He proceeded to replace all the articles and to rebind the sled.
Hardly had this been accomplished than the reindeer, who had stood all this time with head down like a tired workhorse, suddenly sprang into action. With a wild snort he cleared with one leap a low willow bush and dragging the sled after him, sprang away at a terrific speed.
Curlie had barely time to leap, stomach-down, upon the sled and to grasp the rawhide rope with both hands. He was determined not to be left behind.
Scarcely realizing that his most priceless possession, his rifle, was not on the sled, he still clung there while he was whirled along at a terrific gait.
Rocking like a rowboat in a storm the sled took the ridges of snow as a boat would the waves.
Expecting at every moment to see the sled go over and to be forced to loose his hold, Curlie lay prepared for any emergency.
But the short, broad, low-runnered sled, built for just such an emergency as this, did not turn turtle. So, across one ridge and down it they raced, along the side of a low, receding slope, then across a valley they sped. Skirting a willow clump, they crossed a narrow stream to climb a hill again.
“Ought to let him rip and go back after my rifle,” the boy told himself, but, tired as he was, hungry and sleepy too, he was still game. This beast had challenged his power of wits and endurance; he would stick to the end.
“Wonder how in time you go about it to stop ’em?”
He tried shouting, but this only served to frighten the deer into greater speed, so again he was silent.
They shot down a hill. There was danger that the sled would overtake the deer and that they would be tumbled into a heap. To prevent this he began using his foot as a brake. It worked; that gave him an idea. “Have to tire him out,” he told himself. “Keep the brake on all the time. That’ll help.”
Digging his heel in as hard as he could, he created a great deal of friction which in time began to tell upon the reindeer. He traveled with his mouth open, and his breath began to come in hoarse pants.
“I’ll get you!” Curlie triumphed. “Sorry to do it, old boy, but it seems to be the only way we can come to terms.”
Slowly and yet more slowly they traveled. The reindeer had dropped almost to a walk when, with a sudden spurt, he did a peculiar thing. They were near a clump of willows. Charging straight at these, like an ostrich hiding his head in the sand, he buried himself in the rustling leaves.
“Well!” said Curlie, rising stiffly, “that’s that!
“And now,” he said, rubbing his eyes sleepily. “I think I’ll just tie you up here and leave you to browse on these tender willow leaves while I have a bit of frozen fish. After that I’ll drag the sleeping-bag into the brush for forty winks.”
A half hour later two thin columns of vapor rose from the willows, one from the reindeer and one from Curlie.
“Wonder if anyone will see them?” Curlie puzzled before he fell asleep. “Well, if they do, they do. I can’t help it and I’m too dead for sleep to care.”
Curlie’s runaway reindeer had carried him far. Hardly had he fallen asleep when two dog teams appeared over the crest of the ridge. This ridge, a mile away, looked down upon the willows from which the breath of Curlie and the reindeer arose.
The foremost of the two powerful dog teams was driven by a strongly built man who ran beside the sled. Upon the other sled rode a second individual.
“Whoa!” The weary dogs halted.
“Some one camped down there.” The man spoke more to himself than to his companion. “Might mean some food.” He looked to the loading of his rifle. “Might mean trouble.” So he stood there, apparently undecided, while the columns of vapor continued to rise from the willows.
Had Curlie Carson possessed a guardian spirit he would beyond doubt have whispered in his ear:
“Curlie! Curlie Carson! Awake! You are in danger!”
But since he had none, he slept peacefully on.
Joe Marion and Jennings were facing a problem. They had returned to their camp after following what they thought was the trail of some other person than Curlie. You will remember that they had discovered the marks of a reindeer which had apparently been tied in the brush. This reindeer, they had concluded, belonged to some herder who had camped in the other clump of willows for the night. It was in fact the very reindeer which Curlie had found tangled in the brush. But this they did not know. And since they did not know it they supposed they had lost all trace of their companion and were more than half convinced that he had been frozen to death in the blizzard.
