He opened the cabin door. The throb of a motor smote his ear, and once more sent tremors of fear coursing up his spine.
Once more consternation seized him. What was to be done? He couldn’t lose his plane. He must not!
“Only three weeks,” he said aloud, “and then!”
It had been a glorious three weeks. Rising off the field at Edmonton. Greeting the dawn. Skimming through the clouds. Sailing over a great white world, ever new. This was his task as a northern pilot.
“So safe, too,” he had said more than once. “The river’s ice, a perfect landing field, always beneath you.”
No, he could not lose his plane. Reaching up to a niche at the top of the low cabin, he took down a powerful yew bow and a handful of arrows. The arrows were of ash, light and strong. They were perfectly feathered. Their points were of razor-edged steel. “Might help in an emergency,” he told himself. “And this D’Arcy person might be able to do a little if I could free him. Even if it were a woman, she might help; you never can tell.”
The pulsating beat of motors grew louder.
“If I lose my plane it means we lose the mail contract. I won’t!” He set his lips tight. “I must not!”
Gripping his bow, he stepped out of the cabin.
The next moment his face broadened in a grin.