DANGLING IN MID AIR
Before dawn, the morning after his interview with Mazie, Johnny was away
for the camp of the Mongols. There was a moist freshness in the air which
told of approaching spring, yet winter lingered.
It was a fair-sized cavalcade that accompanied him; eight burly Russians
on horseback and six in a sled drawn by two stout horses. For himself he
had secured a single horse and a rude sort of cutter. He was not alone in
the cutter. Beside him sat a small brown person. This person was an
Oriental. There could be no mistake about that. Mazie had told him only
that here was his interpreter through whom all his dealings with the
Mongols would be done.
He wondered much about the interpreter. He had met with some fine
characters among the brown people. There had been Hanada, his school
friend, and Cio-Cio-San, that wonder-girl who had traveled with him. He
had met with some bad ones too, and that not so long ago. His experiences
at the mines had made him, perhaps, unduly suspicious.
He did not like it at all when he found, after a long day of travel and
two hours of supper and pitching camp, with half the journey yet to go,
that this little yellow person proposed to share his skin tent for the
night. At first he was inclined to object. Yet, when he remembered the
feeling that existed between these people and the Russians, he realized at
once that he could scarcely avoid having the interpreter for a tent-mate.
Nothing was said as the two, with a candle flickering and flaring between
them, prepared to slip into their sleeping-bags for the night.
When, at last, the candle was snuffed out, Johnny found that he could not
sleep. The cold air of the long journey had pried his eyes wide open; they
would not go shut. He could think only of perils from small yellow people.
He was, indeed, in a position to invite treachery, since he carried on his
person many pounds of gold. He, himself, did not know its exact value;
certainly it was thousands of dollars. He had taken that which the doctor
had carried, and had left the doctor to do what he could for the
sufferers, and to assist Mazie in her preparations of the great kitchens
and dining-room where thousands were to be fed.
For a long time, he thought of treachery, of dark perils, reaching a
bloody hand out of the dark. But presently a new and soothing sensation
came to him. He dreamed of other days. He was once more on the long
journey north, the one he had taken the year previous. Cio-Cio-San was
sleeping near him. They were on a great white expanse, alone. There was no
peril; all was peace.
So great was the illusion that he scratched a match and gazed at the
sleeping face near him.
He gave a little start at the revelation it brought. Certainly, there was
a striking resemblance here to the face of Cio-Cio-San. Yet, he told
himself, it could not be. This person was a man. And, besides, Cio-Cio-San
was now rich. She was in her own country living in luxury and comfort, a
lady bountiful among her own people.
He told himself all this, and yet so much of the illusion remained that he
fell asleep and slept soundly until the rattle of harness and the shout of
horsemen told him that morning was upon them and they must be off.
He looked for his companion. He was gone. When Johnny had dressed, he
found the interpreter busily assisting with the morning repast.
"Just like Cio-Cio-San," he muttered to himself, as he dipped his hands
into icy water for a morning splash.
* * * * *
After his escape from the two Bolsheviki in the machine shed, Pant sat by
the entrance to his mine in breathless expectancy. The two Russians
certainly had not seen him enter the mine, but others might have done so,
and, more than that, there was grave danger that they would track him to
his place of hiding.
He was not surprised when his alert ear caught a sound from without, close
at hand. He only crowded a little further back into the corner, that the
light from the broken-in entrance, providing it was discovered and
crushed, should not fall upon him.
His heart thumped loudly. His hand gripped his automatic. He expected
immediate action from without. His hopes of reaching the mother-lode of
this mine vanished. He thought now only of escape.
But action was delayed. Now and then there came sounds as of footsteps and
now a scratching noise reached his ear. The crust of the snow was hard.
Perhaps they were attempting to tear it away with some crude implement, a
stick or board.
As he listened, he heard the whine of a dog. So this was it? One of their
hounds had tracked him down. They were probably afraid of him and would
wait for him to come out.
"In that case," he whispered to himself, "they will wait a long, long
time."
He did not desert his post. To be caught in the far end of the mine meant
almost certain torture and death.
As he listened, he heard the dog's whine again and again, and it was
always accompanied by the scratching sound. What could that mean? A hound
which has found the lair of its prey does not whine. He bays his message,
telling out to all the world that he has cornered his prey.
The more the boy thought of it, the more certain he became that this was
not one of the Russian hounds. But if not, then what dog was it? Perhaps
one of Johnny Thompson's which had escaped. If it were, he would be a
friend.
Of one thing Pant became more and more positive: there were no men with
the dog. From this conclusion he came to a decision on a definite course
of action. If the dog was alone, whether friend or foe, he would
eventually attract attention and that would bring disaster. The logical
thing to do would be to pull out the snow-cake door and admit the beast.