Now, under the circumstances, what were they to do? They had come a long and dangerous way to capture a man, the air outlaw. To get his man had been Curlie’s constant thought. He was doubtless getting farther and farther from them as the hours passed. They now had meat to last them three or four days. What should they do? Press on as rapidly as they could, leaving Curlie to find their trail and follow if he were still alive, or should they continue the search for him, circling the hills and the tundra with the dogs in the hopes of again picking up his trail?
“Might be still alive but with frozen feet, unable to travel,” suggested Joe.
“Yes, that has happened often in the Arctic!” said Jennings.
“But he has his belt radiophone set,” said Joe thoughtfully. “The air is quiet now. His balloon aerial would work beautifully. Why don’t—”
Suddenly he started. In his eager search for his companion he had neglected the radiophone.
Now he turned his attention to it. Tuning it to 200, their agreed wave length, he listened in while Jennings fried caribou steak.
“That’s a rare treat,” said Jennings as he set his teeth in a juicy morsel. “It’s surprising how you can keep a liking for caribou and reindeer meat. In ’98 we came in four or five thousand strong over the trail from Valdez. We each had sixteen hundred pounds of kit and grub which cost us about four hundred dollars. With that food and the fish and game we got, we lived up here a year and a half. Think of it; a year and a half on a sled load of grub.”
“Did you find much gold?” asked Joe.
“Not many of us did. Most of us went back to the States poorer than when we came. That is, we did as far as money goes, but in other ways we had gained much. We had learned how to live without the white man’s luxuries. We had learned to face danger, hardship and even death with a smile. We had lived hundreds of miles from doctors, drugs and nurses, and yet most of us came out of it, brown, sturdy, hard-muscled, keen of nerve and of mind, ready for anything that life might hand us. That’s the pay men get for daring a wilderness.”
“Sh—”
Joe held up a warning finger. He was getting something out of the air.
He knew at once that it was not Curlie speaking, yet he felt sure it was important. It came from the north.
“Steamship Torrentia. Munson, the explorer, speaking.” Joe thrilled at the sound of that name.
“Torrentia - crushed - by ice,” the voice went on. “Sinking - by - the - bow. Position about - one - thousand - miles - due - north - of - Flaxman - Island. All supplies - unloaded - on floating - ice pans. Shall attempt - pole - by plane. Later - return - by plane - to Flaxman. Must - have - transportation - for thirty - men from - Flaxman. Authorize - any necessary expense.”
The message ended, Joe sat wrapped in deep thought.
“I don’t see how he hopes to get transportation for thirty men from Flaxman Island. That spot, why that’s off the map—all but off the earth. Nobody there. No one near. We can help him some with our dogs if we happen to be there when he arrives but our teams are but a sample of what he needs.”
“Ought to have left dogs and a native or two with his supplies at Flaxman,” said Jennings.
“Yes, but he didn’t.”
“No. That’s the real point.”
“Say!” exclaimed Joe suddenly, “there must be a reindeer herd somewhere near here, otherwise that fellow with the sled deer wouldn’t be wandering around so close.”
“Probably. But you can’t be sure of it. Those little brown folks think a lot of their reindeer. I have known them to trail a deer that had run away in company with wild caribou, for more than five hundred miles. Anyway, it’s worth looking into. If there is a good-sized herd close to us, the Eskimo who owns it will have enough sled deers to bring Munson’s whole party out to civilization. I think we ought to look into that at once.”
“I’d agree with you but for one consideration,” said Joe thoughtfully.
“What’s that?” said Jennings sharply.
“The outlaw.”
“What’s he got to do with it?”
“He’s going north, isn’t he?”
“Yes.”
“Toward Flaxman Island?”
“Probably. But what of that. What little food he and his companion, if he has one, will eat, won’t amount to anything.”
