“Arseniev!” Turk shouted. “Quick! We’ve got to get the ship lashed down. We’re going to have a storm!”
In a mounting wind they labored desperately, furiously. There were no birds in sight now, and it was beginning to snow. When the ship was lashed down, Madden turned, wiping the sweat from his brow.
“Come on,” he said. “We’ve got to make some shelter!”
“What about the ship?” Arseniev protested. “That will do, won’t it?”
“Might be blown out on the lake. Start cutting reeds, and work like you’ve never worked before.” Turk glanced around hastily. “Don’t cut them there, or there. Just over there, and work fast!”
The wind was blowing in gusts now, cold as ice, and the snow was lifting into the air. Turk bent his back and slashed reeds with the bolo he always carried in the ship, sweat broke out on his face despite the cold, but he labored on, swinging with his bolo like a madman. Uncertain, Arseniev followed suit, not sure why they were cutting, but working desperately against time.
Leaping back to the bunches of reeds left uncut, Turk began binding them together with stout cord brought from the plane. Then he wove the long reeds closely together among the clumps, drawing them down low above the ground, and working the gathering snow close around the edges. Running to the plane, he caught up a canvas tarp and raced back, doubling it over on the ground under the covering of the reeds that was partly a hut, partly just a low shelter.
Suddenly there was a shout from Arseniev. Turk looked up, wondering. Powell had somehow broken his bonds, and had leaped from the plane. Turk went for his gun, but his hands, numbed by cold, fumbled, and before he could draw it the man had leaped to a hummock of grass, dodged behind a clump of reeds, and when they next saw him he was running at full tilt over the marsh. Once he fell waist deep in water, then scrambled out, and trotted on.
“Let him go,” Turk said. “Maybe it’s better than a firing squad, at that.”
“What do you mean? You think—” Arseniev began.
Turk shrugged. “He’s partly wet, he has no shelter, no weapons. What do you think? He’ll die before this night is out. Feel that wind, and imagine yourself wet—in that.”
Arseniev shivered. “I can’t.” He looked around. “What now?”
“Crawl in between the canvas,” Turk said. “I’ll join you in a minute.” He walked back and forth, piling the reeds over the canvas and feathering them against the wind. Then he trampled the snow down, and after a while, lifted the canvas and joined Arseniev.
The instant he was inside it felt warmer; over them they could hear the lonely snarl of the wind, and out on the lake the lashing of the waves, but over their covering of reeds the snow sifted down, gathering over them in a thick, warm blanket.
* * *
IT WAS MORNING when he awakened. He turned over slowly, warm and comfortable. No wind was blowing, but he knew that it was cold outside. He touched Arseniev on the shoulder, then crawled out.
The world was white with snow everywhere. The lake was crusted with ice, and even the reeds bent heavily under the weight of the snow. The plane was almost covered with it.
“We’ve got to make a fire,” Turk said, “and then uncover the ship. The way it is, a searching plane couldn’t find us.”
Sweeping the snow from a place on the ground, Turk went back to the shelter and brought out a handful of dry reeds. Arseniev collected some driftwood from the edge of the lake, and soon a fire was ablaze. Then they went to work, clearing the snow from the ship. It was a job, but it kept them warm.
Arseniev stopped once, looking over the white, empty expanse. “I wonder what his real name was?” he said.
“I don’t know,” Turk said. “I never heard.”
It was an hour later when they heard the mutter of a plane. Soon it was circling above them, and then it leveled off and landed on solid earth not far away from the island where they’d spent the night.
Two men came running to them over the frozen marsh. “Marchenko!” Arseniev yelled. “It is good to see you, believe me!” The other man was Bochkarev, a flyer noted for his Polar exploits. They shook hands all around.
Two hours later, the Grumman was towed to solid earth and repaired. The big Russian ship took off, then the Grumman. Turk headed the ship south, toward Khabarovsk. They were flying low over the snow when Arseniev suddenly caught his arm.
Powell.
They knew him by the green scarf that trailed from his neck, a bright spot of color on a piece of ground swept clear by the driving wind. The man lay where he had fallen, frozen and still.
Turk Madden eased back on the stick and climbed higher. Ahead of them, the sky was blue, and the sun was coming out from the clouds. In the clear cold air the sound of the motors was pleasant, a drumming roar of strength and beauty.
Too Tough to Kill
* * *
THE BIG TRUCK coughed and roared up the last few feet of the steep grade and straightened out for the run to Mercury. Pat Collins stared sleepily down the ribbon of asphalt that stretched into the darkness beyond the reach of the lights. Momentarily, he glanced down at Ruth. She was sleeping with her head on his shoulder. Even Deek Peters, the deputy sheriff detailed to guard him, had been lulled to sleep by the droning of the heavy motor and the warmth of the cab.
Pat shook himself, and succeeded in opening his eyes wider. He had been going day and night for weeks it seemed. The three-hundred-mile run to Millvale and back was to be his last trip. Two weeks off for his honeymoon, and then back at a better job. Right now he and Ruth would have been on the train headed west if it hadn’t been for that killing.
Why couldn’t Augie Petrone have been given the works somewhere else than right in front of his truck as he left Mercury! Because of that they had detained him several hours for questioning in Millvale, and now, knowing him to be the only witness, they had detailed Peters to guard him. He wished Tony Calva and Cokey Raiss would do their killing elsewhere next time. It had been them alright. He remembered them both from the old days when he had often seen them around, and had seen them both clearly as they pumped shot after shot into Petrone’s body as his car lay jammed against a fire hydrant. There had been another man, too, a big gunman. He hadn’t recognized him, but he would remember his face.
Suddenly a long black car shot by the truck and wheeled to a stop. Almost in the same instant, three men piled out into the road. Two of them had tommy guns. For an instant Pat hesitated upon the verge of wheeling the truck into them, full speed. Then he remembered Ruth there beside him, Ruth the girl he had just married but a few hours before. With a curse he slammed on the brake as Deek Peters suddenly came to life.
“Alright,” Calva snarled, motioning with the .45 he carried ready. “Out of that cab! One wrong move an’ I’ll blast the guts out of you!”
Peters let out an oath, and whipped up his shotgun. The .45 barked viciously, and then again, and the deputy sheriff slumped from the seat to the pavement. Shakily, Pat helped Ruth down and they stood to one side. Her eyes were wide and dark, and she avoided looking at the tumbled body of the deputy.
“Well, would you look who’s here!” Raiss grinned, stepping forward. “The smart boy who talks so much has brought his girlfriend along for us!”
“Alright, you two!” Calva snapped. “Crawl in that car and don’t let’s have a single yap out of you!”
Pat’s face was white and tense. Reassuringly, he squeezed Ruth’s hand, but his mouth felt dry, and he kept wetting his lips with his tongue. He knew Tony Calva and Cokey Raiss only too well. Both were killers. It was generally believed that Raiss had been the man behind the gun in most of the gang killings around Mercury in the past three years. Tony Calva was bodyguard for Dago John Fagan. There were two other men in the car, one sat at the wheel, and the other had stopped in the door, a tommy gun lying carelessly in the hollow of his arm.
Ruth got in, and the man with the tommy gun gave her a cool, thin-lipped smile that set the blood pounding in Pat’s ears. The gun muzzle between his shoulders made him realize that there was still a chance. They hadn’t killed him yet, and perhaps they wouldn’t. As long as he was alive there was a chance of helping Ruth.