Curlie tried in vain to read the meaning in his expression. Was he, after all, a confederate of those outlaws who had taken to riding the sky in a plane fueled at another’s expense?
“I believe you are in with them!” he exclaimed angrily.
“What d’ y’ mean, in with ’em?” the little man demanded hotly.
“The ‘Gray Streak,’ outlaw of the air.”
Instantly the look on the man’s face changed. “Before Gawd, I know less ’n you about this ’ere ghost of the air!”
“Then,” said Curlie, as his face cleared, “here is the message. It’s up to you. The bird came to your cabin, not to ours.”
He handed over the carefully wrapped billet, arose and led the way out of the cabin. He then climbed into the plane with Jerry following, turned his motor over, set it throbbing, and flew away.
If Jerry marveled at all this, he ventured not one question.
CHAPTER VIII
WHITE FOXES
One feature of the North fascinated Joyce Mills more than any other—the dog teams. Her outfit had engaged two of these teams at Fort Resolution. Wonderful dogs they were, too. Long, rangy, muscular fellows, they stood to her waist. And how they could travel!