“No, it won’t; not if he stops at that. But as Curlie and I have said to you before, everything goes to indicate that he is sore at Munson; that he’d like to do him an injury. What greater injury could he do him than to load down his sled with supplies from Flaxman Island, then touch a match to the rest? Why, man, the whole thirty of them would starve just as Sir John Franklin’s hundred and fifty men did in that same region two or three generations ago!”
“Yes, if the outlaw’s that kind of a bird.”
“Who knows about that? The only way to find out is to go after him. I think it’s mighty important that we get him and get him quick.”
“Then we’ll have to leave Curlie to make the best of things, to shift for himself?”
“We-l-l,” said Joe, speaking very slowly, “I—I’m not sure what we should do. Let’s leave that discussion until morning.”
“Agreed,” said Jennings as he began unlacing his felt shoes, preparatory to creeping into his sleeping-bag.
After a moment of indecision the man driving the team of powerful dogs, who, as you remember, was standing looking down at the two columns of vapor which marked the spot where Curlie Carson slept, spoke to his dog team. He had been debating the advisability of descending the hill and entering that clump of willows. What he now said to his dogs was:
“You mush!”
The dogs leaped forward and, since he had given them no order as to direction, they raced away straight along the ridge and not down to the willows.
A hundred yards farther on he dug his heels in the snow as he clung to the handle of the sled and shouted: “Whoa!”
Again he appeared to debate the question. This time he was more prompt in his decision.
Again the team followed the ridge, while away in the willow clump, all unarmed and defenseless, Curlie Carson slept and his newly acquired reindeer munched on at the dead willow leaves. The deer was sleek and fat. He would have made prime feed for the traveler’s dogs as well as for him and his companion. And as for Curlie; well, perhaps the man might have rejoiced at meeting him alone and unarmed. Of that we shall learn more later.
Curlie slept longer than he had intended doing. His weary brain and tired body yearned for rest and once this was offered to them they partook of it in a prodigal manner.
At last he awoke, to poke his head out of the sleeping-bag and to stare up at the stars.
“Where am I?” he asked himself. “Ah, yes, now I remember; in a clump of willows. I have a mysterious reindeer but no rifle. I have some frozen fish. This clump of willows, where is it? Where is our camp? Joe Marion, Jennings, where are they? Who can tell?” He sat up and scratched his head.
“Well, I’m here. That much is good.” He caught the sound of the reindeer stamping the ground. “So’s the reindeer here. That is better. Only hope I learn to drive him.”
He did learn to drive the reindeer and that quite speedily. He found that a long rope of rawhide was fastened to the deer’s halter. This was long enough to run back to the sled. It was, he concluded, used as a jerk-line, such as was once employed by drivers of oxen.
The harness he found to be of very simple construction. Two wooden affairs fitting closely to the shoulders and tied together at top and bottom with stout rawhide thongs, served as both collar and harness. From the bottom of these ran a broad strap which connected directly with the sled. This strap was held up from the ground by a second broad strap which encircled the animal’s body directly behind its forelegs.
“Now,” he told the reindeer, “we’re going to try it over again. We got a bad start last time. Fact is, you were away before the starter’s whistle blew.
“You see,” he said, straightening out the jerk strap, “I’m going to hold on to this. If you get excited and speed up a little too much I’ll pull your head over on one side and make you go in a circle. That’ll slow you up. Then I’ll pile off the sled and dig in my heels. That should stand you on your head. You don’t weigh much; not over three or four hundred. When I’ve put you on your head a few times I shouldn’t be surprised if you’d turn into a very good, obedient little reindeer.”
It took but three try-outs to convince the reindeer that Curlie was not an ill-meaning sort of fellow but that he was one who meant to have his own way. Then, like all other creatures who have been trained, he settled down to business and carried his newly acquired master wherever he wanted to go; that is, he did up to a certain moment. After that moment things changed and Curlie was carried straight into trouble.
When he left the clump of willows Curlie drove his reindeer up the slope to the crest of the ridge. He did this that he might get a better view of the surrounding country, to determine if possible the direction in which their former camp lay.
