two together.
"They're after something in the Cedar river valley and if I could only
get the key to the identity of 'Mr. Seven' I might know what to aim at."
The possibilities of the story caught the managing editor's vivid
imagination.
"I'll give you a hand," he said, "you scan the pages on the right; I'll
take the ones on the left. You've given me enough description so I
ought to be able to recognize your man."
Editor and reporter sat down and took up the task together. Another
half hour slipped by when Tim stopped suddenly. He looked at the page
before him with almost unbelieving eyes. There, staring at him from the
middle of a large feature, was the likeness of "Mr. Seven."
"Have you found him?" asked Carson.
"Yes," said Tim, but the word was automatic. He was reading the caption
over the picture and the words, "Grenville Ford, Adventurer and Globe
Trotter," burned their way into his mind. This then, was "Mr. G. Seven."
"Why that's Ford, the globe trotter. He was with Byrd at the South Pole
and with Adamson when he made his round the world flight two years ago."
"I'm positive that the man I know as 'Mr. Seven' is Ford," said Tim.
"The likeness is unmistakable and you must remember that I have seen
'Mr. Seven' at close range a number of times."
"Has anyone else seen him?"
"Both Dan Watkins and Ralph," said Tim.
"Then get them on the phone and have them come to the office right
away."
Ralph, roused from a sound sleep, promised to come at once as did the
head of the copydesk. Tim heard an exclamation from the managing editor
as he replaced the receiver on its hook.
"I've found the key to the presence of both Ford and Sladek in the
middle west," he said. "Listen to this:
"NEW YORK CITY--(Special to the Atkinson _News_)--Adventure is
again calling Grenville Ford, world famous adventurer and globe
trotter. This time it is the sunken millions in the stone box of
the tramp steamer, Southern Queen, which went down in the Caribbean
in the fall of 1923. The exact location of the sinking of the
Southern Queen has never been known but Ford is believed to have
learned the whereabouts of the wreckage and to be making plans for
the salvage of the sunken treasure."
"But just how does that link up with his visit to Atkinson under an
assumed name and the arrival tonight of Jack Sladek with a couple of
bodyguards?" asked Tim.
"Wait until I'm through. Then you'll feel the same way I do," insisted
the managing editor. He continued reading from the story in the files:
"When the revolution headed by Manuel Crespes in Guato failed,
Crespes and his fellow adventurers looted the rich mines there and
fled aboard the _Southern Queen_. Estimates at the amount of gold
taken by the fleeing rebels have varied from $500,000 to more than
$5,000,000 but it is safe to say that sufficient gold was taken to
make an attempt at its recovery highly worthwhile.
"The _Southern Queen_ left Martee, the main port of Guato,
apparently in good condition but the vessel never reached port.
Exactly what happened has never been known. Her disappearance has
been one of the mysteries of the seven seas. Various theories have
been advanced. One of the most persistent was that the leaders of
the futile revolution in Guato killed all members of the crew when
they neared a safe coast, scuttled the ship, took the treasure and
escaped in small boats. Another is that a storm which raged in the
Caribbean shortly after the _Southern Queen_ left Martee caught the
little tramp steamer in its center and sent it whirling to the
bottom with the loss of everyone on board. Several expeditions have
been formed to hunt for the treasure but none of them have been
successful and so far no actual trace of the _Southern Queen_ has
been found.
"_News_ that Ford is planning to search for the treasure brings the
story into the forefront again for he is known as a soldier of
fortune of the higher type. While Ford refuses to divulge his plans
in any detail, friends believe that he has learned the whereabouts
of one of the survivors of the _Southern Queen_"
The story went on to recount other adventures in which Ford had played
a prominent part but added nothing more in the way of information about
the hunt for the treasure of the Southern Queen.
"I'm still trying to guess what brought him out here," said Tim.
"It's as plain as though written on the wall," replied the managing
editor. "This story was printed more than a year ago, yet Ford hasn't
started his expedition. Money hasn't held him up for he has plenty to
finance any such trip. What did? Something must have happened to his
source of information. Either it vanished or he has had to do far more
work in ferreting out the facts than he expected. In either case I'm
betting that Ford came here under an assumed name and went into the
Cedar river valley for the one and only purpose of learning something
which is vital to the success of his treasure hunt."
