AT EIGHT O'CLOCK in the morning—especially a morning that promises to be a hot summer's day—that part of Manhattan Island located at the lower end of New York's financial district is pretty much deserted. The nation's great financial wizards just don't get up that early.

In fact, the district was somewhat below the end of Number One Broadway, which made it the Battery, the very southernmost end of the stony rock pile bought for a few dollars from some Indians. The sudden change in the neighborhood, as you emerged from Broadway into the Battery, was somewhat startling.

There was a park. Bums still slept on paper-covered benches. More papers littered the grass, and a few more disreputable-looking characters slept there. One old fellow sat up and sleepily scratched his head, looking around for his shoes.

Buildings of assorted sizes and ages faced Battery Park. Beyond was the choppy sweep of the Harbor. Some energetic little tugboats scurried up and down, the first indication of activity for that particular day.

Therefore no one noticed the Indian. Not that New Yorkers would have paid the Indian any undue attention. You see just about anything cockeyed in Manhattan. It is said that strangers travel to New York to study the natives of that city, rather than the other way around.

Also, the Indian wasn't dressed like an Indian is usually dressed.

He wore plain store variety clothes. He was hatless, and his black straight hair gleamed in the early morning sunlight. He was about the tallest Indian imaginable. His skin was the color of well-cured leather, and his eyes were cold black.

For the past hour the Indian had been making regular trips, at exact ten-minute intervals, to the building across from the east side of the park. The building was still locked, and the Indian sat there on the one deserted park bench, a straight ramrod of a figure, and watched the doorway of the delapidated office building.

The structure was in sharp contrast to the imposing buildings that started at Number One Broadway. It was ancient. The grandchildren of countless generations of pigeons used it for a nightly roost. Bronze work on the entrance doors was green with age.

Finally, near nine o'clock, a man in overalls unlocked the front doors and propped them open with a wedge. The fellow disappeared into the cavernous interior of the place again.

Instantly the tall, wide-shouldered Indian was on his feet. He quickly crossed the street and, sharp black eyes first searching right and left along the street, he dived into the doorway as if a coyote was after him.

HE FOUND the directory on the lobby wall. There were only six floors, and on two of these were no tenants listed at all. Which gives you some idea of what people thought of the building address.

Obviously the Indian could read. He noted the name listed for the fifth floor. It was the only tenant on that floor. The directory said: ADVENTURERS, INC.

The Indian made a satisfied grunting sound in his throat and turned away. He saw the elevator cage nearby. It was the old-fashioned type visible through open grillwork. The man in overalls sat on a stool inside the cab, reading the morning newspaper.

The Indian was just turning away from the directory when sharp heels tap-tap-tapped along the marble hall. Ancient dusty walls threw back the sound as though resentful of the intrusion.

It was a girl, a tall, a straight-shouldered girl in a gabardine skirt and sweater. Both fitted nicely in the places where they were supposed to be filled out.

The girl paused a moment, adjusting her eyes to the dimness inside the lobby. The sudden change from bright sunlight had left her partially blinded.

The Indian saw this. He took advantage of it, pressing farther back into the corridor, flat against the wall, almost as if he were scared to death about something. If the girl had come directly to the bulletin board she would have seen him standing rigidly there. Instead, she moved directly to the elevator and stepped inside.

"All right," she said impatiently. "Let's get up to the fifth floor . . . Adventurers, Incorporated."

"It's the heat," the elevator operator—he was well over fifty and kindly mannered—said to the girl. "Makes people restless and fidgety. A pretty girl like you shouldn't let it get you. I always say—"

"Please!" the girl said.

"All right, all right, miss."

The elevator operator started to close the gate, peered through the diamond-shaped openings at the Indian back there in the gloom. He had seen the man come in, but had not recognized him as an Indian.

"Where do you want, mister?" he called out.

The tall black-eyed Indian took out of there as if released by a spring. He streaked toward the front doors.

The girl saw him. She stared. Then she yelled, "Mike!"

Pushing past the elevator operator she dashed into the hallway and started pursuit. "Mike!" she called again. "Mike, wait!"

SUNLIGHT struck the coppery red of her lovely hair as she reached the sidewalk. The Indian had just turned the nearby corner. She dashed that way—and almost collided with a patrolman who was just crossing the street.

She clutched the officer's arm, gave the arm a shake, and said worriedly, "Catch him. Hurry!"

The patrolman had seen the tall, dark-skinned man turn the corner. He had not noticed that the man was an Indian, or a frightened one. He was a young, long-legged cop with a good jaw. The jaw pushed forward with determination as he looked at the attractive red-haired girl.

"You bet I'll catch him for you!" promised the patrolman.

He plunged up Broadway, his whistle sounding as he ran. His long legs gobbled up distance.

The girl saw him turn down a side street. Apparently the Indian had disappeared in that direction. She waited, tapping a foot, an uneasiness in her clear gray-green eyes.

Ten minutes passed. Finally the lanky patrolman returned. He was breathing hard. His face was flushed.

"Where's Mike?" the girl demanded.

"If you mean that guy I was chasing for you," said the cop grimly, "he's gone. Like the wind! My God, I never saw anyone run as fast as him!"

"Don't be silly!" snapped the red-head.

The young patrolman rocked back on his heels. He looked at her curiously.

"Come again?" he prompted.

"I said, don't be silly. You ought to be ashamed of yourself, a young man like you! "

The cop frowned at her. For such a pretty girl, the young woman certainly had a fiery disposition. Maybe the red hair explained it.

"Mike—the fellow you were chasing," she went on, "is over one hundred years old. And you couldn't catch him!"

That tears it, thought the young officer. Whacky, she was!

"Now, look—" he started.

"Huh!" repeated the girl. "You ought to be ashamed."

She turned abruptly on her heel and hurried toward the old office building facing the Battery.

The patrolman stood there with his mouth open, staring after her slim, shapely, taut figure.

Naturally he couldn't see the change that had come into the red-haired girl's eyes. Anger had been quickly replaced by a troubled expression.

"Damn!" she murmured to herself as she swung into the cool, shadowy hallway of the old building. And then, again, "Damn!"

CHAPTER II

THE plane, sitting on a ramp at LaGuardia Field, gleamed like bright silver in the hot morning sunlight. Low-winged, sleek, it carried two engines and looked as it it were built for unusual speed.

A ground crew fussed around it. The pre-flight check had already been made, yet the five men looked over the ship again.

The big plane was parked near the hangar of a private, charter air line well down the huge field. It appeared to be brand new.

Inside the plane, the fat man—the sole passenger—sat and fussed also. He was a round man—round chins, florid round face, a fringe of gray hair forming a round halo around his otherwise bald head. He mopped perspiration from his face, grunted as he raised up to stare out the window, sat back again and grunted with displeasure.

Forward in the large cabin, the door to the pilot's cockpit unlatched and the tall wiry man in uniform stepped into the cabin aisle. The pilot glanced at his watch and moved up the aisle toward the fat passenger.

"Benson should be here," he said.

"Dammit, yes!" said the fat man. "What's keeping him?"

The pilot shrugged his shoulders a little. "I can't imagine, Mr. Marsh. He told you ten o'clock, didn't he?"

"Yes. Then I phoned him and changed it to nine o'clock, as I told you a while ago. Now it is ten, and he isn't here yet. I haven't all day!"

"I'm sorry," murmured the tall pilot.

"A lot that helps. A fine way to handle a buyer for this ship! I have to be in Washington this afternoon."

"He ought to be here any minute."

"He'd better!"

The fat man was Jordon Marsh. It was said he had made his millions in the coffee business in South America. Then he'd become interested in politics. Money had bought him a high political position in Washington. He was an ambitious fat man. Money got him the things he wanted. His small, round, dark sharp eyes told you he was a man who wouldn't be kept waiting. Patience was not one of his virtues.

"I'll turn on the air-conditioning," said the pilot, and he returned to the cockpit, latching the small connecting door behind him.

In the quiet of the empty cabin, Jordon Marsh could hear a faint, vague murmur of voices as the pilot conversed with the first officer of the flight, up there in the cockpit.

Footsteps sounded atop the portable steps at the rear doorway and a man in white jumpers entered the plane. He looked like one of the mechanics.

"Mr. Marsh?" he asked.

The fat man jerked his head impatiently. "Yes, yes?" he snorted.

"It looks like we'll have to make the flight without Benson. It won't make any difference."

"What do you mean, it won't make any difference?" demanded Jordon Marsh.

"Benson's tied up. Just phoned the field office. He says to take you up, see how you like the way the ship handles, the pressurization and so on at high altitudes, then if everything is satisfactory you can close the deal for the plane afterwards. He'll be here by the time we return."

"That's a hell of a way to treat a customer!" said the fat man.

"Sorry . . ." murmured the mechanic.

The fat man snorted.

The mechanic went to the doorway, said something, and the remaining four members of the ground crew came aboard. They each took a seat.

"The boys want to take the flight too," explained the mechanic. "They've never been up in this new job."

Without pausing to see if this was agreeable with Jordon Marsh or not, the mechanic slammed the door firmly and turned the latch. He went forward, used a key to open the narrow door to the pilot's compartment, closed it behind him.

THE first motor was started. It sputtered a bit, then settled into a vibrant roar. The second followed. Power pulsed through the entire plane.

Shortly they taxied out to the end of a long runway. The pilot made his checkoff. The great engine roar shook the plane as the powerful motors were rewed up.

"Noisy," commented the fat man sourly.

One of the ground crew said, "Reflection of sound against the earth. You lose that as soon as we get in the air."

Jordon Marsh grunted.

Brakes were released and the plane edged out onto the runway, awaiting the signal from the tower. A moment passed. Then they were taking off.

Jordon Marsh thrilled to the surge of power that held his huge frame back against the seat. He liked power in anything.

Shortly they were airborne. The big ship climbed smoothly and steadily. The thousands of homes and apartments in Queens, below them, shrank to matchbox size. They headed toward the lower end of Manhattan, crossing the East River.

The air-conditioning had cooled the interior of the cabin somewhat, nevertheless Jordon Marsh was still perspiring. He turned once, looking at those who accompanied him. The men were all silent, merely sitting there.

Fine company, he thought.

He sat gazing out the window as the ship continued to climb. It didn't level off, but kept going higher and higher. They were over New Jersey now. He knew the countryside below. It wasn't the first time he had flown.

Fifteen minutes passed. The earth became a silent, unreal, miniature world far below them. Twice Jordon Marsh frowned as he gazed downward from the window.

Finally he remarked to one of the men behind him, "We're still heading west."

"That's right," agreed the member of the ground crew.

Marsh said, "The flight is only for a half hour. The orders were to merely circle over Manhattan. Why are we going straight west?"

"Guess," said the man nearest him.

"I don't like this!" rapped the fat man, and he got up and went toward the door at the front of the cabin. He tried the door, found it latched, pounded on the panel with a huge list. While he waited, he turned and looked at the other passengers. For the first time. and with some uneasiness, he noted their blocky jaws and hard features. It occurred to him that they did not look like regular air line personnel.

The cockpit door opened. A stranger stood there in front of him, not the head pilot who had talked to him earlier. He was a thin, trim man with cool gray eyes.

"Well?" the stranger said.

"What is this?" demanded Jordon Marsh. "Why aren't we staying over New York?" He leaned over, glanced out a window again. "We're still going west."

"He doesn't like it," said one of the men behind him. The fellow gave a peculiar, brittle laugh.

"I think," suggested the man in the cockpit doorway, "you'd better get Mr. Marsh some warmer clothes out of the cargo compartment. It will be quite cold where we're going."

"Going where?" asked the fat man uneasily.

The man merely smiled. "Now, look—" Jordon Marsh started, and he moved grimly toward the seated man. "Somebody's going to explain this, and damn' quick! "

He seized the first man he came to by the collar, yanked him out of the seat. For all his size and fatness, Marsh was quick-moving and powerful.

A FIGHT got underway in the narrow passage. The other crew members joined in. The fat man's huge size was a disadvantage to them. He bowled men over with his size. His hamlike fists slugged out. Men cursed.

The man from the cockpit came down the aisle. "We can't have this," he was saying coolly. "A good thing I prepared for this trip. Here, you guys, hold him still. What the hell's the matter with you?"

Marsh struggled with four men at once. Even at that, he managed to jerk around and stare at the speaker. He saw the instrument that looked like a hypodermic needle in the thin, trim man's right hand. He saw the man's intention, and tried desperately to break loose and knock the instrument aside.

But now he was held rigidly. His coat sleeve and shirt beneath were yanked back and the long needle jabbed into his arm.

"Brother," said the thin, small man, "you got a long trip ahead and you'll need some rest. It'll do you good."

Everyone started to laugh.

The drowsiness flowed over the fat man swiftly. His knees started to sag. He was lowered into a seat, and the back of the seat was reclined so that they could stretch him out.

Shortly he slept.

One man had been fumbling through his own pockets. He swore. Next he searched in the cabin seats. After that he got down on his hands and knees and peered everywhere.

"What's got into you?" someone asked.

"Lost it," said the searcher. He appeared worried.

"Lost what, pal?"

"The Indian thing!"

All eyes swung toward the man who made the statement. Someone prodded, "You sure?"

"I ain't kidding, chum."

Everyone started searching the cabin. They all looked worried.

CHAPTER III

THE two men who waited just outside the fence that enclosed a walk bordering the airport were an unusual-looking pair.

One was a short, wiry, hard-bitten character with lively, bright-blue eyes. His homely face was tanned the color of oak. It was impossible to estimate his age. He could have been thirty or fifty. In turn, in his colorful career, he had been a tunnel sandhog, construction worker and prospector. There was not a corner of the world where he' had not sought adventure.

They called him "Buzz" Casey, and he was tough.

Right now he was muttering, "The hell with it! Rush must have made a mistake in the time. Let's shove off and eat.

The tall, gaunt looking man standing beside him frowned with annoyance. He said:

"The trouble with you is, runt, you got worms. Rush said to meet Jordon Harsh here, and we're going to meet him come hell or high water. Marsh is big money, you dope. Rush knew him once in South America. It must be something pretty good or Rush wouldn't chase us out here."

"Ha!" said Buzz Casey.

"Speak English." snapped the tall man with the gloomy face.

"Look," said the wiry little man. "We get here, see. Some mechanics tell us that new plane is due back herein a few minutes, see. Now it's an hour. And no plane . . . no Jordon Marsh, no nothing. I say, the hell with it. Let's eat."

Malcolm Dean—better known as the "Deacon"—continued to stare at his small partner as though the man were some kind of worm.

"Perhaps," he suggested, "it might be better if you weren't here when Marsh arrived. My God, where'd you buy that race tout's sport coat? You'd frighten off any client. And I've got a hunch this millionaire, Marsh, is a prospect. Rush said over the phone to be sure to meet him here.'

"This coat cost me ten bucks on Sixth Avenue," snorted Buzz Casey."

"You'd better not wave it near a bull," warned his tall partner.

"Aw, shuddup!"

They continued to argue.

Clothes were one of the things they argued about, for the Deacon dressed as somberly as his nickname implied. Dark suit, black tie, black hat suited his gloomy features. No one would have ever surmised that he was a naval hero, explorer, holder of various degrees in science and engineering. Like Buzz Casey, adventure had taken him to the far off corners of the world.

The two men formed two-thirds of the unusual organization known as Adventurers, Inc.

ANOTHER fifteen minutes passed. The Deacon stood there with his long boney hands folded in front of him. For the past five minutes his thumbs had been chasing one another in a twirling movement as he kept his hands folded.

Buzz Casey watched the twirling thumbs and there was a twinkle in his lively blue eyes. It was the one indication that the Deacon, his partner, was getting restless for action. You could always tell. When those thumbs started twirling, it paid to watch out. He did the same thing when he was spoiling for a good fight.

Abruptly the Deacon moved down the walk toward a gate. There was a sign that read: "No Admittance To Airfield." Ignoring it, the tall, gaunt man continued on to the field and approached a nearby hangar. Some men were standing there. They looked like mechanics.

Buzz Casey tagged along behind his partner.

The Deacon was talking to a field attendant when Casey caught up with him. The man was saying:

"Frankly, they don't know what to think. The plane was due back here an hour ago. They've tried to contact it by radio, with no results. Right now they're checking emergency landing fields in this area."

Apparently there was something wrong. The field attendants stood around in little groups, talking, their faces grim. Buzz Casey saw his partner slip the man a crisp, folded bill.

"What else?" the Deacon prodded.

"Well, I really shouldn't—" the attendant started. He looked at the bill. "A funny thing," he added.

"Yes?"

"No one has been able to check on the ground crew who serviced that plane," the attendant said, frowning. "The regular crew was due here on the field at ten 0'clock, but through some change in plans the plane took off before that. And this other crew, apparently, was aboard. No one knows who they were. There's going to be hell to pay!"

"I should think so," said the Deacon solemnly.

Buzz Casey asked, "Hasn't anyone tried to check the plane in flight?"

"They're doing that now," said the man. He pocketed the bill, said, "Wait a minute," and disappeared toward an office in the hangar. He came back in a few moments.

"I don't understand it," he said tensely. "The plane was seen passing high over Pittsburgh. A TWA pilot bringing a Constellation into the field, there, saw it. Said it was flying plenty high and fast. No one has seen it since!"

"Flying where?" asked Buzz.

"West."

The two partners waited another half hour, but there were no further reports. The plane, it became apparent, had vanished.