Imagine his surprise on coming to a patch of soft, freshly blown snow at the crest of the ridge, to find the tracks of dogs and sleds.
“Fresh tracks!” he whispered breathlessly, “not ten hours old.”
He bent over to study these tracks. For a moment, he examined each imprint of a dog’s foot in the snow, each trace of sled runner and every footprint of the driver, then with a sudden bound he stood up again.
“It is!” he exclaimed. “It is the outlaw! Passed while I slept. Why must a fellow be everlastingly sleeping his life away?
“But then,” he thought after a moment’s deliberation, “perhaps it was just as well. What could I have done without help and without weapons of any kind?”
Seating himself on his sled while his reindeer pawed deep into the snow in his search for reindeer moss, he thought things through.
“Joe Marion and Jennings,” he told himself, “will sooner or later give up their search for me and will get back on the outlaw’s trail. They realize the importance of capturing him. They are brave fellows. They will not hesitate to undertake it without me. The surest way to get in with them again is to stay on this trail. Only question is, shall I turn back to meet them, shall I camp right here, or shall I follow up the outlaw at once?”
After some deliberation he concluded that going back over the trail would be risky; he might miss his companions. They might get back on the outlaw’s trail after he had passed the spot on which they entered the trail. Remaining inactive did not suit him; he was not that kind of a boy.
“I’ll follow the outlaw,” he told himself. “I believe I’ve got a speedier outfit than he has. White men seldom drive reindeer, so the outlaw won’t suspect me even though he sees me at a distance. I can shadow him and, even unarmed as I am, may be able to prevent a disaster.”
Having come to this conclusion he led his reindeer to the crest of the ridge, faced him north, leaped upon the sled, slapped him on the hip with the jerk rein and was away.
For ten miles to the crack-crack of the reindeer’s hoofs, he shot away over the snow. As the keen air cut his cheek, as the low, flat sled bobbed and bumped beneath him, Curlie thought he had never known another such mode of travel. Surely a reindeer, when well broken, was the ideal steed of the Arctic.
“And the beauty of it is,” he told himself, “you don’t have to go hunting out feed for him when the day is done. He finds it for himself under the snow. You—
“Hey, there!” he exclaimed suddenly. “What you doing?”
The reindeer had suddenly paused in his flight to sniff the air. The next instant he had gone plunging down the snow-covered ridge.
This was no time to think of stopping or turning him. Should either be accomplished, Curlie and his sled would have gone spinning in a circle, at last to go rolling over and over in the snow, in which event Curlie would beyond doubt find himself at the foot of the ridge, very much bruised and minus both sled and reindeer.
The most he could do was to hold back the sled with his foot to prevent its overtaking his mad steed, and to allow the deer to continue in his wild race.
The ridge here was long and steep. A half mile away it ended in a forest of scrub spruce trees which beyond doubt lined the bank of a stream.
But what was this he saw as they neared the dwarf forest?
“A herd of reindeer!” he murmured in astonishment. “Five hundred or a thousand of them. Old Whitie, my friend here, smelled them and yearned for company. So he—”
What was that? From the edge of the forest there leaped a tongue of fire, a rifle cracked, a bullet sang over his head, then another and another.
“Say! Do they think I’m a reindeer rustler?” he groaned. “Want to kill me?”
Instantly he dropped from the sled to hide behind a snow bank.
“Not much use,” he told himself, “but it’ll give a fellow time to think? Maybe those fellows are rustlers themselves and they think I’m an officer or something.” His blood ran cold at the thought.
Much as they regretted it, Joe Marion and Jennings after a night’s sleep were forced to admit that it seemed their duty to push on over the trail left by the outlaw.
“’Twouldn’t be so bad if we hadn’t caught Munson’s message,” said Joe thoughtfully. “In a case like this, one is obliged to consider the highest good to the greatest number. It might easily happen that a delay on our part at this moment would mean the loss of Munson’s entire party. It would almost surely mean that if they arrived at Flaxman Island to find their supply depot in ashes.”
