That night Florence sat a long time by the fire. She was thinking hard. What Jodie had told her had not entirely reassured her. One of his dogs did not appear to be right for the race. What if another and perhaps another began to wear down under the strain.
“We’d lose,” she whispered.
“But suppose I enter the race with the grays?” A thrill ran up her spine. How she’d love it. Always her sturdy body had cried out for action. She had swum a swift flowing mile-wide river on a dare. She had climbed mountains alone. She had done all manner of wild things on trapeze and ropes, just for the thrill of it. And now this race! All else seemed to pale into insignificance.
“And yet,” she thought, “would it be fair to Jodie?”
One more day passed, then another. It was the forenoon of the day before the coming of the great event. Only a few hours were left for entering the race. Yesterday she had driven her gray streaks over fifty miles of tough trails. How magnificently they had performed! With such a team, who could stay out? And yet—
Fifteen minutes later her mind was made up. Jodie passed her. He was off for a short spin. Short as had been her experience at driving and judging dogs, she knew at a glance that all was not well. Four of his dogs were now imitating the actions of a very weary rag doll. Their heads hung low. Their tails drooped. Each forward sprint called for a great effort.
“That half-breed must have slept on his watch,” her eyes narrowed.
When Jodie came trotting back two hours later, she met him in the street.
“Whoa! Whoa, there!” he shouted at his dogs. “What’s on your mind?” The smile that he gave the girl was an uncertain one.
Florence’s heart was in her throat. Would he hate her now? “Jodie,” she replied soberly, “I’m in the race with the grays. I—I just had to do it!”
“Good!” seizing her hand, he gripped it until it hurt. “I hoped you’d enter. It’s a tough grind all that way and back, so I didn’t want to urge you. But you—you’ll make it, and you’ll win.”
“No, Jodie,” her voice was deep and low, “I’ll only win if I see you can’t.”
“That,” he swallowed hard, “that’s sporting of you, but you—you can’t do that. You go in to win. Forget me. Forget everything. Go after those gray wolves and make them do their best, start to finish. And here—here’s luck to the best man!
“All right, Ginger,” his voice dropped. “Mush along you!” He trotted away behind his team.
“And this,” Florence murmured, “this is the North. No wonder they call it ‘God’s country.’”
“You go to sleep, girl,” Tom Kennedy said to her at nine that night. “I’ll stay up till morning. You never can tell what’s going to happen in the wee small hours.
“God made a mistake,” his keen gray eyes took her in—squirrel skin cap, bright orange mackinaw, corduroy knickers and all, “you should have been a boy.”
“A girl can do what any boy can, if she’s strong and keeps herself fit,” she flashed back at him.
“No girl’s ever run in the great race before,” he reminded her.
“That’s what makes it so fascinating. Who wants to be forever doing what others do?”
“You’ll be an honor to your old granddad. I—I’m glad you came,” his voice was husky.
“I hoped you would be,” she replied simply.
All that night, with lights out and with the inner door ajar, Tom Kennedy sat by the window that overlooked the distant, moonlit hills and the dog kennels close at hand. Once Florence stirred in her sleep, then suddenly sat up. What was it? Had she heard a shot? She did hear the door softly closed, she was sure of that.
“What was it, grandfather?” she asked sleepily.
“Thought I saw a skunk. Can’t be sure. He’s gone now, went mighty fast.”
“Skunks,” she thought dreamily, “do they have skunks in Alaska?” What did it matter? Once more she was asleep.
And then the great day dawned.
All the little city’s population was out to see them start. A picturesque throng it was. Indians, Eskimos, trappers, traders, gold hunters, shop keepers, adventurers, they were all there.
The five contestants drew for places. The teams would start one hour apart. Many hours would pass before their return. When they began straggling back, the throng would be there again. Meanwhile, snug and warm in their cabins, they would with shouts of joy or howls of disappointment listen to shortwave radio accounts of the race.
Jodie drew first place. Smitty Valentine, hero of many another race and favorite of old-timers, drew second, Florence was third, and the two other sourdough contenders drew up the rear.
With a wild round of applause, Jodie was away in a cloud of fine driving snow.
