Air Stories, April 1936 — page 45: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

GUNMAN’S GOLD here and give the wolves a feed. Hurry up, we haven’t all day to wait.’’ A few minutes later the remaining dogs were securely tied, and the Fokker Was once again in the air. As he flew, Don’s mind worked fast. The vague premonition still possessed him. He couldn’t define it. What were these men doing aboard his ’plane? True, they said they were trappers, but he knew better. They carried weapons that no real trapper would own. They had shown they couldn’t handle dogs. Their outfits. were worn, but evidently they didn’t know how to pack properly. Besides, no real trapper would take fourteen dogs into a district so well settled as Moosehorn Lake. Dog-feed was too scarce. He was still seeking answers to these questions when Moosehorn Lake appeared below. The air was keen and sharp as he nosed down for a landing. Just beneath his port wing he could see the winding ribbon of the cat-trail, Why had these men paid the high aeroplane fares when they could have travelled on the cat-train from Pelican Lake? They hadn’t paid yet, but Don mentally assured himself they would—and pay highly. CHAPTER III On the Trail of the Cat ON brought his machine down and taxied to the shore of the lake. He stood by as he watched the men unload their dogs and outfit. _ ** Well, you’re here,’’ he said quietly. The little man looked at him for a moment. ‘“Yeah, we’re here all right. the fare? ’’ Don mentioned a sum larger than usual, ‘‘ Fair enough,’ the little man laughed nervously, and reached for his pocket. He withdrew a huge roll of currency. Peeling off the notes, he started to laugh again. ‘‘I’m getting to be funny,’’ he chuckled. ‘‘ What’s the fare, I asks, What’s and then says, fair enough. I’m real funny, I am.’’ ‘“Yes, you are,’’ Don agreed, and added under his breath, ‘‘ you’re damned funny—but I can’t see the joke yet.’’ Thirty minutes later Don set the Fokker down at Fraser, the tiny town on the bleak flats alongside the Hudson’s Bay Railway. Fraser was like any other ‘‘ jumping- off’? place in the north. A scattered collection of shacks, blatant in their newness, squatted alongside the thin lines of steel that connected them with the ‘‘ outside world.’’ Miners and trap- pers mingled with geologists and finan- ciers. Indians and whites rubbed elbows in the camaraderie of semi-civilisation. Dogs, some idle and others resting, probed among the refuse heaps or played around the cat tractors and aeroplanes down at the lake. Once each week the train came in from Le Pas, and that was an event of some importance. For three days Don made short runs out of Fraser, and then returned to await the arrival of the weekly train. Try as he might, he had been unable to get the two trappers out of his mind. They didn’t appear genuine to him, and when a man pretends to be something he isn’t in the north, there is usually a strong reason for it. Don wanted to know that reason. He wouldn’t rest content until he did, for if ever two men warranted the strongest suspicion, that pair on Moosehorn Lake did. An idea suddenly struck him. He raced to the radio-shack of the Northern Air Lines, where ‘‘ Bugs ’’ Barton held sway. ‘* Say, ‘Bugs’,’’ he burst out, ‘‘ send this message right away, and tell them I want an answer—at once. Get that? ’’ ‘‘ Bugs ’’ glanced at the slip of paper. ‘‘“Phew! To the big-wigs of the Pelican Lake Mine, eh ? ”’ ‘“Yes, the big-wigs, and make it fast, the Muskeg Special’ll soon be in.’’ ‘‘ Bugs ’?’ swung around in his chair and adjusted his ‘‘ cans.’’ A moment later he was sending his call letters sizzling and snapping through the ether 332 CoOnniclooo SJ (SO)