don’t see what we’re lookin’ for, Josh. Signs of recent crackin’ that might expose somethin’ long hidden.”
Josh shook his dark head. He didn’t see any such signs, either. Of course, any of the crevasses in the white ribbon beneath them might have been freshly formed. But from a low altitude, they could see that none of them were accessible. Had Brent and Lini Waller discovered something in any of them, they’d never have been able to climb out to tell about it.
Mac flew low along the foot of the glacier, where the clear ice of its middle mass was to be seen. But that’s all there was at the foot of the glacier—just ice, no openings of any kind. He turned the plane’s nose south, and gunned the twin motors. They rocketed along the ocean. Josh caught the Scot’s arm and pointed down.
Mac looked down too, banking so he could see out a window. What he saw wasn’t very exciting. It was a little collection of a dozen or so huts in a clearing in the fir forests. An Indian settlement. Instantly, Mac started to spiral down, with the same thought in mind that Josh had. Perhaps through the Indians in this vicinity they would get a closer line on the Wallers’ last movements.
There was a long cleared spot near the settlement. Mac swooped low, judged he could land all right, came back and settled down as lightly as if the plane had been butterfly weight instead of weighing nearly two tons.
Men came from the settlement, wearing the mackinaws of the North Woods. Indians. They stared curiously at Josh. It was seldom they saw a Negro here. “Probably think ye’re a second cousin, Josh,” Mac grinned out of the corner of his mouth.
A big Indian with a scar under his left ear was in the lead. It developed that he knew a few words of English, and that planes were no novelty to these natives.
There was none of this big-devil-bird-from-the-sky business. Instead, the big Indian said, “What you want? We no got gas here.”
“We don’t want gas,” said Josh. “We are looking for a friend. A man who was probably guided by one of you who live in this section.”
The big Indian’s eyes narrowed a very little, though in no other way did emotion express itself on his stolid face. “Friend?” he said. “Here?”
Josh had caught that slight flicker of eyelids, and followed it as deftly and swiftly as any psychology professor. It told him he was on a very hot scent. “Yes. You guided him yourself, maybe? His name is Brent Waller.”
“Me guide him?” said the Indian, looking stupid. “No guide. Hunter. Trapper.” And he looked askance at MacMurdie.
Josh Newton’s brain was as quick as a mongoose. He said to Mac, softly, “Take a walk, will you, Mac?”
“Walk?” said Mac, staring.
“Yes. I have a hunch this man knows something. And I have a hunch he might talk to me because I’m black and rather akin to himself. But I don’t think he’ll talk with you around.”
Had The Avenger some such thought in his amazing mind when he sent Josh with Mac? The Negro knew that it was probable. “You guided Brent Waller?” he asked the big Indian when Mac had gone back to the plane in the clearing.
“No guide,” said the Indian. “No guide down there. Next ice river.”
“Along the shore?”
“No guide near water,” said the Indian, nodding. He was trying to be very, very shrewd about it, with rather unsuccessful results. He had left the man whose name sounded like Waller. A guide should not leave anyone in the forests. He might get in trouble for that. At the same time the Indian felt inclined to answer this man whose skin was even darker than his own. So he was quite specific about the exact place to which he did not guide the man. Thus, later, this black man could not accuse him of anything.
“No guide near water—other side of ice. No fix tent hard against storm. No tell about bad spirits. Old spirits. No leave when he not come too.”
Josh nodded. “I get it. Well, I wish I could set you up
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