They decided to return to the office and report to Rush Randall, the third member of their organization. They rode a cab back to the Battery.

The pretty red-haired girl was sitting there in the outer office in the old building facing Battery Park, and she looked as if ready to punch noses.

"ABOUT time!" she exclaimed, as they entered the room.

"Time for what?" said little Buzz Casey, a pleased grin touching his homely features as he saw the attractive redhead.

She had jumped to her feet, slim and pretty, her expressive eyes flashing. "I don't see how in the world you can expect to do business," she raced on. "Heavens, coming to work at this hour!"

Her gaze swept over Buzz, then went to Malcolm Dean's long, gloomy-looking figure. She said coolly, "You don't look like I've heard Rush Randall looks like." She said it as though she were disappointed.

The Deacon said quietly, "I'm not Rush Randall, ma'am. We are merely associates of his." He politely introduced himself and his partner. He looked puzzled. "I don't believe I recall you-"

"The name," the red-haired girl said sharply, "is Williams . . . Lucky Williams. I've got a different first name. but I don't like it. Don't ask me what it is. You just call me Lucky like everyone else does."

She talked rapidly as though she were all keyed up about something. She added, "This is certainly a funny-looking office for a business concern. Hardly a place to sit down, either!"

Buzz said, "We don't do business in the usual manner, Miss. We're different."

"I'll say!" snapped the girl.

Her description of the office was an under-statement, to say the least.

The big room was cluttered with an amazing collection. Sitting on a wide windowsill was a dumpy bronze Chinese figure that grinned at them fiendishly. Beside this was a beautifully made model of a three-masted sailing ship. In contrast, on the wall nearby, hung a large photograph of a lean, tall young man in a pilot's garb standing beside a fast, sleek-looking airplane.

There was a portable diving bell suitable for a shallow water diving, an assortment of hunting rifles in a wall case, a framed diploma showing that one R. ]. Randall was a graduate of M.I.T., and covering the entire floor an oriental rug that had not been cleaned in several years.

A huge desk was littered with nick-nacks that must have been gathered in the four corners of the world. Books and circulars were stacked on chairs. There was a sagging old couch with two colorful Indian blankets thrown in a heap atop it.

The girl's eyes swiftly inspected these things, then came to rest again on tall Malcolm Dean. "I should think you'd have a receptionist. I've been waiting for ages. A fine thing!"

Buzz Casey offered hopefully, "Look, miss, maybe we can be of service. You act like you've been chased by a polecat. Something wrong?"

"I want to see Rush Randall, that's what! I can't wait forever, either!"

The Deacon was moving toward the rear of the big room. He said quietly, "Rush should be in." He opened a heavy paneled door and continued through a room beyond.

"Come on," said Buzz Casey, and he and the girl followed.

THE next room they entered was also an office. None would have ever suspected its presence in this old rattletrap building.

Its walls were pine-paneled, and from floor to ceiling there were built-in bookcases. A massive, exquisitely hand-carved desk practically filled the room. The study was deserted.

They passed along a corridor from which doorways opened into rooms of a private apartment. At the rear of the hall they entered another office, and the girl was in for another surprise.

For the place was more of a laboratory than an office. Electrical gadgets were everywhere. There was a radio transmitter and receiving unit oi the type recently used in the armed services. There was equipment stacked in a corner, and it looked like the type of stuff carried on expeditions. There was a large desk in this room also, before a wide window that overlooked the Hudson River.

The man seated at the desk had been phoning. He seemed to be completing the conversation just as they stepped inside. They heard him say, "All right, keep checking, and call me."

He hung up and turned to look at them. Seeing the girl, he stood up. He got up, legs, body, arms straightening out into a very tall, very straight figure that was taller than anyone's in the room.

He was blond, probably close to forty, and he appeared to be a person of very sound muscles. He had pale gray eyes that searched through one. His lips were too thin and a little too stern. He looked like a man who did not smile enough.

The Deacon said, "Miss Williams, I'd like you to meet Rush Randall." He introduced them, adding, "Whatever it is that is bothering you, I'm sure he can help you."

The girl said immediately, "Your outfit helps people who are in trouble, doesn't it?" She was looking directly at tall, blond Rush Randall.

"That depends," he said.

"On what?"

"On whether we're interested." He made a slight motion with his hand, indicating the other two men. "Those gentlemen are my partners. It's true that we handle cases in various parts of the world—with certain limitations."

"Such as?" The girl's tone was again impatient.

Rush Randall shrugged his broad shoulders. "Sometimes we simply take an assignment because it is in a corner of the world where we've never been, and which we'd like to see. Or the job might be mysterious enough to be fascinating. Again, we take it just for the sake of adventure."

"And sometimes," put in homely little Buzz, "just for the hell of it."

Rush Randall smiled for the first time. He nodded agreement.

The girl, Lucky Williams, said abruptly, "Well, I need help, and I think it's in your line. I've heard you fellows don't scare easily, and I have an idea this job's going to be plenty scarey before you're through."

"Perhaps you'd better tell us about it," suggested Rush Randall.

"It starts with the Indian," blurted the redhead.

"Indian?"

She jerked her head, eyes wide. "He's like no other kind of Indian you've ever met. They call him Mike, and he's from Central America or some awful place. He's over a hundred years old and can run like a deer."

She paused, and no one spoke for a moment.

"Well?" she demanded crisply. "Why don't you go ahead and call me a liar?"

CHAPTER IV

BUZZ CASEY'S leathery face crinkled in a grin. "You're sure this Indian called Mike is a hundred?"

"Positive!"

She explained, "Uncle Clarence brought him back with him from some place. Uncle Clarence and the others. They had him on the summer place down in Florida for awhile, then they brought him to New York just recently. Uncle Clarence said he could prove that Mike was a hundred years old." She bit her lip a moment, then rushed on: "Well, a few days ago, Mike disappeared. I was coming here this morning, to see you"—she nodded toward Rush Randall—"and I bumped into Mike in the lobby. A policeman tried to catch him for me, and he even outran the young officer. So you see?"

Rush Randall said quietly, "So far, Miss Williams, it is rather confused."

The girl sighed, shook her head. "Why wouldn't it be?" she said tensely. "I'm all mixed up too. Because Uncle Clarence has disappeared also. That's why I came to you. "You've got to find him for me!"

"Who is Uncle Clarence?" asked Rush Randall.

"Clarence Hobart. Certainly you've heard of him?"

The Deacon's dark eyes flickered and he glanced at Rush.

Clarence Hobart, they all knew, was big money and big time. He owned a chain of large newspapers across the country. He was an influence in Wall Street. More recently, in the past few years, he was also an influence in Washington.

Rush had been studying the girl. Now he placed her. "And you," he stated, "are the young woman who gets her name in the newspapers from time to time. You were lost once on a solo flight to Alaska. Half the police and fliers in Canada and Alaska were searching for you. Another time you set out in a fifty-foot sloop for Florida and ended up on a reef off one of the Virginia capes."

She nodded, eyes flashing.

"That's why I came to your organization now. About Uncle Clarence, I mean?"

Rush made no comment, but merely waited for her to go on.

She said, "I've caused enough publicity for him. The last time he was furious. Said it hurt him politically. That's why I don't dare go to the police. And now it's him, poor dear. He must be in some terrible kind of trouble. I've been frantic worrying about him. And so . . . so I came here."

"You say," asked Rush calmly, "Clarence Hobart has disappeared?"

"Yes! And now Mike's gone, too. Mike—that's the Indian—was living up there at Uncle Clarence's apartment also, and now they're both gone. Mike was frightened about something this morning when I saw him downstairs. If we could find him, perhaps he could tell us."

"Mike speaks English?"

"They taught him," the girl explained.

The Deacon's gloomy face showed a little expression. He appeared puzzled. "Who are 'they'?" he wanted to know. "My uncle's associates." She moved a hand impatiently. "Judge English and Jordon Marsh—"

"Marsh!"

It was wiry little Buzz who gave the exclamation.

THE girl turned, her gray-green eyes querulous. "You sound like you were jabbed with a pin. Do you know something about him?"

"I—" Buzz started, and he caught the imperceptible head shake that Rush quickly gave him. He finished, "I've heard of him, is all. Pretty important man, isn't he?"

The girl nodded. Expression in her eyes said that she was not completely satisfied with his answer.

She turned back to Rush. "I have plenty of money to pay, you needn't worry. And if Uncle Clarence is in trouble, he has plenty of money to pay you too."

Rush didn't seem interested in that part of it. He asked, "You say your uncle and his business associates, or friends—whatever they are—have been interested in this Indian called Mike?"

"Yes!"

"Why?

"I don't know, really! He's the craziest Indian I ever saw. He eats herbs!"

"Tell us," suggested Rush Randall, "just what has happened. I mean, the reason you think your uncle has disappeared."

The girl said tensely, "It was several days ago. I went up to see him. He has an apartment on Central Park West, but no one was home and I figured they were out at the time. But now I've been back every day since. No one's there. No one's been there . . . because I've made inquiries at the apartment house and now at his office downtown. The office has been closed. No one knows a thing. My uncle has completely vanished."

Rush said nothing for a moment, then asked. "Anyone living in that section of New York employs servants. Certainly the servants must know the whereabouts of your uncle."

"But that's the strange part of it!" the girl cried. "There are no servants! They've disappeared, too . . . the butler, chauffeur . . . everyone!"

Buzz's homely face brightened. "Heck," he put in, "maybe your uncle just up and moved out."

But the girl shook her pretty red head. "No," she said, "I had the building superintendent let me into the apartment. Everything is still there just like it was before. The table was even set for dinner last night. Nothing has been changed. But . . . but nobody is living there!"

Rush Randall decided to accompany the girl alone to her uncle's address. They departed a few moments later, and on the way uptown in his car, Rush asked further questions. But there was no slightest clue that the girl could give him regarding her uncle's whereabouts.

AT THE Central Park West address, they had no difficulty gaining admittance to the apartment. Obviously the girl had visited here often, and was well known by the building officials. She was given a key and permitted to take Rush upstairs.

Rush, his eyes missing no single detail, went through the richly furnished rooms. And he found that the girl had told the truth.

Everything was in order, even to a table already set for a meal.

But there was no clue as to the whereabouts of wealthy Clarence Hobart. An hour later, they left the apartment.

Back in the car, Rush asked, "Who would be the most likely person, besides yourself, to know about your uncle's activities?"

Rush was driving the big, closed car, and Lucky Williams was seated beside him. For a moment she gave him a thoughtful look. Then she said, "Judge English!"

"Judge English?"

She nodded, continuing. "Yes, he was associated with uncle in politics. I was talking to him just a few days ago on the phone. And he had seen my uncle. He should know about him if anyone does!"

She gave an address near the East River Drive, and Rush swung the car in that direction. They crossed 59th Street, cut onto the drive and headed uptown again.

As Rush swung the limousine into the curb, he was aware of some kind of excitement beneath the canopy leading into the building entrance.

A doorman had hurried out to the curb, was excitedly blowing a whistle for a cab. Another building attendant came running outside, followed by a heavy-set, gray-haired man in his fifties.

The girl beside Rush exclaimed, "That's Judge English! He seems to be excited about something! "

The moment their car stopped, Lucky Williams was out on the sidewalk, hurrying toward Judge English. Evidently the big, middle-aged man knew her, for he turned, spoke excitedly.

Rush, arriving behind the girl, heard her gasp, "No!"

She swung toward Rush Randall, eyes wide with horror, as she announced: His son . . . Howard . . . is missing!"

Then, realizing that Rush Randall did not even know the young man, she explained, "Howard is a lawyer. I know him well. Why, now that I think of it, he was one of the last persons to see Uncle Clarence. He mentioned it t0 me on the phone yesterday. I was talking to him!"

Rush's quiet gray eyes went to the big, well-built man. He asked, "What's this about your son?"

Judge English drew in his breath deeply, let it out again as if trying to gain control of his nerves. "God," he said worriedly, "I wish I knew. Just a few days ago, Howard was elated about some new work that Clarence Hobart had sent his way. I never saw my son in higher spirits. And now . . . well, he's simply dropped from the face of the earth. We can't locate him anywhere!"

"Work?" Rush asked curiously. "What kind of work?"

"Legal stuff, I imagine. What else? I hadn't had a chance to discuss it with him. It was something confidential for Clarence Hobart, that's all I know at the moment."

AS THE big man talked, his dark eyes kept blinking nervously. Rush wondered if it was an involuntary habit, or merely something brought on by his wrought up condition.

Then Judge English was saying quickly, "Look, you're R. J. Randall, aren't you? I've seen your pictures in the papers from time to time."

Rush nodded.

"Perhaps you can help. Would you mind calling me back in, say, an hour?" He indicated the girl. "Miss Williams can tell you. I . . ."

He seemed visibly upset.

"Yes?" Rush prompted.

"A man . . . a man I do not know, just called me. He said it was something about my son Howard. He sounded . . . sort of terrified, in a way. He's going to meet me right away."

Rush said, "If you would like me to come along . . ."

Judge English shook his head quickly. "No! That would be dangerous . . . for Howard. The man who phoned warned me to come alone. But I'll be back tonight. Perhaps, then, you can help me. I hope you will . . ."

The last was said pleadingly, as the gray-haired man paused with his foot on the cab running board.

Rush nodded. "You will hear from me later," he offered.

Judge English left then, urging the driver to full speed. For a brief moment, Rush and the girl stood looking after the disappearing cab.

Then Lucky Williams touched his arm, said breathlessly, "I was hoping . . . Howard might know something about Uncle Clarence. But now, with him missing . . ."

She broke off, staring at Rush Randall. She was trembling as she asked, "What could have happened to them?"

Instead of answering, he motioned to his own car, said, "You can wait at our headquarters until after my interview with Judge English. That might be best."

Frowning, the girl climbed back into the car. But as they started up, she said, "But what about Uncle Clarence? Aren't you going to try and find him?"

"That will be taken care of," Rush said quietly.

Lucky Williams appeared upset about something, and she sat there, her hands again knotted in her lap, and from time to time she cast furtive glances in Rush Randall's direction.

He had noted these actions. He had also seen something else. He said abruptly, "You might show me that object which you have been trying to hide."

The girl jumped. "What . . ." she started, evasively.

Rush continued, "You have been holding it ever since we left your uncle's apartment."

The girl was on the point of making another denial, but there was something about the intent grayness oi the man's eyes that caused her to give in.

She opened her hand and held a small object toward Rush.

It was a figurine carved out of finest mahogany, not more than four inches long, an intricate piece of workmanship. It was the tiny figure of an Indian.

Rush's eyes happened to catch the girl watching the object rigidly. Fright was plain on her pretty features.

He said abruptly, "Why do you fear it?"

The girl gave a start. She looked at him.

"Fear it?" she asked. "I don't understand."

"You seem to be frightened."

"I . . . I'm not frightened," Lucky Williams said. "I never saw it before in my life. It was on the divan in Uncle Clarence's apartment."

Rush was convinced that she was lying about her fear.

CHAPTER V

LATER that night, alone, Rush Randall returned to interview Judge English. He left the girl at headquarters with his two partners. She had not protested staying there; she appeared too frightened to do anything else.

Buzz had reported that there had been no further reports about the plane. Jordon Marsh's disappearance was still quite a mystery. Rush was still keeping this part of it from the girl. She did not know he'd had an appointment to meet Jordon Marsh.

Rush left his car parked in a dark side street, walked a block to Judge English's residence. The doorman recognized the tall, blond man, having seen him earlier when he had talked to Judge English at the curb.

"You are to go right upstairs," the doorman said.

"Judge English is at home?"

The uniformed man shook his head.

"He returned, sir, but he has departed again. However, he left a message for you, and you are to go right up." He named the floor and apartment number. Rush took the elevator.

A butler admitted him to the apartment. Obviously he had been expecting Rush's visit, and recognized him, for he said, "This was left for you, sir. Judge English had to leave again immediately, but I was to be Sure that this envelope was turned over to you."

Rush looked at the white envelope which the butler had picked up from a table and handed to him. He broke the seal and studied the brief note that was inside.

The hastily written message read:

I AM CERTAIN THAT I HAVE MET THE MAN WHO KNOWS WHAT TERRIBLE FATE HAS HAPPENED TO MY SON. I AM GOING WITH HIM TO MAKE POSITIVE THAT HOWARD IS ALIVE. ANY INVESTIGATION AT THIS TIME MIGHT BE DISASTROUS. WAIT FIVE DAYS. IF I HAVE NOT RETURNED WITHIN THAT TIME, PLEASE INVESTIGATE.

Rush looked at the butler. "Judge English wrote this note?"

"Yes, sir." The butler jerked his head. "I saw him write it myself, sir."

"Have you any idea whom he met?"

"No, sir."

"Or where he went?"

"No, sir. I have no idea. He didn't say, sir."

RUSH put the message in his pocket and departed. He did not intend to wait for the five day limit to expire. He decided to investigate immediately.

The doorman of the building recalled a certain familiar cab that Judge English had taken. He gave the name of the driver and the address of the company which owned the string of taxis.

He said, "That driver is on the stand here every night, sir. But he finished about now." He looked at his watch. "You ought to be able to catch him as he's checking in tonight, sir." He gave the address of the garage where the cabs were turned in.

Rush arrived there twenty minutes later. He located the driver who had picked up Judge English. And was informed that the man had been driven to a small flying field not far from the New Jersey end of the George Washington Bridge.

