“Queer we didn’t hear anything about it when we left the Crossing. I should think that if Inspector Cameron had wired to Edmonton the people at Peace River——”
“But look here, Horace,” interrupted the other, “have you forgotten that the wires are down as a result of this fire?”
“Why, yes, Randall, so I have,” laughed Alderby. “The line is clear from Peace River Crossing to Edmonton, but north the service has been disrupted. It is quite likely,” turning to the boys, “that your Inspector Cameron has not been able to get in touch with Edmonton at all.”
“That’s too bad,” said Dick. “It makes it all the more important why we should hurry on and send in the news from Peace River Crossing. Our plan is to go over to Fort Vermilion and from there try to secure a ride up the Peace in a steam or motor boat.”
“That’s a good three days’ trip,” stated Alderby. “It’s fortunate we ran across you.”
“Why?” Sandy asked innocently.
“Because,” the aviator replied, “we can take you over there ourselves just as soon as we look over our motor.”
“Did motor trouble force you to land?” Dick inquired.
“Yes, but it’s nothing serious. We’ll have it ready in a jiffy.”
“Trouble is,” said Randall, “there’s room only for one of you.”
This statement immediately relieved Toma’s mind. He had begun to fear that he would be asked to sail through the sky in the bowels of that awesome monster—an invitation he had firmly decided to decline.
“That’s all right me, Dick. Mebbe you or Sandy go, but I like stay here with the ponies.”
“Dick will have to go, of course,” Sandy stated, experiencing a moment or two of regret as he looked at the plane and thought of the thrilling ride through the clouds. “As Toma just said, he and I can remain here with the ponies. We’ll make camp and wait for your return.”
“Good heavens, you can’t do that!” Dick expostulated. “You’ll be in danger here with the fire so close. You never can tell when the wind may change and blow it this way.”
“But we no stay here,” Toma enlightened him. “We go on to Fort Vermilion. You come back that way.”
It seemed a good arrangement and soon afterward Dick climbed aboard, crouching down in the limited space assigned to him. He felt a little nervous now that they were about to start. At the first crackling roar of the powerful motor, his heart leaped up in his throat. He called out something unintelligible to Sandy and Toma, grabbed for his hat as the plane commenced bounding along the uneven ground, then stole one frightened look over the side just as the earth commenced to drop away from him in a manner that was both sickening and disconcerting. Nearly ten minutes had passed before he had recovered sufficiently from the shock to realize that he had actually started out on his first journey through the air.
“How do you like it?” asked Randall.
“Do-o-n’t kn-n-ow yet,” he managed to articulate. “How long are we going to be up here?”
“Just a few hours,”—reassuringly.
Just a few hours! Saints and martyrs! Could he stand it that long? When minutes were terrible, what would hours be like? Instantly he dismissed what remained of a once overpowering ambition to become an aviator. It wasn’t exactly in his line anyway. He lacked the necessary physical qualifications. He hadn’t realized it before, not until now, but his stomach was weak. It felt as if there was a big hole there, through which a current of cold air passed every few seconds at a terrific rate of speed. It made him almost ill.
In an effort to keep his thoughts in more comfortable channels, he addressed himself to Randall:
“You said this was a government plane?”
“Yes,” came the ready answer, “one of five sent out to this north country to assist in the prevention and control of forest fires. The country will need all this valuable timber some day. Millions of dollars going up in smoke. Time we put a stop to it.”
Randall’s voice trailed off and became lost in the roar of the motor and the screeching of the wind. Dick tried to stretch his legs. He tried to sleep. He endeavored to accustom himself to the queer, unpleasant motion of the plane. He was unutterably glad when he heard Alderby trumpeting in Randall’s ear:
“Crossing lights!”
Dick steeled himself and looked down. Ahead and far below he perceived a faint effulgence—like glow-worms shining feebly across a vale of darkness.
Not long afterward they began to descend. Hills took shape. The wide ribbon of the Peace and the Hart, cascading down through the hills to join it. The shape of trees, the rugged contours of the land and, finally, straight below them, a level field, which seemed to come up, up, up to meet them, and upon which, a short time later, they landed in safety.
