LOON ISLAND
Steve said nothing to anyone next day of his determination. He knew he
would be laughed at, for he felt himself that it was a rather foolish
proceeding, and it would be difficult or impossible for him to explain
in words the curious intensity of his interest in the matter. So he did
not even take Cavanaugh into his confidence, merely explaining that he
was going for another little trip in the canoe. Cavvy’s approval was
prompt, but there was just a touch of disappointment in his manner which
made Steve a little troubled.
Was he making a fool of himself or not, he wondered, as he slid out into
the Sound from behind the point. A portion of Loon Island was visible
now and he glanced speculatively in that direction. For all he knew the
stranger whose face had so puzzled him might not be in the neighborhood
again for days or weeks. His presence yesterday could easily have been
the result of a chance excursion never to be repeated. Nevertheless,
once started, he had no thought of giving up the trip, for he was not
the sort to turn aside readily from something he had once set his mind
upon. So he dismissed his doubts and sent the canoe forward resolutely.
The surface of the Sound was smooth—almost too smooth, in fact. There
was an oily look to the long, easy swells which rolled the canoe ever so
slightly as it cut across them. Once or twice Steve glanced back and
frowned a little at the smoky, golden haze hugging the eastern horizon.
But he paddled steadily, keeping fairly close to shore; and when he came
opposite the group of islands and headed his craft across the half-mile
stretch which separated the nearest one from the mainland, the storm
signals had not increased.
“I guess it’s going to hold off for a while,” he decided. “Anyhow, at
the worst I’d be stuck on the island over night—which wouldn’t kill me.”
Presently he came abreast of the first little islet and passed it,
passed the next one, and then turned into a narrow, rock-bordered
channel along the north side of Loon Island. The tide ran swiftly here,
but it carried him with it and without much effort he managed to circle
the lower end of the island and reach the point where he had landed the
day before. Here he stepped ashore, and pulling up the canoe, hid it in
a thicket of juniper. It was still fairly early—an hour and a half
earlier, in fact, than when Steve had glimpsed the man in the dory
yesterday afternoon. But he had planned for this deliberately. He wanted
to take a look over the island before returning to the point to watch
for the stranger.
Back of the point the rocks rose steeply, with stunted pines, scrub oak
and a tangle of scraggly bushes growing from every conceivable crevice
and earth-pocket. It was far from easy going, but Steve pushed his way
through the undergrowth with only an occasional pause, keeping as close
to the shore as possible.
Presently he came upon a gully, slid into it, climbed the other side and
finally, pushing through a grove of wind-tossed trees, stepped out into
a narrow, open space. Then he paused abruptly.
On either hand steep, smooth masses of rock jutted up, shutting in the
place completely. Less than a score of yards apart, they shelved down
into the water, forming a tiny, sheltered cove toward which the ground
sloped gently. It was a snug spot, shielded from storms, and also from
observation, and a rough shack of weathered boards seemed a natural part
of the gray, rock-strewn landscape. But Steve had not been expecting to
find a hut here, and his first thought as he stared at it, motionless
and a little tense, was to connect it, somehow with the man he was
seeking.
For several minutes he stood there alert, his glance fixed curiously and
intently on the cabin. It was one of the duck shooters’ huts, no doubt,
of which the boys had told him. It must have stood there for some time,
too, judging from the dingy, weathered look of the planking. But it
seemed odd, with the duck season so far away, that the shutter of the
single small window at the rear should be swinging open. Surely any one
leaving it for a year or more would have made things more secure against
intrusion.
Steve waited a little longer, turning over various possibilities in his
mind, and then moved slowly forward. The stillness of the place, coupled
with a certain instinct hard to define, made him feel that the shack was
at the moment unoccupied. When he reached the window and looked in, he
found that instinct had served him well. The place was empty, and after
a brief survey, he moved around to the front and opened the door, which
was merely on the latch. Instantly his eyes fell upon a raw, splintered
spot where a lock had been and he bent to examine it closely.
“Huh!” he grunted. “I thought so. Somebody’s broken in.”
Thoughtfully he straightened up and looked around. There was little
doubt in his mind as to who had made the forcible entry, but the object
of it was as great a puzzle as the identity of the mysterious stranger.
And presently he discovered that there was more than one in the
marauding party.
In each of the four rough bunks at one end of the cabin were blankets.
Also, scattered over the rude plank table in the middle of the room,
were four tin plates and as many cups, all of which had been lately
used.
“This is no place for me,” decided Steve as he took in these details.
“If they should come back and find me here, I—”
The words clipped off and he whirled about with widening eyes as the
muffled beat of an engine’s exhaust smote suddenly on his ears.
“Jimminy!” he gasped, and leaped for the door.
He was half way through it when he saw the bow of a dory sliding into
view past the rocks at the end of the cove. Jumping back like a flash,
he jerked the door shut and latched it noiselessly. For an instant he
hesitated, heart pounding in his throat. Then he moved swiftly to the
window, pulled himself up, squeezed through and plunged into the fringe
of undergrowth about a dozen feet away.
But as he gained the shelter he realized that the popping of the engine
had ceased and he heard the sound of voices. He dared not pause here,
but sped on over the rough ground. It was not the same way he had come,
but he cared nothing for that. The closeness of his escape had shaken
him considerably, and he was trembling. It was not until he had pushed
through the woods for a hundred feet or more that he began to slow down
and recover himself.
“What a nut I am!” he muttered, wiping his forehead with the back of one
hand. “They’ll never come here.”
And then, being what he was, he grew angry at himself for that panicky
flight. If he had stayed at the edge of the woods he might have had a
good look at the stranger without any special risk. He might even have
gained some hint as to what the party was doing here. He had just about
decided to turn and retrace his steps, when he stumbled and almost fell,
saving himself only by a quick snatch at an overhanging branch. Then,
looking down to discover what had tripped him, he saw the tins!
At first glance, indeed, they did not look like tins, but more like
square, rectangular boxes covered with canvas. It was only by pressing
one with his fingers that he felt the distinctive give of thin metal.
There were a dozen or more in all, piled neatly in a cavity among the
rocks and covered over with leaves and dead branches.
Filled with curiosity, Steve punched and prodded the top one inquiringly
and ran his fingers exploringly over its surface. He was on the point of
lifting it to test the weight, when the sound of voices behind him
brought him upright with a gasp.