For an hour the crowd lingered. Then, at the crack of a pistol, with a shout and a flourish of the whip, Smitty was away. Then such a shout! “Smitty! Smitty! Go, Smitty! Go!”
Florence swallowed hard. The popularity of this man had been honestly won. Tom Kennedy had said he was a real old-timer, and Tom knew. And yet, “Time marches on. Youth must be served. Unless youth is given a place in the sun, there can be no progress.” These words of a truly great man rang in her ears. They must win. It was Jodie or she. Which should it be?
The crowd did not linger to see her off. Oh, yes, the younger crowd, her gang, the tried and true, would stick. As for the others, who could blame them? There was a bitter cold wind from the west. And who was she? Only a girl from somewhere or other. What place had a girl in such a race? Hundred miles! What, indeed! Probably lose her team in some wild storm, they may have been thinking. At thought of this, she set her teeth and clenched her fists. She would show them. Girl or no girl, they should see.
A thin cheer arose from the faithful few when at last the pistol sounded out the hour and with a quiet “All right,” to her leader, she headed straight out over the long, long trail.
For nine long hours, save for three brief pauses to rest her dogs and catch some light refreshments for herself, Florence followed the long, winding trail that led away and away one hundred miles into the great beyond. Now and then a thrill coursed through her being. Other than this there was no sign that this was a race, and not just one more joy ride. True, as she mounted the crest of a steep ridge, she did catch a fleeting glimpse of a speeding dog team. Was it her nearest opponent, Smitty Valentine? There was no way to tell. He had left an hour before her. Should she reach the finish just fifty-nine minutes behind him, the race was hers. If not—well, Jodie was still further ahead, perhaps the race was to be his. Who could tell?
Plop-plop-plop went her feet on the snow. Her light basket sled was empty, yet she never rode—her fleet gray hounds must have every advantage. Plop-plop-plop on the hard-packed snow. Here a covey of white ptarmigan rose fluttering from the trail, there a sly white wolf mounted a ridge to stare after her, here a column of smoke rose above the tree tops and there two little brown men, their dog-team drawn off the trail, watched in silence as she passed. What a weird, wild world was this!
Strangely enough, as she reached the last trail-house prepared for the required twenty minute rest before starting back over the trail, she learned that three racers—Jodie, Smitty, and herself—were running neck and neck.
“Not a half mile between them,” the radio announcer droned. “The two last teams driven by Scot Jordan and Sinrock Charlie now lag behind.
“Surprise has been expressed in many quarters,” he droned on. “Surprise at the endurance of the girl racer, Florence Huyler.”
So she had them surprised? Florence smiled grimly as she gulped down a large mug of steaming coffee. “Surprised! Huh!” she said aloud. Then to the trail-house keeper’s wife, “Call me, please, when the time is up. I’m going to sleep.” She threw herself down upon a couch and was at once fast asleep.
In her sleep she dreamed—odd dream it was, too. In it she saw the huge Madam Chicaski placing seven candlesticks on the mantel at Rainbow Farm. Gold they must have been, for they shone like the sun. Then she saw the woman pouring something out of a huge copper kettle.
“Gold,” she whispered in her dream. “Gold coins, hundreds and hundreds of them.”
These were all poured on the table, some rolling on the floor. Then a little, dark man, Mr. Il-ay-ok, approached the table and began gathering them up. “I need them for my people,” was all he said.
Florence awoke with a start. The dream was at an end. The trail-house matron was shaking her.
“Time is up.”
One minute more and the girl was on her way back. But that dream, it lingered in the back of her mind. What did it mean? Probably nothing. Perhaps this, that life’s adventures are never at an end, that if she won this race, it was to be not an end but a beginning of other things. There was Madam Chicaski and her supposed treasure, Mr. Il-ay-ok and his people, and her grandfather’s mine. “Life,” she thought, “goes on and on and, like one’s shadow, adventure goes before it.”
But now once again she thought only of the race. Once again, as in a dream, the long, white trail glided on beneath her weary feet.
The next stop, twenty miles along the homeward trek, brought bad news—Jodie was falling behind, already he had lost twenty minutes.
“It’s his dogs,” Florence explained to the sympathizing trail-house keeper. “They’re not right.”