Rush drove out there.

The field, except for red marker lights, was in darkness. But there was a small office near the edge of the field. and it was inside the building that he located the night watchman.

He asked discreet questions.

Shortly the man was explaining, "Why, sure, they left some time ago."

Rush Randall's eyes flickered. "They?"

"Yep. The gray-haired man you described, and three or four other guys. It was these other guys who owned the plane, and they waited until your friend arrived."

The watchman, with gestures, described a modern-type plane that obviously was equipped for long-distance flights. The plane, he said, had been kept at the field for the past couple of days. No, he didn't know the owners. They had merely rented temporary space at the field.

"What was their destination?" Rush prodded.

The man scratched his beard.

"Well, now," he murmured, "I wouldn't know, exactly. But they did a funny thing before taking off. They changed to heavy clothing. And I heard one of them guys say it was going to be pretty cold where they were going."

That seemed to be all Rush could learn about Judge English's whereabouts. And so he returned to his lower Manhattan headquarters.

BUT if Rush Randall had been in Judge English's place, at that moment, he would have known little further.

The gray-haired man was seated in the cabin of the big plane, and the men were grouped around him as the ship droned through the night.

One man was saying, "And so, that's the way it is. We're taking you to see your son. You will be shown that he's still alive. But we do this only under one condition!"

Judge English glared at the speaker. "And that is . . ." he prompted.

A hypodermic needle flashed in the big man's hand. The fellow had leathery, sunburned skin and a lot of jaw.

He said, "You take an injection of this stuff which keeps you asleep until we get there. You'll also get a shot on the return trip. It's harmless. Only thing is, you won't have any idea where you've been taken. Okay?"

"How do I know I'll ever wake up again?" Judge English demanded.

The man with the hypodermic needle grinned.

"Don't be a chump. You're the guy who's gonna save your son from death. So you don't think we'd kill you, do you?"

That appeared to be logical. And if Judge English was going to see his son alive, it looked like he'd have to agree to the proposition. He yanked off his coat and pulled up his shirt sleeve.

"All right," he said.

There was only the prick of the long needle that hurt for a moment, then he was aware of a swift drowsiness that was flowing over him.

He tried to remain awake, to hear what was being said, but all he could remember at the very last was someone saying, "Wait'll he wakes up two days from now!"

JUDGE ENGLISH was surprised when he did wake up. He had experienced doubts, just before losing consciousness, that he might ever see this world again.

But he did, and it was a strange world at first—very silent, very mysterious, as though all time had suddenly stopped and he was the only individual in the entire universe.

He was lying in a crude swing, on the porch of a large, rustic hut of some sort. Judge English sat up and rubbed kinks from his arms and legs. He felt incredibly hungry. He stared around him. And all that met the eye in every direction was deep forest. Trees grew everywhere, heavily foliaged, very green. It was warm, and from somewhere overhead the rays of a hot sun slanted through the trees and cast grotesque patterns on the earth.

Judge English had no idea how long he'd been asleep.

He stood up and walked the length of the porch. It had been well built of sturdy logs.

He returned to the open front doorway and yelled, "Hey!"

Immediately, someone moved inside the house. A man shortly appeared in the cabin doorway. He was one of the big fellows who had been aboard the plane, and he was rubbing sleep from his eyes.

Seeing Judge English awake, he gave a shout and hurried out onto the porch. Soon, more of his associates were out there with him. They, too, looked like they had been taking some sort of siesta. Half a dozen men gathered around the gray-haired man.

One, though, appeared to be the leader. This one had not been on the plane.

He was a tall, well setup man with sandy-colored hair. He looked very healthy and very grim.

He said, "You understand why you were brought here?"

Judge English nodded. "My son disappeared mysteriously. Why, I do not know. But I have been told that he is here, and I have been brought to see him."

"Exactly," said the leader.

"Well?" demanded the judge.

"Come along."

The tall leader of the group led the way inside the shack. The leader swung into a room, stepped aside as, closely watched, Judge English was followed in by the other men.

The cage, extending from floor to ceiling, had been built in the center of the large room. It was made of poles stout enough to have the strength of steel bars.

INSIDE the cage, sitting on a chair and looking terrified, was a slender young man with dark hair and somewhat pallid features. He had the same angular, strong face of Judge English himself.

He jumped up and cried, "Father!"

Judge English stood there, emotion plain on his stern face, his big form trembling. "Howard!" he said. "Then you are alive?"

Gripping the stout bars, Howard English asked tensely, "Did they tell you about the . . . the little Indian?"

Judge English's eyes narrowed carefully. "The Indian?" he asked.

Before his son could answer, two men grabbed the judge by the arms and started out of the room with him.

"That's what you're gonna learn about now!" one guard said.

The others, in the room with Judge English's son, waited silently. A half hour passed. Finally the judge was led back into the room.

Sweat covered the man's features. He was trembling. Terror was mirrored in his wildly staring eyes.

His son stared, asked, "What is it? What did you see in there?"

But Judge English merely shook his head dazedly. He muttered, "They're taking me back to New York. I'll raise the hundred thousand dollars. Then . . . then you'll be released."

"Raise the money for what?" young English prodded.

But the elderly man merely shook his head. He appeared too terrified to speak. "I can't tell you!" he blurted.

He was led out.

But outside the room, a trace of courage seemed to return to him. Judge English was a solidly built man, and he suddenly whirled on his captors. He roared, "Damn you . . ."

He was slugged from behind by someone with a blackjack.

When he awoke, he was in a plane, and the plane was moving. He was tied hand and foot, and was in the cabin of the same ship that had brought him to the mysterious hideout.

A man stood over him, and the fellow smiled.

He said, "This will hold you until we get to New York!"

He had a hypodermic needle in his hand, and now he quickly seized the judge's arm, rolled back the sleeve, and jabbed in the long needle.

Within seconds, the drowsy feeling was stealing over him. He tried to fight off the heaviness. It was hopeless. There was only the droning of the plane motors, and someone talking at another point in the big cabin and . . .

Judge English woke up on a park bench behind the big library at 42nd Street and Fifth Avenue, in New York City. It was just shortly after dawn, and there was a cool chill in the air. He felt half starved.

But before doing anything about his hunger, he hurried to a cigar store and put through a telephone call to Rush Randall.

CHAPTER VI

EARLY that same morning, shortly after receiving the telephone call from Judge Randall, Rush left his office. But first, he gave himself an injection of a peculiar chemical. He also left a message for Buzz and Deacon, stating that they were to wait, in case there should be any word from Jordon Marsh, the millionaire.

It had been six days now since the millionaire politician had vanished.

Strangely, Rush had done nothing—so far—about the disappearance of Clarence Hobart or the judge and his son. The girl, Lucky Williams, had been quite upset about this. And she was so anxious for information, that she had remained at his headquarters, waiting for any news.

She had been given a private room in their unusual apartment.

Lucky Williams, looking bright and attractive as a new spring hat, was in the library when, some time after Rush Randall's departure, Buzz and Deacon came from their rooms.

Deacon was wearing dark somber clothes as usual. But now a fresh flower was in the lapel of his coat.

Buzz, yawning as he strolled into the room, looked as if he had slept in his clothes—much to Deacon's disgust. But both men brightened at the sight of the trim, pretty-looking redhead.

Buzz Casey said, "Honey. did anyone ever tell you that you're beautiful?"

"Yes," the girl said brightly. "Deacon did."

Deacon laughed. "That'll hold you, you flat-footed runt!"

Buzz made a swing at his partner. There threatened to be a fight.

The two men started a loud argu-ment.

The telephone started ringing.

Lucky Williams said, "The phone is ringing!"

She tried to make herself heard above the racket taking place between Buzz and Deacon. Finally her words penetrated the somewhat blue air.

"I said the telephone is ringing!"

Little Buzz Casey leaped to answer it. It was Rush calling.

Rush announced: "Judge English has returned to New York."

That was news for hard-bitten little Buzz. He had not known where their partner had gone that morning. Buzz repeated the news for those in the room with him.

Rush continued: "You and Deacon will remain at headquarters. Try to pick up any word about the kidnapped men from any of the airports. I might be gone for several days."

Buzz frowned. "Where you going?"

THERE was a slight pause, then Rush Randall said, "Judge English has seen his son, but is too terrified to go on. I am replacing him. The journey will take several days."

The girl, listening, heard his words. She seemed startled. She moved forward, took the phone from Buzz's hand, said into the mouthpiece, "But what about my uncle?"

Rush did not reply to the question.

"Darn!" the girl said, stamping her foot. She handed the phone back to Buzz Casey.

"Rush?" Buzz said.

"Yes?"

"What about that little Indian gadget the girl found?"

"That seems to be tied in with the mystery."

"But . . ."

"You will," continued Rush, "keep your eyes open for any further sign of that omen."

"Omen?" Buzz was puzzled.

"It is an Indian superstition," said Rush Randall. "Investigate anyone who knows something about that thing. That is quite important. Also, you might keep a lookout for that crazy Indian. Mike was apparently frightened away because of it."

"You mean," asked Buzz, "because of that omen?"

"Yes."

A moment later Rush hung up.

The girl, her lovely face tense, looked at the two men. She said, "Where is Rush Randall going?"

Buzz shrugged. "We have no idea," he said.

"No, we can't even guess," said Deacon, looking gloomy.

If they had only known, they would have been convinced that Rush Randall had no idea, either.

NEITHER would they have recognized their leader and partner.

Skin stain and pieces of paraffin inserted inside his cheeks had changed Rush's character. He now had dark, leathery features and a limp. He was stoop-shouldered. He looked like an old codger who might have spent most of his life in the Maine backwoods.

The instructions for meeting those who knew about the Indian thing menace—turned over to Rush by Judge English—had been quite specific. Rush was to take the noon ferry from 125th Street, cross to Fort Lee, and enroute watch for a man on board who would be wearing a derby and whistling "Mexicale Rose." He was to follow this person from the ferry on the Jersey side and get into the car which the man in the derby hat approached.

The contact was made, and "Derby Hat" was a big, powerful fellow with sunburned features and wedge-shaped shoulders. There were three other men waiting in the car on the Jersey shore.

Rush, limping a little and bent over, climbed into the car, and the machine started up and they went away from there in quite a hurry.

All the individuals in the machine were browned and husky-looking. The driver seemed to be in charge. Without turning his head as he sent the car climbing the long hill up out of town, he said, "You have the money?"

Rush, speaking with a slight twang, said, "Reckon as I have. Check."

"A check?"

"Yep. It will be handed over to you when I see Howard English released, in my custody."

"Let's see that check," someone demanded.

Rush slowly and painstakingly extracted a check from a worn billfold that he carried in his inner pocket. His coat was of a design that had gone out of style almost a dozen years ago.

The two men seated on either side of him looked at the check.

One exclaimed, "What the hell! There's places on that check for two signatures . . . but only Judge English has signed it!"

"Yep," agreed Rush, still using his old-codger twang.

"What's the idea?"

"Tel1 you," said Rush. "When the other signature is put on the check, that piece of paper will be honored at any bank in New York. That's Judge English's agreement."

"Whose signature?" someone wanted to know.

"Mine," said Rush Randall.

Another man commented, "Nobody's kidding that foxy judge!"

"I guess not!" said the driver. Then, "Well, that plan is okay with us, I think. We'll take this old geezer out there."

He continued driving at a fairly good rate of speed.

And some time before one o'clock that afternoon, they arrived at the small, private airport in the Jersey hills. The big silver plane was waiting on the field, and Rush, as the old man, was taken aboard. A few moments later the plane took the air, circled the field twice so the pilot could make certain that no one had followed and then headed north.

Two men came into the cabin where Doc was seated. One said, "Pop, you gotta get a treatment."

"Treatment?"

"Yeah. We're gonna give you a little shot. It won't hurt you any. You'll just sleep the rest of the way. You see, we ain't taking no chances on you finding out where we're taking you."

The old fellow seemed to think that over for a moment.

"Wal, I reckon I'll have to take it," he said finally.

They gave Rush the kind of an injection they had administered to Judge English.

Soon, Rush was stretched out limply on a bunk that had been installed in place of some of the cabin seats. He snored loudly.

One of the passengers grinned.

"Won't that old boy be surprised when he wakes up?" he said.

"I guess so!" agreed his partner.

Rush Randall listened to the remarks and tried to decide whether the plane was still heading north or not. Later. if the men should step into the cockpit, he might be able to find out.

AT FIRST, the drug reaction in his system was terrific. For the injection that Rush had taken earlier, as an antidote for the hypodermic given him aboard the plane, was now counteracting effects of that hypo. Rush fought off the strange sleep.

Judge English had told him of the injection which kept him asleep throughout the journey to the mysterious hideout. So Rush Randall had been prepared for the same thing.

He was not "asleep" now. In fact, he was quite wide awake, as a result of one drug trying to overcome the other in his system. It was his splendid physical condition that finally won out. He remained awake—though to anyone who might have closely examined him, he appeared to be a person in deep slumber.

He listened carefully, careful not to make any movement, and after awhile he was certain that the plane was not heading north.

Men came into the cabin at intervals. They discussed the flight. Rush listened. . . .

A day and a night passed, and some time early in the morning the big ship came clown and landed on the long stretch of hard-packed sand that formed a beach bordering a river.

All around the isolated region, heavy foliage was everywhere. A dark forest grew to the water's edge, excepting the strip of beach, and this forest of stately trees slowly mounted upward into mountains that lay beyond.

But the entire thing, the green forests, the mountains, even the cloud-studded sky was reflected in the flat, smooth water like something done in oils. The air was motionless and warm.

The great silence everywhere was somewhat breath-taking.

Rush Randall was removed from the plane, laid down on the beach, and a discussion followed as to just how the big fellow was to be carried. Nobody seemed to relish the job.

While the men were talking about that, a man appeared along the trail that led out of the deep forest, hailed them, and came down the beach to the plane.

Someone said, "It's Mort. He'll tell us what to do."

MORT, it turned out, was a thin, trim man with cool gray eyes. It appeared he had arrived from some camp located not far from the river.

He said now, "We're not taking this old guy up to the camp."

Rush knew that Mort was referring to himself. Through slitted lids, Rush had obtained one quick glimpse of the man, but he dared not look again. Someone might see the movement of his eyelids.

"Why not?" one of the men from the plane demanded.

"Because we've moved Howard English."

"Moved him?"

"Yeah. We think maybe his father might have figured out something. Maybe he guessed the location. So we've sent him up to the passage. That's where you'll take this contact man."

"You mean," someone said in surprise, "up to the Crazy Indian?"

"That's right."

There seemed to be some doubt in the men's minds about making the trip to the Crazy Indian at this time; this was more of a feeling that Rush sensed, rather than hearing any actual words spoken.

"Howard English," continued the man named Mort, "is at the Passage. It'll take you about two days. We've got things all ready and waiting for you. So you'd better get started."

Rush Randall, listening, continued to assume his sleeping, unconscious attitude. He had planned a break when the plane flight was ended, but that plan was swiftly changed now.

For he had an idea, now, where he was. The plane had not ?own north. The comments about the direction the plane was flying were made simply for his benefit, before they thought he had been knocked out by the drug. They had wanted him to believe the hideout was somewhere north.

Rush guessed it was South America. They had ?own too long to make it Panama or Central America, though the country, what he had seen of it, was similar.

The thick jungle growth all around them, the odor of tropical foliage, the quiet motionless warmth told him these things. And something else.

The girl had mentioned South America when she told Rush and his partners about Mike, the strange-acting Indian who was supposed to be more than a hundred years old. And all three men who had so mysteriously dropped from sight—Jordon Marsh; the girl's uncle, Clarence Hobart; Judge English—all of them, according to the girl, had been associated in one way or another. There was her comment about a project the three wealthy men had been interested in down in Florida. Somewhere, Mike, the Indian, was tied in with that too.

And now Judge English's son, Howard, had been apparently abducted also. Where did he fit into the mystery?

Well, it looked as if Rush was going to find out. They were going to take him inland, from the comments he heard, to the spot where they were holding Howard English. Where was the Crazy Indian, and just what was it? They spoke of it as if it were an inanimate thing. Odd!

Mort was saying, "You guys will be met by the chief when you get up there. He's got some other stuff lined up."

Someone whistled.

There were exclamations.

From the undercurrent of tenseness that Rush Randall quickly sensed, he knew a reference had been made to the real brains behind the mystery. Somewhere in this vast jungle of space was the solution.

Would he live to return to the "outside" again, or to get word to his associates? He wondered if, for once, he had carried this thrill for adventure just a little too far.

They were getting ready to start.

CHAPTER VII

AN IMPROVISED rack was constructed, and his big, hard-muscled frame was tied securely to that. Rush still pretended deep slumber.

The trek through the forest lasted several hours. The heat was not unbearable, for the thick green foliage shut out practically all sunlight, and it was moist and humid in the shadows beneath the trees. There was the heavy, sweet smell of wild orchids, growing atop the tall trees.

They reached another, smaller river. He was transferred to a boat. It was a large affair made of stout saplings and logs. There was a cabin of sorts, its walls laced with heavy matlike material that was was as secure as the bars of a prison. Light came through tiny cracks in the latticed material.

He was placed inside, still tied hand and foot, and a door was latched securely. The trip continued, men poling the wide, flat craft downstream.

Another day passed.