“Here!” exclaimed the jovial voice of Alderby.
In the chill, gray light of dawn, Dick followed Randall past the hangar and into the town. His heart was beating jubilantly.
His companion led the way through the streets of the little town, pausing at length in front of a small brick building, which served as an office for the government telegraph. The door was locked, but following a short rattling at the knob, they were admitted by a sleepy operator, who demanded to know their business.
In a few words, Randall explained the reason for their early call.
“We would like to know,” he continued, “if you have any information concerning a smallpox epidemic in the north, or of a relief party which has been sent out from Edmonton?”
“Yes, I know something about it.”
The operator invited them inside and switched on the lights. He in turn asked a question of Randall:
“Is this one of the young men Cameron instructed to come here to meet the relief party?”
Before Randall could answer, Dick produced the letter he had received from the Indian messenger and handed it over.
“That will serve as my introduction. Read it.”
“Fine!” exclaimed the operator, glancing over the missive. “Yes, Cameron got his message through. The relief expedition is already on its way.”
“But I thought the government line was out of order, had been destroyed by the fire north of here.”
“So it was. Inspector Cameron’s s.o.s. was broadcast by radio from Mackenzie River and someone in Edmonton picked it up. The message was repeated again early this morning. It’s common property now all over the province. Every available airplane in Edmonton and Calgary is being sent up. A few of the planes ought to arrive any time. Also a special passenger train is scheduled to arrive tonight.”
“Can the airplanes go as far north as the Mackenzie?” Dick asked.
Randall replied in the affirmative. “The only difficulty is to carry enough gasoline.”
“In that case,” said Dick, a little crestfallen, “our services will no longer be required.”
“Don’t worry. You’ll have plenty to do,” laughed the operator.
“Your troubles have only commenced,” smiled Randall. “I’ll take you back and pick up your friends at Fort Vermilion, then we’ll pilot the other planes through to the Mackenzie. You’ll be a regular air-hawk before long.”
He turned to the operator. “Thank you very much for your kindness. I think I’ll take Dick over to one of the hotels and then slip back to the flying field.”
“I can’t go to a hotel just yet,” Dick interposed. “I was told to report to Inspector Anderson at the police barracks here.”
Hardly were they in the street again, when the aviator clutched Dick’s shoulder with one hand, while with the other he pointed aloft. Through the still air there came to them the distant strum, strum, strum of a motor.
“Look!” he shouted. “The first plane from Edmonton!”
Convalescing after a serious illness, Corporal Rand found it expedient on this bright autumnal morning to rise, don his uniform and go for a stroll along the banks of the mighty Mackenzie River. He was still very weak and shaky as a result of his long confinement at barracks hospital, yet the crisp, still air was tonic in its effect and something of his old cheerfulness and buoyancy returned as he proceeded along the narrow footpath leading away from the post.
The corporal’s thoughts touched upon many subjects. Above all, was he glad to know that he would soon be able to return to duty. The tedium and monotony of what amounted almost to imprisonment would soon be at an end. Accustomed to a life of ceaseless activity, he yearned to be on the trail again. The old restlessness was in his blood. Before starting out he had paid a visit to Inspector Cameron. With a smile he recalled the interview with his chief and in retrospect, he saw himself again, standing at attention before the grizzled and stern director of police activities in that part of the North.
“Well, how are you feeling, corporal?”
The words had been snapped out at him in the usual brisk, nervous manner, the man’s steel-gray eyes carrying no hint of the real feeling behind them.
“I’m ready to report for duty, sir,” he made the statement carelessly.
“Humph! Duty! You’re pale as a ghost, man. Shaky! Wonder how you dare to come here with your deceptions. Back to the barracks with you and don’t let me see you again until you’re a well man.”
Rand smiled, saluted, and half-turned to leave the room when a thought came to him.
“No objections to my taking a stroll, sir? Think the fresh air will do me good.”
“Certainly,” said the inspector a little crisply, then turned to his work, only to raise his eyes again as Rand walked over in the direction of the door.