“Anything happens in dis race,” encouraged her host, “yust anyting at all. You yust keep pushin’ dem sled handles.”
“I’ll keep pushing,” she smiled. She was thinking not of herself but of Jodie. How was it all to end?
Hours later she found herself approaching “Twenty-Mile House,” the last stop before the home stretch. Jodie was now quite definitely out of the race. But—she squared her shoulders at the thought—Smitty Valentine, her closest opponent, was twenty minutes behind her. A slim lead this, but if only she could hold it. If—
Of a sudden, Gray Chief, her leader, gave a yelp of pain, then began hopping along on three feet. Time after time the brave fellow put that foot to the snow, only to lift it again.
In consternation she stopped the dogs to race ahead and examine that foot.
“Not a scratch,” she murmured. “Just one of those things that happen to a dog in a race.” Drawing her sheath knife, she cut the leader’s draw rope, then, lifting him in her arms, carried him back to deposit him on the sled. He whined piteously, but, with almost human wisdom, appeared to know that for the time at least, he was through.
“Must bring you all in,” the girl spoke to the dogs, there were tears in her voice. “Who could be cruel enough to leave you behind on the frozen trail?”
At Twenty-Mile House, with sinking heart, she learned that already her slim lead was lost.
“Smitty Valentine and Florence Huyler running neck and neck,” the announcer droned. “Betting is four to one on Smitty.”
“Oh, it is!” the girl’s face flushed. Gladly she would have plunged at once into the race, but rules forbade—twenty minutes for every racer at every rest spot, those were the orders. Refusing an offer of refreshments, she threw herself on a cot in the corner and was at once lost to the world.
This time she did not dream. And yet, when she was awakened, she imagined she was dreaming, for there above her was a familiar face, At-a-tak, the Eskimo girl.
“I go with you last mile. Say I could, those men. I not touch you, not touch sled, not touch dog, just go, say that, those men.”
Florence found herself strangely cheered by this news. If this last long mile were to be run in misery, she would at least have company.
Scarcely were they on their way than the Eskimo girl began shouting strange guttural commands to the team. This appeared to help. Florence was cheered. The next thing At-a-tak did was strange. Dragging Gray Chief from the sled, she said, “All right, you go. I come. I bring him.” Reluctantly Florence drove on.
But now new trouble appeared on the horizon. A storm was coming. Sifting fine snow at her feet, it rose to her knees, her waist, her shoulders, then began cutting at her cheeks.
To her vast surprise, out of this murk of snow-fog from behind her came a girl and a dog—At-a-tak and Gray Chief. And, wonder of wonders, Gray Chief was trotting on all fours. What had the native girl done to him? No time to ask. Some native trick of magic. She saw the leader take his place at the front, then felt the sled lurch forward.
The grim battle went on. The storm increased. Eyes half blinded by snow, the brave dogs forged forward into a day that was all but night.
Would they win? Could they? No more reports now. The end of the trail lay straight ahead. The advantage was all with Smitty. He would be through when she was still an hour from the goal. How dared she hope? And yet she did dare.
“Much depends on this race,” she murmured.
“Much,” At-a-tak echoed hoarsely at her side.
And then came one more surprising burst of speed. “Good old Gray Chief!” she murmured. “Go! Go! Go! Go, Gray Chief!”
“Look!” In spite of rules, At-a-tak gripped her arm as they ran. “Look! It is the Phantom Leader. Now you win! It is good! Nagoo-va-ruk-tuk.”
Straining her eyes, Florence caught a glimpse of something white before her on the trail. Was it wolf, dog, or phantom? She could not tell, nor did she care, enough that, for the moment at least, her speed had been increased.
“It can’t last,” she murmured to herself. “It will disappear, that beast, or phantom of the storm. Or, perhaps he will lead us astray.”
To her surprise and great joy, it did last. Ever and anon, as the wild drive of the snow faded, she caught sight of that drifting spot of white. Now it was there and now gone, but for Gray Chief and his band it was always there and always, in some superhuman way, it inspired them to fresh endeavor.
Only at the crest of the last ridge did the “phantom” vanish. And then it was but a short mile, all down hill, to the last stake, to defeat or victory.
