CHAPTER SIX

Attack from the Air

It was gray and cold when they left Watson Lake on the last leg of their journey on the Alaska Highway.

“At Whitehorse, we’ll give the car and truck a rest and take to the air,” Dr. Steele explained. “The Canadian government has put a plane at the professor’s disposal for as long as we’re up here.”

But the big attraction at Whitehorse as far as the boys and Tagish Charley were concerned was the big dog-sled race to Skagway.

“The professor says it’s okay with him if Jerry and I ride ballast,” Sandy informed the Indian. “That’s if it’s all right with you?”

“Okay by me,” Charley said. He glanced sideways at Jerry. “But this boy keep eating so much he get too fat to sit on sled.”

Sandy let out a guffaw and Jerry pretended to sulk. “You guys have a nerve,” he said. “You both lick your plates cleaner than Black Titan does.”

“If Tubby, here, is too much of a load for the huskies,” Sandy suggested, “we can always let him run behind the sled.”

Suddenly, Charley hunched down and squinted through the windshield. “Plane,” he announced curtly.

The boys followed his gaze but could see nothing. “Where?” Sandy asked.

Charley pointed toward a line of snow-capped mountain peaks in the distance surrounded by blue haze. Sandy saw a speck that moved out of sight behind one of the peaks. He couldn’t make out what it was.

“Are you sure it wasn’t a bird?” he said uncertainly.

“It plane,” Charley said firmly.

“Maybe it’s from one of the road stations,” Jerry suggested.

“I guess so,” Sandy said and pushed down a little harder on the accelerator to close the gap between them and the station wagon, which had drawn about a quarter of a mile ahead.

Gradually the road climbed, winding and twisting through canyons and hugging mountainsides in hazardous stretches. At one such spot Jerry peered down into the chasm that dropped off steeply on one side and clapped his hands over his eyes.

“I think I’ll get out and walk the rest of the way,” he groaned.

Sandy’s face was grim as he nursed the big truck around the curves, never letting the speedometer needle climb above the 30 on the dial.

Then, without warning, a great throbbing roar bore down on them from the rear. Instinctively, they ducked their heads as it seemed to shatter the roof of the cab. An instant later a plane appeared through the windshield zooming down the road toward the station wagon.

“Yipes!” Jerry exclaimed. “What does he think he’s doing?”

“The crazy fool!” Sandy said angrily. “He could have scared us off the highway. Look at him! He can’t be more than fifty feet off the ground.”

The little ship skimmed over the station wagon and started to climb in a wide arc.

“You think it’s a scout plane from one of the road stations?” Jerry said anxiously.

“I don’t know,” Sandy replied, trying to keep one eye on the road and the other on the circling plane. “It looks as if he’s coming back again.” Gratefully, he noted that they were approaching a less treacherous section of highway.

Once more they heard the little plane gunning its motor at top speed as it flew up behind them. As it passed over them, a small round hole appeared, as if by magic, at the top of their windshield.

For a moment they were too stunned to react, then Jerry yelled, “They’re shooting at us!”

With an unintelligible oath, Tagish Charley whirled in the seat and reached back through the curtain partition into the rear of the truck. “Stop!” he told Sandy as he pulled out his hunting rifle.

As Sandy brought the lumbering vehicle to a skidding halt at the side of the road, he saw that the station wagon had pulled up also, and the three geologists were piling out frantically.

Tagish Charley motioned to a patch of timber about a hundred yards away. “Go—fast.” The three of them floundered through knee-deep drifts as the engine roar of the plane built up in their ears.

“Down!” Charley bellowed. “Flat!” As the boys flattened out, the Indian turned, dropped to one knee and threw the rifle to his shoulder. He squeezed off two shots, leading the plane as if it were a wild duck. In return, a fusillade of shots from the plane kicked up the snow all around them.

“Those guys really mean business!” Jerry yelled as they scrambled to their feet and ran for the woods again.

“This is like one of those nightmares where you’re being chased by a wild animal and your legs move in slow motion,” Sandy gasped, churning through the snow.

They reached the trees just before the plane swooped over them again. Crouching behind a tree bole, Charley emptied his rifle at the retreating ship. A slug splattered the bark just above his head.

This time as the plane climbed, a thin spiral of smoke trailed back from the engine, and the rhythm of the motor was uneven.

Sandy let out a cheer. “You got him, Charley! Good shooting.”

Immediately the plane broke off its attack and headed north. Sandy led the way down the road to where the three geologists were standing by the station wagon, watching the ship dwindle to a speck in the distance.

“Are you okay, Dad?” he yelled anxiously. “Anybody hurt?”

“No, just badly frightened,” Dr. Steele replied. “How about you fellows?”

“No casualties,” Sandy reported breathlessly. “Just a bullet hole in the windshield.”

“It seems as if Charley saved the day,” Professor Crowell said. He took one of the Indian’s big hands in both of his. “I’m glad you decided to come along, my friend.”

Charley gave him one of his rare, quick smiles. “Bad men try hurt you—” He paused and drew a finger across his throat.

“Like I said before,” Jerry declared, “I’m glad he’s on our side.”

The Indian cocked his head toward the truck, where the dogs were setting up a raucous clamor. “I go see if huskies okay.”

Lou Mayer shivered and hugged his arms tightly around his body. “And to think I could have been a teacher in a nice cozy classroom in some peaceful college in the balmy South instead of shooting it out with enemy agents in the Yukon—” He stopped short and looked guiltily at Dr. Steele. “I’m sorry, sir. That just slipped out.”

“That’s all right, Lou,” Dr. Steele said. “I think by now the boys have a pretty good idea of what we’re up against.” Sensing the question that was forming in Sandy’s mind, he added hastily, “But for the present, at least, that’s all we can tell you.” As Lou and the professor were getting back into the station wagon, he whispered to his son, “At least this little incident answers our question about Charley, once and for all.”

“It sure does,” Sandy agreed. “We’ll see you later, Dad.” He and Jerry turned and trudged back to the truck.

Jerry’s voice was small and numb. “Wow! Enemy agents! Wow! Wait till the guys hear about this!”