“Yah, kind of a long stretch when you figure doing it on a raft fer instance, or a canoe,” he added.
“I hadn’t been thinking of a raft,” she grinned.
“Reckon not, but you might. Building one would be a real good way to fill in your time, if you’re a good hand with a hammer, but don’t set no store by it.”
“As a hammerer I’m bad, but I might have tried it. Thanks so much for the tip.”
“Keep it for what it’s worth,” he replied and strode off in the opposite direction.
Hurrying toward the waiting Natell, the girl Sky-Pilot’s step was light for she felt that after all its seeming hopelessness, the hours had not been devoid of results. She had learned that Wat and his companions were located on the opposite side of the island, that Mrs. Pollzoff had gone off in the repainted Nike, whose nose pointed east when she disappeared on the horizon, which meant that the nearest point of land was probably that way, three hundred miles. Recalling her maps and large bodies of water in the north, she wondered if the island was in the Bering Sea. If it was, the mainland must be Alaska, United States territory.
If she wasn’t west of Alaska the island might be in one of the large bodies to the north of Canada, but that wouldn’t make a bit of difference, for every pilot, worthy of the name, was a citizen of the world, and the sudden disappearance of one in any part of the globe immediately aroused the interest of every land. It was a mighty comforting thought and Roberta was humming a little tune when she joined Natell, who looked at her with wide eyes.
“That wooden bird could not destroy you,” she said as if she could hardly believe the evidence of her own optics.
“No.” Roberta was about to explain that while she might have been cut to shreds, the plane hadn’t really touched her, but then she recalled reading that Indians have many superstitions and if they believed that she was favored by the Gods or had a charmed life, they might be inveigled into helping her escape. She had also read that the natives succeeded in traveling with their frail crafts over waters a white man, unless driven by desperation, would refuse to attempt; and safely reach ports unbelievably distant. The pair reached the dug-out and the young girl immediately started to speak swiftly to her mother in their own tongue and the girl Sky-Pilot guessed that the older woman was getting the details of the miraculous escape of their white charge. Nomie’s own eyes widened during the recital and at its close, she crossed herself piously.
“Eat,” she invited.