“Than—thank God for the Phantom Leader,” she exclaimed as, leaping on her sled and using one foot for a brake, she went gliding down, down, down—to what? She would soon know.
As she came into view, she heard their wild scream from half a mile away. “Our gang,” her throat tightened. They would be loyal. Win or lose, she would receive a round of cheers. Good old Arctic gang! How good they had been to take her in!
Three minutes more and she caught the refrain of their wild chant:
“You win! You win! We win! We win! Sourdough? No! No! No! Fresh-Dough! Fresh-Dough! We win! We win!”
There could be no doubting the truth of this chant. She read it in their faces when, as she shot across the line, they seized her, tossed her upon a broad expanse of dry walrus skin, then lifting her high, began bearing her away in triumph.
At the clubroom door they paused. Then, in a spirit of fun, they allowed the skin to sag. Two score hands gave a quick yank and the heroine of the hour rose in air.
This was not new to Florence. “Yea!” she shouted. “Come on! Let’s go!” Balancing herself in the center of this strange blanket, she stood erect and, with the next lusty pull, shot skyward like a rocket.
Three times she sought the stars. Three times she scanned that throng for a face. She was looking for Jodie. He was not there.
“Come on in,” they shouted in a chorus. “We’ll celebrate!”
“No,” she shook her head. “Please. Not tonight. I’m dead. Tomorrow night we’ll whoop it up.”
“All right! All right!” they screamed. “Big brass band and all. Tomorrow night.”
At that, seizing proud Tom Kennedy’s arm, she marched away.
“Grandfather,” she whispered, “where’s Jodie? Didn’t he get in?”
“Sure! Oh, sure!” the old man replied. “Of course, he lost. Three dogs went wrong, but he came in, all the way.
“When he got to the cabin,” he laughed, “he just tumbled on the cot and fell asleep. Before that, though, he said, ‘Be sure to wake me up when she comes in,’ meaning you. But, you know, I didn’t have the heart to wake him. He’s still fast asleep.”
This last was not quite true, at least they found Jodie standing just inside the door when they arrived.
“Congratulations!” he held out a hand.
“Jodie, I’m sorry you couldn’t win,” the girl’s voice was low.
“I know,” he stood silent for an instant, then a mischievous look stole into his eyes.
“Well, anyway,” he said, “wewon the race. Just the way a man and his wife killed the bear. Ever hear of that?”
“No.”
“Sit down and I’ll tell you.” Florence sat down. “You see,” said Jodie, “there was a man, his wife and two children in a shack when a great big bear entered. The man went to the rafters. The woman, being hampered by children clinging to her skirts, stayed on the floor. Seizing an axe, she killed the bear. Whereupon the man climbed down shouting, ‘Mary! Mary! We killed the bear!’
“And now,” he added soberly, “now we’ve won the race, what are we to do about it?”
“Put half the prize money in the bank for Mr. Il-ay-ok, spend the rest for grub, a new rifle or two and some ammunition, then go in search of Grandfather’s lost mine,” she panted all in one breath.
“Sounds great!” the boy exclaimed. “Do I go along?”
“Certainly. We’ll be generous,” the girl laughed. “We’ll let you do nearly all the digging.”
“Mulligan’s on,” said Tom Kennedy, dragging up a chair. “What do you say?”
“Grand!” Florence was ready for just that. Never before had she been so hungry and so sleepy all in one.
“Jodie,” she said with the sudden start of one who had recalled something very unusual. “What about this Phantom Leader?”
“Why, have you seen him?” Jodie grinned.
“Sure—sure I’ve seen him, at least that’s what At-a-tak called him. ‘The Phantom Leader.’ And Jodie,” her tone was serious, “that’s why I won the race. He ran before us, miles and miles.”
“Never heard of such a thing,” Jodie stared. “Probably a white wolf daring your dogs to get him, or perhaps a wandering dog.
“But the Phantom Leader, h-m-m—that’s a grand little Eskimo legend. This Phantom is a real ghost hound who appears to help people out of trouble. An Eskimo woman is lost in a storm, he appears to lead her home. A hunter lost in the drifting floes, starving and freezing, sees the Phantom Leader, follows him and finds land. You know, regular thing, stuff dreams are made of.”
