CHAPTER XIDANGLING IN MID AIR
Before dawn, the morning after his interview with Mazie, Johnny was away for the camp of the Mongols. There was a moist freshness in the air which told of approaching spring, yet winter lingered.
It was a fair-sized cavalcade that accompanied him; eight burly Russians on horseback and six in a sled drawn by two stout horses. For himself he had secured a single horse and a rude sort of cutter. He was not alone in the cutter. Beside him sat a small brown person. This person was an Oriental. There could be no mistake about that. Mazie had told him only that here was his interpreter through whom all his dealings with the Mongols would be done.
He wondered much about the interpreter. He had met with some fine characters among thebrown people. There had been Hanada, his school friend, and Cio-Cio-San, that wonder-girl who had traveled with him. He had met with some bad ones too, and that not so long ago. His experiences at the mines had made him, perhaps, unduly suspicious.
He did not like it at all when he found, after a long day of travel and two hours of supper and pitching camp, with half the journey yet to go, that this little yellow person proposed to share his skin tent for the night. At first he was inclined to object. Yet, when he remembered the feeling that existed between these people and the Russians, he realized at once that he could scarcely avoid having the interpreter for a tent-mate.
Nothing was said as the two, with a candle flickering and flaring between them, prepared to slip into their sleeping-bags for the night.
When, at last, the candle was snuffed out, Johnny found that he could not sleep. The cold air of the long journey had pried his eyes wide open; they would not go shut. He could thinkonly of perils from small yellow people. He was, indeed, in a position to invite treachery, since he carried on his person many pounds of gold. He, himself, did not know its exact value; certainly it was thousands of dollars. He had taken that which the doctor had carried, and had left the doctor to do what he could for the sufferers, and to assist Mazie in her preparations of the great kitchens and dining-room where thousands were to be fed.
For a long time, he thought of treachery, of dark perils, reaching a bloody hand out of the dark. But presently a new and soothing sensation came to him. He dreamed of other days. He was once more on the long journey north, the one he had taken the year previous. Cio-Cio-San was sleeping near him. They were on a great white expanse, alone. There was no peril; all was peace.
So great was the illusion that he scratched a match and gazed at the sleeping face near him.
He gave a little start at the revelation it brought. Certainly, there was a striking resemblancehere to the face of Cio-Cio-San. Yet, he told himself, it could not be. This person was a man. And, besides, Cio-Cio-San was now rich. She was in her own country living in luxury and comfort, a lady bountiful among her own people.
He told himself all this, and yet so much of the illusion remained that he fell asleep and slept soundly until the rattle of harness and the shout of horsemen told him that morning was upon them and they must be off.
He looked for his companion. He was gone. When Johnny had dressed, he found the interpreter busily assisting with the morning repast.
“Just like Cio-Cio-San,” he muttered to himself, as he dipped his hands into icy water for a morning splash.
After his escape from the two Bolsheviki in the machine shed, Pant sat by the entrance to his mine in breathless expectancy. The two Russians certainly had not seen him enter the mine, but others might have done so, and, morethan that, there was grave danger that they would track him to his place of hiding.
He was not surprised when his alert ear caught a sound from without, close at hand. He only crowded a little further back into the corner, that the light from the broken-in entrance, providing it was discovered and crushed, should not fall upon him.
His heart thumped loudly. His hand gripped his automatic. He expected immediate action from without. His hopes of reaching the mother-lode of this mine vanished. He thought now only of escape.
But action was delayed. Now and then there came sounds as of footsteps and now a scratching noise reached his ear. The crust of the snow was hard. Perhaps they were attempting to tear it away with some crude implement, a stick or board.
As he listened, he heard the whine of a dog. So this was it? One of their hounds had tracked him down. They were probably afraid of him and would wait for him to come out.
“In that case,” he whispered to himself, “they will wait a long, long time.”
He did not desert his post. To be caught in the far end of the mine meant almost certain torture and death.
As he listened, he heard the dog’s whine again and again, and it was always accompanied by the scratching sound. What could that mean? A hound which has found the lair of its prey does not whine. He bays his message, telling out to all the world that he has cornered his prey.