“And as for Curlie,” added Jennings, “if he came out of that blizzard alive with his rifle in hand, he’ll take care of himself, trust him for that.”
“Yes, and with that hind-quarter of caribou meat.”
So it was decided that they should press on. They had followed the trail of the outlaw for ten miles or more when they came upon footprints in the snow beside the trail which seemed to indicate that the outlaw had paused in his travel.
“Wonder what he stopped there for?” said Jennings, examining the tracks carefully. “From the position of his feet I’d say he’d been looking down the hill.”
“Aw, c’mon,” said Joe. “The big point is, he went straight on and we’re following.”
A hundred yards farther on they came to a place where a reindeer and sled joined the trail.
“That’s queer!” said Jennings, pausing again. “Funny that fellow would follow the outlaw. Looks exactly like the track made by that other fellow when he pulled out of that clump of willows after he’d left his deer tied there all night and had camped in our thicket. Wonder if it could have been the same man.”
He would have wondered still more had he known that his companion, Curlie, was on that sled and that each mile he traveled brought him closer to the curly-haired young radiophone expert.
His wonder did grow apace when, mile after mile, the reindeer driver followed the trail of the outlaw.
“Wonder what he’s after,” he mumbled over and over.
When presently he saw the reindeer tracks suddenly swing to the right and down the ridge, and by straining his eyes he made out a large herd of reindeer feeding at the edge of the scrub forest, he was truly disappointed.
“Thought it meant something,” he grumbled, “his following along that way. But I guess he was just following the ridge for good going till he got to his reindeer herd. We might go down and buy some reindeer meat. I think I see a cabin at the edge of the forest. They might have other things to eat, coffee, hardtack and the like. Natives often do.”
“Can’t afford to use up the time,” said Joe. “We’re doing well enough on caribou meat. Got quite a supply of it yet. So we’d better mush along. All right, Ginger! Let’s go,” he shouted. His leader leaped to his feet and they were away.
It would be interesting to speculate on just what would have happened had they decided to descend the hill to trade with the natives. They might have been ambushed and slain, for Curlie Carson was at that moment in the cabin at the edge of the forest and he was far from free to go his own way.
So like ships in the night they passed, Curlie Carson and his pals. Only once Jennings paused to look back. Then as he shaded his eyes he said to Joe:
“Seems like I see something hovering up there about the tree tops.”
“White owl or raven,” said Joe.
“No, I don’t think it is. Can’t quite make out what it is, though.”
Then they pressed on over the trail left by the sleds of the outlaw.
The fluttering above the edge of the forest was caused by neither white owl nor raven, but by three balloons bobbing about in the air; a red one, a white one and a blue one. These balloons, considerably larger than toy balloons, were kept from fluttering away by silk cords reaching to the cabin below.
Before we can explain their presence here we must first tell what had happened to Curlie Carson since we left him huddled behind a snowbank with bullets singing over him.
Without knowing why he had been attacked Curlie realized that he was in grave danger. These rough men, whoever they might be, were apparently bent on his destruction.
For the moment he was safe. The snowbank was thick and solid. A bullet, he knew, made little progress in snow. But they might outflank him and come in to the right or left of him. They doubtless believed him to be in possession of a rifle, or at least an automatic. They would plan their attack with extreme caution but in time they would get him.
Twisting about under cover he studied the lie of the snow to right and left of him. It was not reassuring. True, there were other snow ridges, but to reach these he must expose himself. This would not do. To cut himself a trench along the hillside would take too long. Besides he would be detected in the attempt. He thought of his belt radiophone equipment.
“Might get up a balloon aerial,” he told himself, “and send an S. O. S. But that would take time—too much time. Besides, who’d come to my rescue? Deuce of a mess, I’d say!”
He at length determined on a bold move.
“Might get shot down on the spot,” he admitted, “but it’s better than waiting.”