“All the same,” said Florence, resuming her meal, “I hope to meet the Phantom again. He brought us rare good luck.”
Giving herself over to the business of eating, she consumed a vast amount of mulligan stew and a great heap of hot biscuits. After that she dragged her reluctant feet to her cubby-hole of a bedroom and, creeping between blankets, slept the clock around.
Florence was seated at the table the next day doing justice to a late afternoon breakfast of hot cakes and coffee when Jodie arrived.
“Plans have been changed,” he gave her a rare smile. “No whoopee, but a grand ball. That’s what it’s going to be. Full dress affair.”
“Full dress?” the girl’s lips parted in a gasp of surprise. Then with a sigh, “Oh, well,” she opened the draft in the small cook stove and set the flatirons on.
A half hour later she stood before Jodie garbed in the only silk dress she had with her, a full-length affair of midnight blue, trimmed in ermine.
“Keen!” was the boy’s comment. “Needs just one northern touch. You wait,” he burst through the door and was gone.
Fifteen minutes later he reappeared with a soft, bulky package under his arm.
“Here you are.” With one swift movement he cast away the paper wrapping and threw a gorgeous white fox fur about her neck. “And there you are,” he stood back admiringly. “Queen of the ball!”
“Jodie! Is it mine?” her eyes shone.
“Sure ’nuff. Present from the gang. Great stuff, I’d say—dog-musher one day, queen of the ball the next. Nothing like contrast in this jolly old world of ours.”
Jodie was not wrong. The winter nights are long in Alaska, but not too long for a jolly good time. A waxed floor, a peppy ten-piece orchestra, including two Eskimo drummers, a joyous company and sixteen hours of darkness, who could ask for more? Florence did not ask. She made the most of every fleeting hour. For, she thought in one sober moment, before another forty-eight hours have flown, we’ll be on the trail once more.
And so they were, off on the long trek that, they hoped, would bring them to the lost gold mine and to the end of good old Tom Kennedy’s lifelong dream.
They trailed away into the cold, gray dawn, two teams and four people—Tom Kennedy, Florence, Jodie, and At-a-tak. Not only had the Eskimo girl gladly loaned the gray team for the occasion, but she had offered to accompany them as seamstress for their native clothing.
Not a word was said as the city faded into the distance and blue-gray hills loomed ahead. They were off on the great quest, man’s age-long search for gold.
They had been trotting along behind their sleds for some ten miles when, as it will on Arctic trails, the wind began pelting them with hard particles of snow. This time, however, that wind was with them.
“Ah,” Jodie breathed joyously, “twenty below zero and the wind at our backs! What time we shall make!”
“But look at the whirl of that snow!” Florence was alarmed. “We’ll lose the trail.”
“No fear,” Tom Kennedy assured her. “The first few days of trail are like a paved road to an oldtimer. It’s the end that counts. We—”
“Look!” Florence broke in, pointing away before them. “The Phantom Leader.”
“Yes! Yes!” At-a-tak echoed. “The Phantom Leader.”
“Thereissomething,” Jodie agreed. “Something white. It moves. Now it is gone.”
“No! No! There it is,” Florence’s voice was eager. “Jodie! Grandfather! The Phantom Leader! That means good luck.”
“I hope so,” Jodie was straining his eyes for a better look. “There! See! He has stopped.”
“Or—or fallen,” Florence was ready to go racing on ahead of the team. Jodie held her back.
“You never can tell,” he counselled.
“There! There! Heisgone!” the girl cried a moment later.
“Over a ridge. We’ll see him again,” Tom Kennedy explained.
Indeed they did see him again and so close that Florence imagined herself looking at a pair of eyes burning their way out of a field of white.
“Oh! Ah!” she breathed.
“If that’s a dog,” Jodie exclaimed in a hoarse whisper, “he’s the whitest one I’ve ever seen.”
“There! He’s down!” Florence’s voice was tense with emotion. “Poor fellow! He must be hurt!”
“Who ever heard of a ghost being hurt?” Jodie laughed.
“There—there he goes!”
“This can’t last forever,” Jodie cracked a whip. His team sped on.