Rush knew that two men stood guard outside the cabin. He had heard them talking from time to time. Mort, obviously, was taking no chances—though everyone still believed Rush Randall to be under the influence of the sleeping drug.

Night came again, and some time after dark the boat stopped. There was heavy silence for a while, and then activity began. Rush listened.

He heard men talking.

Someone came into the dark cabin where he lay motionless on the hard floor. Others followed. Rush chanced a look before a lamp was lighted.

They were cool, gray-eyed Mort's men, but the leader was not with them. One said, "I got this thing all figured out, and this is one job we get out of. We'll make that big fellow carry this old guy!"

Rush was suddenly very alert.

"You mean," someone asked, "that guy they captured along with Jordon Marsh?"

"Yeah. Him. He's built like a horse." "Then we're gonna push through to the Crazy Indian without waiting for the chief?"

"Right," someone replied.

Men picked up Rush Randall and carried him out on deck. Lanterns moved in the night, and it was cooler now, though the heavy humidity was everywhere. Blackness cloaked everything around them.

"Bring that big bozo aboard," someone said.

Rush chanced a slitted glimpse through his eyelids. The darkness covered his guarded glance. He saw that the raft-like craft was tied up along the shore.

Shortly, under guard, a tall, powerful, dark-skinned figure was led aboard. He wore only tattered trousers and a ripped, dirtied white shirt. Appearance of his clothing indicated he must have put up a magnificent fight before being subdued.

It struck Rush, sneaking a glance at the figure, that the fellow would have looked more natural clad merely in a loin cloth. Especially in this wilderness jungle interior.

For he was an Indian native!

Then the single name flashed through Rush Randall's mind. Mike! The Indian the girl had talked about. Hadn't someone just referred to the "guy who was captured a long with Jordon Marsh"? Mike, the Indian, was Jordon Marsh's protege. Why, Rush still had to learn.

Right now, though, he saw an opportunity for an escape while at the time learning what the mystery was about. The girl had said Mike spoke English! Rush wondered why the Indian had been coming to his office that morning. Did the fellow know him?

IF THE tall, hard-muscled Indian recognized Rush Randall, he gave no sign. He stood there in the quiet night, his face impassive.

Behind him, handcuffed to a guard, was a little, mousy-looking man with thin gray hair and jumpy eyes. Rush almost opened his eyes wide in amazement.

Clarence Hobart, the girl's uncle! The wealthy owner of a chain of news-papers!

Naturally Clarence Hobart did not know Rush—at least not now, the way Rush was posing as an old codger. He doubted if the newspaper magnet knew him anyway.

All Rush could do was bide his time.

The fussy-looking little newspaper owner was saying in wonderment, "My goodness! What are you going to do with us now?"

A man laughed.

"We're going to take a little hike, pal."

They went ashore.

Rush, to all appearances still drugged, was picked up and loaded on the powerful Indian's massive shoulders. He was slung across the big fellow's back like a limp sack. Then the crooks use a neat trick to assure themselves that the Indian could make no dangerous move.

Heavy rope was passed around his waist, and the rope bound Rush Randall's hands and feet to this. Also, where the Indian's hands were supporting Rush's body, they were also tied in this position. Thus the Indian was tied to his heavy burden, and it would have been impossible for him to make any sort of attack against the men who accompanied him.

The party set out along a forest trail that bordered the shore line.

Throughout the remainder of that night, using the lanterns, the men trekked through the wilderness. At intervals, there were rest stops. Big Mike was made to lie down with his heavy burden still tied securely to him. He was watched every moment by two men who carried guns.

Rush Randall, apparently, was still unconscious.

RUSH, so far, had made no attempt to escape. Because there was something he still sought—location of this object referred to as the Crazy Indian. Finding it meant finding Howard English, and perhaps the others. Also, it could be the real hideout or the clue to the location of the person behind the mysterious disappearances.

Who was he? And what was the significance of the little carved wooden images of Indians?

The trek kept moving onward through the night. The trail was fairly well defined. The men, obviously, had used it before, and before them someone else had worn a path through the jungle growth.

The air changed, became still cooler. They climbed steadily, with the rest stops more frequent, and from time to time Rush saw patches of star-studded sky. Sometime before dawn they followed a high ridge, completely clear of the jungle now, and the blue sky was all around them. There was some wind.

Dawn came.

A rest had been called, and everyone seemed to be waiting for something. As it became brighter, Rush through narrowed eyelids, s aw a surveyor's sighting instrument set up on a particular high point of ground. Another man stood by with a notebook in his hand, and he started calling off figures.

Everyone was watching and waiting, which gave Rush Randall the opportunity to watch also. He made a mental note of the readings and comments. He heard that reference to the "Passage" again.

The man at the instrument finally announced, "There she is! It'll take us about four more hours to reach the Crazy Indian!"

He gave a few more figures to the man with the notebook. Apparently they were the directions to be followed until the Crazy Indian was reached.

Just as the party was ready to set out again, a man approached from the rear. He had been trailing the group, was one of the guards himself. He carried some sort of small paper in his hand.

"Damn' good thing I brought up the rear!" he announced. He passed the paper to the leader, thin, wiry Mort, but to the others who were watching him, he said, "That dropped from inside the old guy's shirt while he was being lugged through the forest. He's Rush Randall!"

Rush slid from the Indian's wide shoulders, the ropes seemed to fall away as though they'd been severed in a dozen places by a knife, and both men leaped toward their nearest guards.

A wild, confused battle followed.

AT THE first hint of trouble, two guards had seized protesting little Clarence Hobart and rushed on ahead with him. They were soon out of sight along a path that dropped sharply downhill from the high, exposed ridge.

The others closed in on Rush and big Mike.

Mike, rumbling with rage and making big bear sounds, grabbed two men, got his massive arms around them and started banging their heads together.

Rush had already knocked out two more men with two single blows. The tall blond adventurer's speed was astounding.

The fight moved back and forth across the high point of ground. Men fell, knocked down, but they got up again and kept slugging at Rush and the Indian.

There were enough figures in the fight, that confusion was too great for the use of guns.

But one man—he had been carrying an equipment pack—broke free of the melee at the beginning, and he had now run off to one side and was frantically working at the drawstring on his pack.

Shortly he had a heavy-looking weapon in his hands, was busy snapping two portable parts of it together. He inserted what looked like a magazine drum filled with cartridges.

The weapon was a portable machine gun. The man straightened with the object in his hands, and he yelled:

"Back you guys! Out of the way!"

Those who had not been knocked out fell swiftly away from Rush Randall and the giant Indian. They ran.

The machine gun was pointed toward Rush and big Mike.

But even in the split second when the gunner had yelled to his partners, Rush and the Indian moved with amazing speed. They carried no guns themselves. To remain there and face the machine-gunner would mean certain death.

And so they plunged down a steep path that led back the way they had approached the lookout point. The narrow path skirted a hump of ground, and it was this that protected them from being seen.

For the machine gun gobbled and roared, sending chunks of dirt flying around them. But the gunner was excited. His aim was faulty. By the time he got the deadly weapon under control, forcing it downward for better aim, Rush and the Indian had reached the protection of the trees downtrail. Soon they were completely hidden in the forest again.

The gun, though, continued to send out blasts at intervals. It continued to do so for some time, giving the two men no chance to stalk their captors.

And so, since they were unarmed, they continued along the backtrail through the great silent forest, and about midafternoon of that day they reached the point where the large. flat-bottomed raft had landed them. They looked for it.

It was gone.

CHAPTER VIII

THERE had been little time for talk during the tense hours of escape along the backtrail. Half running, half dog-trotting, Rush Randall had been hard put to conserve every ounce of his strength. Several times th e y had stopped at fresh water springs, where Rush had flung himself down to gulp the cool water.

His entire body had been feverish because of the lack of water and the effects of the drugs. He had been so long without food, however, that he did not feel hungry. Yet big Mike must have known that he had not eaten. From time to time, as they hurried along the shaded trail, the Indian had dodged off into the matted undergrowth to swiftly return again with fistfuls of wild berries. He had forced them on Rush.

"Eat!" the Indian ordered.

The berries had acted as liquid as well as food. They had taken the fever from his body and soothed his parched throat.

Now the two men, sweat-bathed and panting, stood there and stared at the deserted, narrow, muddy river that flowed past them.

Mike said abruptly, "Us being in one hell of a fix, boss man."

Any other time, Rush would have laughed at the comment, coming from the powerful man who looked, at this instant, as if he had never set foot from this tropical wilderness.

The girl, Lucky Williams, had been right about big Mike being able to speak English. Perhaps now there would be a solution . . .

Rush asked quickly, "Mike, you know who I am, don't you? You tried to see me in New York."

The tall, brown-skinned man nodded.

"I guessing last night," he told Rush. "I keeping piece of glass so us escape maybe."

Rush grinned. "You do all right, Mike."

The glass had been a small bit of broken bottle, which the Indian had managed to hold concealed in his hand. During the trek through the forest, under cover of night, the Indian had managed to cut one of Rush's hands free. Then they had taken turns using the bit of glass, sawing through the ropes, freeing themselves.

After that it had merely been a case of waiting to see what would happen. Rush had hoped to learn more about the mystery, but all he had heard was the information about the Crazy Indian, whatever that was. And then he had been recognized.

He asked now. "Mike, what is hidden down here? Why are those wealthy men being kidnapped?"

THE Indian made a pointing motion with his hand, indicating the trail they had just covered. "Back there in hidden valley . . . my people."

"Your people?"

The Indian nodded.

"Where are we, anyway?"

"Amazon." Mike pointed. "Back there. No white man ever coming there. My people living many years . . ."

Rush suddenly remembered. "What's this about you being a hundred years old?"

Again Mike nodded. "Secret," he said matter-of-factly. "Secret of hidden valley where my people living. Mister Marsh, him coming there . . ."

"Jordon Marsh?"

"Last year," said the Indian. "Him finding hidden valley. Him taking me to Florida. I bringing herbs and Mister Marsh and the others are raising in Florida."

Suddenly, Rush was beginning to piece the thing together. A hidden valley somewhere up the Amazon, and natives who lived to be well past a hundred! Many times, in his adventures to strange corners of the world, he'd heard the story. He'd often wondered how true it was.

And he recalled that wealthy Jordon Marsh had been a plantation owner in South America. He'd met the man at one time. Marsh, obviously, had found the secret valley of the Amazon.

But what strange enterprise had Jordon Marsh started with his friends after they had taken Mike, here, to Florida, and later to New York? Mike had just stated that he had brought some of the herbs with him.

Did Marsh and his associates have some wild idea about outliving other men, by raising and eating the herbs?

Could be. Men have tried stranger things.

But the real puzzle was, why had each of the men been kidnapped? And by whom?

He asked, "Mike, who kidnapped you?"

The Indian shook his head. "I not knowing, boss man."

"Where did they grab you?"

"New York."

Rush thought a moment, his pale gray eyes curious.

"Why did you come to my office. Mike? And why did you run away when you saw the girl, Lucky Williams?"

"Mister Marsh one day telling me if anything happen to him or his friends. to be seeing you right away. I going to Mister Clarence Hobart's house and finding him gone. So I am coming to you. Mister Hobart always saying I am not worrying Miss Lucky Williams."

"You weren't supposed to frighten her?"

The Indian nodded.

"Do you know the men who grabbed you in New York?"

"Not knowing. They taking me in car to New Jersey, to airport."

Rush was puzzled.

More to himself than to the Indian, he started to comment, "Damned if I can understand why—"

He stopped saying that and watched the Indian's figure. Mike was standing stiffly, apparently listening to something, his head half cocked to one side.

Rush listened also, and he couldn't hear a thing in the utter silence of the afternoon.

Mike said abruptly, "We keep moving. We getting away from here. They coming!" He motioned toward the forest trail.

"You're positive you hear someone?"

Mike nodded.

He led the way, picking a trail that followed the river.

Rush Randall, following, wondered if he had ever been in such a predicament. It was imperative that he get word to Buzz and Deacon in New York. He needed food. Also, he needed equipment if he was going to accomplish anything down here.

He stared bleakly at the wilderness all around him. Mike, there, ahead of him, was the only person in hundreds of miles who could help him.

He wondered if he could even trust Mike?

IT WAS almost two weeks later that the message reached Rush Randall's office in Manhattan. Tough little Buzz Casey and Deacon, at the moment, were enjoying one of their arguments. The argument centered around attractive, red-haired Lucky Williams. Buzz, waving a fist in front of Deacon's gloomy face, was saying acidly:

"The poor girl moved out because of you, that's what! Wait'll Rush hears that she's gone!"

Deacon glared.

"I had nothing to do with it!" he snapped. "She got tired of waiting to hear from Rush. She thinks Rush isn't going to do anything about her uncle's disappearance."

Buzz strutted up and down the office. He was wearing baggy trousers and an old turtleneck sweater.

"Even if you're right, I wouldn't believe you!" muttered the homely man.

Deacon paid no attention to the remark.

"Besides," he continued, "even though she doubts Rush is trying to help her, we can still reach her. She's going to be at her apartment, and we can get in touch with her any time we want."

Buzz immediately jumped toward the phone. He turned, glared at his tall partner, demanded, "What was the phone number?"

Deacon consulted a small notebook that he took from his pocket. He read off a number, and then, as Buzz dialed it, added, "I'll talk to her when you are connected."

"The hell you will!" Buzz piped. He swung, blocked Deacon's path as his partner tried to reach for the phone a moment later.

A woman's voice said, "Hello?"

Buzz immediately became all smiles. In a sugary voice, he said into the mouthpiece, "Look, honey child, this is your Big Moment . . . Buzz calling . . . I wanted to tell you how badly I feel about that gloomy guy who hangs around here. I mean, the way he scared you out of the place. Now, I was thinking. . . ."

With a yell of rage, Deacon tried to reach the phone.

But Buzz Casey still blocked the way, holding the phone in front of him and moving around so that Deacon could not reach it.

The voice at the other end of the line said, "Well, listen honey chil', you-all will have to call later."

Buzz jumped. "What's that?" he said. "Who is this?"

The voice drawled, "Clarabelle. An' you-all is callin' the wrong Big Moment. You is talkin' to Miss Williams' maid!"

Deacon, behind Buzz, overheard the words and the southern drawl. As Buzz slammed up the receiver, Deacon dropped into a chair and howled with delight. He held his sides.

"Hello, honey chil'!" he said to his tough little partner.

Buzz grabbed the telephone book, flung it. Deacon ducked.

Buzz muttered, "All right, forget it!" He looked upset.

"Anyway," he added glumly, "I'm worried about her. I'm at my wit's end."

"Well," agreed Deacon, "you didn't have far to go!"

This time, Buzz grabbed up telephone stand and all, and was ready to let it ?y when the skinny, unhealthy-looking man appeared in the hall door-way.

The man wore a messenger's uniform.

"Hey," he yelled loudly, "I said telegram!"

THE two partners instantly forgot their argument and swung to face the messenger. Deacon seized the envelope, ripped it open, unfolded a lengthy message. Buzz tried to read over his shoulder, but he was so short it was impossible for him to see.

"All right," he snorted. "What is it?"

"From Rush," said Deacon, continuing to read swiftly. "Hey, he's somewhere in the Amazon valley. South America. Says we're to get a fast plane equipped for landing on water, load aboard all the equipment we can, and get down there. It's a river down there some place.

"How in hell we gonna find it?"

"Rush has directions here. He suggests we pick up the girl, because he thinks maybe she can help us find her uncle."

Buzz grinned. "Wow!" he exclaimed.

"Also," Deacon continued, "we're to try to locate the Crazy Indian from the air. Rush gives us the possible location." He looked at his partner. "Remember those maps we have of South America? We're to check one of them. Rush was down there once a long time ago."

Buzz demanded, "How the hell you gonna find a crazy Indian from the air?"

"It appears to be a boat of some kind, you dope. Rush says so here."

"I'll be damned!"

They decided that first they would tell the girl, Lucky Williams, the good news. Also, Deacon put the machinery in operation for readying a plane for a flight. At different times, on special jobs, they used a charter service air line that was familiar with their unusual jobs in various parts of the world. Deacon called the number and ordered the air line to begin loading the plane. He rattled off the supplies needed. Other items he and Buzz could pick up here at the office.

Buzz gave the elderly messenger a dollar and shooed him out of there. The fellow had been standing in the doorway listening, open-mouthed.

Deacon, still on a phone, snapped at Buzz, "Call Lucky Williams and tell her we're on the way up to see her. Get busy, you nitwit!"

Buzz got the same maid again and gave the information.

A little while later they arrived, using their own car, at an exclusive apartment section near Riverside Drive. Deacon wanted Buzz to wait in the car, but the smaller man only grinned and followed him into the ornate lobby of the apartment building.

THERE was a reception clerk and a switchboard operator. Both gave hard-bitten Buzz a doubtful regard. His features, his clothes were enough to place him as a roustabout.

So Deacon, in his smooth way, did the talking. He stated that they wished to see Miss Williams, if she had re-turned.

The operator called the apartment, waited, then spoke to someone. She turned and said, "Yes, there's someone up there. You may go right up. Suite 1001."

They took the elevator.

On the tenth floor, Buzz pushed on ahead. It had been several days since they had seen the girl, and Buzz had been worried about her. His weakness was pretty girls, and he had fallen hard for the trim redhead.

He rapped on the door, waited.

"Try to act like a gentleman," Deacon advised.

From inside the apartment, a voice called, "Come in."