The thing he did was to leap suddenly upon the crest of the snowbank with his hands held high in air, at the same time keeping a sharp eye on the attackers. If they shot he would instantly drop back.
They did not shoot. Their rifles went to their shoulders but when they saw his hands in air they hesitated.
After a brief consultation, two of them, with rifles extended before them for a hip-shot, walked slowly toward him.
When they were within twenty yards of him Curlie said in the calmest tone he could command:
“What’s the matter with you fellows? I didn’t steal your reindeer. Found him tangled in a thicket where he would have starved. Besides, I have no guns. What harm could I do you?”
Without a word the two men proceeded to advance. As they came closer Curlie became convinced that they were Indians and not Eskimos as he had supposed them to be.
“That makes it look different,” he told himself. “They may be reindeer rustlers who have stolen the reindeer herd. Probably are. Never heard of a reindeer herd being given to Indians. Might have, for all that. Or they may be just herding them for some white men.”
As the two men came up to him one man felt of his clothing for concealed weapons. After this, with a grunt, he pointed toward the cabin, then led the way, leaving his companion to bring up the rear.
Arrived at the edge of the forest, the foremost man joined the man who had remained behind. After a short consultation in tones too low to be understood, he returned to Curlie and again motioning him to follow, led him to a low log cabin.
Once inside this cabin, he pushed Curlie into a small dark room, after which he swung to a heavy door and dropped a ponderous bar.
“Well now, what about that?” Curlie whispered to himself.
A hasty survey of his prison revealed a chair and a rough bed made of poles on which there rested some filthy blankets. The place was lighted by two windows, not more than ten inches square. The walls were of heavy logs.
“I wonder who they are and who they think I am,” he asked himself.
He sat down to think and as he did so his arm brushed his belt. At that moment an inspiration came to him.
“Worth trying anyway,” he whispered as he rose hastily. “Have to be quick about it though. Lucky that window’s at the back of the cabin.”
Curlie’s fingers, working rapidly yet with trained precision, drew various articles from his belt. A coil of fine wire, two long spools made of some black substance, a pocket spirit lamp, a miniature metal retort, three small balloons made of a specially prepared elastic fiber; all these and many more things appeared as if by magic, and were spread out upon a blanket on the cot.
After unwinding and winding again some yards of fine copper wire, he snapped open the metal-cased spirit lamp and a tiny flame appeared. Attaching a balloon to the retort he applied the flame to the body of the retort. At once the balloon began to expand. Chemicals already in the retort were assuming a gaseous form.
Just here he found himself facing a difficulty; the balloons were going to expand to a size beyond that of the windows. With lightning-like decision he climbed upon a chair and thrust balloon, retort, spirit lamp and all out of the window. There he held them all at arm’s length.
“Might be seen, but I can’t help it,” he muttered.
The balloon was tugging at his hand. When the tug had grown strong he snapped on a rubber band, withdrew the retort, tied the balloon to a round of the chair and was at once busy with a second balloon.
When all three balloons were bobbing about outside the window he breathed a sigh of relief.
Attaching a spool of fine wire to a silk cord which was tied to all three balloons, he allowed the balloons to rise while he played out two strands of wire. Having reached the second spool he allowed the fine copper wire aerial which he had thus made to rise with the balloons until they had reached a height of three hundred feet.
A fine, insulated copper wire ran from the aerial to the ground. This he attached to an instrument in his belt. Having tuned in on 200 he sat down calmly to repeat in a low tone at regular intervals:
“S. O. S.—S. O. S.—S. O. S.”
It was the only way he had been able to think of for letting the world know he was in trouble.
It brought results, for soon to his waiting ears came a gruff grumble which resembled the growl of a bear disturbed from his slumber:
“Hey! What’s the rumpus? What do you want?”
“Who are you?” Curlie whispered back.
“Deputy Marshal McDonald of the U. S. Station at Sinizols. Who the blazes are you?”
Slowly, distinctly, in a tense whisper Curlie told of his predicament.