“Hold. Have you heard the latest news, corporal?”—more kindly.
Rand hesitated, one hand on the knob of the door.
“No, sir, I haven’t.”
“Good news. Wonderful news.” Cameron’s eyes were sparkling now. “Most astonishing too. The relief expedition left Peace River Crossing yesterday and will be here before night. Marvelous!”
Rand wondered if he had heard aright. There was a faint trace of incredulity in his voice as he answered:
“Marvelous, indeed, sir. Last year Sergeant Richardson made the trip in a little less than ten days. Who’s leading this expedition?”
“Dick Kent,” answered the other.
Corporal Rand was smiling broadly now.
“He must have sprouted a pair of wings, sir.”
“That’s it exactly. They’re coming by airplane.”
Rand recalled his astonishment at this unexpected bit of information. Amazement widened his eyes. He turned swiftly.
“Airplanes!”
“Yes. I don’t understand it myself. If they make it, it will be the first time in history. The petrol supply will be their chief trouble.”
“Great experience for Dick and Sandy,” mused the corporal.
“I wasn’t thinking about them. I was thinking about the hundreds of poor devils up north, whose lives will be spared if that flight should prove successful.”
“Certainly, sir, that’s true. A sort of race against death, isn’t it? By the way, inspector, how is the smallpox situation now?”
“Appalling! The reports I have received stagger me. The ratio of persons who die after incurring the disease is about four out of every six. The epidemic has spread out over a very wide area. It has already reached the Eskimo tribes on the eastern side of the barren lands. They’re dying like flies.”
“Do you think you’ll have sufficient medicine and men for the whole of the territory affected?”
“I doubt it. Nevertheless, we’ll do the best we can. If Kent and his two friends get through safely, I’m sending them up to the barrens with one physician and as much of the remedy as we can possibly spare.”
* * * * * * * *
Corporal Rand looked out across the valley. The opposite bank of the river flamed with the gold and bronze of autumn’s foliage. Though the season was getting late, the weather was glorious. Not a breath of wind. The sun shone from an unclouded, deep-azure sky. Large flocks of wild geese went honking overhead.
A little regretfully, Rand turned and retraced his steps. It would soon be time for the midday meal, and he was hungry. Tomorrow, he decided, he would see the inspector again and repeat his request. Perhaps he might be ordered out for duty. Perhaps he might be permitted to do his part in a worthy cause. In any event, once on the trail, he would soon forget his weakness, probably gain new strength, be more like his former self.
He spent the afternoon reading and loitering about, but just before sundown went outside in the hope that he might catch sight of the planes of the relief expedition. In this, however, he was disappointed, although he scanned the southern skies until long after twilight. He returned to the barracks troubled by a strange premonition. He tried to read, but threw down the book before he could become interested. He paced the rough floor of his room, puffing nervously at his pipe, his mind filled with a hundred vague alarms.
Reason, finally, came to his rescue. How foolish he was. The party would probably arrive during the night. His senseless worrying, no doubt, was caused by his recent illness and the nervous tension of being confined to the barracks. Shortly after midnight, when Constable Whitehall, the orderly, entered his room to wish him good-night, he had regained a great deal of his previous cheerfulness.
“Well, how are things?” he inquired of his visitor.
“All right, I guess, but the old man’s worrying about that expedition. Says it should have been here before this.”
“I’ve been worrying, too,” Rand admitted. “Do you suppose anything has gone wrong, Whitehall?”
The constable wagged his head.
“Couldn’t say. Personally, I think they’ll be in before morning.”
“Rather difficult to make a landing in the dark, wouldn’t it?”
“Don’t know about that.”
“I’m afraid it would,” the corporal answered his own question. “Beastly dark night. Like the inside of a pocket. You don’t suppose they’ve been driven off their course or have lost their way?”
“Pshaw!” exclaimed Whitehall. “You’re as fidgety as the chief himself. Everything will be all right, I’m sure. My advice to you is to hop into bed. This sort of thing isn’t good for you.”