They opened the door, found themselves in a small foyer, and moved toward what looked like a large living room beyond. The living room was expensively furnished. There were numerous deep armchairs. The hall door slammed behind them.

The men with guns in their hands rose up from behind the wide chairs. One particularly ugly-looking fellow said, "We thought you Romeos would come here sooner or later!"

The speaker started shooting.

TO THE amazement of both Buzz and Deacon, there was no thunder of gunfire.

The gun simply made a little puff of a sound, and a small object whizzed past Deacon's arm.

He suddenly understood.

"Darts!" he yelled at Buzz, and they went into speedy action.

Deacon's long, fast-moving body hurtled a chair and he seized one of the men. His fist slashed out. The fellow's head snapped back and he fell down behind the chair. He lay there. motionless.

Buzz, in the meantime. and with a bellow of rage, leaped over chair and all and took hold of the man who had shot at him. There were five assailants in all. The hard little man reached out and seized another who was trying to aim a dart gun.

Obviously, the thugs had decided on the dart guns in order to avoid too much noise in the apartment building. The darts were probably poisoned, or contained a knockout drug.

But now, with Buzz ripping loose in the midst of the assailants, there was little chance to use the strange weapons. Buzz swept up a pair of heavy metal book ends from a table, gripped them in his fists and started cracking skulls. There were assorted, painful yells.

Buzz Casey was never happier than when in a good fight. At such times, he roared and bellowed. He made a lot of racket, and he did a lot of damage.

Deacon leaped after a man who was trying to escape toward the hall door. He reached the fellow and brought him down with a vase that he had scooped up from a table.

The man lay still.

Buzz was in the midst of three others who were still on their feet. But not for long.

He hit a man with one of the book ends, then followed through with his foot. The fellow did a flying dive over a chair and didn't get up.

Another man had reversed the air gun in his hand, was bringing it down in a smashing drive toward Buzz's head. Buzz was not quite fast enough to avoid the blow. The steel gun butt struck his skull.

For a moment, leathery-faced Buzz looked dazed. Then, shaking his head, blinking his small bright eyes—he dived in again! He was making a terrific racket.

Outside the apartment, someone was pounding on the door.

A voice yelled behind the panel. "Hey, you guys! I've located the dame! She sneaked into the building next door!"

BUZZ hardly heard. Another man went down. The last one remaining on his feet suddenly looked scared to death, dived clown the long room and headed for a window that was open. There was a fire escape platform directly outside the window.

Deacon jumped after the man; while Buzz bent down to scoop up three of the dropped air pistols. He put them in his pocket, then leaped to help his gaunt partner.

But the swift-moving Deacon had already clipped the last thug. Out on his feet, the fellow swayed around in a crazy circle, sagged down across the window sill.

Deacon started to lower him to the floor. He started to say, "The girl must have ducked out just before they broke in here . . ."

He paused, his gaze going out the window and apparently freezing on something out there.

Buzz demanded, "What the blazes you staring at?"

In the next moment, he stared also.

The tenth floor of this building was just slightly above the roof level of an adjacent structure. Ventilators and air-shaft chimneys dotted the graveled roof-top.

The girl had been standing there looking toward the apartment where the fight was taking place. But now she turned, streaking toward a doorway that was open atop the roof.

It was Lucky Williams, hatless, her lovely red hair shimmering in the morning sunlight.

"GOSHALMIGHTY!" Buzz yelled, and in the next second had the sash up and was out on the fire escape. Distance to the adjacent building was only about three feet. He leaped.

Long-legged Deacon was right behind him.

"Hey!" Buzz yelled, as he took out across the roof. The girl was almost to the open doorway.

But at his yell, she stumbled, went to her knees. However, she was quickly on her feet again, and running.

Behind Buzz and Deacon, a gun blasted. The slug whined across their heads and a voice bellowed: "Halt in the name of the law!"

Both men spun around.

A policeman was sticking his head out of the open window of the girl's apartment. There was a .38 in his fist.

Another cop appeared in a window adjacent, and he started to raise a gun also.

Buzz, without waiting, shoved Deacon behind an airshaft projection near by. "Hell with 'em!" he said. "We gotta help the girl! Come on!"

Deacon paused long enough to scoop up some small object from the roof. Slugs knocked up gravel around his feet.

Ducking low, Buzz and his partner reached the door opening through which the girl had disappeared. They plunged down a flight of iron stairs, found themselves behind a fire door that led to a top-floor hallway of the apartment building.

They flung out into the hallway and saw two sets of elevator doors. The elevators were the self-operating type. and a small glass button next to one shaft was lighted, showing that the car was in use.

They leaped to the other, and Deacon held his finger on the button. The glass above it lighted, and they waited, fuming.

Buzz said, "She's in the other car!"

"Must be!" agreed Deacon, forgetting to argue, for once.

It seemed hours until their car arrived, and then they were inside, pushing a button that would take the cage to the ground floor. Even as the elevator started slowly downward, they both heard a commotion in the hallway out-side.

Buzz, still pressing the first-floor button within the car, grinned. "They can't follow until one of those elevators is not in use! " he said.

Deacon jerked his head. "I hope not," he said. "There'd be a lot of questioning, and we haven't got time for that now!"

They finally reached the ground floor and raced out into the hallway. It was deserted.

They hurried out to the street. drew up short as they saw police prowl cars drawn up before the building next to the one they had just left.

But Deacon pointed out, "Nobody in the cars. Come on!"

They managed to reach their own machine without seeing any police and, with Buzz at the wheel, got away from there.

BUZZ CASEY'S driving would hardly be recommended for persons with weak hearts.

Deacon gripped the seat. He said, "Take it easy!"

"Got to find her!" Buzz said.

He went down the block at breakneck speed. They saw no signs of the girl. He took the corner on complaining tires, went down a square and turned in again at the street which paralleled the girl's.

They found no trace of her.

But Buzz, determined, turned in at the girl's street again. Just as he did so, a police car left the curb, its siren whining.

Buzz flung the steering wheel over hard. started a complete circle in the street. He went up over the curb, missed a lamppost by inches. But they managed to make the turn, and then Buzz sent the car racing away from the spot.

The siren behind them made wailing sounds in the morning air, but their own machine was faster. Soon they had outdistanced the police car, turned numerous corners and were safely away from the spot.

Buzz finally slowed down. Deacon let out his breath with relief.

He said, "Well, I hope you're satisfied!"

"About what?" Buzz asked.

"That girl! She's in with those crooks, of course. We almost got caught in that nicely planted trap!"

Buzz frowned, shaking his head. "Don't believe it!" he snapped.

"All right," Deacon sighed. "What have you got to say about this, then?"

He held out his hand. In it was the small object that he had picked up on the roof, the thing the girl had dropped when she stumbled.

It was one of the small wooden miniatures containing the carved figure of an Indian.

Deacon said grimly, "Every time someone runs into one of these things, there's trouble!"

For once, homely Buzz made no comment. As they continued downtown toward their office he thought of the girl. Perhaps, he decided, Deacon was right.

Could the girl be involved with those behind this unexplainable mystery?

CHAPTER IX

THE start for South America was delayed, because of the girl's absence. The following morning, while Buzz checked final loading of the plane at a Long Island airport, Deacon said:

"I'll go to her apartment once more. I've called Judge English. He doesn't know a thing. He's under a doctor's care because of the ordeal he's been through.

"Did he hear anything further from Rush?"

"No."

Deacon left. But it was several hours before he returned.

"No trace of her," he announced. "No one knows a thing."

Buzz gave his lanky partner a skeptical look. "Hell," he demanded, "what about that maid of hers—the one who answered the phone?"

"We were sucked in," said Deacon.

"Meaning?"

"There never was a maid. That's something I found out at her apartment hotel."

"But—" Buzz began.

"That was a gag. Those smart Joes did it to lead us into a trap."

"The cops catch up with them?"

Deacon shook his head gloomily.

"It looks," he said, "as if your girl friend has flown the coop."

They tried to get a message through to the little village in South America from which Rush Randall's wire had been sent. But the telegraph office would not guarantee that their wire would get through. They sent it anyway.

Late that afternoon they were ready to take off. The airport was on the south shore of Long Island, and there was a ramp down which the plane was eased into the water.

Both associates of Rush Randall were excellent pilots, but Deacon took the controls for the takeoff. As he commented, "You got your mind too much on that babe."

Buzz, beside him in the cockpit, snorted, "She's cute."

"Too damned cute, if you ask me."

The argument helped to pass the long hours as they flew steadily southward. They spelled each other at the controls, the other holding air charts on his lap, or taking a catnap. They landed several times for fuel.

Sometime within the next thirty-six hours they were over the area described by Rush Randall in the message. Dawn had just broken. They came down to a thousand feet and closely scanned the endless green carpet of tropical wilderness beneath them.

A huge carpet that was torn here and there by a twisting narrow river. There were several of the rivers, each separated from the other by the impenetrable forests.

It wasn't until they were flying low that Deacon remarked, "There's mountains down there, too. I'd hate like hell to get lost in this country."

"You think this is the river Rush mentioned?" Buzz was busy checking a chart. He had transferred figures from the telegram to the air map, and was studying them.

"If you haven't made any mistake in figuring, it is."

They watched for a shack that was supposed to be located along the shore. That, and a sandy strip of beach. They dropped to five hundred feet.

Then Deacon was banking the plane and circling. He lost more altitude.

"Take it easy, pal," warned Buzz.

"I think this is it," said Deacon.

He watched the river below them. saw the narrow strip of beach alongside the river, saw a rooftop that gleamed momentarily in the morning sunlight. He looked especially for smoke or any signs of activity.

Then he announced, "Well, chum, here we go! "

He circled again, throttled back on the gas and went into the approach glide. He brought the craft down on the glass-smooth water with scarcely a ripple, taxied toward the beach, eyes alert.

Buzz held a gun ready in his fist, just in case.

Nothing happened.

THEY beached the plane and made it secure, then moved along the beach.

The morning stillness was almost startling. Each carried a gun now. Each was wary. Buzz looked uneasily at the closely growing, matted underbrush.

He said, "I hope there's no fuzzy-wuzzies around."

Deacon indicated tracks in the sun-baked sand that was as hard as a cement floor. "A plane landed here," he pointed out.

The beach followed the shore for a good mile. Midway down its length they located the big shack almost concealed beneath the trees. They still had seen no signs of life anywhere.

Soon they were searching the deserted cabin. There was evidence that some of the skimpy furnishings had been hastily removed.

Buzz found his partner standing before a cracked old mirror on a wall.

"Admiring yourself again?" he asked. "Look at this," said Deacon.

There was writing on the mirror. The words read:

FOLLOW TO CRAZY INDIAN
ACCORDING TO DIRECTIONS
GIVEN YOU IN TELEGRAM.
WATCH OUT FOR TRICKS.
—Rush.

Buzz exclaimed. "Then Rush was here!"

"Naturally!" said Deacon. "This means he must have gone on ahead. We're to follow . . . if we can locate that damned Crazy Indian!"

Deacon rubbed out the writing with his hand. They returned to the plane, and soon were in the air again. They'd checked the maps and the directions given in the telegram, and saw that their route was downriver.

What would take hours by slow-moving river raft, was only minutes in the air. Soon Deacon was convinced that they had found the area where the craft had pulled up along the shore. They came down and taxied slowly along the river, eyes watching.

Buzz spotted the trail opening into the heavy forest. "That looks like it!" he pointed out.

They came up to the tiny point of land and killed the engines. Buzz climbed out in knee-deep muddy water and looked around. He saw where a flat-bottomed boat had landed here. He noted the trail coming down to the tiny patch of beach. He looked for any further messages from Rush Randall, but could find none. He went back to the plane.

"I wonder where the boat is?"

Deacon, his head stuck out a window, gave the spot a gloomy regard. "Who knows? Look, we'd better tie up downstream a bit. Not right here."

HE CLIMBED out. The plane, floats barely drawing six inches of water, was easy to handle. They guided it down along the shore until they reached a curtain of trees that hung, veil-like, down over the water like weeping willows. They concealed the plane as best as possible.

They removed distributor parts from the engines, locked the cabin. Deacon carried an equipment case. Buzz strapped on a walkie-talkie radio outfit. In his pockets he stuffed some sandwiches taken from one of the food cases that were stored in the plane.

It would have been impossible to follow the forest trail from the air. And Rush, in his long telegram, had said this trail was important. It led to the point where the readings were to be used for locating the Crazy Indian. So there was nothing to do but follow his directions.

They plodded through the deep green forests. The vast silence bothered little Buzz Casey. "Dammit," he commented once, "it'd be good to hear an ambulance siren going up Broadway. Something familiar, huh?"

Deacon's long face was more gloomy than ever. "You just keep your eyes open," he warned. "There might be more guys around here than you think. The blasted woods could be full of them! "

That gave Buzz something to think about. His sharp, bright eyes remained on the alert, and he carried a heavy .45 ready in his hard fist.

They had switched on the walkie-talkie, just on the chance Rush might be trying to contact them. Rush, though, probably had no equipment with him. They were still uncertain as to just how he had arrived here. It had not been mentioned in the telegram.

The day wore on.

EARLY that afternoon they came out atop the ridge, high above the tops of trees. Monk found several brass casings from machine gun bullets, and exclaimed, "Somebody was doing some shooting!"

"This must be the spot, all right," said Deacon. He was removing some instruments from the equipment case. "Let's get done and get out of here, before we get a slug! "

Which seemed to be a good idea.

Buzz kept watch while his tall, beanpole of a partner set up a small portable sighting instrument. Then Deacon took a slip of paper from his pocket. He repeated aloud the readings that had been sent to them by Rush. He sighted the instrument on a spot far off.

He seemed puzzled. Passing the piece of paper to Buzz, he said, "Read those figures to me."

As Buzz read, he again checked the sight. Finally he said dully, "Hell!" "See anything?"

"Only a river. And there's plenty of rivers in this country. The Crazy Indian, Rush said, is a boat. It isn't there." He removed one of the air maps from his pocket and made notations. "Perhaps we can locate it from the air. They've probably moved it. At least, now we know where it's supposed to be!"

They started the trek back to the plane.

Buzz cursed the humidity. The air was thickly wet, and gave the impression of coolness beneath the closely growing, tangled trees. Nevertheless both men were streaming with perspiration as the afternoon wore on. Buzz was stripped down to the waist now, and his sweaty body looked like a skinny shaft wound with steel bands.

The afternoon was waning when they reached the river again. Their first thought was of the plane. If someone had heard them land this morning . . .

But they found the ship secure and intact. They had just completed a quick inspection when both heard the sound. They listened.

It was a gasoline engine, and the engine was on a boat somewhere on the river, for it came down there.

"Coming this way!" exclaimed Buzz.

They waited.

Shortly the boat appeared. It was an old gas boat with a small cabin built on its deck. As the boat approached they made out the figure of a man at the wheel. Buzz yelled before Deacon could stop him. Regardless, the man had spotted the plane concealed beneath the trees.

Buzz said, "Golly! He's an Indian!"

This was true.

The man at the wheel was a tall, big man with coppery features and heavy straight black hair. His features were very sharp and very grim-looking.

They noted these things as the motor on the boat was silenced and the craft drifted slowly toward them. They waded out into the water and waited.

The boat was almost up to them now. It's bow gently scraped the bottom and the Indian turned and said something to another person who must have been in the cabin.

There was some sort of muffled answer, and next the girl appeared abruptly on deck.

They gasped.

The girl, as pretty as ever, was Lucky Williams!

CHAPTER X

BUZZ was excited.

But Deacon murmured sourly, "Trouble! I see it coming!"

Disregarding his remark, Buzz scrambled aboard the craft. He grasped the girl's slim, straight shoulders. "Gosh!" he said. And then, "Gosh! You're all right, huh?"

Deacon had followed with some misgiving.

"Of course, I'm all right, Buzz," she said. She smiled at Deacon. She indicated the tall, wiry Indian. "This is Joe. He has a name a mile long, so I call him Joe for short. He's one of the best guides in this country."

Joe nodded.

"How'd you pick him up?" Buzz wanted to know. "And how'd you get down here?"

She smiled again. Her eyes were blue now in the fading sunlight. "I flew one of the regular airlines, then chartered a pilot to bring me to that little village from where Rush Randall sent the telegram. I picked Joe up there."

It was Deacon who asked, "Have you been able to locate Rush or any of the others yet?"

Lucky Williams shook her head. Her lovely eyes clouded. "I'm worried," she said tautly.

"We go now," said Joe, the guide. Deacon looked at the girl instead of the guide. "What's he talking about? Go where?"

"He knows of a camp upriver. He told me Jordon Marsh built it several years ago. He thinks it might be the best place to start the search."

Deacon thought that over a moment. "All right," he agreed. "We'll use the plane."

But the guide shook his head. "Place we go, river too narrow," he said without expression. "Only go by boat."

Deacon frowned, looking at the girl. "Can this guy be trusted?"

"Absolutely," she said quickly.

The tall, lanky man shrugged. "Well, I guess we can't be any worse off!"

Obtaining some additional food supplies from the plane, they set out.

The river grew narrower. The forests closed in around them as dusk neared. The solitude was tremendous, only disturbed by the steady throb of the boat engine which echoed far up and down the inland waterway.

It was dark when the guide put the craft into shore again. Deacon held a powerful flashlight. All saw the float made of heavy logs, and which served as a landing point. The raft was anchored to the shore line by heavy chains.