The more the boy thought of it, the more certain he became that this was not one of the Russian hounds. But if not, then what dog was it? Perhaps one of Johnny Thompson’s which had escaped. If it were, he would be a friend.
Of one thing Pant became more and more positive: there were no men with the dog. From this conclusion he came to a decision on a definite course of action. If the dog was alone, whether friend or foe, he would eventually attract attention and that would bring disaster. The logical thing to do would be to pull out thesnow-cake door and admit the beast. If he were one of the Russians wolf-hounds—Pant drew a short-bladed knife from his belt; an enemy’s dog would be silenced with that.
With trembling fingers he gripped the white door and drew it quickly away. The next instant a furry monster leaped toward him.
It was a tense moment. In the flash of a second, he could not determine the character of the dog. His knife gleamed in his hand. To delay was dangerous. The beast might, in a twinkle, be at his throat.
He did not strike. With a supple motion he sprang to one side as the dog shot past him. By the time he had turned back toward the entrance, Pant recognized him as a white man’s dog.
“Well, howdy, old sport,” he exclaimed, as the dog leaped upon him, ready to pull him to pieces out of pure joy.
“Down, down, sir!”
The dog dropped at his feet. In another minute the snow-door was in its place again.
“Well, old chap,” said Pant, peering at the dog through his goggles. “You came to share fortunes with me, did you? The little yellow men had a tiger; I’ve got a dog. That’s better. A tiger’d leave you; a dog never. Besides, old top, you’ll tell me when there’s danger lurking ’round, won’t you? But tell me one thing now: did anyone see you come in here?”
The dog beat the damp floor with his tail.
“Well, if they did, it’s going to be mighty tough for you and me, that’s all I’ve got to say about it.”
Upon opening the door to the cabin of the balloon, after catching the gleam of the supposed domes of the City of Gold, Dave Tower found, to his great relief, that they had dropped to a considerably lower level than that reached by them many hours before. He was able to stand exposure to this outer air.
He began at once to search for cords which would allow gas to escape from the balloon.
“Should be a valve-cord and a rip-cord somewhere,”he muttered to himself, “but you can never tell what these Orientals are going to do about such things.”
As he gazed away toward the north, he was sure he caught sight of dark purple patches between the white.
“Might just be shadows and might be pools of salt water between the ice-floes. If we land on the ocean, good night!”
Hurriedly he searched the rigging for dangling cords. He found none. If there had been any, they had been thrown up and tangled above by the tossing of the balloon.
Dave stared dizzily upward to where the giant sausage drifted silently on. It was a sheer fifty feet. To reach this there was but one means, a slender ladder of rope. Could he do it? Could he climb to the balloon and slit it before they reached the ocean?
It was their only chance. If the City of Gold was not a complete illusion; if human beings lived there at all, they might hope for food and shelter. There were chemicals in the cabin forre-inflating the balloon. A fair wind, or the discovery of the method of operating that Oriental engine, might insure them a safe voyage home. But once they were out over the ocean—his heart went sick at the thought of it.
Gripping the rounds of the ladder, he began to climb. It was a perilous task. Now with a sinking sensation he felt the ladder apparently drop from beneath him. The balloon had struck a pocket of air. And now he felt himself lifted straight up a fleeting hundred feet.
Holding his breath, he waited. Then, when the motion was stable, he began to climb again. He had covered two-thirds of the distance, was staring up at the bulk that now seemed almost upon his very head, when, with a little cry, he felt his foot crash through a rotten strand. It was a second of dreadful suspense. Madly he grasped the rope sides of the ladder. His left hand slipped, but his right held firm. There, for a fraction of time that seemed an eternity, supported by only one hand, he hung out over thousands of feet of airy space.
His left hand groped for the ropes which eluded his grasp. He gripped and missed, gripped and missed. Then he caught it and held on. He was holding firmly now with both hands. But how his arms ached! With his feet he began kicking for the ladder, which, swinging and bagging in the wind, seemed as elusive as a cobweb. At last, when strength was leaving him, he doubled up his knees and struck out with both feet. They fell upon something and stuck there. They had found a round of the ladder. Hugging the ropes, he panted for breath, then slowly worked himself to a more natural position.
“Huh!” he breathed at last. “Huh! Gee! That makes a fellow dizzy!”