For a full half mile they burned up the trail, then with a suddenness that was startling, they all piled up in a heap at the back side of a snow bank. And there lying at Florence’s feet was one of the most piteous sights the girl’s eyes had rested upon: a collie dog, white as snow and so emaciated with hunger that every bone could be counted. He was whining piteously.
“Poor thing,” she murmured as she dug into her pack for cooked reindeer meat. “Poor old Phantom Leader!”
“Well, I’m dumbed!” was all Jodie could say. Tom Kennedy said nothing at all. At-a-tak stared as one must stare when, for the first time, he sees a ghost within his reach.
“Where did he come from?” Florence asked as the dog voiced thanks for the food offered him.
“Not from Nome,” said Kennedy. “No such dog there.”
“Some reindeer herder’s dog, or a miner’s, like Jack London’s Buck in theCall of the Wild,” said Jodie. “Find his story and you may learn of tragedy.”
No time now for such musings. The long trail lay ahead.
“We’ll take him along for luck,” said Florence. What luck? How could she know now?
“We’ll have to, of course,” they all agreed. “No true Alaskan ever leaves a starving dog on the trail.”
So the “Phantom Leader” was stowed away on top of the canvas packing on Jodie’s sled, and the little caravan once more moved on into the great unknown.
Long days followed, days of pushing forward along untracked rivers and over low mountains where no man lived, and no living creature moved save the fox, the wolf, and the snowshoe rabbit. Nights there were when the sky was like a blue sea filled with the lights of a thousand ships. An Arctic gale came sweeping down upon them. Blotting out the landscape, it drove them into camp. For two days and nights with their little sheet-iron stove beating back the frost, they lay on their sleeping bags listening to the beat of snow against their tent.
Their food supply dwindled. No wild caribou had been seen, but joy suddenly filled their hearts when at last they came to the spot where the river they followed forked.
“That,” Tom Kennedy exulted, “is the fork. Up this stream we must go.”
Did they have faith in his judgment? How could they doubt it? Yet Florence thought of their meager food supply and shuddered.
“Jodie and I will go out to look for game,” said Tom Kennedy.
“Sure. We’ll have some great luck,” Jodie agreed.
“I’ll set up camp and cut some wood.” Florence was no weakling. She could play a man’s part.
As for At-a-tak, she wandered away in search of snowshoe rabbits’ tracks. More than once her cunningly set snares had provided their pot with a delicious stew.
It was after Florence had set up camp and while the others were still away that she began hearing puzzling sounds. Coming from the distance, they sounded like the crackle of a wood fire. But there was no fire.
“What is it?” she asked of the white collie, the “Phantom Leader,” who lay on the snow close beside her. Well fed and cared for now, the dog had regained his strength. He had become a prime favorite with all. But oh! how he could eat! And in the harness he was just no good at all. Neither his nature nor his training fitted him for this.
“Come on, Phantom,” the girl murmured. “Earn your dinner. Tell me what those sounds are.”
For answer the dog rose to his haunches and growled. His sharp nose pointed straight down the trail over which they had come. Each moment the faint clatter increased in volume. At the same time a burst of wind swept up the valley and a swirl of fine particles cut at the girl’s cheek.
“Oh, dear! Another storm!” Still she waited and listened.
“Phantom! What is it, you—” Suddenly she broke short off. As her whisper ceased, her lips parted, her eyes bulged in astonishment, for at that instant from behind a clump of low spruce trees a head appeared. The head, long and white with small mottled brown spots, carried a pair of massive antlers. The creature stood staring at them, apparently quite unafraid.
“A—a caribou!” she whispered. “Food, plenty of food for dogs and men. All the rifles gone, too. And yet—”
The creature was beautiful. If a rifle were in her hands could she have killed it? She did not know.
Then like a flash the truth came to her, this was not a caribou but a reindeer, a domestic reindeer. Caribou are brown. Only reindeer are white.
“And there are others,” she said to the dog, “many more. Listen!” As she stood there in silence there came again that confused crack-cracking. That, she realized, was many reindeer crack-cracking their hoofs as they trotted over the snow.
“Reindeer,” she whispered in awed excitement, “many reindeer here, two hundred miles from the nearest range. Something wrong somewhere, that’s sure!”