"If he is seeking information in connection with the treasure of the
_Southern Queen_ that would explain his use of an assumed name and his
evasion of reporters," agreed Tim. "It would also account for the
presence of Sladek, who tries to vote himself into anything that looks
like easy money."
"In other words both Ford and Sladek are after the sunken treasure in
the _Southern Queen_ and there's some information over in the valley of
the Cedar that both are after," said Carson.
"All of which may mean a good story for the _News_" smiled Tim.
"When can you start for the valley?"
"Right away."
"Can you go by plane?"
"Not tonight. I'll drive down. Ralph can bring the plane in tomorrow
and land near Auburn. I'm not sure a plane will be much use except for
a fast trip home with the story. I'll probably have to take a boat if I
want to get around much in that country."
"Got any cash?"
"Less than $10."
Carson dug into his own pocket. "Here's $20. I'll have Ralph bring you
expense money when he flies over."
In their eager discussion of the possibilities of the story they had
almost forgotten the telephone calls to Ralph and Dan Watkins and Tim
was about to depart for the Cedar river valley when they burst into the
office.
"What's the matter?" asked Watkins. "Something big break?"
"Not yet, but soon," grinned Tim. "We think we've learned the identity
of 'Mr. Seven.' Both you and Ralph have seen him. Take a good look at
that picture over there and tell us what you think."
The newcomers scanned the printed likeness of Grenville Ford with
critical eyes.
"That's 'Mr. Seven' without a doubt," said the chief copyreader and
Ralph added his agreement.
"Then you'd better start for the valley at once," said Carson.
"You might tell us a little about it," suggested the veteran head of
the copy desk.
"You'll hear full details when the story breaks," cried Tim as he
headed for the stairs.
He took the best of the cars which the _News_ owned for the trip, a
powerful coupe capable of high speed and standing lots of abuse on the
rough roads of the Cedar valley.
He swung in front of the _News_ building, just as the others came down
from the editorial office.
"I'll take you home," he called.
"I've got my car," replied the managing editor.
"The short walk will do me good," added Watkins, but Ralph decided to
ride.
"Carson told us the whole story and says I'm to fly over in the morning
and land near Auburn," he said. "Will you be there?"
"That's hard to say, but if I'm not you wait for me even if you have to
stay there a couple of days."
"Sounds like a vacation trip."
"It may be anything but that." Then, thinking of the big amphibian and
Jack Sladek and his bodyguards, he added: "The amphibian Sladek came in
is in the hangar next to the one we use. If I leave you at the field,
do you suppose you could fix it so they'd be delayed several hours
getting their motor started in the morning?"
"It's as good as done," said Ralph. "With this flight on tomorrow I'll
have an excuse to visit the field."
Tim left Ralph at the airport and sped on alone toward the valley of
the mighty Cedar.
CHAPTER EIGHT
A Sudden Attack
For the first fifty miles of the trip the roads were hard-surfaced and
Tim sped along at a fast pace, the long, powerful coupe eating up the
miles. But after that it was harder going. The roads were poorly marked
and badly rutted. Tim was forced to drive well under thirty miles an
hour and as he neared the valley the country grew more rugged, the road
turning and twisting, climbing laboriously up one hill and then
skidding down another.
He lost almost half an hour when he ran into a local shower and had to
get out and put on the chains. Once or twice the big coupe skidded
badly but he managed to hold it on to the road. At dawn he was deep
into the valley of the Cedar, the narrow road was dry again, and he
took off the chains.
There was no bridge across the Cedar at Auburn and Tim pulled the coupe
up on the left bank of the river and waited for the arrival of the
ramshackle ferry.
It was seven o'clock before the old barge, powered by an automobile
engine, paddled its way across the broad stream and nosed up to the
landing stage.
"How much to go across?" asked Tim.
"Dollar for a car that size," replied the riverman.
Tim handed over the fee and drove the coupe aboard. The engine of the
ferry sputtered and then settled down to its task as the paddles
flashed in the morning sunlight.
"Business been pretty good?" Tim asked.
"Only fair. Usually don't get anyone on the morning trip but yesterday
I had a car almost as large as yours."