“I know ’em,” came in a roar through the air. “They stole those deer. Don’t let ’em know you know. When they come in let ’em listen to me. Tell ’em who I am. They know me. That’ll settle ’em. Tell ’em I’ll follow ’em to the Pole if they don’t let you go. No—don’t tell ’em. Let me. They don’t know about radiophones. Just got mine last week. They’re superstitious. It’ll knock ’em dead. Let me tell ’em.”
“All right,” whispered Curlie, “keep your batteries connected and stand by. I’ll see what I can find out.
“Nothing like the little old radio,” he told himself; “nothing at all like it when you’re in a peck of trouble.”
Hanging his receiver on a nail he turned toward the door. Placing his ear against a crack, he listened.
To his surprise, he found that the men were speaking English. “One of them is a half-breed, maybe of another tribe, and doesn’t understand the native language of the others,” was his mental comment.
As he now and then caught a snatch of the conversation, his blood ran cold. There could be no mistaking the subject of their debate. They were discussing the question of whether or not, he, Curlie, should be killed. The half-breed was standing out against it, while the others insisted that it was the only safe thing to do. So determined were they about it and so earnest in their debate that at times their voices rose almost to a shout.
“If you were to consult me in the matter,” Curlie whispered to himself, “I would most certainly agree with my old friend, the half-breed.”
Even as he joked with himself, the true significance of his situation was borne more closely in upon him. Here he was many miles from human habitation in the heart of a wilderness. Three men calmly debated his destruction. Two against one; there could be no question of the verdict.
Escape was impossible. The windows were too small. The men were powerfully built; there was no chance to fight his way to freedom.
There stood between him and death a slender wire reaching up to two yet more slender ones hanging in the sky. What if the gas escaped from the balloons? What if a sudden gust of wind sent them crashing down into the treetops to tear and tangle his slender aerials? What if the deputy at the other end should make some mistake and be unable to listen in?
Little wonder that, as he stood there listening, waiting, his face turned gray with anxiety and fear.
In the meantime an important message had come to Joe and Jennings as they listened in on long wave lengths from their camp some ten miles from the cabin. The message was from the explorer, Munson.
“Munson’s Expedition - Munson - speaking,” came the voice from the air. “We - have met - with disaster. Dash to - Pole - abandoned. Ice - began - piling - at - four - this morning. Many supplies - much - gasoline - lost. Will - not - have - enough - gasoline - to - bring - planes - to - land. One - plane - smashed. Cannot - bring - food - only - men. If - supporting - party - can be - sent - from - due - north - of - Flaxman - Island - it - may save - our lives.”
Joe Marion listened to the message as it was repeated three times, then turned a grave face to Jennings.
“That’s serious,” he said after he had repeated the message. “I might answer it but what could I promise him?”
“You’d only give our position away to the outlaw.”
“I might try to relay the message to others who might help.”
“There’s no one near enough.”
“Then the only thing we can do is to try to reach them with such supplies as we can carry.”
“Looks that way just now,” said Jennings, wrinkling his brow. “We might think of something later. How about the outlaw? Do we get him first?”
“That’s the question. We’ll have to wait and see. May get another message later. In the meantime, let’s turn in early and get a start to-morrow before daybreak. The importance of our mission to the north has been greatly increased.”
If Curlie’s knees trembled as he heard the heavy bar being lifted from the door, there was no trace of emotion on his face when at last the door swung open and he stood facing his three captors.
“Welcome in,” he smiled, coolly. “I was just thinking of calling you.
“You see,” he explained, “I’ve just been talking to your old friend McGregor of the U. S. Service.”
The men started back to stare about the small room, as if suspecting that the deputy was hidden somewhere within.
“He’s not here,” smiled Curlie, who in spite of the grave danger which confronted him was enjoying the situation. “I was just speaking to him over the phone.”
“Phone!” The half-breed whispered the words.