Truly here was a situation. Her companions were gone. Here was a problem to be solved.
“They might be back any time,” she told herself, “but they may not come before the storm breaks.” Something seemed to tell her that here was a matter that needed looking into. Had this herd wandered away, been stampeded by wolves, or—her heart skipped a beat—had some northern outlaws driven the reindeer into the wilds that they might live upon them and perhaps later sell the unmarked yearlings?
“It might be Eskimo,” she thought. Her grandfather had told how the deer had at one time belonged to the Government and to the Eskimo, and how white men had gained control of great herds, how some of the Eskimo, feeling themselves defeated, had turned bitter and at one time or another killed deer that did not belong to them.
“It might be dangerous to go and see what it’s all about,” she told herself. “Might—”
A flash of light had caught her eye, a gleam from the white reindeer’s ear. “A marker,” she exclaimed. “John Bowman’s marker! Ah, that’s different!” She had seen Bowman’s deer at Nome. “Come on, Phantom!” she called to the dog. “We’ll have to look into this.”
Inspired by this call to service, Florence climbed up the slope. Then, crouching low that she might not startle the reindeer, she followed back along the trail.
Behind her, sticking close to her heels, was the “Phantom Leader.”
“Good old Phantom,” she murmured. The dog let out an all but inaudible yap-yap.
A biting breath of air struck her cheek. Snow rattled against her parka. The storm was on its way.
Creeping down the slope, she peered through the branches. “Reindeer,” she muttered, “still more reindeer. There must be hundreds! Must be—”
Suddenly she drew back among the dark boughs. Had she caught a glimpse of a skulking figure? She could not be sure. The dog crowded close to her, trembling. Why did he tremble? Could he sense danger?
Creeping back up the ridge, she once more turned her back upon her camp. She must make some fresh discoveries. But the storm was beginning in earnest now. All about her were swirls of blinding snow. Now she could see for a distance of forty yards, and now but a few feet.
“Wild spot this,” she said to the dog. “Reindeer will be stampeded by the storm. They may rush over the ridge and perish.”
Slowly a plan was forming in her mind. She would get behind the herd, then drive it forward to the narrow sheltered valley at the edge of which their camp was made.
“They’ll be safe there,” she told herself. But if there were outlaws, marauders behind this herd? She shuddered. Ah, well, she must risk it. She owed that to her friend and her grandfather’s friend, John Bowman.
For a quarter of an hour she battled her way against the storm. Then, seized with sudden fear lest she lose contact with the herd, she hurried down the slope.
She had just reached the bed of the frozen stream when, for a space of seconds, the air cleared. Through that half-light she saw two dark figures. They were moving up the slope. Were they a man and a sled, or two men? She could not be sure. A second more and all was blotted out in one wild whirl of snow.
Looking down, she saw what appeared to be an answer to her question—a sled track in the snow. Bending down, she examined it carefully. “Eskimo sled,” was her verdict. The tracks were too close together for a white man’s sled, and the runners too broad. They were wooden runners, made of driftwood.
Already she was out of touch with the herd. Whatever happened, she must hasten on.
“Phantom, where are you?” she exclaimed in sudden consternation. Where indeed was the collie? He was gone, had vanished into the ever-increasing storm. A feeling of loneliness, almost of despair, swept over her. Why had she taken such chances? In a strange land one must exercise caution.
“Got to get going.” As she hurled herself forward before the storm, she was fairly lifted from her feet by the violence of the wind. Now spinning like a top and now sailing along like a kite over the snow, she missed a spruce tree by inches, went hurtling over some young firs, then tripped over tangled branches to at last land sprawling on all fours over a snow bank.
“Whew! What a—” she broke short off to listen. What was that? A dog barking?
“Yes! Yes!” She was on her feet. “It’s Phantom and I know the meaning of that bark. He hasn’t started a rabbit, nor is he afraid. He’s driving cattle, reindeer! And why not? He’s a collie.”
Once again, more cautiously, she took up the trail. Her course was clear enough now. All she had to do was to follow on, perhaps give the dog a word of encouragement now and then. She would herd the reindeer up the ravine. Soon they would be at camp. From that point the deer could spread out in the narrow protected valley.
