For the first fifty miles of the trip the roads were hard-surfaced and Tim sped along at a fast pace, the long, powerful coupe eating up the miles. But after that it was harder going. The roads were poorly marked and badly rutted. Tim was forced to drive well under thirty miles an hour and as he neared the valley the country grew more rugged, the road turning and twisting, climbing laboriously up one hill and then skidding down another.

He lost almost half an hour when he ran into a local shower and had to get out and put on the chains. Once or twice the big coupe skidded badly but he managed to hold it on to the road. At dawn he was deep into the valley of the Cedar, the narrow road was dry again, and he took off the chains.

There was no bridge across the Cedar at Auburn and Tim pulled the coupe up on the left bank of the river and waited for the arrival of the ramshackle ferry.

It was seven o’clock before the old barge, powered by an automobile engine, paddled its way across the broad stream and nosed up to the landing stage.

“How much to go across?” asked Tim.

“Dollar for a car that size,” replied the riverman.

Tim handed over the fee and drove the coupe aboard. The engine of the ferry sputtered and then settled down to its task as the paddles flashed in the morning sunlight.

“Business been pretty good?” Tim asked.

“Only fair. Usually don’t get anyone on the morning trip but yesterday I had a car almost as large as yours.”

Here was what Tim had been fishing for. He was on the right trail and a few more questions assured him that Grenville Ford had driven directly to Auburn after leaving Atkinson.

When the ferry docked on the Auburn side, Tim went to the general store. He was known there for, two years before, he had helped save the village, marooned by a flood, by bringing food and needed medicine. At the store he learned that Ford had stored his car in the village, rented a boat with an outboard motor, laid in a supply of food and a tent, and started down river the day before.

“Have any idea where he was going?” asked Tim.

“He didn’t seem to want to say much about himself,” said the storekeeper. “Appeared to be one of those close-mouthed fellows.”

Tim went across the street to the village’s one hotel and there obtained an excellent breakfast. Greatly refreshed, he went down to the river bank to make more inquiries. In front of one shanty was the sign, “BOATS FOR RENT,” and to this place Tim went at once.

The owner was a white-haired riverman and when Tim introduced himself, he found the boatman willing to talk.

“I remember the fellow well,” said the riverman, “but he didn’t say where he was going. Just asked to rent a boat for about a week and he left a cash deposit, which is all I require, seemed to know what he wanted for he picked out a good boat and started down river at once.”

There was little to be learned in that information and Tim tried another tack.

“Any strangers moved into the valley in the last year or two?” he asked.

The old man shook his head. “All the movin’ that’s done is the other way. Keeps up much longer and there won’t be anybody in the valley and no Indians to give it back to.”

“I just though there might have been some new people came in—maybe a sailor or two.”

“Nothin’ to sail around here except the clammers and they don’t sail. Only man around here that’s ever seen big water is Crazy John Boggs.”

“Who’s Crazy John?”

“He came in here about nine or ten years ago and went down river to an island where he does a little clammin’ and pearl huntin’. He’s always talking about revolutions and sunken treasure and such as that. He’s as crazy as they make them.”

Such talk might sound crazy to the people of the valley but to Tim it was another link in his story.

“How far down river is it to Crazy John’s?” asked Tim.

“About thirty miles and bad water all the way. He’s way off the main channel and he don’t like company. Keeps a couple of regular man-eating dogs. Some folks say he’s got mines planted all around the island so he can blow up anyone he doesn’t want around. No one from here’s ever been on the place.”

“Here’s one that’s going,” said Tim. “Fix me out with a boat and an outboard. I’ll be back as soon as I can get some grub at the store.”

Tim felt jubilant as he walked up from the river bank. Ford, or “Mr. Seven,” was only twenty-four hours ahead of him.

The sound of an airplane motor drummed over the village and Tim looked up to see the Jupiter swinging around to land in the only field that could be used. It was a mile outside the village and he knew he would have plenty of time to secure his food and a couple of blankets before Ralph arrived.

“Fix me up with enough food for about four days on the river,” Tim told the storekeeper, “and I’ll want a couple of good, warm blankets. I expect the nights in the valley are a little chilly.”

“They’re all of that,” agreed the storekeeper. When the food and blankets were ready, Tim paid the bill and left the store. At the far end of the street Ralph was hurrying in to town and Tim waited for him.

“Starting out as a peddler?” asked the newcomer.

“Just getting ready to start down river. Come on and help me stow this stuff away.”

The riverman had a sixteen foot flat-bottomed boat ready for Tim. A light outboard had been fastened to the stern and an extra can of gasoline had been placed in the boat.

“What’s the idea of the river trip?” Ralph wanted to know. Tim related what he had learned in the village and Ralph nodded his agreement to the plans.

“You stay here and keep the Jupiter ready to fly any minute,” said Tim. “When I get back I’ll want to start for Atkinson as soon as possible.”

“Everything will be ready. Here’s the extra expense money Carson sent for you.” Ralph handed out $50 and Tim paid the deposit necessary for the boat.