Here was what Tim had been fishing for. He was on the right trail and a
few more questions assured him that Grenville Ford had driven directly
to Auburn after leaving Atkinson.
When the ferry docked on the Auburn side, Tim went to the general
store. He was known there for, two years before, he had helped save the
village, marooned by a flood, by bringing food and needed medicine. At
the store he learned that Ford had stored his car in the village,
rented a boat with an outboard motor, laid in a supply of food and a
tent, and started down river the day before.
"Have any idea where he was going?" asked Tim.
"He didn't seem to want to say much about himself," said the
storekeeper. "Appeared to be one of those close-mouthed fellows."
Tim went across the street to the village's one hotel and there
obtained an excellent breakfast. Greatly refreshed, he went down to the
river bank to make more inquiries. In front of one shanty was the sign,
"BOATS FOR RENT," and to this place Tim went at once.
The owner was a white-haired riverman and when Tim introduced himself,
he found the boatman willing to talk.
"I remember the fellow well," said the riverman, "but he didn't say
where he was going. Just asked to rent a boat for about a week and he
left a cash deposit, which is all I require, seemed to know what he
wanted for he picked out a good boat and started down river at once."
There was little to be learned in that information and Tim tried
another tack.
"Any strangers moved into the valley in the last year or two?" he asked.
The old man shook his head. "All the movin' that's done is the other
way. Keeps up much longer and there won't be anybody in the valley and
no Indians to give it back to."
"I just though there might have been some new people came in--maybe a
sailor or two."
"Nothin' to sail around here except the clammers and they don't sail.
Only man around here that's ever seen big water is Crazy John Boggs."
"Who's Crazy John?"
"He came in here about nine or ten years ago and went down river to an
island where he does a little clammin' and pearl huntin'. He's always
talking about revolutions and sunken treasure and such as that. He's as
crazy as they make them."
Such talk might sound crazy to the people of the valley but to Tim it
was another link in his story.
"How far down river is it to Crazy John's?" asked Tim.
"About thirty miles and bad water all the way. He's way off the main
channel and he don't like company. Keeps a couple of regular man-eating
dogs. Some folks say he's got mines planted all around the island so he
can blow up anyone he doesn't want around. No one from here's ever been
on the place."
"Here's one that's going," said Tim. "Fix me out with a boat and an
outboard. I'll be back as soon as I can get some grub at the store."
Tim felt jubilant as he walked up from the river bank. Ford, or "Mr.
Seven," was only twenty-four hours ahead of him.
The sound of an airplane motor drummed over the village and Tim looked
up to see the Jupiter swinging around to land in the only field that
could be used. It was a mile outside the village and he knew he would
have plenty of time to secure his food and a couple of blankets before
Ralph arrived.
"Fix me up with enough food for about four days on the river," Tim told
the storekeeper, "and I'll want a couple of good, warm blankets. I
expect the nights in the valley are a little chilly."
"They're all of that," agreed the storekeeper. When the food and
blankets were ready, Tim paid the bill and left the store. At the far
end of the street Ralph was hurrying in to town and Tim waited for him.
"Starting out as a peddler?" asked the newcomer.
"Just getting ready to start down river. Come on and help me stow this
stuff away."
The riverman had a sixteen foot flat-bottomed boat ready for Tim. A
light outboard had been fastened to the stern and an extra can of
gasoline had been placed in the boat.
"What's the idea of the river trip?" Ralph wanted to know. Tim related
what he had learned in the village and Ralph nodded his agreement to
the plans.
"You stay here and keep the Jupiter ready to fly any minute," said Tim.
"When I get back I'll want to start for Atkinson as soon as possible."
"Everything will be ready. Here's the extra expense money Carson sent
for you." Ralph handed out $50 and Tim paid the deposit necessary for
the boat.
"There may be some fellows in here a little later in another airplane,"
he told the riverman. "They're apt to inquire about Crazy John. Do you
suppose you could forget all about him?"
"After what you did for us when we had the flood I could forget a whole
lot," smiled the owner of the boats.
"Sladek and his men won't be here for a couple more hours," chuckled
Ralph. "What I didn't do to their motors last night doesn't amount to
much. I had a hard time to keep from laughing this morning. Poor old
Carl at the airport was the goat. They accused him of failing to keep a
proper watch over their plane. We'll have to square it with him some
way."