If he were one of the Russians wolf-hounds--Pant drew a short-bladed knife
from his belt; an enemy's dog would be silenced with that.
With trembling fingers he gripped the white door and drew it quickly away.
The next instant a furry monster leaped toward him.
It was a tense moment. In the flash of a second, he could not determine
the character of the dog. His knife gleamed in his hand. To delay was
dangerous. The beast might, in a twinkle, be at his throat.
He did not strike. With a supple motion he sprang to one side as the dog
shot past him. By the time he had turned back toward the entrance, Pant
recognized him as a white man's dog.
"Well, howdy, old sport," he exclaimed, as the dog leaped upon him, ready
to pull him to pieces out of pure joy.
"Down, down, sir!"
The dog dropped at his feet. In another minute the snow-door was in its
place again.
"Well, old chap," said Pant, peering at the dog through his goggles. "You
came to share fortunes with me, did you? The little yellow men had a
tiger; I've got a dog. That's better. A tiger'd leave you; a dog never.
Besides, old top, you'll tell me when there's danger lurking 'round, won't
you? But tell me one thing now: did anyone see you come in here?"
The dog beat the damp floor with his tail.
"Well, if they did, it's going to be mighty tough for you and me, that's
all I've got to say about it."
* * * * *
Upon opening the door to the cabin of the balloon, after catching the
gleam of the supposed domes of the City of Gold, Dave Tower found, to his
great relief, that they had dropped to a considerably lower level than
that reached by them many hours before. He was able to stand exposure to
this outer air.
He began at once to search for cords which would allow gas to escape from
the balloon.
"Should be a valve-cord and a rip-cord somewhere," he muttered to himself,
"but you can never tell what these Orientals are going to do about such
things."
As he gazed away toward the north, he was sure he caught sight of dark
purple patches between the white.
"Might just be shadows and might be pools of salt water between the
ice-floes. If we land on the ocean, good night!"
Hurriedly he searched the rigging for dangling cords. He found none. If
there had been any, they had been thrown up and tangled above by the
tossing of the balloon.
Dave stared dizzily upward to where the giant sausage drifted silently on.
It was a sheer fifty feet. To reach this there was but one means, a
slender ladder of rope. Could he do it? Could he climb to the balloon and
slit it before they reached the ocean?
It was their only chance. If the City of Gold was not a complete illusion;
if human beings lived there at all, they might hope for food and shelter.
There were chemicals in the cabin for re-inflating the balloon. A fair
wind, or the discovery of the method of operating that Oriental engine,
might insure them a safe voyage home. But once they were out over the
ocean--his heart went sick at the thought of it.
Gripping the rounds of the ladder, he began to climb. It was a perilous
task. Now with a sinking sensation he felt the ladder apparently drop from
beneath him. The balloon had struck a pocket of air. And now he felt
himself lifted straight up a fleeting hundred feet.
Holding his breath, he waited. Then, when the motion was stable, he began
to climb again. He had covered two-thirds of the distance, was staring up
at the bulk that now seemed almost upon his very head, when, with a little
cry, he felt his foot crash through a rotten strand. It was a second of
dreadful suspense. Madly he grasped the rope sides of the ladder. His left
hand slipped, but his right held firm. There, for a fraction of time that
seemed an eternity, supported by only one hand, he hung out over thousands
of feet of airy space.
His left hand groped for the ropes which eluded his grasp. He gripped and
missed, gripped and missed. Then he caught it and held on. He was holding
firmly now with both hands. But how his arms ached! With his feet he began
kicking for the ladder, which, swinging and bagging in the wind, seemed as
elusive as a cobweb. At last, when strength was leaving him, he doubled up
his knees and struck out with both feet. They fell upon something and
stuck there. They had found a round of the ladder. Hugging the ropes, he
panted for breath, then slowly worked himself to a more natural position.
"Huh!" he breathed at last. "Huh! Gee! That makes a fellow dizzy!"
He had climbed ten steps further when a cry of joy escaped his lips:
"The valve-cord!"
It was true. By his side dangled a small rope which reached to the
balloon.
Gripping this he gave it a quick pull and was rewarded at once by the hiss
of escaping gas.
"Good!" he muttered to himself, as he prepared for his downward climb.
"Trust an Oriental to make things hard. Suppose they thought if they had
it any closer to the car the children might raise the dickens by playing
with it."
He swung there relaxed. They were dropping. He could tell that plainly
enough. Now he could distinguish little lines of hills, now catch the
course of a river, now detect the rows of brown willows that lined its
banks.
He looked for the gleam of the City of Gold. There was none. The sun had
evidently climbed too high for that.
His eyes roamed to the north. Then his lips uttered a cry:
"The ocean! We can't escape it!"