“There may be some fellows in here a little later in another airplane,” he told the riverman. “They’re apt to inquire about Crazy John. Do you suppose you could forget all about him?”

“After what you did for us when we had the flood I could forget a whole lot,” smiled the owner of the boats.

“Sladek and his men won’t be here for a couple more hours,” chuckled Ralph. “What I didn’t do to their motors last night doesn’t amount to much. I had a hard time to keep from laughing this morning. Poor old Carl at the airport was the goat. They accused him of failing to keep a proper watch over their plane. We’ll have to square it with him some way.”

Tim obtained detailed instructions from the boatman on the way to Crazy John’s island.

“Don’t try to sneak up,” was the riverman’s final word of caution, “or he’ll get you sure. Just keep off shore in plain sight and do some lusty hollerin’.”

Tim thanked him for the final words of advice, said goodbye to Ralph and started to shove off when his friend stopped him.

“Got a gun?” he asked.

Tim shook his head. “I won’t need one. I don’t think Crazy John is as bad as he’s pictured and I’m sure I won’t have any trouble with Ford.”

“But there’s Sladek and his bodyguards. If you run into them, you might get in a jam. Better take this.”

Ralph handed Tim a heavy, snub-nosed automatic.

“It’s loaded and here’s two extra clips. Take care of yourself.”

“See you in a day or two,” said Tim as he shoved away from the landing stage. Turning on the ignition he gave the starter rope on the outboard a jerk. The motor responded with a steady putt-putt-putt and Tim started the journey down stream to the island abode of Crazy John.

Ralph watched the boat until it was lost from view behind a curve in the broad river. Then he turned and went back to the village, had breakfast, obtained gasoline, and walked back to the Jupiter where he replenished the fuel and sat down in the shade. He was going to have lots of nothing to do until Tim returned.

On the Cedar, Tim’s small craft surged steadily down-river. There was no regular navigation on the stream and the channel swung from one side to another.

Black snags stuck their dangerous heads above the surface of the water and occasionally a broad sand bar ran almost across the stream. Finding the channel was no easy task and Tim realized that it might be at least two days under the best of circumstances before he returned to the village.

The Cedar turned and twisted, first on one side of the heavily wooded valley and then on another. Bayous opened off on long, quiet stretches of back water and once in a while he could see the mouth of some tributary sneaking in around a bluff.

There was no sign of human habitation and he felt immensely lonely. He might have been the first white man down the stream and he would not have been surprised to have rounded a curve and sighted an Indian village on the next strip of sand.

The day was warm and if his mission had not been so urgent, he would have fully enjoyed the trip. But there was a tension that gripped him and drove him on at full speed. He wanted to be at Crazy John’s well before sundown.

At noon Tim estimated that he was two-thirds of the way to his destination. Slowing down the motor, he dug into his provisions and managed a snack of lunch. He drank deeply from a jug of cool water the riverman had placed in the boat and felt greatly refreshed. The strain of a night without sleep and the hard drive from Atkinson was beginning to tell on him.

Tim wondered when the amphibian would soar overhead. Ralph certainly had done an excellent job in putting the big craft out of commission.

Another hour slipped by. He was nearing the bayou where he would turn away from the main river and seek out the island of Crazy John. The boatman had told him to look for an island with a monster cottonwood, split by a bolt of lightning. When he came to that island he was to take the bayou to the right and continue taking every possible turn to the right. Crazy John’s island was a third of a mile from the main stream. Tim remembered the warning to shout lustily at intervals after he left the main channel.

His sturdy little craft swung around a broad curve, dodged the end of a projecting sand bar, slid between two snags, and straightened out down stream again. Tim’s heart leaped.

A half mile down river, standing on an island in the center of the stream, was a giant cottonwood, its top split asunder by lightning. The huge tree towered above everything else in the valley. There was no mistaking it and Tim looked for a bayou to the right of the island.

From behind him and sounding above the steady throbbing of the outboard came the thrumming of airplane engines. Tim glanced back. The amphibian, flying fast and low, was coming down stream.

Tim wondered if the pilot of the big ship would try to land on the river. The Cedar was wide enough but the danger of snags was a very real one. A sunken log could rip out the bottom of the plane and pull the entire craft to the bottom of the river.

Fascinated by the beauty of the big amphibian, Tim watched it approach. The roar of the motors filled the valley with their noise. The craft was less than a hundred feet above the river and coming directly toward Tim.

Looking up, the reporter could see a man leaning from a window on the right side of the cabin. There was something black in his hand. Splashes of water appeared beside the boat. The seat beside Tim splintered under the impact of a bullet. Then the amphibian was roaring down stream.

Tim was cold with anger. The attack on him had been wanton. There was only one explanation. They had taken him for Grenville Ford. The sooner he could get away from the open reaches of the river the safer.

He jammed the throttle of the outboard on full and his boat leaped ahead. Risking a sand bar, Tim cut the comers close and before the amphibian could swing back upstream he was safely hidden under the shelter of heavy foliage from the bank.