For a long time after the two friends separated, Rand rolled and tossed in his bed, obsessed by that queer and unexplainable premonition. He fell into a sleep which was fitful and broken. Through his dreams ran a thread of horror. He woke repeatedly. Finally, he threw back the covers, rose and lit the oil lamp which stood on a table near the head of his bed, and once more essayed to read. Impatiently, he threw the book from him, darted to his feet and commenced pacing back and forth, now and again pausing to pull aside the curtain and look out.
Daylight found him shaved, fully dressed, waiting for the stir of life about the barracks. The rattle of a granite plate in the kitchen at the back came as a signal for his release from the trying ordeal of the night. He pulled on his short fur coat and walked outside, wandering listlessly away in the direction of the stables and dog compound. To his surprise, he perceived that another person was already abroad. Approaching closer, his astonishment increased. Inspector Cameron!—a somewhat ludicrous figure that morning: Head bent, jaws clamped over a cigar, arms behind his back. He shambled to within a few feet of Rand before he looked up.
“Well?”
“Yes, sir.”
“What are you doing here?”—fiercely.
“I couldn’t sleep, sir.”
“Neither could I. Rotten luck! What do you suppose became of them?”
“You mean the planes, sir?”
“Certainly.”
“They—they ought to be in this morning,” Rand stammered.
“They should have been in last night.”
For a time they lapsed into silence, each regarding the other intently. Finally the corporal plucked up enough courage to make his request:
“If you’ve no objections, inspector, I’d like to return to duty.”
Cameron glared at him.
“I’m really all right,” Rand hastened to inform him.
“I told you——” began the inspector, throwing away his cigar and staring fiercely at his subordinate. “I told you——”
“Yes; yes, I know,” said Rand softly. “But it’s this way, sir. There is much that I can do to help out at this critical time. A few days in the open air and I’ll be perfectly well again.”
“I’ll think about it. Lord knows we need you. I may possibly be compelled to go out myself. Report to me this afternoon at two o’clock.”
They separated, each going his own way. After breakfast, Rand secured his gun and went out in the vicinity of the post to hunt geese. When he returned, it was well past the lunch hour and when he had eaten it was almost time for his interview with Cameron.
When he had arrived there, the inspector’s office was a scene of unusual activity. Four stalwart half-breeds stood in front of Cameron’s desk, and the orderly directly behind them. The room was sticky and hot. Cameron’s hair was rumpled and he was issuing orders in crisp, choppy tones.
“You have your instructions,” Rand heard him state. “Now take your ponies and go out and see what you can do. Search the country carefully and make inquiries wherever you can. I’ll expect you back in two days.”
The natives went out of the room, followed by the orderly, then Rand, seeing his chance, walked up in front of the inspector’s desk. Cameron did not even look up as he made a notation on a pad in front of him.
“All right, corporal, I have a job for you. Proceed at once to Keechewan with your horse and full equipment. Know where that is, don’t you?”
“Yes, sir,” the corporal saluted. “Just south of the barren lands. What’s the trouble up there?”
“I’m coming to that. Natives causing no end of trouble at the Keechewan mission. It’s an outgrowth of this smallpox trouble. The Indians seem to think that the plague has been sent among them by the gods of the white man. The missionaries have warded off two attacks by the infuriated inhabitants of the Indian village, just south of Keechewan. Your duty, corporal, will be to straighten this thing up. Endeavor to instil a friendly feeling among the Indians. If any lives have been taken, bring in the murderers.”
If Corporal Rand manifested any sign of the fear that was in his heart, it was not noticeable to his chief. He merely saluted and inquired:
“Any further instructions, sir?”
Cameron rose to his feet, strode around his desk, and, to the corporal’s surprise, placed a trembling hand upon his arm.
“You don’t know how I hate to do this, Rand. I don’t want to send you up there without first having you inoculated. You may be going to your death—I’ll be perfectly frank with you. I wish there was some other way. I’ve thought long and carefully over this matter and I’ve come to the conclusion that unless we send help to the mission at once, it may be too late. All of them may be murdered.”
“It’s all right, sir. I’ll go.”
