All-Story Weekly, Vol. 112, No. 1 — page 52: what you’re looking at

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

A2 quaking mires and twisting lagoons. Snakes —the big, stump-tailed moccasins which were deadly but too sluggish for an active man to fear; but then a small green cousin to these with a burnished head, and one of these bit a favorite hound, and the hound floundered over dead. And _ the chance of a shot in the dark. But uglier than all these other things which, after all, were reasonable and fa- miliar enough to hardened swampers such asecomprised Shuiski’s triple crew, was that ominous, invisible menace the men would talk about. What was it? No one knew. It was something that lived in the Everglades. They all had heard about it. Maybe it was a big snake. The Indians called it the Chitto-rakkee, or some such thing. The Indians said that it was so big that it could draw in the water of the ’Glades and blow them out again. “And a mess we'd be in, too, this far out in the ’Glades, without no boats, if Chitto-rakkee did—” “To hell with your superstitions!” gra- ted Shuiski darkly. A pretty way to talk, when hell was so close, and the swamp-lights shining in the night like the lanterns of the dead! Then, just when reenforcements had ar- rived — four of them, with other hounds that would run any swamp night or day; and a prospect that the chase would end before daylight, that flying-boat winging up in the early dusk—the glimmer of a signal-fire on the distant island. Lathrop, in his flying-boat, also had seen that fire, and guessed that itewas no ordi- nary camp-fire. Some one waved a flaming torch. ‘“* Muriel! ”’ His heart was thudding like his motor, now. He circled low. ‘The mirror expanded. And there was a rush of water as his flying- boat came to rest.’ There followed an interval which was absurdly commonplace. There often does follow such an interval after some ex- traordinary experience, or in the midst of some extraordinary adventure. ALL-STORY WEEKLY, ““Jammed in the mud,” he had mut- tered. He knew that he had missed wrecking his plane by a hair. Then, shortly, there was an Indian in a striped shirt, wading out from the bank of the deceptive lake and inviting him to follow. The island was farther away than he had guessed—a hundred yards or so away through a twist- ing channel mostly saw-grass and mud. Not a word yet of the girl. Not much else than silence. But a limkin fléw up with the shriek of a frightened woman. Under a brushy arch Lathrop saw again the twinkle of fire, and this held his atten- tion until the Indian had brought him close to a former landing-place. And not until Lathrop had stepped ashore did he see the dim figure standing there. ' “€ Muriel?” . 6¢ Yes! ) “Thank God!” She had tried to speak, but it was as if a hand had stopped her breath. Blue Ot- ter had turned away. Blue Otter had gone on ahead in the direction of the fire. CHAPTER XXIV. A BATH OF FLAME. HERE was no moon, no stars, that night. The only light visible for miles around was an occasional quiv- er of lightning—such lightning as is seen on the level spaces of the world, flashing low down, apparently near, like the lights of an automobile; this, then the serene glow here and there of a marsh-light—as friendly, in appearance, as the light in the window of a farmhouse. They were almost past emotion—or past any ordinary expression of it, those three on the island. Lathrop had slept scarcely at all in the week that he had searched for Muriel Sangree. He was like a man re- duced to the essential steel skeleton of him- self. Muriel Sangree herself was like some- thing that had been tested with fire. The dross and the superficial had disappeared. Blue Otter was again the red sphinx. “He lit the fire to guide you,” Muriel COmiIclooOo SS C©