“No, I don’t think it is. Can’t quite make out what it is, though.”
Then they pressed on over the trail left by the sleds of the outlaw.
The fluttering above the edge of the forest was caused by neither white owl nor raven, but by three balloons bobbing about in the air; a red one, a white one and a blue one. These balloons, considerably larger than toy balloons, were kept from fluttering away by silk cords reaching to the cabin below.
Before we can explain their presence here we must first tell what had happened to Curlie Carson since we left him huddled behind a snowbank with bullets singing over him.
Without knowing why he had been attacked Curlie realized that he was in grave danger. These rough men, whoever they might be, were apparently bent on his destruction.
For the moment he was safe. The snowbank was thick and solid. A bullet, he knew, made little progress in snow. But they might outflank him and come in to the right or left of him. They doubtless believed him to be in possession of a rifle, or at least an automatic. They would plan their attack with extreme caution but in time they would get him.
Twisting about under cover he studied the lie of the snow to right and left of him. It was not reassuring. True, there were other snow ridges, but to reach these he must expose himself. This would not do. To cut himself a trench along the hillside would take too long. Besides he would be detected in the attempt. He thought of his belt radiophone equipment.
“Might get up a balloon aerial,” he told himself, “and send an S. O. S. But that would take time—too much time. Besides, who’d come to my rescue? Deuce of a mess, I’d say!”
He at length determined on a bold move.
“Might get shot down on the spot,” he admitted, “but it’s better than waiting.”