Cameron seized the other’s hand and held it during an interval of oppressive silence. There was no thought now of the inequality of rank. Man to man, brothers in a common cause—each understood and appreciated the other’s attitude and feelings.
“Thank you, sir,” said Rand, “for letting me go, permitting me to do this thing.”
He walked out of the post with a queer smile on his lips. He hurried away in the direction of the stables, his heart beating exultantly. His hand still tingled from Cameron’s steel-like yet affectionate clasp. Dazedly, he groomed and saddled his horse and was in the very act of leading it outside, when Whitehall appeared at the stable door.
“Drop everything at once and come back to the office. Cameron wants to see you.”
Rand threw the reins over his horse’s head, and followed the orderly back to barracks. Again he stood in front of his chief.
“You wish to see me?”
“Rand, I’ve changed my mind. I’ve decided not to send you after all.”
Rand gulped.
“Don’t change your mind on my account. I’m willing to go.”
“Tut! Tut! I’m in command here. You’ll do as I say. I want you to take charge during my absence. I’ve already written a few instructions for you.”
“Will you be away long, sir?” Rand asked tremblingly, a vague suspicion in his mind.
“Several weeks, I expect. I’m going to Keechewan in your place.”
“In my place!” A sudden blinding weakness overcame the corporal. “In—in my place!” he stammered.
For a period of at least five minutes the room was as quiet as death. Then, suddenly, Rand’s voice rang out clearly:
“Inspector Cameron, you’re a man! But I am too. My horse is saddled and waiting for me. I hate to disobey you, sir, but I’m leaving at once. When I return from the Barrens—if I ever do—I’ll report here and you can place me under arrest. Good-bye, sir!”
He saluted briskly and turned away. Inspector Cameron was still gaping when the door closed softly after the retreating figure.
A wonderful huntsman was Kantisepa, the very greatest among his people. In his aimless journeying he had passed over a large part of the vast, immutable north, proceeding far from known haunts into lands which seldom had heard the footfalls of the hunter. He had viewed wild scenes, the glory and grandeur of which few other eyes had seen. Unnamed rivers and lakes, lofty mountains, interminable swamps, places so barren and devoid of all vegetation, so breathless, weird and forlorn that life passed on in horror, fearful of the madness that lurked there—all these he had looked upon during his ceaseless pilgrimages.
He had hunted moose and caribou and the ferocious black bears of the mountains. Once he had fought off a wolf with no better weapon than a club. His long association with the wild and its denizens had bred in him a certain uncanny wisdom. Insects and beasts and birds—he knew them all with the unerring certainty of a trained naturalist. Yet now, standing in the bright glare of the sun, gaze focused on certain huge dark specks in the distant horizon, it was evident from his expression that at last he had seen something he could not classify.
Two birds of mammoth, gigantic size were flying straight towards him. Larger than a moose or bear, of greater size even than the largest tepee, they sailed through the air, drumming as they went. Their speed and size and the horrible noise they made so frightened poor Kantisepa, that he crouched low in a thicket, resolving under no circumstances to show himself to the invaders.
Two of the huge birds flew close together—evidently for companionship. The third one, probably much younger—for it was smaller—brought up the rear, at a considerable distance behind its mates. As this bird drew close to the clearing, an incredible thing happened. It fluttered suddenly and began to fall. It came down, spinning, righted itself, coasted along for quite a distance, as if planning to alight, then lost control of its equilibrium entirely and crashed to the ground with such a sickening thud that Kantisepa was quite sure that it was destroyed utterly.
The two other birds were almost out of sight when the catastrophe occurred. These, Kantisepa considered, must be the parent birds, and in their eagerness to reach their destination, had probably forgotten their offspring, which was probably just learning to fly. At any rate, though the Indian stood a long time waiting, the others did not return and, finally, overcome by the natural curiosity of his race, he set out in the direction of the luckless victim.