They went ashore.

BUZZ was particularly solicitous about the girl. But she was first off the boat, first to have a small pack sack up on her shoulders.

She said impatiently, "We'll have to hurry. Joe told me the camp is a mile from here."

They had brought additional lanterns as part of their equipment. Deacon had had little to say to the girl.

However, as far as Buzz Casey was concerned, she was tops. She had explained to his satisfaction why she had so abruptly disappeared from New York.

Joe, the guide, saying nothing, his jaws occasionally working on a wad of tobacco, led the way through the woods.

Everywhere there was the vast, strange silence, as though the whole world were waiting for something to happen in the next moment. It was uncanny. What menace lay ahead in the deep interior of this vast country?

This feeling grew upon them as they plodded beneath the trees. The spongy, slightly damp ground muffled their steps, and about the only sound was when they spoke to one another.

Buzz said abruptly, "I was just thinking."

Tall Deacon was behind his partner, the girl between them as they walked single file.

Deacon said sourly, "Don't flatter yourself."

Disregarding the comment, Buzz went on, "I was thinking what a heck of a spot we'd be in if this guide walked out on us." He waved his arm indicating the impenetrable forest that completely surrounded them.

"Shut up!" said Deacon.

The girl gave a soft laugh. "Buzz," she said. "you're worrying needlessly. Joe is dependable. He's a wonderful guide."

"I hope so," said Buzz.

They abruptly emerged in a large clearing, and there before them was the camp.

Whoever had built the cabin should have been given credit. It was well-made, heavy logs forming its sides.

The girl pointed ahead and exclaimed, "There's someone here! There's a light."

They all hurried forward toward the doorway of the building. But suddenly the guide spoke in a voice that was more of a soft hiss than anything else.

"You wait!" he said.

Buzz gave the Indian one of his belligerent looks. "Wait for what?" he demanded.

The guide had turned, was motioning for the others to crouch down. He pointed behind them, toward the heavy woods from which they'd barely emerged.

"Look!" he said very quietly.

They all stared.

Buzz, impatient as always, started to mutter, "What the blazes . . ."

Then he paused, his small eyes blinking. All of them saw now as their eyes concentrated on the darkness beyond them.

Dark forms were moving out from the trees. Those near the cabin were being surrounded.

The moving forms were men.

THE guide made a deep sound that sounded like a grunt.

"Trap!" he announced.

Buzz shot a look in the general direction where the guide was also crouched down in the darkness. "Yeah," he agreed. "And heap big!"

They could perceive several dark forms advancing swiftly across the clearing.

Deacon was the first to act. He leaped to the door of the cabin, pushed the girl inside.

"Keep out of sight!" he ordered. "There's going to be a little trouble, I'm afraid!"

Buzz had dropped his pack, was advancing across the clearing. His bright, small eyes gleamed and his fists knotted.

"I'll say there's gonna be trouble!" he yelled.

He was first to meet the circle of advancing assailants. Deacon and the guide were quickly at his side.

Fists swung. Men yelled in a strange tongue. Bones cracked.

There was enough night light in the clearing around the cabin to show the moving of figures. Buzz banged his way through several of them. They were dark-skinned natives. They became confused.

Buzz was shouting now, making a racket. He grinned every time a figure went down beneath his ?ailing fists. Deacon was busy with his fists, too, trying to handle a couple of natives at once. The natives appeared to be unarmed, so the two partners hesitated at using guns.

Joe, the guide, seemed to be doing his share of fighting.

Deacon, seeing his small partner's predicament, worked out a little system. He picked up a man, whirled around and around with him until the fellow was dizzy.

THEN, setting him upon his feet again, Deacon sent a single haymaker to the jaw. The man went staggering backward like a drunk looking for a place to light.

Buzz was waiting. He held his .45 by the barrel. He tapped the dazed native with the gun butt as the fellow staggered past him.

They tried the same method with another victim. It worked.

Three men leaped on scrappy Buzz Casey—and this time Deacon hit Buzz with a gun. It was a mistake, a result of the confusion. But that didn't help Buzz Casey.

He fell ?at on his face . . .

When Buzz swayed to his feet, he was aware that the fight had worked its way around to the rear of the cabin. There was some commotion back there, and so he leaped that way.

But it wasn't a fight. It was Deacon, yelling worriedly. The attackers seemed to have disappeared.

Buzz glared at his lanky partner.

"Where are they?" he demanded.

Deacon waved toward the deep woods. "They took out for the wild spaces," he announced. "And now we're in one sweet mess. Those birds grabbed Joe, our guide!"

Buzz stared.

"You mean, he's gone?"

His partner nodded.

Suddenly, Buzz yelled, "Poor Lucky! She must be scared to death!" He leaped toward the rear door of the cabin.

A moment later he appeared outside again. His eyes goggled.

"Goshamighty!" he yelled.

"What's wrong with you now?" Deacon demanded.

"Those fuzzies have got her, too!"

CHAPTER XI

FOR a tense moment following his partner's announcement, Deacon said nothing. For once, Buzz was not joking.

Around them there was the dark, deep solitude of the forest, more ominous than ever. Nothing stirred.

Buzz finally said, "Bet you those guys figured the girl knows something. That's why she was seized."

Deacon's features were grim. "Has it occurred to you," he demanded, "that she might have arranged this trap?"

Apparently it had not, for Buzz looked surprised at mention of the idea.

"Don't believe it!" he exploded.

Deacon said. "She's in trouble. Her uncle, Clarence Hobart is also in some sort of trouble, as are the others. Where are they? What's happened to them?" He spread his hands hopelessly. "It looks like some menace threatens that entire crowd! "

Buzz still didn't look convinced. After some arguing, it was decided, finally, that perhaps they'd better try and trail the girl. She might be in danger.

They spent a few moments locating things that had been lost in the fight. Finally they got started.

The beginning of the trail led along a fairly well-defined path through the big woods. Men—or possibly animals—had made the trail. It skirted the thicker undergrowth. Walking was not too difficult.

They continued onward for about an hour. They found no signs of the girl, or of the guide, or of anyone else for that matter.

The trail had narrowed now, was nothing more than a narrow pathway. They came to a fork.

Since the left branch of the fork seemed to be the main route, they followed this. Naturally they first searched for footprints. But a heavy carpet of old leaves that lay on the ground gave no clues.

They continued.

And there were more forks in the skimpy trail beneath the dense trees, and at each of these points the two men stopped and argued. Argued about which trail to follow.

For another hour they kept boring deeper into the heavy forest.

Finally Buzz drew up short and said. "I think we took the wrong turn at that last fork. Better go back." He pointed ahead. There was nothing but a wall of trees now. "I think we made a mistake."

They returned, watching for the last fork where they had turned off. And they discovered a startling fact.

Going in the opposite direction, things were reversed. They came to forks in the trail that could lead in other directions. They tried one, discovered that the pathway ended against a snarled mass of undergrowth. They returned again—to find that they had somehow missed the trail they'd been on.

Buzz blinked his eyes. "What the blazes!" he said.

Deacon frowned. "I could have sworn this was the right path."

"I'll tell you what I think," Buzz said. "We're lost!"

Deacon nodded. "I rather figured that an hour ago!" he admitted.

And then, as an afterthought, Buzz exclaimed, "Daggonit, I wonder if Rush is lost too!"

IF RUSH RANDALL was lost, his movements at dawn the following morning did not indicate the fact.

With Big Mike, the Indian at his side, Rush seemed to be following something or somebody. The two men moved silently along the forest trail, not hurrying, pausing from time to time in order to listen for some sound that might come from ahead.

Rush asked, "You're sure we're not mistaken, Mike?"

The big fellow shook his head. "Not being long now, boss man. Missy Lucky Williams and man not far ahead."

For sometime, Rush had seen no sign indicating the presence of the other two people along the trail. Yet Mike had insisted they were not far away.

"You seeing," he said.

And a few moments later he proved that he was right.

Sunlight showed through the tall trees just ahead, and almost in the same moment Rush saw water. It looked like they were approaching a river.

Leading the way quietly, Mike moved closer to the clearing that led down to the water. Suddenly he paused, motioning Rush to a position behind a big tree trunk.

They watched.

The Indian guide had obtained a boat from somewhere along shore. Quickly he had the craft in the water, and then he and the girl were aboard. Each handled a paddle.

The canoe slid out into the water and headed downstream.

Rush said, "Follow them. We can keep to the trees along shore."

They set out, their movements silent. The canoe made good time. It was necessary for Rush and big Mike to run. at the same time keeping themselves concealed along the shore line. This was somewhat difficult.

The river was narrow, and made a considerable number of bends in its course. It was around one of these bends that the canoe had disappeared now, and when Rush and his friend again caught sight of it—they stopped short.

For Rush saw the amphibian plane drawn up close to the shore, practically concealed from the river by low-hanging tree branches.

Mike turned, asked, "Others being here?"

Rush nodded, his features thoughtful.

Mike started forward again.

"Wait!" Rush warned.

And then Mike saw the reason for the warning.

Because the girl's Indian guide had seen the plane, and had now paused, his paddle resting across the gunwales. He said something to the girl.

In the next moment she was slipping from the forward seat and easing her slim form into the bottom of the canoe. She lay down and remained out of sight.

The guide picked up his paddle and, looking alert, started toward the spot where the plane was moored near shore. He used his paddle silently, making no splashes as it dipped the smooth water.

The gun, being fired by someone aboard the plane, started shattering the still, morning air.

RUSH immediately swept into smooth action.

"Get to the canoe!" he ordered Mike. "Take care of the girl."

Instantly Rush disappeared through a screen of underbrush that hid him from the moored plane. He made little sound as he worked his way down close to shore. It would have been unlikely if anyone aboard the plane would have heard him anyway, so great was the sound being created by the blasting gun.

The Indian guide had, at first, desperately tried to paddle away from the spot. But slugs kicked up water dangerously close to the flimsy craft.

Perhaps figuring on drawing the gun-fire away from the canoe, the Indian leaped overboard and started swimming frantically toward a protecting overhang along the river bank. The canoe drifted.

Cabin door of the plane was open. Firing stopped for just a moment. Perhaps the gunman suspected a trick. Perhaps he knew someone was still aboard the canoe.

He appeared in the cabin doorway of the plane and raised the gun again.

That was when he was seized by Rush Randall's powerful hands. There was a fight.

The gunman was fairly young and well-built. He was dark-featured, with cheeks that were pale for a man found in this part of the country.

He tried to fling Rush from the plane. And, instead, found himself held in a viselike grip as he was thrown back inside the cabin of the ship. The cabin was crowded with equipment cases and paraphernalia. The man stumbled over a case—and the gun fell.

His feet whipped out and attempted to kick the blond whirlwind. The fellow could have saved his energy.

Because Rush picked him up, pinioned his arms, and then held him. The man found himself absolutely helpless. He stared in bewilderment.

Rush said quietly, "It might be a good idea to learn identities before trying to kill people."

There was a commotion just then, outside the plane.

Big Mike climbed aboard. With his left hand, he gripped the grim-faced guide. In his other was the girl, Lucky Williams.

The girl took one look at Rush and gasped. Then she cried, "Someone aboard this plane was trying to shoot . . ."

She broke off, her gray-green eyes widening. She stared in wonderment at the man held by Rush Randall.

She stammered, "Howard! . . . Howard English!"

CHAPTER XII

HOWARD ENGLISH stared at the girl, at Rush Randall, and at big Mike. He appeared too stunned to speak.

Finally he blurted, "I . . . I thought you were some of them, following me! I . . . I guess I was pretty scared!"

"That was quite evident," said Rush. "That is why it was necessary to hold you. You might have shot somebody."

Howard English gave him a grateful smile.

"Thanks," he murmured.

Rush questioned, "You said you were escaping from them? Who?"

Howard English, though he was a tall, very capable-looking man, started trembling.

He stammered, "I . . . I . . ."

"Were you seized," asked Rush, "because of the miniature Indian thing?"

Howard English jumped as though he might have been struck by someone. Terror was now plain in his eyes. He said evasively "Well . . . yes . . . in a way!"

"What is it all about?"

"I. . . I don't know!" Howard English gasped. But as the same time, his wild gaze veered to ageless Mike. It was a fleeting glance, and yet it was observed by Rush.

"Well, then," Rush said finally, "all we do is return to this place where you were being held and blast out this crowd!"

Howard English shook his head.

"It won't be as easy as that" he said. "Why not?"

"Because, first, you've got to find the Crazy Indian. That's where they have the real hideout, where they hold all captives. I was being taken there when I escaped."

"And you didn't learn the location?"

"No. I was unconscious part of the time. Also they have moved the boat. And they were pretty careful about mentioning definite locations. I came upon this plane, and I was investigating."

Rush thought Howard English's story rang true enough. In Rush's pocket was a check that had been drawn by the young man's own father, for his release. Strangely, though, Rush made no mention of that fact now, or that he had played the part of the contact man.

He said, "Perhaps the guide, here, can help us?"

They all looked at the man named Joe, whose name the girl had mentioned. He had been listening to the conversation his lean hard paws working on his tobacco cud from time to time. Now he took time out to spat.

He made a motion with his hand, indicating the river. "Maybe I find for you."

Rush turned to big Mike. "How about this hidden valley where your people live? Why not there?"

But Mike shook his head. "My people are being what you call very timid and peaceful race. They are getting frightened when too many people coming. They go away."

Rush asked, "You don't think the boat was taken there?"

Mike shook his head. "Hidden valley of my people is being inland, boss man. No way to going by boat as large as Crazy Indian. Boat is being some place else."

Rush sighed, looked at the girl. "What do you think?"

In turn, Lucky Williams touched Howard Eng1ish's arm. "What about the others? Were they mentioned while you were being held captive?"

"Yes. Your uncle . . . Marsh, too."

"Any others?" queried Rush.

"I'm not sure, sir."

Rush had removed the makeup sometime after escaping with his friend Mike. He realized that Howard English had immediately recognized him when he had seized the young men here on the plane a little while ago. It occurred to Rush that Howard English had not been too surprised.

"Well," Rush s aid finally, "all aboard, then. We'll see what we can learn from the air."

RUSH checked the fuel tanks and the reserve supply of gas. There was still enough gas for many hours in the air.

It was crowded aboard the plane, but everyone managed to find a spot to sit down. The girl was in the cockpit with Rush Randall.

She told him about the camp where the attack had taken place against Buzz and Deacon.

She explained, "I escaped from there during the excitement last night. I was afraid. But now I think those natives were merely trying to frighten us away."

Rush made no comment. And in the next few moments he was busy getting the heavy ship in the air. They climbed for altitude, headed back up the river.

Everywhere, for endless miles, was the forest. It looked like wild jungle. Rush said, "We will first try to locate my partners."

A half hour later he was setting the plane down again, taxiing up close to the log landing raft which Buzz and the others had used the night before.

Leaving Mike in charge of the plane, they had the guide lead the way through the woods to the camp.

It was deserted. They looked around outside, but found nothing. Rush made a special examination for any hidden messages that might have been left for him.

He found none.

However, Rush did not seem particularly concerned by his partners' absence. He said, "Perhaps we can contact them later, from the plane."

They returned to the plane, were soon in the air again.

The guide, Joe, watched the winding river below and gave directions.

At no time was it possible to tell whether the poker-faced guide was trying to be cooperative or not. His coppery features continually held a grim look. It was as though he was always mad about something.

While Rush checked the route with the guide, Howard English manipulated dials that controlled the shortwave sending and receiving apparatus. He knew something about radio. He tuned in on a wavelength suggested by Rush. Finally he announced: "I can't pick up those guys!"

RUSH himself manipulated the dials. But he got no response. His eyes were thoughtful.

Next he sent the plane in a banking circle and turned back up the river. They reached the point where the cabin was located a mile back from shore. From there, he flew a course inland, in ever-widening circles.

Below them spread the thick tangle of forest, the trees growing so close together that it was impossible to see the ground beneath them. Here and there they picked up a tiny, isolated lake. But the forest itself appeared endless.

Rush said, "If they were down there, they would hear the plane. They would build a fire, or give us some kind of sign."

Howard English nodded. "In other words, they're not down there?"

"Apparently not," said Rush.

He turned back to their original course, after instructing young English, "Keep the radio tuned in."

The big plane gobbled up miles. What would take days of weary travel on the ground, was now covered in a matter of minutes. But one thing was obvious. The plane was only good as long as they followed some waterway. The interior was nothing but wildly growing jungle. There was little of anything else.

Sometime later they reached another river. The guide indicated that Rush was to swing north and follow it.

They flew perhaps twenty miles—distances were deceiving to those aboard the plane. due to the vastness of this great country—and then the guide motioned to another river that lay below them.

It was still another of the many waterways that sliced into the interior.

"Follow," the stoney faced guide ordered briefly.

And shortly the guide pointed to a tiny indentation along the shore.

"Down," he said.

Rush brought the ship down from five thousand feet, and they all saw the cove was of a good size. A crane, startled, took off from the water and disappeared.

They landed.

Howard English said doubtfully, "Nothing here but more wilderness! What the devil?"

But Rush indicated something that was almost hidden beneath trees far back in the cove. Only a sharp eye could have detected the object.

"A gas boat!" young English said. Everyone saw the deserted craft tied up near shore.

Rush nodded, looking at their guide, Joe.

It was as though Rush had intercepted the guide's thought, for Joe said gruffly, "We use boat now. This thing no good." He indicated the plane.

