“Yes, the opposite bank’s in Canada.”
Through the silence, from somewhere far off, came a sound like that of a ceaseless moan; at times, carried by a light breeze, it rose weirdly on the night, as though long-dead gods of the Red man, returning, lamented the conquest of the white.
Nayland Smith, his eyes bright in the ray of the headlamp, turned to Hepburn questioningly.
“The rapids,” said Mark. “The wind’s that way”
As the breeze died, the mournful sound faded into a sad whisper. . . .
“Hullo!” Smith muttered, “what are those lights moving over there?”
“One of our search parties,” Gilligham replied. “We expect to locate the wreck pretty soon. . . .”
But half an hour had elapsed before the mystery plane was found. It lay at one end of a long, ploughed field: the undercarriage had been damaged, but the screw, wings and fuselage remained intact. Again the work of a clever pilot was made manifest. There was no sign of the occupants.
“This is a Japanese ship,” said Captain Kingswell, on a note of astonishment. “Surely can’t have crossed right to here in the air? Must have been reassembled somewhere. Looks like it carried four of a crew: a pilot, a reserve (maybe he was the gunner) and two others.”
He had climbed up and was now inside.
“Here’s a queer torpedo outfit,” he cried, “with three reserve tubes. This is a fighting ship.” He was prowling around enthusiastically, torch in hand. “We’ll overhaul every inch of it. There may be very interesting evidence.”
“The evidence I’m looking for,” rapped Nayland Smith irritably, “is evidence to show which way the occupants went. But all these footprints”—he flashed his torch upon the ground— “have made it impossible to trace.”
He turned and stared towards where a red glow in the sky marked a distant town. Away to the east, half masked by trees, he could see outbuildings of what he took to be a farm.
“Tracks over here, mister!” came a hail from the northern end of the meadow. “Not made by the search party!”
Nayland Smith, his repressed excitement communicating itself to Hepburn, set out at a run.
The man who had made the discovery was shining a light down upon the ground. He was a small, stout, red- faced man wearing a very narrow brimmed hat with a very high crown.
“Looks like the tracks of three men,” he said: “two walkin’ ahead an’ one followin’ along.”
“Three men,” muttered Nayland Smith; Let me see . . .”
He examined the tracks, and:
“I must congratulate you,” he said, addressing their discoverer. “Your powers of observation are excellent.”
“That’s all right, mister. In these per’lous times a man has to keep his eyes skinned—’specially me; I’m deputy sheriff around here: Jabez Siskin—Sheriff Siskin they call me.”
“Glad to have you with us, Sheriff. My name is Smith— Federal agent.”
Two sets of imprints there were which admittedly seemed to march side by side. The spacing indicated long strides; the depth of the impressions, considerable weight. The third track, although made by a substantial-sized shoe, was lighter;
there was no evidence to show that the one who had made it had crossed the meadow at the same time as the other two.
“Move on!” snapped Nayland Smith. “Follow the tracks but don’t disturb them.”
From point to point the same conditions arose which had led the local officer to assume that the third traveller had been following the other two; that is, his lighter tracks were impressed upon the heavier ones. But never did either of the heavier tracks encroach upon another. Two men had been walking abreast followed by a third; at what interval it was impossible to determine.
Right to a five-barred gate the tracks led, and there Deputy Sheriff Siskin paused, pointing triumphantly.
The gate was open.
Nayland Smith stepped through on to a narrow wheel-rutted lane.
“Where does this lane lead to?” he inquired.
“To Farmer Clutterbuck’s,” Sheriff Siskin replied; “this is all part of his land. The league bought it back for him. The farm lays on the right. The river’s beyond.”
“Come on!”
It was a long, a tedious and a winding way, but at last they stood before the farm. Clutterbuck’s Farm was an example of the work of those days when men built their own homesteads untrammelled by architectural laws, but built them well and truly: a rambling building over which some vine that threatened at any moment to burst into flower climbed lovingly above a porch jutting out from the western front.
Their advent had not been unnoticed. A fiery red head was protruded from an upper window above and to the right of the porch, preceded by the barrel of a shotgun, and:
“What in hell now?” a gruff voice inquired.
“It’s me, Clutterbuck,” Deputy Sheriff Siskin replied, “with Federals here, an’ the army an’ ev’rything!”
When Farmer Clutterbuck opened his front door he appeared in gum boots. He wore a topcoat apparently made of rabbit skin over a woollen nightshirt, and his temper corresponded to his fiery hair. He was a big, bearded,
