All-Story Weekly, Vol. 112, No. 1 — page 49: what you’re looking at

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

THE ONE GIFT. she had thus far passed, had given her a new power of perception, a new clearness of vision. She saw that in the past she had been something of a coquette, some- thing of a flirt, sémething of a liar. Why had she dallied with him, once that she was aware that he loved her and she loved him? She wondered. Weren’t half the woes of the world caused by just such tom- foolery ? Lieutenant Lathrop occupied Muriel’s thought as he occupied the sky—a mere speck in it, perhaps, at times, and a mere drone, but present. She saw him as some sort of a white counterpart to Blue Otter, some sort of a brother. Both were brave; both were upright; both were self- sacrificing. Both flew, even—though one did fly by grace of the “ flying-iron,”’ and the other by grace of the spirit only. But there was a prophetic quality in this persistent thinking of hers—something of a different kind of prayer, perhaps, from any she had ever known or tried before. Or was it prophecy, or was it the mere magnet of thought, that was to bring the flying lieutenant at last to her side? That afternoon, as soon as the sun was set, Blue Otter and the girl had again en- tered the ghost-canoe. But this time they followed a different water-trail. It was a trail that led them through another winding green tunnel to a place where the forest ended and the saw-grass flats of the Ever- clades began. Blue Otter had paused long on the edge of the grass country. Not-for many miles, once they were embarked on this waveless sea, would there be any cover for them from possible watchers on the banks; no: cover but the night. The night had thickened, and then Blue Otter had pushed out into the open canoe- trail. At this time and place the world pre- sented the prospect of a great desolation. North and south lay the black headlands of cypress and hammock that marked the western shore of the Everglades. East- ward of these lay the featureless waste of saw-erass—no island visible, no water vis- ible—nothing but a dun-colored flatness as far as the eye could see. 39 ‘“ Have you ever crossed the Everglades, Blue Otter?” ‘* Never.” ‘How will you find your way?” He had disregarded her question much as a thoughtful elder would disregarel the idle question of an importunate child. Or was that upward toss of his head toward the darkening sky an answer? In any case, she had held her peace. She had spoken no word any more even when she saw that her pilot of the night— out of the unknown, and into the unknown, like a brief resumé of life itselfi—was hav- ing difficulties. Always mysterious in their movements, the waters of the Everglades seemed to be in the course of drying up. Time and again Blue Otter stepped over- board into the dark water-trail and hauled the boat for a distance—fearless, tireless, giving no sign and speaking no word of dis- couragement. “How do you know—” Muriel said. It was a long, long time before he spoke. When he spoke his voice came soft and reasonable: ‘““T heard a Voice.” The day had not been without develop- ments in other quarters-—Prince Shuiski coming out of his strangled sleep into which Blue Otter had so roughly nursed him; Carlo and the chauffeur returning at last, cautious and armed, only to find the In- dian and the girl gone to a destination - unknown, and the prince, so called, alone. There had followed a profane council of War. “It looks bad!’’—this from Carlo. “Through your damned blundering!”’ roars the prince. The chauffeur privately meditates flight by himself in his little swamp-rat of an automobile. There are buyers of such au- tomobiles in Tampa, and girls and liquor for the man with the money. But finally a truce is patched up. ‘They can’t get away from us,” said the prince. “God help us if they do—knowing what they do,” said Carlo. ‘ You said a mouthful then,” spake the chauffeur, coming out of his thought. comiclboolk C©