I strained for some sign of habitation but the wooded isle remained inscrutable. We began scouting around the lake. About twenty feet from the defile entrance Johnny Eagle discovered a canoe hidden in a crevice of the crater wall. I decided against using it to reach the island. Chances of approaching unseen in it were too slim. Besides, the theft of the canoe would reveal our presence. We couldn't afford that risk with Chetzisky playing God.
We would swim out, I decided. But first we went along the shore to reconnoiter the shortest route and in doing so we spied the clearing on the island. I could make out a cabin and a long, slanting structure resembling a ramp.
This was it, I was sure.
"Johnny, get back to the plane and have the pilot radio Colonel Armstrong that I've found Chetzisky. Give him all the necessary information."
5
I waited till Johnny Eagle had melted away and then, making my .45 as waterproof as I could, I slid into the lake. It was a short swim to the island—fifty yards or so—but I was pretty well exhausted when I dragged myself out of the water. The cold air knifed into my back and shoulder blades. It was welcome relief to crawl into the shelter of the undergrowth and rest a while.
With some of my strength back, I pushed on cautiously through the bushes and tightly-packed trees. The first washings of dawn now appeared in the sky. It was the beginning of the day that Chetzisky had chosen for the world to die.
When I came to the edge of the clearing, I stopped, my eyes probing the morning grayness. Then I stepped quickly out of the brush. Suddenly I stopped dead, afraid even to breathe. Two feet from me an Indian dozed, a rifle across his lap. It was too late; his eyes blinked open. I hurled myself on him. There was a brief scuffle and then he lay still, knocked unconscious by the butt of my .45.
I faded back into the undergrowth and waited. I thought I heard the door of the cabin in the clearing open. But nothing happened.