It was evident that the trio were more bewildered than before. They had seen telephones and telephone wires in centers of civilization which they had visited. They knew what they were; knew, too, that there was not a yard of telephone wire within three hundred miles of their cabin. As for a telephone, had they not built this cabin? How then could it contain a telephone without their knowing it?
“Huh!” grunted the older of the two Indians. He uttered a low laugh of contempt which showed plainer than words that he thought Curlie was bluffing.
Curlie’s hand went to his side. He lifted a transmitter to his lips, then touched a button at his belt.
“Are you there, McGregor?” He pronounced the words distinctly.
It was one of those periods of time in which one lives a year in the space of a moment, a moment tense with terrible possibilities.
Into Curlie’s mind there flashed a score of questions. Was McGregor there? Would he respond? Would the Indians be frightened to the point of giving him up if he did? Was the slender aerial still dangling in air and still working? These and many others sped through his active brain as breathlessly he waited.
Then, suddenly, with a fervently whispered, “Thank God!” he caught McGregor’s gruff voice:
“Aye, here! Let me have ’em. Put ’em on.”
The older Indian was so surprised by Curlie’s actions that the receiver was on his head before he knew it.
The next instant his mouth sagged open, his eyes bulged out, his knees scarcely supported him. He was hearing McGregor’s voice. He did not know how nor why, but he heard. It was enough. He was afraid.
For three minutes they all stood there spell-bound. Then apparently the voice ceased.
“Wha—what do you want?” the Indian quavered.
“Only my reindeer, my sled and a chance to get away from here,” smiled Curlie.
“Boz Peon, go get ’em.” The Indian spoke to the half-breed. At once he was away.
“All right, McGregor,” Curlie breathed into the transmitter. “Thanks a lot. Hope I meet you sometime. If there’s anything further you’ll get my S. O. S.”
Turning to the window, he began hauling in on the wire and silk cord. Just as the reindeer arrived at the door, he replaced in his belt the last bit of apparatus.
“All O. K. for next time,” he whispered to himself. “Trust the old radiophone to pull you through.”
After leaving the cabin he was obliged to lead his reindeer for the first two or three miles. Had he not done this the deer might have rebelled again and gone racing back.
“Wish I’d insisted on their giving me a rifle,” he told himself. “Wish there was some way of getting that reindeer herd from them,” he thought a few moments later. “It’s a shame that they should rob the Eskimo that way. The reindeer are everything to the Eskimo, food, clothing, bedding and means of travel. It’s a crime to rob them. Of course the rascals will be caught and punished, but by that time the splendid herd may be scattered to the four winds.”
Little did he guess the strange circumstances under which he would see that herd again, nor of the ways in which the herd would assist him in carrying out the purposes which were already forming in his mind.
An exclamation of joy escaped his lips as he swung back on the trail running along the ridge.
“They’re after the outlaw! Good old Jennings and Joe! We’ll get him yet. I’ll catch up with them! Hooray!” He threw his hands in the air and gave such a lusty shout that the reindeer came near leaping out of his harness.
He had discovered that while he was being held prisoner by the Indians, Joe and Jennings in their pursuit of the outlaw had passed him.
“All I’ve got to do,” he told himself, “is to speed up this old white ship of the Arctic desert and I’ll be with them in twenty-four hours.”
In this he was mistaken, but since he did not know it he went bumping merrily along over the ridges. Now and then shouting at his reindeer, now and then bursting forth into snatches of boisterous song, he appeared filled with quite as much joy as a boy off for a fishing trip.
So, for hours he traveled, until his reindeer was in need of rest and food, then he turned off into the edge of the scrub-spruce forest. Here, after tethering the deer in an open spot where there was much moss, he built himself a rude shelter of green boughs, kindled a fire, roasted some strips of reindeer meat procured from the Indians, then crept into his sleeping-bag.
Here for a time, through a crack in his green canopy, he watched the big dipper in its wide circle about the north star, which blinked down from nearly straight above him. He at last fell asleep.