16 Biggles Flies North Page 4

  Biggles stiffened. 'What about it?'

  `Stirling's partner is in here. I've just been talking to him. Apparently they're working a claim together up north, and Stirling asked his partner—that's him, the old man in the slouch hat—to tell Wilks that he still has the transfer. It struck me that we might fly him up and collect it. You'd better come and have a word with him.'

  There was no need for Ginger to repeat his suggestion; almost before he had finished Biggles was on his way to the stove. 'Careful,' whispered Ginger, as he followed close behind. `McBain and Co. are watching us.'

  Biggles nodded to show that he had heard, but he did not so much as glance in McBain's direction.

  `You're Angus Stirling's partner?' he began without preamble, addressing the old man.

  `Sure,' was the brief reply.

  Ìs it correct that Angus asked you to tell Wilkinson that he still has the transfer of the land he sold him?'

  Ày, that's right enow. That's what he said.'

  Ì'm glad to hear it,' Biggles went on quickly. 'As it happens we need that paper badly.

  How far away is this claim of yours?'

  "Bout fifteen hundred miles.'

  Biggles's eyes opened wide. 'Gosh, that's a bit farther than I bargained for,' he admitted frankly. 'Still, that doesn't matter. Is it anywhere in Moose Creek direction?'

  `Pretty near due north of it—'bout twice as far, I guess.'

  Ànd you're- going back there?'

  `Sure.'

  `When?'

  `Termorrer. I aim to catch the freeze-up. She'll be froze by the time I get to the water.'

  In a vague sort of way Biggles realized that the old man meant that ice would have to form over a certain stretch of water so that he could get to the claim where Angus was working. 'How are you going to travel?' he asked.

  The old man smiled and turned a bright eye on Biggles. `There ain't no trains where I'm goin', mister,' he grinned. Ìt's canoe to Moose River, where I aim to pick up my dogs.'

  Ìs Moose Creek somewhere on Moose River?'

  `Sure.'

  Ì asked because I'm flying up to Moose Creek tomorrow,' went on Biggles. 'I reckon to make it in a day. If you care to come along with me that should save you quite a bit of time. Maybe we could go right on to the claim. How does that idea strike you?'

  A childish grin spread slowly over the old man's face, and he scratched his ear thoughtfully. 'You mean—you aim to take me up in an airyplane?'

  `That's it.'

  `Well, I ain't never thought about travellin' that road, but I'll try anything onst. Termorrer, did you say?'

  `Yes.'

  Àll the way to Moose Creek?'

  `We'll go right on to the claim if there is any place where I could land. Is there a flat patch anywhere near the claim?'

  `Sure.'

  `How big is it, roughly?'

  Àbout ten thousand square miles.'

  `What!'

  "Tain't nothin' else but flat patch as far as yer can see —when it's froze.'

  `You mean this flat patch is ice?'

  `That's it.'

  'Ah! I understand.'

  `Will there be room for the grub?' inquired the old man.

  Ì've got a fair load to get along—'nough to last me and Angus till the break-up.'

  `You can take anything up to a ton,' returned Biggles. Ì ain't got that much.'

  `That's all the better. Be on the aerodrome at the crack of dawn and we'll make Moose Creek in one jump. Is that a deal?'

  `You betcha.'

  `See you in the morning, then.' Biggles turned, and saw McBain's Indian backing stealthily away. 'Was that fellow listening?' he asked Ginger quietly.

  Ì'm afraid so. I didn't notice him, though, or I'd have warned you.'

  `Well, I don't see that McBain can do anything to stop us,' murmured Biggles as they returned to the bar. 'I've got to go to Moose Creek in the morning, anyway, and it won't be much extra trouble to go on to this claim, wherever it is. I'll get the old chap—what did they call him, Mose?—to mark the place on my map when he comes up in the morning. But we'd better finish our drinks and be getting back; Wilks will wonder what has happened to us.'

  Biggles paid the score and, subconsciously aware that a curious silence had fallen on the room, reached for the cup that contained the remainder of his Bovril. Simultaneously there was a deafening roar and the cup flew to smithereens, splashing the liquid in all directions.