It was impossible to get too close to shore, due to rocks that appeared just beneath the surface. There was danger of wrecking the plane.

But part of the plane equipment included a portable rubber raft. This was inflated and put overboard.

The girl and the Indian guide were first taken ashore by big Mike. The trip was perhaps two hundred yards across the inner curve of the cove.

Then Mike returned for Rush and Howard English. Rush had anchored the plane.

They started out for shore.

From the gas boat. another hundred yards off to their right, men suddenly appeared on deck and started shooting.

CHAPTER XIII

AT THE first staccato sound of gun-fire, Rush whipped toward Howard English.

"Can you swim?" he asked swiftly.

The young man jerked his head.

"Then try to get on the far side of the plane," Rush advised. "Dive!"

Rush was an excellent swimmer. It turned out that Mike was also. They plunged from the raft, Howard English between them. They disappeared below the surface.

The guns held by the assorted group of hard-looking men aboard the fifty-foot gas boat whacked out lead, and spray was knocked up from the water.

But the range was bad for small arms. It was not far. A man appeared on deck with an armful of rifles, and these were put into use.

The gunmen, however, jumped to one wrong conclusion. They figured that the three swimming men must be making toward shore. Judging about where heads would break the surface, they directed the gunfire that way.

The swimmers, meanwhile, came to the surface on the far side of the plane.

They worked their way, by reaching up with their hands and still remaining in the water, toward the cabin of the plane. On the far side of the plane rifles were cracking, and there was some shouting from the gas boat located across the cove.

Obviously, the gunmen now suspected the truth—that their prey was behind the protection offered by the plane. Bullets started arriving that way. A couple thumped into the metal body of the big amphibian.

Rush had swung up to a wing and, crouched down, had reached over and opened the cabin door on their side. In a moment, they were inside.

Howard English stared through a window. "Look!" he yelled.

But Rush had already seen. "Wait!" he warned.

A small rowboat had set out from shore. In it were half a dozen men, five of them with rifles. A sixth rowed. The gunmen kept firing in the direction of the plane.

English said worriedly, "I don't see the girl—or that blasted guide!"

Rush nodded. He was working with an object that looked like a type of ?are pistol. His hands moved swiftly, and he seemed oblivious of the crashing impact of leaden pellets against sides of the plane.

"The guide," said Rush, "is probably hiding with the girl in the woods."

Rush had the pistol ready now. It contained a short barrel perhaps an inch in diameter. He stepped near a doorway. He fired a single shot.

There was a loud sound—and then a peculiar phenomenon took place.

A great black cloud seemed to mushroom over the cove. It spread rapidly, thick and dense, and it enveloped everything within sight—water, trees, men.

Rush put away the gun, motioned to the others. ordered, "Swim for shore." He was already urging them out of the cabin, for the cloud was fast enclosing the plane, and shortly they wouldn't be able to see a thing.

Howard English, understanding something of the blond adventurer's scheme, said, "We'll circle and get aboard that gas boat?"

Rush nodded.

"But how will we see?"

"Stick close to us," suggested Rush.

They got out onto a wing, and then slipped back into the water. The shooting had stopped now, and all around the cove there was the racket of men trying to shout directions to one an-other.

The black curtain, however, had them confused.

TO HOWARD ENGLISH, Rush Randall's sense of direction seemed amazing. All around them was the shouting of the excited gunmen, and the blackness, and yet Rush pushed through the water quietly, intent on one course. He was very calm. Mike swam beside them.

Shortly their feet touched bottom and they were climbing out onto the shore.

They could barely see each other in the black cloud that had even spread to shore. They circled the shore of the cove. The men out on the water and aboard the gas boat were still yelling excited orders to one another.

But abruptly the shouting stopped. There was heavy silence.

"Careful," Rush advised, leading the way. "It might be a trick."

They were keeping to the woods, so naturally their progress was necessarily slow.

But they finally reached that part of the inlet near where the gas boat had been tied up.

Rush moved ahead silently, every sense alert. The black cloud was like a heavy fog all around them.

And then, from out of the fog, loomed the bulky outlines of the boat. Rush had stopped almost at the water's edge, warning the two men with him.

"Wait here," he said very quietly.

He was gone two or three moments. And then his tall figure appeared from out of the foggy blackness.

"What's happened?" Howard English wanted to know.

"They've disappeared," Rush said. They started a quiet search. They covered the shore line, located the point where the guide and the girl had been landed.

They met no one, heard no further sounds from the gunmen who had been aboard the boat. It was clear now that the men, scared off, must have taken to the woods. What their plans might be was a question.

Rush had been stooped over, examining the ground. He had found something that now held his interest.

He finally said, "The guide, Joe, entered the woods at this point. There are the imprints of his moccasins."

Howard English blinked. "There is only one set of prints," he pointed out.

The cloud had been slowly lifting. It had raised several feet above the water now. They could see the gas boat, deserted, and off to the right they noted the plane, intact.

There was no sign of the gunmen, though, or of the girl, or of the guide.

Rush said, "There is one other possibility in regard to the girl."

"What would that be?" queried English.

"The guide could have been carrying her. There is a chance that they are in hiding nearby."

IT HAD started to grow dark now. They had little time to prepare for the search.

Big Mike located the rubber raft some distance up the shore. They returned to the plane. Rush selected certain items from his equipment, as much as they could comfortably carry.

Rush tried once more to contact Buzz and Deacon. There was no reply. He moved a switch that set some kind of device on the plane. They returned to shore and made a complete search of the fifty-foot gas boat. And found nothing of importance except a number of five-gallon tin cans containing gas.

It was dark when big Mike finally picked up the trail of the guide, and led the way into the deep forest. The route seemed to be following a fairly definite course. It did not waver.

Howard English asked worriedly, "Is there anything to show that the girl is still with that fellow?"

Rush shook his head. He was carrying a small black device of some kind in his massive fist. It looked not unlike a voltmeter. He had been holding onto the thing ever since they had left the cove.

And now, unexpectedly, the device started making a small vibrating sound. Howard English looked at it, then at Rush Randall.

"If we hurry," Rush said, "we can reach the plane in half an hour."

Young English stared. "You're going back?" he asked, puzzled.

Rush nodded.

"It is possible that Buzz and Deacon are in more danger than we figured," he said. "It is obvious that there is a reason for the girl and that guide disappearing."

"What do you mean?"

"There is a second crowd in this mystery. What their exact purpose might be, is not yet clear. But the danger from them is just as great as this other thing. It is possible that this second group are trying to trap Buzz and Deacon."

"But the girl—" English started.

"The girl," said Rush, "apparently is acquainted with one group. She is either working with them, or trying to reach them. At the same time, she is terri-?ed of the other. That would explain her actions, her disappearance from time to time."

"But what about the guide?"

"He could be working for either crowd," said Rush. "Which one, we do not know."

Howard English understood. "Then there is a purpose in their trying to confuse anyone who is trailing them!" he exclaimed. "One crowd wants to get us off their tail; the other would just as well kill us as not!"

Rush nodded.

Worried, Howard English asked, "Which one?"

Rush did not answer.

They had been returning through the forest. English was silent awhile, asking no further questions. then suddenly he asked, "But what about this thing that you say is installed on the plane? How did you know . . ."

Rush explained, indicating the device which he carried in his hand. "I turned on a sensitized alarm gadget before we left the plane." he said. "It sends out shortwave pulsations. That's what is making this thing register now."

"You mean," asked English, "someone is trying to get aboard the plane?"

Rush nodded. "Either that . . . or Buzz and Deacon are trying to reach us on the radio."

CHAPTER XIV

TWO men drifted slowly down-current on a flat, primitive, large raft. They were disheveled. They had grown fairly heavy beards. They sat there in the hot sunlight and acted as if they didn't care whether the raft ever reached any place or not.

Buzz said dully, "What day is it?"

"Thursday, I think," murmured Deacon.

"You sure?"

"No."

"Then why the hell say Thursday."

"Shuddup," said Deacon gloomily.

They continued drifting along.

Deacon had long since given up trying to figure out where they were. They had wandered through the tangled forest for well over a day. They had come upon this river. Which one it was, they had no way of knowing. Hours later they had located the discarded raft along shore. And so they had set out downstream, knowing not where they were drifting, trusting that they would spot some familiar landmark seen before.

The day wore on.

"Hey!" said Buzz of a sudden. Deacon roused. He had been dozing.

"Eh?"

Buzz pointed.

The next moment, and lanky Deacon was staring.

The white, sleek-looking yacht moved in midstream. The river was wide here, and there was a fairly strong current. The yacht bore down upon them swiftly. Someone hailed them.

Buzz gave a sigh of relief. "Boy, our troubles are over!" He stood up and yelled a greeting.

Suddenly, there was a crack from the deck of the fast-approaching yacht. Something whined close over the wiry little man's head. He dropped to his stomach, and stared.

Men on the yacht were holding guns now. Several had rifles. All the weapons were aimed in the general direction of the raft.

The yacht slid smoothly alongside. There was the sound of powerful Diesel engines throbbing. Instantly men leaped over the rail, landed on the raft. They held clubs in their hands now.

Other men covered them with guns from the deck rail. But one of the men boarding the raft made a mistake. He got too close to Buzz Casey. Buzz saw his chance, figuring those above dared not shoot.

Buzz yelled, went into action. He leaped into the midst of the men. Deacon immediately joined him.

A terrific fight started taking place.

THERE had been no chance for Monk or his partner to reach their pack sacks. They carried guns in the packs.

The fight, a tight, furiously moving mass, swayed back and forth across the raft. The yacht pulled away, standing off as a battle took place.

Buzz slugged one fellow, dumped him overboard as though he were an empty sack. He grabbed another. He managed to twist one of the clubs out of the fellow's hand. He hit the man a single crack, saw him sway crazily. Buzz booted him and knocked him into the river. He leaped back into the melee. the club swinging, heads cracking.

Deacon was trying to hold his own on the opposite end of the raft.

Both partners were so busy fighting that they had not noticed something about the raft. But Deacon got a quick view now.

Ahead, the river divided into two channels where it passed a heavily wooded island, that lay right in midstream. The raft was doing a crazy circle in the river currents, swinging to the left of the island. But it was quite close to shore, moving swiftly.

Deacon had already eliminated several assailants. All were in the river, swimming, being carried downstream.

Three others were picking themselves up dazedly from the float, and looking somewhat amazed. They had figured capture of the two men was going to be easy.

The three men remaining on their feet suddenly backed off as Buzz and his partner started a wedge-formed drive in their direction. And then, with wild yells, they ran back along the float and dived into the river. They had had enough.

The yacht, meanwhile, had held back, its pilot apparently afraid to venture too close to shore. And for good reason.

Abruptly a submerged rock hooked the forward end of the moving raft, jammed it, and suddenly the huge float swiveled in the swift current and made a half circle, its forward end still jammed. Then the raft slammed against the river bank, pushing up beneath low-hanging branches that hung down almost to the water.

Someone was shouting from the yacht, still out in midstream. A small boat was being lowered over the side. Aid was being sent to those struggling in the water.

For a moment, Buzz and Deacon were screened from those remaining on the yacht. The raft was still stuck against the jamming rocks. It was half hidden beneath the overhanging trees.

Buzz yelled, "We'd better hurry!"

He was ripping at a draw string on his pack sack. Shortly, he had one of the pistols in his fist. Breaking the gun open, he removed the shells and started wiping them with his shirt.

Deacon located one of the guns in his sack and started doing likewise.

Buzz grumbled, "Hope these blasted things still work!"

They got the guns ready, crouched down near the back of the raft, and waited for the attack that they knew was soon to come.

But before that happened, they heard the screaming of the girl and the sound was nerve-wracking.

BUZZ, screened by the branches, had been standing with one of the pistols held ready in his hand.

Taking a desperate chance, he ran out along that part of the log raft which still protruded into the river. The small boat had just returned to the yacht, and it was loaded with men rescued from the river. But on the deck of the yacht itself, another form of activity was taking place.

There were two men struggling with someone. Buzz stared.

It was a girl!

Sunlight touching the red-gold of the girl's hair! He gasped.

Lucky Williams!

And she was struggling with men who held her captive aboard the sleek-looking yacht!

Buzz gave a yell. He raised the pistol and fired a blast over the yacht.

"Look out!" Deacon warned.

Guns blasted from the yacht. Lead sprayed all around them, peppered the leaves of tree branches just above their heads.

They bellied along the raft, reached the inland bank, dived behind protecting trees. It was either that—or get shot!

The siege of the island took place throughout the remainder of the day. Each time one of them ventured out onto the log float, to note what was happening aboard the yacht, there was a rattle of gunfire and he was forced to retreat to the island again.

The yacht, Deisels throbbing as it held steady against the downriver current, lay two hundred yards offshore. The yacht could not come closer than this because of rocks which surrounded the shore.

Neither did the small boat put out for the island. The raiders were taking no chances.

Darkness finally came, and the situation was the same. There had been no further sign of the girl on deck; nor had they heard any further cries for help.

Later that night, they heard men suddenly shouting aboard the yacht. It sounded like there was some kind of trouble. Clearly across the water, they could hear men pounding along the deck, shouting.

And then there was the girl's cry again. A cry of terror!

Buzz, out on the raft now with Deacon, squinted his gaze as he tried to see across the water. They could see the trim outlines of the white yacht.

He said grimly, "I'm gonna swim out there! I'm gonna find out if . . ."

Even as he spoke, they saw something clear the railing of the yacht. There was a brief, shrill scream. And then a splash.

Silence, strained and ominous, followed.

Almost immediately the boat's powerful engines swung into a deep throb, and the yacht started moving upstream. It's speed was amazing. Within moments it was out of sight.

Buzz whipped off shirt and shoes, leaped into the river and started swimming. He soon disappeared in the surrounding darkness.

Deacon waited. Minutes passed. A half hour.

Finally he heard underbrush crackling, and then Buzz, water still dripping from him, appeared from behind him.

"Worked my way back to shore at the other end of the island!" he said. He was still breathing hard from the exertion of swimming. "Damned current almost got me! " he said.

Deacon said, "And the girl—"

Buzz held something in his hand. Deacon looked at the object in silence.

It was a brightly colored scarf. Lucky Williams had been wearing the neckerchief the last time they had seen her.

Buzz, his features strained, said quietly, "I found this . . . floating in the river. But . . . but that's all I found."

The two of them stood there, and they were silent.

FINALLY, it was Deacon who said, "We misjudged Lucky Williams. She's been a captive of that crowd all the time. She must have tried to escape, tonight, and rather than be held by those devils, she jumped off the yacht."

He looked at Buzz. "You don't think she reached shore?"

Buzz shook his head. His face was somber.

Deacon said, "We've got to get off this damned island. No telling if those birds will come back."

Buzz nodded, "But we'd better not try swimming," he pointed out. "We'll never make the mainland."

They spent an hour trying to pry the big log float loose. They used the long poles that had already been on the float, and they located pieces of heavy driftwood along the shore. Using pieces of the driftwood as fulcrums, they pried the raft slowly off the rocks. It finally came loose and started easing away from the shore. They jumped aboard.

The moon had come up now. All around them was the night, white and bright, and in the distance the dark, somber fringes of the forest.

Buzz said, "We're in one hell of a fix now if that yacht comes back! "

He still held one of the pistols. But like his partner, he realized their chances were slim if the yacht returned. They would be starkly revealed out there in the white moonlight.

It was while Buzz was worrying about return of the yacht, that they heard the drone of the airplane. Both men stared overhead. The steady drone became louder, and then they saw the silver object silhouetted against the moon-bright sky.

Buzz squinted. Then he gulped in amazement as the plane swooped rapidly toward them and came down out of the skies.

He howled, "That's our ship!"

Ham added: "Rush must have found it!"

The plane had leveled off now, was flying close above the water. It zoomed over them. They saw that a cabin window was open, and a man was leaning out of the plane. The man was holding something in his hand.

Buzz let out a whoop and jumped to his feet. He started waving his arms.

"Rush!" he yelled. "It's Rush!"

Rush Randall was leaning out of the cabin window. Just as the plane skimmed close over the log raft, the package that he was holding dropped. It landed on the raft. The plane lifted and continued on.

Buzz leaped toward the object that Doc had dropped. And then he let out a yell.

"Wow!" he cried. "Food!"

Deacon, in the meantime, had been watching the silver ship. He said curiously, "I wonder why Rush doesn't land and . . ."

HE PAUSED, his gaze going up the river behind them. Buzz followed his stare.

Like a sleek white ghost, the yacht had appeared again. It was moving downstream swiftly, heading toward them.

Deacon shouted, "Rush has spotted that boat. That's why he didn't land. Look!"

They saw the plane start to circle the yacht. It dropped low again.

And then, without warning, the thing happened.

A powerful searchlight sprang into life aboard the yacht. Its revealing gleam picked up the silver wings of the plane.

Rush Randall must have suspected a trick. He immediately sent the amphibian in a steep climb. The motors were a deep roar now. He got up to five hundred feet . . . a thousand . . .

The gun, that must have been mounted on the deck of the yacht, made a barr-o-o-o-om of a sound. A shell exploded high in the air, dangerously close to the climbing ship.

Another followed.

Astounded, Buzz and Deacon watched.

Then, suddenly, the plane stopped its climb, jiggled crazily in the air for a moment, then started a screaming descent toward the shore of the river. A wing dipped and the plane looked like it was going into a dive.

