The Island of Yellow Sands: An Adventure and Mystery Story for Boys

by Ethel C. Brill

The lads were eager to learn what sort of land they had reached. The place certainly abounded in gulls. The birds welcomed the lifting of the fog with such a chorus of shrill and whining cries, that the boys feared they had landed on another mere pile of rocks, one of those desolate and wind-swept spots where the gulls love to nest. There was always the chance, however, that the golden sands might lie close by.

Once more Etienne hung back and let Ronald take the lead. The Indian’s superstitious dread of what they might encounter had probably not been lessened by the Scotch boy’s defiance of the manitos or by the subsequent experience in the fog. No ravenous beast or hideous serpent appeared to threaten the treasure-seekers, however, no enormous shape towered out of the mist to warn them back. Only the gulls disputed their way as they climbed about the rocks. They soon discovered that the place was either a narrow point or an island. Where they had landed, it was only a few rods wide. Further exploration proved it to be an island, about two miles long, and nowhere more than a quarter of a mile broad. There was no golden sand, only sandstone rock in slanting, overlapping sheets and blocks with upturned edges. A narrow belt of small trees and shrubs ran along the highest part. Everywhere were gulls, young and old, and the remains of their nests. By the time the setting sun had gilded the mist with red and gold, the three had examined the island very thoroughly.

After sunset the fog thickened again, and before dark turned into cold rain. There was nothing on the island to eat, the attempt to fish was unsuccessful, and the castaways were reluctant to use the handful of crushed corn they had saved so carefully for an emergency. They would eat it next day if they could get nothing else, but for that night they decided to go supperless. Everything on the island was dripping wet, so they did not attempt to light a fire, but crept under the upturned canoe and wrapped themselves in their damp blankets. With the rain came wind, blowing in gusts and squalls.

In spite of hunger and discomfort, the lads went to sleep. They were awakened suddenly by a terrific blast of wind that blew directly into the propped up canoe, lifted the light birch craft as if it had been a dried leaf, and whirled it away in the darkness. In an instant the three were out of their blankets, up and scrambling over the slippery rocks. They could not find the canoe again, though they sought everywhere for it, endangering their necks again and again in the black darkness, wind and rain. At last, after Ronald had plunged down a steep slope into the water and narrowly missed drowning, and Jean had stumbled over the upturned edge of a broken block and wrenched his ankle, they gave up in despair. If the canoe had not been carried away across the water, they might find it, or the battered remains of it, in the morning, but to attempt further search that night would be useless and foolhardy.

The only thing they could do was to crouch down in such shelter as the belt of trees afforded, and wait for dawn. They could not even search out a good place, but were compelled to make the best of what was close at hand. The stunted trees and bushes protected them but little from the rain and the wind, that came in violent squalls, now from one quarter, now from another.

It seemed as if the night never would end, but towards morning the wind steadied and the rain ceased. Breaking through the clouds at the horizon, the sun rose red in a wind-torn sky. The waves were dashing their spray up to the very edge of the band of trees, and there was no sign of the canoe. There were other things to be seen, however. Rocks and reefs and islets, almost smothered in foam, were visible to east and south, while to west and north, at a distance of several miles, stretched what appeared to be continuous land, rising high.

The boys marveled at the sight, and at once questioned the Indian about the Island of Yellow Sands. “What was it your grandfather said about the island, Etienne?” Jean asked. “Did he not describe it? Was it large or small, high or low?”

Etienne shook his head. “That I cannot tell you, little brother,” he replied. “My grandfather told of nothing but the beach with the yellow sands and the waves rolling high upon it. Whether the island was large or small, high or low, wooded or barren, I do not remember that he said. In some of the tales, it is said that fierce beasts came out of the woods to attack the braves who tried to carry away the sand, but whether those tales are true or are only told to frighten the white man and keep him away from the gold, I do not know.”

While Etienne was speaking, Ronald had been gazing intently at the stretch of land hazy and blue in the distance. When the Indian had finished, the boy said slowly: “I do not believe that land can be the island we seek. If the Island of Yellow Sands were as large and high and plainly visible as that, some one would have found and explored it long ago. No, that is either part of the mainland, or one of the greater islands that men know. Surely to have escaped the white men’s eyes for so many years, the Island of Yellow Sands must be small and low and inconspicuous.”

“So it would seem indeed,” agreed Jean. “That land may be, as you say, a part of the main shore of the lake, or one of the great islands, Royale, Philippeau or Ponchartrain. Yet we can scarcely be sure that the island we seek is not a large one, just because men have not found it. Who, either white man or red, has ever traveled over all this great lake? The canoes go along the shores, and even the sailing vessels follow their regular courses. No man knows what may lie in the center of these waters. Is that not true, Nangotook?”