  For a moment Biggles stared with startled eyes at the spot where the cup had been. Then, recovering himself quickly, he looked round. McBain was standing farther along the bar, a smoking revolver in one hand and a bottle of whisky—which presumably he intended taking away with him—in the other. From the offensive leer on his face, and his heavy-lidded eyes, it was clear that he had been drinking.

  No one spoke. The only sound in the room was the soft shuffle of feet as the other men in the bar began to back away out of the line of fire.

  `Give me another drink, boss,' requested Biggles quietly.

  Silence reigned while the barman prepared another cup and set it on the counter in front of Biggles, whose hand had barely started moving towards it when McBain's gun roared again and the cup flew to pieces as the first one had done.

  Unhurriedly, Biggles turned a reflective eye on McBain, who was now holding a glass in one hand while with the other he felt in his pocket, presumably for money to pay the score. The revolver, an almost imperceptible coil of smoke creeping from the muzzle, and the bottle of whisky rested on the bar in front of him.

  `Give me another drink, boss, will you?' repeated Biggles, and put his hand in his pocket as if to take out the money to pay for it.

  The barman set the cup in front of Biggles and then stepped back quickly.

  McBain stood his glass on the bar. His hand moved towards the revolver, but on this occasion things did not go in accordance with his plan. Biggles's hand jerked out of his pocket. There was a double report, the two shots coming so close together that they almost sounded like one. There was a crash of shattering glass and a metallic ping as McBain's bottle of whisky splintered into a hundred pieces and his revolver spun along the polished bar before falling behind it.

  Dead silence followed the shots. For a full ten seconds McBain stared unbelievingly at the puddle where the bottle had been, his right hand groping for the revolver that was no longer there. The face which he then turned to Biggles was white, mottled with dull crimson blotches. His eyes glared and a stream of profanity burst from his lips.

  `What's the matter, McBain?' asked Biggles evenly. Àny fool can play a game single-handed; you don't mind me joining in, surely?'

  The other did not answer. With his big eyes on Biggles's face, very slowly he began creeping along beside the bar, his right hand, with the fingers clawed, sliding along the shiny surface.

  `That's far enough, McBain,' Biggles warned him curtly. He knew that it would be fatal to come to grips with the man, who was nearly twice his weight and clearly had the physical strength of a bull. Once in McBain's grip and he would stand no chance whatever. Knowing this, he had no intention of allowing McBain to get his hands on Biggles addressed the bar-keeper. 'What is the usual procedure in a case like this, in this part of the world?' he inquired presently. 'Do I shoot him?'

  "Ere, wait a minute,' snapped the bar-tender. 'I don't want no shooting 'ere.'

  Ì didn't start it,' Biggles pointed out.

  'I know you didn't.' The bar-tender whirled round and snatched a heavy Colt revolver from a shelf behind him. He turned to McBain, scowling. 'That's enough, Brindle,' he said harshly. 'I ain't taking sides, but you asked for what you got. Now get this. You're always a causin' trouble in my bar. If yer can't carry yer liquor, go some place and learn, but yer ain't bustin' up my bar while I'm here.'

  McBain ceased his bear-like advance towards Biggles, and turning slowly to the bar-keeper, called him by an obscene name.

  Ì'd better plug him and rid the world of a d
irty beast,' suggested Biggles, wondering at the back of his mind why McBain's friends did not take a hand. Snatching a glance in their direction, lie understood. Ginger's automatic was covering them.

  How the matter would have ended it is impossible to say, but at that moment the outside door was flung open, and Delaney, the police constable, stood on the threshold, a carbine in his hands. 'What's the shooting?' he inquired bluntly.

  Ònly me and McBain seeing who can spill most liquor,' replied Biggles.

  `You two at it again?' The constable's eyes went from one to the other. 'See here, stranger,' he went on, observing that Biggles was still holding his automatic in his hand, `

  gun-play's finished in these parts—savvy? It went out with Buffalo Bill. This is a law-abiding township.'

  Biggles nodded. 'Yes, I've noticed it,' he answered, smiling faintly.

  Ànd I don't want any lip. Who pulled first?' Biggles shook his head. `Not me. I can't afford to waste ammunition.'

  `McBain shot his drink,' shouted old Mose shrilly. 'I seen 'im.'