Within seconds the plane had disappeared across the treetops. It was out of sight now.

Several moments passed. Then a red glare touched the sky.

Buzz gasped, "They crashed!"

Deacon exclaimed, "Come on! We've got to get ashore. We've got to do something!"

He grabbed up the tin box of food. The box was tied with rope. He loosened his belt, slid the belt through the ropes on the tin box, fastened his buckle again.

Whether they would be able to outswim the river currents or not, was a question.

But they managed to make it.

THE river made a long, sweeping curve near the point where they dived from the raft. Ahead there was a finger of land that jutted out into the curve of the river. It was toward this point that the river currents flowed.

They made use of the currents. They managed to reach land about a half hour later. They dragged themselves up on shore.

For moments they were too exhausted to speak.

But thoughts of Rush drove them to action. They started toward the forest, across a bit of beach, Deacon taking a line on the point where the plane had disappeared inland. There was still some red glare in the sky, and they could use this to go by.

Just then a tall, dark figure detached itself from the darkness in front of them and came quickly across the small open space.

Both men drew up short. Then they stared.

The fellow was an Indian. He held up a hand in caution. Buzz was already fumbling inside his shirt for the pistol he had placed there . . .

And the man said, "I am being Mike. I am coming from the plane."

That stopped Buzz and Deacon.

Deacon demanded: "You are the guy who disappeared in New York? You were with Rush Randall?"

The big powerful fellow nodded. "Everything being all right. Boss man, he landing the plane. He saying plane cannot flying again, but no one being hurt. So he setting the plane on fire."

Deacon said, "Smart work!" He looked at his partner. "Rush did that to fool those babies on the yacht."

Mike, the Indian, was warning them to silence. "You being quiet. That boat landing above here. We hurry! "

"Where?" demanded Buzz suspiciously.

"We going to meet others . . ."

Too late, they saw the other figures. The woods were literally full of them. Men from the yacht! They came from behind the trees and they held guns in their hands. One man rapped:

"Just relax, chums. Nobody's going any place!"

It would have been suicide for Buzz to try to use the pistol. They were hopelessly outnumbered.

They were seized. But at the last moment Buzz, in his customary fashion, started to fight. Someone hit him with the stock of a heavy rifle. He was hit solidly across the back of the skull.

The night suddenly became very black indeed . . .

WHEN Buzz woke up again, he saw that he was a captive along with lanky Deacon and the big Indian, Mike. He, along with the others, was tied hand and foot and lying on the floor of a room of sorts. The room had a peculiar way of seeming to rock beneath his aching head. He wished the aching would stop. Then he realized that the rocking sensation wasn't caused entirely by his head.

He was in a cabin, and the cabin was located on some kind of boat. The thought hit Buzz Casey—the yacht!

It was the Indian, Mike, who said: "So you being awake?"

Buzz stared around, twisting his head, from his flat position on his back.

Deacon said unhappily, "Figure your way out of this mess, pal!"

Then he turned his attention to big Mike. "What happened to Rush Randall? Where were you with him?"

Mike explained how he and Rush had met the girl and the guide, and Howard English. They had been unable to locate this yacht, the Crazy Indian, so a search had been started for Buzz and Deacon. Then they had found both, and when the deck gun had been fired at the plane Rush had been forced to crash land some distance away. The plane had been nicked, Mike told them, and they had closely escaped death.

Then Buzz told about the girl, and her apparent death. "She ducked out on us," he told Mike. "I don't know why she did that."

Mike said, "I thinking her guide may be one of the crooks. He fooling her."

Deacon asked, "You mean, the guide deliberately led her to this trap . . . to this boat?"

"Yes."

"Who else is on the boat, Mike?"

"I thinking all captives are being prisoners here." He was ready to say something else, when he paused, an intent expression coming to his ordinarily blank features. He seemed to be listening to something.

Watching him, Deacon asked, "What is it, Mike?"

The Indian didn't seem to hear. He continued to listen intently.

Then Buzz and Deacon both heard the faroff sound. It reached them through the open portholes of the small cabin.

It was a sound somewhat like a loon call, and yet it was some other kind of tropical bird. Deacon could not place it. The faint sound affected Mike oddly. He was very tense.

Deacon and Buzz, in their twisted positions, watched him. The sound did not come again.

"What was that?" prodded Deacon, still watching the Indian.

Mike started to say, "I thinking maybe my . . ."

All heard a faint sound outside the cabin door. They forgot everything else as each watched the door. A key turned in the lock. The door started to open.

And then little Buzz Casey could scarcely contain himself.

She was standing there, tall, slim, straight, as beautiful as ever. Not a thing wrong with her!

Lucky Williams.

THE redhaired girl slipped quietly into the room, closed the door behind her, looked toward them and made a motion for silence. She hurried across the small room.

"Has anyone of you . . . a knife?" she asked softly.

Deacon moved his head. "Back pocket," he directed. He stared at the girl's face, his own showing complete amazement.

She located the heavy penknife, got the blade open, then went to work on the ropes that held each captive securely. And as she hurried, she talked softly and breathlessly.

"Someone might come down here any minute," she whispered. "I'll tell you what happened . . ."

"We thought," interrupted Buzz, "you drowned. We heard you hit the water . . ."

"Shuddup! " snapped Deacon.

Lucky Williams continued: "That guide, Joe, was working for them. He tricked me, and brought me to this boat. But the rest of it . . . I can't understand. I mean, for some reason they have not made me a captive. I have the freedom of the boat. They haven't looked me up, like the others."

"The prisoners are aboard?" asked Deacon.

She nodded. "I've heard their names mentioned."

"How about your uncle? Have you seen him?"

She shook her head. "He's the only one they haven't talked about. But they keep the cabin doors locked, and there's no way to find out anything. I can't learn a thing. My cabin's right down the passageway, so I knew when they brought you aboard. A hard, tough man named Mort seems to be their boss. I waited until they had all gone on deck, then I slipped in here. They left the key in the outside of the door."

Buzz grinned. "Honey, remind me to kiss you later. You're a wonderful girl."

Deacon groaned.

"Listen, pal." he snapped, "start figuring a way to get off this rat trap. Three of us against a boat load of . . ."

Mike, on his feet, flexing his powerful legs and arms, made a warning, hissing sound. Climbing to their feet, the others stared at him. Mike was standing near the passage door, and was intently listening again.

All heard the commotion above decks. Men were moving about, some running. There was a yell.

Yet big Mike seemed to hear something else. There was an expectancy about him. Abruptly he turned and said to them, "My people are coming. Maybe we are escaping. Come!"

Deacon's eyes were sharp. He asked, "That bird call that sounded like a loon?"

Mike nodded. "Signal," he said. "My people coming."

Buzz was rubbing his hands together. He exclaimed:

"Then what the hell are we waiting for?"

DEACON, however, paused lo n g enough to look worriedly at the girl. He motioned to a double-tiered bunk in the cabin. "Hide in that upper berth," he suggested. "Otherwise you might get hurt."

But there was a brightness in her expressive eyes. She shook her head.

"Not me!" she exclaimed. "I'm helping out too!"

Mike had already slipped noiselessly from the cabin. They followed. Along the way they managed to locate an object that provided them with weapons.

It was a long boat hook, which powerful Mike snapped into short lengths as though the object were a matchstick. They each grabbed a length of the solid wood.

On deck, now, a loud racket was taking place.

Buzz, Deacon and the quick-moving Indian arrived on deck via various ladders, the girl trailing Deacon. A weird sight met their eyes.

Dark-skinned, half-naked Indians were everywhere. They fought with white men who had apparently been taken by surprise aboard the yacht. The fight surged from spacious deck cabin to the wheelhouse and out to the wide decks again.

The natives carried no weapons. They were all powerfully built fellows, and they merely grabbed the white men and throttled them until the crooks fell down. They did this in an efficient, strangely silent way, which made the battle the more amazing.

Buzz let out a whoop and started cracking heads. He shouted. "These Joes sure gave us plenty of hell! Now we even the score!"

Oddly, some of the white men seemed to be fighting among themselves, and the dark-skinned natives were grabbing them indiscriminately. Buzz did like-wise.

The Deacon spotted Rush Randall's tall. blond-headed figure just disappearing down a ladder leading below deck. He jumped that way. The girl, Buzz and Mike had not seen Rush's quick-moving figure. There was another white man just ahead of Rush, Deacon saw. and this worried him.

He ran along a passageway, saw Rush some distance ahead. Rush and the other man had paused near a stateroom door. Deacon called out.

"Rush!"

Rush turned, his pale, penetrating gray eyes bleak, and then those eyes lighted as he saw lanky Deacon. "I guess we were none too soon," he said, and you could tell there was relief in his voice.

"I'll say!" exclaimed Deacon. He told about the girl releasing them, and of the strange bird call that Mike had heard.

Rush indicated the young, dark-featured man with him. "Deacon," he said, "this is Judge English's son—Howard English."

THE two men nodded briefly. There was little time for formalities. Rush was explaining:

"Don't ask me how he did it, but somehow Mike got word to his people. Where that hidden valley is, I don't even know. Those natives who scared you off from that deserted camp the other night were Mike's people. They were after the others."

"I'll be damned!" said Deacon, amazed.

"They also located this yacht for us. You see, they were aware of its movements. Mike had arranged the rendezvous place here along the shore. Then he was captured along with you and Buzz. So I met his people. We swam out here under cover of darkness. If it wasn't for them . . ."

Rush moved his broad shoulders.

"Yeah." Deacon said grimly.

Then he noted the ring of keys held in Rush Randall's hand. "What's up?" They were still standing before one of the cabin doorways.

"We've taken care of the one called Mort," said Rush. "He's locked him up in the brig. Now we'll take care of the prisoners. We have the room locations."

He started fitting keys into the door.

When the door was finally opened, the huge, fat man stood there. He looked none the worse for his experience, except that he had grown a beard. He sputtered, growled, and finally bellowed, "Well, it's about time!"

"Jordon Marsh," Rush said in explanation, for Deacon's benefit. Then, coolly, to the fat man, "Consider yourself lucky, my friend. You might have been dead."

Fat Jordon Marsh still sputtered. "Why didn't you rescue me in New York, Randall? I called your office, asked for help . . ."

Rush interrupted quietly, "If you and your friends hadn't had such worldly ideas, none of this trouble would have happened." He turned to Howard English. "See if he needs anything, Howard. Then come along."

THE fat man seemed about ready to explode, then looked at Rush Ran-dall's peculiar gray eyes, changed his mind and said nothing.

They continued along the passage. There was some commotion ahead. Buzz Casey appeared with two subdued. very meek prisoners. He grinned when he saw Rush. "Got a place where I can lock these ]oes up?" he asked. "The brig's already full! "

They found an empty large cabin. Rush turned the key over to little Buzz, for the tough assistant explained, "I got me some more up on deck." He turned, added, "The battle's over, dammit!"

Rush had been looking at cabin numbers on the doors. Howard English was saying, "There's only the girl's uncle, Clarence Hobart to be accounted for. Dad's safe in New York, and you've found Jordon Marsh . . ."

Rush nodded.

Young English, frowning, asked, "Why was I kidnapped, Randall, in place of my father who was one of that partnership?"

Rush shrugged. "Because the man behind this knew your father would pay off if you disappeared. He knew that your father would pay plenty for your release. Also, by kidnapping you, it kept your father from knowing too much."

"You mean," asked Howard English, "it would keep Dad from knowing who the real villian was?"

"That's right."

. ."Who is it?" the young man asked.

"You're going to meet him now," said Rush, and he opened the door beside which they stood. Oddly, it was not locked. Rush had not thought it would be.

THE man inside jumped up nervously from the bunk. He was a small, alert, fussy little man with jumpy eyes. He started to gasp with relief, "Thank heavens you're here. I thought . . ."

"Clarence Hobart!" exclaimed young Howard English.

Rush Randall said coolly, "You can lay off the dramatics, Hobart. You're washed up."

The fussy little man acted as if he was going to have a nervous breakdown.

Rush said harshly, "Cut it!"

And Clarence Hobart stood there, fluttery eyes holding on Rush Randall, on the strange, calculating, cool gray eyes, and he became silent.

Rush motioned English and Deacon inside the room, then he closed the door. He said to the small, nervous man, "Your niece, Miss Williams isn't wise to you—yet. It explains why she wasn't harmed by Mort and his crowd when she was brought aboard this yacht. Because it's your hideout and you've been behind the whole scheme." He paused, then added, "For her sake, possibly there's a way of keeping you out of prison. But by God, you'd better talk —and fast!"

They waited.

You could see the turmoil taking place in the small man's mind. It was mirrored on his face and in his jumpy eyes.

Finally he said, "Just what do you mean, Randall?"

"I mean," said Rush, "you can make retribution. Understand I don't hold with any of your crowd—you, Jordon Marsh or Judge English." He glanced at young Howard, murmured, "Sorry." Then: "The three of you were out to make a killing, only you thought you had a better idea than the rest. So you had them kidnapped. All right, let's have the rest of it!"

Clarence Hobart sat down on the bunk. He rubbed his small hands across his sweaty face. Suddenly he looked like an old man. He murmured, "All right."

The others were silent.

Then Hobart said: "Jordon Marsh, as you know, was a coffee plantation owner in South America some years ago. He stumbled onto this Indian thing. He located the hidden valley where that tribe lives. He'd heard they live to be a hundred or more, because of certain herbs that grow there in the valley and which these Indians live upon. One day he took me in on the secret."

"In other words," prompted Rush, "he wanted a little financial backing?"

Hobart nodded. "Judge English and I joined him. We helped buy this yacht. We spent a lot of money coming down here and finally making friends with the natives. Ordinarily, they're a shy lot. It took several trips. Then we took Mike back to Florida."

"Where you were going to raise the herbs in a part of the Everglades. The climate there. the moisture, duplicated that found here."

"Yes."

"Why?"

HOBART looked up, smiled dully. "Why does any man want to live to be a hundred or more? Think of the things he can accomplish in life. Each of us was active in Washington politics. We saw a way to outlive any who opposed us and to become the greatest power group in history. We would become famous."

Rush said, "The only trouble with that kind of power is that it gets you. Each of you thought it would be swell if you could gain complete control of power and wealth. So you started chiseling . . ."

"Jordon Marsh did!" cried little Clarence Hobart. "He bled me for almost every cent I had. I was going broke. My newspapers are mortgaged to the hilt!"

Rush nodded. "So you hit upon the scheme of kidnapping them, shaking them down for several hundred thousand, and going through with the scheme yourself. Right?"

Slowly, the man nodded.

Rush sighed. "Well, this little adventure has cost me money. I have a plane to pay for—not counting my time and trouble. I can turn this whole rotten business over to the police, and you three men can pay. Take your choice. Remember, there's your niece to think about."

Hobart's low-spoken "Yes" indicated he was thinking about the girl, too.

"I think," he said softly, "we'd all be better off forgetting this long-life business. It has only led to unhappiness and trouble. I'll make amends with you." He looked at Rush. "You won't tell her—Lucky?"

"I think," Rush said, "we can tell her that the tough little man named Mort was behind it. Who were the others?"

Hobart explained, "Typical New York sharpsters who got wind of the deal from the man I employed. One group was trying to cut in on the other."

"I thought so," said Rush.

OVER the forests, there was the calmness of the vast, silent night . . . a quiet that extended to the deck of the motionless yacht.

Decks that were now cleared of fighting men. Only Rush Randall, Deacon, and Mike, the Indian, now stood there. Buzz and Howard English were below, seeing that all _captives were locked up in separate cabins, or in the brig.

Oddly, there was not another Indian on deck. But out there in the river, dark forms swam toward shore. The figures were fast fading in the moon-light.

Mike said, "My people returning. They not liking trouble. They being always a peaceful people. I returning too."

He turned to Rush and the girl. "I thinking it better if white men not coming here any more."

Rush nodded. "Mike, I want to thank you and your people for what you've done. No, I don't think you'll be bothered with white man's kind of civilization again. It isn't very good, is it?"

Mike seemed to smile a little. He shook hands with them both, then quickly, climbed the rail. His powerful, lean body flashed overside. It cut the water smoothly. Then he was swimming away.

Lucky Williams sighed. "Maybe," she murmured, "he has more sense than any of us."

"Maybe," agreed Rush.

The girl asked, "Rush, what was the meaning of those little carved miniatures of Indians?"

"Nothing, really," he explained. "Mike told me. His people used to carve them out of mahogany. Marsh got hold of some of them and they got scattered around. They were odd enough to be puzzling."

"And," said the girl, "frightening!"

Buzz came on deck. There was a large lump on his forehead and he was dirty and disheveled. But he seemed as bright as ever.

"Boy!" he said. "Chicken! Found it in the galley refrigerator." He grabbed the girl's arm. "How about making some coffee, honey. Let's put on a feed." He glanced at Rush. "Join us?"

Rush said, "In a moment. In a little while we'll have to divide up duties here on the boat. We're setting sail as quickly as possible. Tell Deacon he'll have to navigate."

Buzz and the girl met Deacon coming along a passage. Buzz said, grinning, "Sorry you can't join us. Rush wants to see you about navigating the ship."

"Where you going?" lanky Deacon asked suspiciously.

"Got a dinner date—with a redhead!" beamed Buzz Casey.

The gloominess dropped from Deacon's face. He joined them. "You did have, pal," he said. "But three makes more pleasant company!"

That started them arguing again.