When he had approached to within a few hundred yards of his objective, he was startled almost out of his senses. Crawling out of the mass of broken wings and fragments of the bird’s body, came a curious animal, which in many respects resembled a man. A very marked difference between the creature and a man was the enormous size of the creature’s eyes—three or four times larger than the eyes of his own people—composed of some peculiar substance which glinted and sparkled under the bright reflection of the sun. Then Kantisepa noted another peculiarity: Although possessing legs almost identical to his own, this strange being did not stand upon them in the ordinary manner, but chose instead to walk on both arms and legs, as a bear sometimes walks. Of a very ready and open mind, Kantisepa could explain the creature’s presence in only one way: a parasite of some kind, possessing the same relationship to the bird as a flea would to a dog.
Coming still closer, he was forced to readjust his first impressions. He knew wood and iron when he saw it. He gasped in wonderment. No bird at all! Instead a magic ship, a marvelous creation, invested with the strange power of sailing through the air. It, together with the two others, had come from some remote land beyond the stars. Trembling in every limb, he approached the strange being, who had crawled away from the wreckage of the ship. The creature was grievously hurt. Blood trickled on the ground beneath him. He had abandoned his efforts to crawl away and now lay perfectly still, his shoulders heaving in distress and pain.
Not without pity, Kantisepa shuddered at the sorry sight. With a slight grimace, he turned and walked over to examine the magic ship. Peering down within the center of the wreckage, he saw the form of another creature, identical to the first except that this one was hopelessly crushed and apparently quite dead. He withdrew his gaze quickly and turned back again to the first being, who still retained some signs of life.
Kantisepa quickly decided upon a course of action. He walked forward, stooped down and picked up the man from beyond the stars and started off in the direction of the village. He would take him to the chief medicine man, who, if he could not actually save the creature’s life, could at least place him on exhibition for the benefit of his curious kinsmen.
The village was a good six miles away, but the stalwart Indian on previous occasions had carried heavier burdens. He would proceed half way to his destination that night and the remainder on the following morning. He was forced to move slowly and to rest often. The hours passed. Finally the sun slid down to a far corner of the world until only a dazzling sector of light remained. Kantisepa made camp just as night dropped its curtain of dusk over the earth. Near at hand, he could hear the murmur of a tiny stream, above which a mist arose, spreading out gradually like a gray protecting shroud above the natural willow hedges fringing the stream. Presently, the dew wet the grass. With a mournful, unearthly cry, a night bird swooped down to the place where Kantisepa stood, rising again on whirring wings to the dark vault of the sky.
“It is an ill omen,” he thought, a sudden fear gripping his heart.
And so through the brooding, interminable hours he had remained awake. First he had bathed and dressed the wounds of the strange being, then, wrapping him in his own blanket to shut out the damp cool air, he had kept silent vigil. Time crept on, its movements so slow and wearied that it seemed to him that day would never come. The tense silence oppressed him. It throbbed in his ears until the reaction of any slight sound smote sharply upon him.
Morning came at last, heralded by flaming colors in the east, preceded by a fitful breeze that stirred the dry grass uneasily at his feet. Kantisepa was very tired. His body was stiff and sore. When he picked up the strange being again to resume his journey, his legs trembled, scarcely supporting him.
Late that morning he stumbled into the Indian encampment. Like many brown inverted cones were the dwellings that stood row on row within a narrow, peaceful valley. Through the center of the village trickled a brook, which was fed from numerous small springs bubbling up between broken rocks.
The place slept in a glare of brilliant sunlight. Dogs lay curled up in the shade of the tepees. Children played listlessly in the dead grass or waded knee-deep in the riffles of the brook. Here and there Kantisepa discerned the squat indolent forms of women and, farther on, standing at the extreme end of a willow copse, a single solitary hunter.
Suddenly the village came out of its picturesque somnolence. A dog barked unexpectedly near at hand. Magically, the plain became dotted with a scurrying throng. Men, women and children tumbled forth from drab tepees. Sharp cries arose. Led by the most nimble of foot, the entire populace raced forward to meet the returning hunter. Soon he was completely surrounded. Inquisitive eyes peered down at the strange being. Kantisepa was forced to put down his burden and immediately a babble of voices arose, continuing until a tall, gaudily-apparelled warrior pushed his way through to the spot and waved one arm peremptorily.
