CHAPTER XXIII
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.”