  Àny more shooting between you two and I'll take away your fire-arms certificates,'

  declared the constable, eyeing Biggles and McBain in turn. Ànd that goes for every one else in this room.'

  `Quite right,' murmured Biggles, putting his automatic back into his pocket and then drinking his Bovril. 'Come on, Ginger; grab some of this stuff. Let's be going.'

  As they went out he nodded to Mose. `See you tomorrow—start at daylight,' he called.

  Then the door closed behind them and they hurried back to the aerodrome.

  Ginger Goes Scouting

  THEY SAID LITTLE on the way back beyond congratulating themselves on the discovery of Angus Stirling's whereabouts, and adding a few words about McBain's behaviour.

  Òne of these days somebody will plug the drunken swine—and the sooner the better,'

  growled Biggles, as they strode into the hangar and deposited their parcels on a bench.

  Ì was just beginning to get worried about you,' Wilks told them. 'You were a long time.'

  `McBain was there, and he tried to be funny,' replied Biggles, and reported the shooting incident at the saloon. `But forget about that,' he continued quickly. 'What is far more important, we've got on the track of Angus Stirling.

  He is working a claim somewhere up north with an old fellow named Mose, who is now in Fort Beaver collecting stores for the winter. Angus actually sent a message to you by Mose—which he gave to us—to the effect that he has got the transfer of the land you bought off him, and you can have it when you want it.'

  Wilks sprang to his feet. 'Want it! Why, that document is the key to the whole situation,'

  he cried. 'With that in our possession we can give Mr. Nosey-Parker McBain his marching orders, and call in the police to eject him if he doesn't clear off.'

  Biggles nodded. 'That's the way I see it,' he agreed. 'That being so, I've arranged to collect the transfer just as quickly as possible.'

  `How?'

  `Mose is starting back for the claim to-morrow, so I've offered to fly him up. We'll land at Moose Creek, where I'll dump the freight for the gold people, and Mose can pick up his dog-team. Then I'm going to fly him on to the claim. He says there is plenty of room to get down.'

  `That's marvellous,' declared Wilks enthusiastically. `What a stroke of luck! I reckon I'm about due for a break; your arrival seems to have turned the tide. Is Mose coming up here in the morning?'

  Àt dawn.'

  `Fine! ' A shadow of anxiety crossed his face. 'You said McBain was there,' he muttered.

  Did he hear all this? If he did he may try to stop Mose Ì think he heard, but I don't see what he can do,' answered Biggles thoughtfully. 'From the way he chipped in over the shooting affair I don't think he has any great love for McBain. We'd better turn in early; we've got a long day in front of us to-morrow. Have you managed to get things fixed up here?'

  'Yes, they're a bit rough, but I think we can manage.'

  Some of the tinned food was soon opened, and the three airmen, sitting round a candle-lighted table near the big machine, said little more while they enjoyed their overdue meal. At last Biggles set down the tin mug from which he had been drinking quantities of steaming coffee made over Wilks's Primus stove.

  Àll we want to-morrow is a fine day,' he declared. 'With any luck Algy and Smyth will be back with the other machine. The next day—or the day after—we ought to be back with the transfer. Then, having mustered our forces, we'll see what McBain has to say.

  He'll find things a bit more difficult now that there are four of us instead of you by yourself. I wonder what the weather's doing?'

  `The prophets forecast an early freeze-up,' Wilks pointed out.

  Ìt was clear enough when we came in,' returned Biggles.

  'I'll go and have a look at the sky,' offered Ginger, and leaving the table, he walked slowly to the hangar door and looked out.

  He shivered a little as he stepped on to the tarmac, for there was a real nip in the air that suggested that frost or snow was not far away. However, the sky was clear, and although there was no moon, the stars glittered hard and bright in the heavens. For a moment or two he stood with his face turned upwards, glad that he would be able to tell Biggles that there was every promise of a fine day on the morrow, and he was about to return to the others when a dull yellow gleam appeared in the darkness not very far away.

  Instinctively he looked at it, and an instant later realized that it came from McBain's hangar or the workshops or office adjoining it.

  Ìt would be interesting to hear just what's going on there,' he mused. 'Plotting some dirty business, I'll warrant.' The idea flashed into his mind that if his assumption was correct it would indeed be worth taking a little trouble to find out. There appeared to be no risk. '

  Shan't be a minute,' he called over his shoulder quickly to the others, and then began walking cautiously towards the light—not in a straight line, but in a curve that would bring him to his objective from the rear.

