Five minutes later, from out a mass of white they approached a second mass that somehow seemed solid. And so it was. They hit the lake with a force that set their teeth rattling. For a space of seconds it seemed that their ship might go on her nose. But, like some bird lighting on a limb, she tilted twice, then shot away on an even keel.
“Good old ship!” the boy murmured.
There was still call for care. A massive wall of stone, the bold shore of the lake, loomed before them. With a deft turn, the boy brought his plane about and set her skirting that shore. A moment more and they came to rest not a stone’s throw from that protecting cliff.
But what now? As he climbed down from his place Curlie saw at the edge of a clump of willows and scrub spruce, where the shore was less abrupt, a small cabin built of logs.
It was a new cabin. The hewn ends of the logs were still white. Smoke curled from the chimney.
“Jerry,” said Curlie, “do you suppose that some strange chance has led us to the very door of the cabin occupied by those mysterious rascals?”
For once Jerry’s ready answer did not come. Quite as much mystified as his pilot, he merely shook his head and stared.
At that moment Curlie’s ears caught a strange sound, the curious whining, yelping sound of a creature in distress. But what kind of creature?
“Can’t be a dog,” he told himself. “Don’t sound right.” He had never heard such a sound in his life.
As he stood there puzzling over this fresh mystery, the door of the cabin flew open. A man stood in the door, a broad-shouldered, powerful man. And in his hand he gripped an axe.