The Air Mystery of Isle La Motte

by E. J. Craine

“Slack up a bit and go south,” Jim suggested through the speaking tube.

“All right,” Bob agreed. He kicked the rudder, Her Highness circled, proceeded at a slower speed, and presently the spot in which they were so keenly interested, jumped into the lenses. At first glance it was as deserted as before, then Jim saw a coil of smoke rolling up into the wind. Concentrating with all his attention, he saw that some sort of shack was on fire, and just below the burning building, was a blackened spot that had been swept bare by the blaze. A couple of puffs snapped out from down the ravine, and a volley of answering shots spat viciously from the other end.

“The fight’s still on, Buddy,” Jim bellowed, and Bob looked over the side. They were getting close enough now so that they could see the battle fairly clearly, and they watched with tense interest. At one end they made out the Canadian policemen closing in on the desperadoes, who seemed to be sliding back behind a screen of brush they had dug up, and just a few feet from them the wall of the ravine rose sharply cutting off their escape.

“They’ll have them in a minute,” Bob exclaimed excitedly. “Suppose they can climb up that wall?”

“It looks pretty jagged to me, like tiers of boulders, but, zowee—if they do get up, there’s a line of blue-coats waiting for them,” Jim announced, and he would have danced up and down with joy, if he hadn’t been strapped securely to the seat. Bob paid strict attention to his business, then, as the attack was started, he decided it would be no harm to circle about and see the finish of the fight. He knew that his brother would be in accord with the plan, so he proceeded to carry it out. He zoomed higher, kicked the rudder, raced the engine and was soon pounding at three thousand feet, where he leveled off for the ring, and started to fly so they had a grand view of the drama below. Jim kept his glasses fixed on the gully, and as the position of Her Highness was changed, he had a superior view of both sides of the maneuvers. Suddenly the wall that cut off the criminals was directly in front of his gaze and he began to wonder about it. It seemed strange that men who were probably accustomed to protecting themselves and taking every precaution, should select a place where they could be so easily trapped.

“The Mounties must have given them a special surprise,” he remarked to himself, but just the same, that did not seem entirely possible. It seemed to the boy that there must be a gang who used the ravine as a hangout, a means of slipping into the United States or Canada whenever they wanted to, and they would need quite a force of men in order to keep themselves well posted on the habits of the men who patrolled the location. Then it occurred to Jim that the outlaws might not have used the place long and had not had time to prepare hasty exits. But that idea as it flashed through his brain did not seem at all plausible.

The boy remembered that Bradshaw had said the “gang” had been particularly successful in putting over every one of their schemes. That meant they were taking no chances, and surely they would none of them let themselves be backed against a high cliff where they were sure to be picked off with the rifles of the Mounties if they tried to scale it, and run into the arms of other officers if they did manage to reach the top. He studied the group of men firing furiously from behind the brush pile and rocks, then he wondered why the men on top did not fire down at them. That was soon answered, for he saw that the edge was steep and soft, and even as he watched, he saw a man slip. His companion grabbed him by the arm and saved him from going over into the ravine. The slip dislodged a quantity of gravel and brush which slid down behind the desperadoes. Two of them instantly whirled about ready to fire in case they were attacked from the rear. There still remained a few rods to be traversed before they would reach the cliff, and another man glanced up at the plane and shook his fist.

“Shouldn’t like to kill any of them, but I wish we had a few tear bombs, or some little thing like that to put them out of business,” Jim lamented. He couldn’t help feeling that although it looked as if the officers would soon get their men, they must have some cards still up their sleeves.

“Say, Buddy,” Bob bellowed, “There comes Pedro’s covered wagon.” He pointed, and although Jim could not catch the words, he followed the direction and had no difficulty in picking out the highly colored truck which was moving forward slowly along a road that looked as if it was used very little. It was about a mile from the ravine in an especially isolated section and Jim’s eyes swept the vicinity as he thought that the huckster must be nearing his own home, but there wasn’t a house for miles, and as near as the boy could make out, the road meandered along and finally slowed down near a dilapidated old rail fence which might mark an ancient boundary, or surround a pasture. Rocks and brush were piled above it, and as the boy looked, he saw that the truck stopped.

“Perhaps the old guy has heard the shooting,” he thought, but if Pedro did, he gave no sign of either assisting or investigating. Instead he dismounted with agility, with some sort of huge bundle in his arms, and in a moment he was standing on the rim of the wagon bed. It took but a moment for Jim to realize that the man was throwing a canvas of dark green material over the brilliant truck.