  He slowed down and moved with more caution as he neared the square of yellow light, which he now saw came from the window of one of the smaller buildings attached to the hangar. Step by step he advanced, every nerve keyed up, for he was quite prepared to find a sentry on guard. He decided that if he were challenged he would bolt for it.

  But what he had feared did not happen, and a moment later he was crouching against the rough log wall of the hut, from the inside of which came a low, confused murmur of voices. Inch by inch he edged along the wall until he came to the window. He held his breath as he peeped into the room, for there was no blind or other obstruction to interfere with his view.

  A glance showed him that four men were in the room, all sitting in various attitudes round a packing-case on which stood various glasses and a black bottle. They were the two pilots, Sarton and Ferroni, Cichot, McBain's bodyguard, and the Indian. McBain himself was not there.

  At first Ginger could not hear what was being said, but he found that by pressing his ear close to a chink in the log wall he could follow the conversation fairly well.

  Sarton was speaking. 'He's a long time,' he muttered, picking up his glass. 'I reckon you'd better go and look fer 'im, Jean.'

  `No. He say "go on",' protested the half-breed. 'I stay here.'

  The words had barely left his lips when Ginger heard the sound of heavy footsteps approaching. His heart gave a nervous leap, but his fears were allayed when he heard the footsteps halt on the far side of the hut. There came the sound of a door being opened and closed.

  To his satisfaction he found that by placing his eyes level with the chink in the logs he could see into the room, which was far less risky than peeping round the edge of the window, where he might be seen if any one in the room looked in that direction.

  Through his peep-hole he saw that, as he suspected, the new-comer was McBain. Clad in a long and rather dilapidated skunk-skin coat—Ginger recognized the fur by the charact
eristic white blaze—he was standing just inside the door, glaring at the four who were already there. It struck Ginger that he seemed agitated about something, for his face was pale and his movements abrupt. There was definitely an atmosphere of tension in the room, and, if proof of this were needed, McBain's first words confirmed it.

  `Waal,' he growled, 'ain't yer never seen me before? What's biting yer?'

  `Why—er—nothin', boss,' replied Sarton nervously.

  `Waal, go on gassin' and don't stare at me,' growled McBain, dragging off his coat and hanging it on a peg on the inside of a cupboard door which he opened for the purpose.

  'We was just figgerin' that you'd been a long time,' continued Sarton, in an explanatory sort of voice.

  McBain jerked round with an abruptness that made the other start. 'That's a lie,' he fired out. 'I ain't been five minutes. Get that?'

  'O.K. if you say so, boss,' agreed Sarton in a conciliatory way.

  `Fact is, I came up here when you did,' went on McBain more quickly. 'I've just bin outside watchin' the weather, that's all. Remember that; if any one arsts you if I came back 'ere with you, you'll have to say yes or you'll be tellin' a lie. Savvy?'

  `Sure,' agreed the others, in a sort of chorus.

  Àll right,' continued McBain, pouring himself out half a glass of what Ginger took to be neat spirit and throwing it down his throat. 'We're gettin' busy to-morrow,' he added.

  `Dey send de gold, ha?' asked the breed quickly.

  'In a day or two,' answered McBain. 'About time, too.'

  The word 'gold' made Ginger prick up his ears, and a moment later, for the first time, he saw McBain's activities in a new light.

  'I reckon we'd have had it by now if this fool Wilkinson hadn't clung on so long,' went on McBain. 'It was just a fluke he collected and brought down the last two loads that was worth while. These buddies of his may make things harder. I don't like the look of that thin guyBigglesworth. He's a wise guy—and smart. But he won't be smart enough for me. I'll tear him in 'arves before I've done with him.'

  `Do you think he'd come into the game if we gave him the low-down?' suggested Sarton.

  `Not 'im. He ain't that sort,' growled McBain. 'Anyway, four's enough to split, without takin' in four more. I wouldn't 'a' minded one, when Wilkinson was alone, but I didn't trust 'im. No, we'll play as we are. Everything's all set. All we've got to do now is weigh in next time there's a heap o' dust ready to be brought down.'