“Found what he was looking for,” Johnny Thompson told himself. “But what was it?”
To this question he could form no certain answer; perhaps a boat, a cabin or an airplane. In fact, Johnny was almost completely in the dark regarding the purpose and probable outcome of this, the latest of Drew Lane’s adventures.
When he had met the young detective he had said never a word. In silence they had climbed into the plane and flown away. Who had kidnaped the Red Rover and Berley Todd? Johnny did not know. Did Drew Lane know? Were the kidnapers on this island? Was the Red Rover? Was Berley Todd? The boy did not know. All he knew was that he appeared to be right bang up against one more exciting adventure, and that was enough.
Tipping the plane at a rakish angle, Drew Lane sent it over a narrow ridge of land to drop at last upon a narrow stretch of black water. This was Rock Harbor. The scout’s cabin was not half a mile away. Hearing the drum of a motor, he extinguished his light, then sprang to the door just in time to see the plane land.
“Hm!” he breathed. “More kidnapers, officers of the law, or just ordinary folks. I expected to have a dull time at this place, all by myself, but blamed if it ain’t been exciting so far.”
At that he buckled his one remaining “shootin’ iron” about his waist and disappeared into the night.
At that same hour a second plane, all silver and white, circled over a stretch of water black as night, then, graceful as a sea gull, sank to rest.
The body of water was Duncan’s Bay. Two miles long, one quarter as wide, with trees growing to the very edge of its lapping waters and never so much as an abandoned shack standing beside it, this bay at all seasons of the year is a dark and lonesome spot as night falls across the world.
Night was here. So too were the chill winds of November. But the single occupant of the plane appeared to give little heed to all this. Unfolding a curious sort of collapsible rubber boat, he filled it with air, took a short paddle from his fusilage, stepped into the rubber affair and paddled ashore.
The spot upon which he landed had perhaps at one time been a barren stretch of sand. Overgrown now with tangled grass and low bushes, it forms a perfect camping ground. Such it has been for countless generations. From this spot ten thousand camp fires have sent their golden gleams across the black waters of Duncan’s Bay. Each in turn has faded into the darkness of night. Had this strange visitor, a slender person in a long black coat, cared for such things, he might have dug beneath his very feet and found there charcoal and half burned bones from fires that had gleamed a hundred, perhaps two hundred years ago. For, since Isle Royale lifted its rocky head from out the deep and took on a cap of green, this spot has been the camping place of man.