Riddle of the Storm A Mystery Story for Boys

Curlie Carson’s eyes widened first with surprise, then with downright terror. His ears were filled with the thunder of a powerful motor. Yes, he heard that. But what did he see? That was more important. A powerfully built monoplane with wide-spreading wings was speedily approaching. Even through the swirl of snow all about him he could see that the plane was painted a solid gray.

“The ‘Gray Streak’!” he murmured.

Could it be? What tales he had heard of this mysterious plane! During his three weeks of service on the Mackenzie River Air Route in northern Canada, extravagant tales had reached his ears. “This gray plane bears no identification mark, no name, no letters, no numbers. It swoops down upon some lone cabin, robs the owner of food and blankets, and is away. It is a phantom ship, a Flying Dutchman of the air. No pilot at the stick!” What had he not heard?

But now—now it was directly over him. Cold terror gripped his heart. A part, at least, of the reports was confirmed; the plane carried no insignia. No name, no letter, no number gave it identification. And these were required by law.

“The ‘Gray Streak’,” he murmured again.

His fear increased. The plane was flying low along the river. He was standing close to his own plane, the one entrusted to his care by the Midwest Airways. It was a superb creation, and almost new. Suppose this stranger, the man of mystery, outlaw perhaps, should drop to the smooth surface of the river’s ice and compel him to exchange planes!

“Suppose only that he should descend to rob me of my cargo!” His heart raced. It was a valuable cargo and had come a long way by air.

While these terrifying possibilities were passing through his mind, the plane moved steadily onward. He was able to study every detail: her skids, her wings, her cabin, her motor.

The drumming of her motor did not diminish.

“They are passing!” he whispered. “Thank God, they are going on. I—”

His words were checked at sight of some white object that, whirling with the wind, seemed at first a very large snowflake.

“But no. It—it’s—”

He was about to dive forward in pursuit of it when an inner impulse born of caution caused him to halt.

Dividing his attention between the vanishing plane and the fluttering object, he stood for a space of seconds motionless. Then, as the snow-fog closed in upon the plane, he dashed forward to retrieve a small square of cloth.

“A handkerchief!” He was frankly disappointed.

“But—a woman’s handkerchief.” His interest quickened. One did not associate a woman with this mystery plane.

“Perhaps, after all, it’s a boy’s,” he told himself. “But a boy? One—”

His eyes had caught a mark in the corner. There were words written there, very small words.

Hurrying to his airplane, he climbed into the cabin; then, switching on a powerful electric torch, he studied the words.

“I am a captive,” he read.

And beneath this was a name: “D’Arcy Arden.”

“D’Arcy,” he murmured. “What a strange name! Would it be a boy or a girl?”

For a long time he sat staring at that square of white, trying at the same time to patch together the rumors that had come to him regarding this mystery ship of the air.

“No use,” he told himself. “Can’t make head nor tail of it.”

The truth was that until that hour no aviator of this northern country had laid eyes on this gray phantom. They had one and all agreed that it did not exist, that it was the creation of an over-wrought imagination; that some mineral-hunting plane on a special mission had passed over here and there and had created the illusion.

“But now,” he assured himself, “I have seen it. I will vouch for it. And here,” he held the square of white up to the light, “here is the proof!

“But why is that plane here? Where is it going? Why is that person a captive? What type of outlaw rides in that cockpit? All that is the riddle of this storm, a riddle I am bound to aid in solving. But now—”

His ears caught the beat of snow on the cabin window. “Now there is nothing left but to eat, sleep a bit, and wait out the storm.

“Get a bite to eat,” he told himself. “Something hot. Fellow has to keep himself fit on a job like this, when you—”

He did not finish. A sudden thought breaking in upon him had startled him. He had believed himself safe from the peril that had threatened. But was he? What if the plane turned about and came back?

He opened the cabin door. The throb of a motor smote his ear, and once more sent tremors of fear coursing up his spine.

Once more consternation seized him. What was to be done? He couldn’t lose his plane. He must not!

“Only three weeks,” he said aloud, “and then!”

It had been a glorious three weeks. Rising off the field at Edmonton. Greeting the dawn. Skimming through the clouds. Sailing over a great white world, ever new. This was his task as a northern pilot.

“So safe, too,” he had said more than once. “The river’s ice, a perfect landing field, always beneath you.”

No, he could not lose his plane. Reaching up to a niche at the top of the low cabin, he took down a powerful yew bow and a handful of arrows. The arrows were of ash, light and strong. They were perfectly feathered. Their points were of razor-edged steel. “Might help in an emergency,” he told himself. “And this D’Arcy person might be able to do a little if I could free him. Even if it were a woman, she might help; you never can tell.”

The pulsating beat of motors grew louder.

“If I lose my plane it means we lose the mail contract. I won’t!” He set his lips tight. “I must not!”

Gripping his bow, he stepped out of the cabin.

The next moment his face broadened in a grin.