Tim obtained detailed instructions from the boatman on the way to Crazy
John's island.
"Don't try to sneak up," was the riverman's final word of caution, "or
he'll get you sure. Just keep off shore in plain sight and do some
lusty hollerin'."
Tim thanked him for the final words of advice, said goodbye to Ralph
and started to shove off when his friend stopped him.
"Got a gun?" he asked.
Tim shook his head. "I won't need one. I don't think Crazy John is as
bad as he's pictured and I'm sure I won't have any trouble with Ford."
"But there's Sladek and his bodyguards. If you run into them, you might
get in a jam. Better take this."
Ralph handed Tim a heavy, snub-nosed automatic.
"It's loaded and here's two extra clips. Take care of yourself."
"See you in a day or two," said Tim as he shoved away from the landing
stage. Turning on the ignition he gave the starter rope on the outboard
a jerk. The motor responded with a steady putt-putt-putt and Tim
started the journey down stream to the island abode of Crazy John.
Ralph watched the boat until it was lost from view behind a curve in
the broad river. Then he turned and went back to the village, had
breakfast, obtained gasoline, and walked back to the Jupiter where he
replenished the fuel and sat down in the shade. He was going to have
lots of nothing to do until Tim returned.
On the Cedar, Tim's small craft surged steadily down-river. There was
no regular navigation on the stream and the channel swung from one side
to another.
Black snags stuck their dangerous heads above the surface of the water
and occasionally a broad sand bar ran almost across the stream. Finding
the channel was no easy task and Tim realized that it might be at least
two days under the best of circumstances before he returned to the
village.
The Cedar turned and twisted, first on one side of the heavily wooded
valley and then on another. Bayous opened off on long, quiet stretches
of back water and once in a while he could see the mouth of some
tributary sneaking in around a bluff.
There was no sign of human habitation and he felt immensely lonely. He
might have been the first white man down the stream and he would not
have been surprised to have rounded a curve and sighted an Indian
village on the next strip of sand.
The day was warm and if his mission had not been so urgent, he would
have fully enjoyed the trip. But there was a tension that gripped him
and drove him on at full speed. He wanted to be at Crazy John's well
before sundown.
At noon Tim estimated that he was two-thirds of the way to his
destination. Slowing down the motor, he dug into his provisions and
managed a snack of lunch. He drank deeply from a jug of cool water the
riverman had placed in the boat and felt greatly refreshed. The strain
of a night without sleep and the hard drive from Atkinson was beginning
to tell on him.
Tim wondered when the amphibian would soar overhead. Ralph certainly
had done an excellent job in putting the big craft out of commission.
Another hour slipped by. He was nearing the bayou where he would turn
away from the main river and seek out the island of Crazy John. The
boatman had told him to look for an island with a monster cottonwood,
split by a bolt of lightning. When he came to that island he was to
take the bayou to the right and continue taking every possible turn to
the right. Crazy John's island was a third of a mile from the main
stream. Tim remembered the warning to shout lustily at intervals after
he left the main channel.
His sturdy little craft swung around a broad curve, dodged the end of a
projecting sand bar, slid between two snags, and straightened out down
stream again. Tim's heart leaped.
A half mile down river, standing on an island in the center of the
stream, was a giant cottonwood, its top split asunder by lightning. The
huge tree towered above everything else in the valley. There was no
mistaking it and Tim looked for a bayou to the right of the island.
From behind him and sounding above the steady throbbing of the outboard
came the thrumming of airplane engines. Tim glanced back. The
amphibian, flying fast and low, was coming down stream.
Tim wondered if the pilot of the big ship would try to land on the
river. The Cedar was wide enough but the danger of snags was a very
real one. A sunken log could rip out the bottom of the plane and pull
the entire craft to the bottom of the river.
Fascinated by the beauty of the big amphibian, Tim watched it approach.
The roar of the motors filled the valley with their noise. The craft
was less than a hundred feet above the river and coming directly toward
Tim.
Looking up, the reporter could see a man leaning from a window on the
right side of the cabin. There was something black in his hand.
Splashes of water appeared beside the boat. The seat beside Tim
splintered under the impact of a bullet. Then the amphibian was roaring
down stream.