“Who is this you have brought among us?” he demanded.
“A strange god from the skies,” Kantisepa answered proudly. “He came on a ship which sailed through the clouds, but which met with disaster.”
“Are you sure he will not bring a curse upon us?” inquired the old warrior.
Kantisepa wiped the perspiration from his face.
“He is without friends and without people,” he asserted. “A number of his comrades in other magic ships of the air saw him fall but did not come to his rescue.”
The chief stooped down and examined the partially conscious figure.
“He is a young man—a mere stripling youth. Did he travel alone?”
Kantisepa shook his head.
“No, there was one other with him, who now is dead.”
With a wave of his arm, the chief dismissed the jostling crowd and turned again to the hunter.
“You have done well,” he complimented him. “Raise him up and bring him to my tepee.”
Morning had passed. South the sun swept through blue unclouded skies. Together Kantisepa and the chief went forward through a lane of curious natives.
“This being is hurt and cannot return to his people,” said Kantisepa. “His wonder ship of the air became demolished when it fell from the clouds.”
They entered the tepee where Kantisepa deposited his burden gently on a soft rabbit-robe, then rose with a weary gesture and turned again to the headman of his tribe.
“It is a strange story,” he declared. “Yet it is true. If you will summon the chief men of the village, this afternoon I will lead you and them to the magic ship.”
When Dick sat up he saw the walls of a tepee, the tall form of an Indian of doubtful age, dressed in beaded moosehide, and the shadow of still another figure on his right and a little behind him. Kantisepa’s ministering effort had not been in vain. The strange being had recovered consciousness!
As Dick’s mind grew clearer, memory came back to him. He recalled the flight through the air from Peace River Crossing. As far as Fort Vermilion he had travelled with Randall, but there had given up his place to Sandy and Toma, he himself entering the plane which was being piloted by Cliff Stewart, a member of the Edmonton relief expedition.
From that very moment their trouble had started. In “taking-off” Stewart had slightly injured his machine in a collision with a tree. Later there had been trouble with the motor. Two hundred miles north of Fort Vermilion, a few minutes before the final tragedy, Dick had heard a sudden crackling noise and had seen Stewart’s face turn pale as he had reached for the controlling levers.
Dick shuddered at the memory of that fall from the skies when the plane became unmanageable. A terrifying spinning sensation, a horrible rush of air from below, the cracking and splitting of wood and steel, culminating in a terrific descent and the lapse of consciousness.
How he had contrived to escape with his life seemed more than a miracle. Had Stewart been equally as fortunate? Who had brought him here? He looked up into the expressionless eyes of the old Indian who stood opposite.
“Where am I?” he asked in Cree.
The old chief started. Here indeed was undeniable evidence of the divinity of this strange being. He was a god surely. Did he not speak the language of their tribe, this stranger who had come from some shadowy land beyond the moon?
“Glorious one, do not fear. You are safe among friends. I give you my assurance and the assurance of all my people. We are deeply honored by your coming.”
“But who brought me here?”
“I did,” the man beside him spoke up unhesitatingly. “When the magic ship crashed to the earth, I bore you here in my own arms.”
“And my companion?” trembled Dick.
“He is dead.”
For a moment the young man could not speak. Something choked him. The memory of the valiant pilot was a particularly poignant one. In one sense of the word, Stewart had become a martyr in a noble cause. Like many another fearless flyer he had engraved his name in blood on the flaming altar of achievement. It was several minutes before Dick could trust himself to speak.
“Did the other ships come back to our rescue?”
“No,” answered Kantisepa, “they sailed on through the heavens and became lost in the mists of a distant country.”
It was strange, thought Dick. Queer the others had not seen their fall. But surely by this time they had discovered the absence of the third plane and would come back to investigate.
“How long has it been since we fell to the ground?” Dick inquired of Kantisepa.
“Late yesterday afternoon. This is another day.”
Dick’s heart sank at the information. He had supposed that only a few hours had passed since the accident.
“And you saw no sign of the ships returning?” he persisted. “Are you sure?”