“Yes, that’s it,” she said aloud. “There’s Phantom now.”
She caught fleeting glimpses of the dog. Now he was here, now there, and there. What a fast worker he was! The moment a deer lagged, he was at its heels.
And the reindeer? She saw them indistinctly, like a picture out of focus. But there must be hundreds of them. How had they been driven all this way? And why?
She cast apprehensive glances to right, left, then back. There had been something secretive about the way that man back there on the trail had acted. She saw no one now. The snow fog was closing in.
“Go, Phantom! Go after them!” she cried. “Good old Phantom!” How glad she was that they had responded to the Phantom’s appeal and had saved him.
Just then she caught the gleam of a light, and heard a shout. It was her grandfather’s voice. She was nearing the camp. It was all right now. The deer were safe from the storm and from—from what else? She could not be sure. Only one thing she knew, they were John Bowman’s reindeer and John Bowman was her friend.
An hour later, with the wind tearing and cracking about their tent, the four of them, grandfather, Jodie, Florence, and At-a-tak, sat on their sleeping bags in awed silence listening to the rush and roar of the storm. At their feet, dreaming day-dreams, lay the collie who on that day had covered himself with glory. That splendid herd was safe from the storm. Tomorrow when the storm had gone roaring on towards the north, they would begin unraveling the mystery that had to do with the presence of these reindeer in this wild, uninhabited region.
“Wandered away,” said grandfather.
“Somebody stole,” said At-a-tak.
“Perhaps the regular herders are taking them somewhere,” said Jodie.
But who could surely know? They must wait and see.
Florence stopped short in her tracks. It was early next morning. She had wandered some distance from camp. Bending over, she picked something from the snow. That something was brightly colored orange and green. It had shone out of the solid white of snow at her feet.
“Tracks,” she thought, “Eskimo tracks, and now this.” The thing she held in her hand was strange. A small leather packet, it was decorated with masses of bright beads. As she examined it she saw that it had been sewn up tight, but she could feel some small hard objects within.
“Gold nuggets, perhaps,” her imagination soared. Two bits of leather thong led out from the bag. That they had been one piece she knew at once. “Worn about the neck,” she concluded, “and the thong broke.”
Next instant she was calling, “At-a-tak!”
“Let’s see.” The Eskimo girl burst through a clump of evergreens. “Ah-ne-ca!” she exclaimed at sight of the little sack. “Came from Russia, this one. Not Eskimo, no! no!Chuckchesfrom Russia. What you call it? Charm! Keep bad spirits away, think that, thisChuckcheman.”
“Well,” said Florence, “it might keep bad spirits away, but it didn’t keep bad ideas out of his mind. He and his friends tried to steal five hundred of John Bowman’s reindeer, that’s plain.
“Now—” her tone changed, “looks as if these natives had become frightened, leaving us with the reindeer on our hands. Two hundred miles from anywhere. What are we going to do about it?”
“Yes,” said At-a-tak. What she meant was, ‘Yes, here’s a situation for you!’ And Florence agreed with her. Here they were on a golden quest, marching with dog teams and supplies into the uncharted North in search of a lost and hidden mine, and now of a sudden they found themselves encamped with a whole herd of reindeer belonging to a friend.
“Anyway, we won’t starve,” the girl laughed. “Plenty of reindeer steak.”
“Yes,” said At-a-tak.
“We won’t go back,” Florence decided suddenly.
“No,” agreed the Eskimo girl.
“We’ll go on north,” said Florence. “We’ll take the deer with us. We’ve just got to!”
“Yes,” said At-a-tak.
It was the day after the storm. All was white and quiet now. Florence and the Eskimo girl had gone in search of a clue that would give them a reason for the presence of this valuable herd of reindeer in such a place. Apparently they had found the answer. Here and there were snow-blown tracks of dogs, sleds and natives. These led away from the narrow valley. Without question, these natives, overcome by a desire to live easily off that which belonged to another, had driven these deer into the hills. At sight of white men they had fled. Would they return? Florence shuddered. “Have to be on the watch,” she told herself. To At-a-tak she said:
“Come! Let’s go back to camp.”