Kantisepa shook his head.
“I am sure, my brother. Even if I had not seen them, had they returned, my ears would have caught the sound of their coming. Perhaps they have gone back to the land of your people, the place beyond the stars.”
For the next ten or fifteen minutes the young adventurer attempted to make his two companions, credulous and highly imaginative Indians, understand that there was nothing in any way magical or mysterious about those ships of the air; and that neither he nor his friends were gods from some vague land beyond the rim of the world, but flesh and blood men like themselves, men who had come from Edmonton to bring help and relief to hundreds of their kinsmen suffering from the plague.
Both Kantisepa and the chief had heard of the existence of the big city to the south, and the name “Edmonton” was not unfamiliar to them. But neither had ever heard, or if they had heard would have believed that ordinary mortals, even the smartest of the white race, could fashion boats from wood and iron that could float through thin air. Finally, however, when Dick had nearly exhausted his patience and his vocabulary, he saw that in a measure, at least, they had begun to credit his story.
“It is very wonderful,” said the chief, “that men are now able to go floating through the skies. But tell me, my brother, have not certain of the braver ones already journeyed to the stars?”
“No,” answered Dick. “Thus far no boat has ever been built which would be strong enough to undertake such a voyage. Perhaps that will come in time.”
An interval of silence ensued, broken at length by the appearance of an Indian squaw, who brought food and drink and placed it before the young man. Then, while Dick ate, he talked. He told them of the smallpox epidemic north of the Mackenzie, of his adventures in going to Peace River Crossing at the request of Inspector Cameron of the mounted police, and subsequently of his ill-fated ride from Fort Vermilion.
“Those ships of the air,” he concluded, “are carrying medicine to the sick.”
The two Indians appeared to be very much interested, offering their services in any way that would be useful in such a cause. The chief said:
“We will give you ponies so that you may proceed on your journey.”
Dick thanked them. “That is very kind of you.”
He looked up with beaming eyes, then abruptly his face darkened as a thought occurred to him.
“I must take the body of my friend with me,” he trembled. “I must start today. The great white father of the police will be pleased to hear of your kindness. Perhaps some of your people will be so good as to accompany me on my journey.”
The chief advanced and laid a hand benevolently on the young man’s head. Something closely akin to a smile lighted the wrinkled, weatherbeaten face.
“I myself,” he announced proudly, “will lead the expedition which will set out this afternoon for the Mackenzie River. It is said.”
And with a stiff, formal bow, he turned with great dignity and strode out of the tepee.
A few minutes later Dick rose and followed Kantisepa outside. They proceeded to a far end of the village, where a poplar pole corral had been built. This corral or compound contained between thirty or forty Indian ponies. A number of youths had already entered it, carrying lassos. Following much shouting and stampeding of hoofs, they soon had a number of the little beasts saddled and bridled in preparation for the journey northward.
Kantisepa and Dick stood near the entrance of the corral, conversing in low tones. It was during this conversation that Dick learned for the first time that the place where the plane had crashed to the ground was not close to the village. This information had come as a result of his request that he be taken to the spot.
“Come,” he said to his Indian friend, “we will walk over there while the young men are packing the ponies.”
Kantisepa stared at the other in mild disapproval.
“Why do you wish to go now?” he asked. “It is far to walk.”
“How far is it?” asked Dick.
“Six miles,” came the astonishing reply. “Very soon we will go that way. The magic ship lies broken in a little meadow that lies straight in the direction of the noonday sun.”
“And you carried me here all that way?” Dick asked in amazement.
“Yes, it is so,” Kantisepa answered, the tone of his voice implying that the achievement was scarcely worthy of mention.
Dick looked at the stalwart Indian with something very much like a lump in his throat. He could see it all plainly now: The shattered airplane, himself crawling dazedly from the wreckage, only to sink unconscious in a place where eventually he would have died, had not this dusky friend come to his rescue. Impulsively he stepped forward and imprisoned one of Kantisepa’s long, thin hands in his own.
“My brother,” his voice quavered, “I have very much to thank you for, and never shall I forget your kindness.”