He had climbed ten steps further when a cry of joy escaped his lips:
“The valve-cord!”
It was true. By his side dangled a small rope which reached to the balloon.
Gripping this he gave it a quick pull and was rewarded at once by the hiss of escaping gas.
“Good!” he muttered to himself, as he prepared for his downward climb. “Trust an Oriental to make things hard. Suppose they thought if they had it any closer to the car the children might raise the dickens by playing with it.”
He swung there relaxed. They were dropping. He could tell that plainly enough. Now he could distinguish little lines of hills, now catch the course of a river, now detect the rows of brown willows that lined its banks.
He looked for the gleam of the City of Gold. There was none. The sun had evidently climbed too high for that.
His eyes roamed to the north. Then his lips uttered a cry:
“The ocean! We can’t escape it!”
CHAPTER XIITHE RUSSIAN DAGGER
Johnny Thompson, with his interpreter by his side, found himself in the camp of the Mongols. It was a vast tented city, a moving city of traders. Down its snow-trod streets drifted yellow people of all descriptions. Men, women and children moved past him. Some were young, some very old. All appeared crafty and capable of treachery.
“It was against these people that the Chinese built their great wall,” said Johnny thoughtfully. “I don’t wonder.”
“When do we see his highness, the great high chief who deals in cattle?”
His interpreter smiled. “I have just come from there. We may go to see him now.”
Johnny twisted one shoulder as if adjustinga heavy burden, then turned to follow the interpreter.
He did not like the looks of things; he longed to be safely back in Vladivostok with Mazie. There were times like this when he wished he had not taken it upon himself to play the fairy godfather to Russia’s starving hosts. But since he had undertaken the task, however difficult it might prove, he must carry on.
He soon found himself sitting cross-legged on a floor so deeply imbedded in soft, yielding skins that he sank half out of sight beneath them. Before him, also reposing in this sea of softness, was a Mongol of unusual size, whose face was long and solemn. He puffed incessantly at a long-stemmed Russian pipe.
Forming the third corner of the triangle, was the little interpreter.
The two members of the yellow race conversed in low tones for some time. At last the interpreter turned to Johnny:
“I have told him that you want to buy cattle, much cattle. He say, how much you wantto pay? How you want to pay? How much you want to buy?”
“You tell him that I saw six of his cattle out here just now. They are very poor. But we will take them—maybe. Ask him how much?”
“He say, have you got gold?”
“You say,” grinned Johnny, “that we have got gold. We don’t need a button-hook to button up our purse, but we’ve got gold. We pay gold. How much?”
The interpreter puckered up his brow and conveyed the message. The Mongol mumbled an answer.
“He say, how much you want pay?”
“Tell him for six cattle I pay one pound gold. All same.”
He drew from his pocket a small leather sack, and unlacing the strings held it open before the Mongol.
The crafty eyes of the trader half closed at sight of the glistening treasure. His greedy fingers ran through it again and again. Then he grunted.
“He say,” droned the interpreter, “how much cattle you want to buy?”
“Maybe three hundred,” stated Johnny casually.
The interpreter started, but delivered the message.
The Mongol, upon receiving this word, sprang from the furs like a jack from his box and hot words rushed rapidly from his lips.
When he had finished, the interpreter explained that he said Johnny was jesting with him. It was impossible that anyone would buy three hundred head of cattle with gold in the starving land of Russia.
The Mongol sank back to his place among the furs, and the bickering was continued. For two hours it waged, ending finally by the promise of the Mongol that, in the morning, the cattle should be at hand; that they would be better than those Johnny had seen; and that Johnny’s “beggarly” price of one pound of gold for six cattle would be accepted.
Once the bargaining was over, the Mongolwas transformed in a second’s time into the most charming of hosts. Johnny and his interpreter must dine with him. Yes, indeed! They must sleep in his tent that night. They should talk long and of many things. It was not often that he had the honor of playing host to such a rich and clever guest. Indeed, it was not. But they should not converse so long together that Johnny and his most excellent interpreter should be robbed of their night’s repose.
Several hours later, Johnny was buried to the point of smothering beneath rugs of fur that would bring the price of a king’s ransom. His mind was still in a whirl. Perhaps it was the tea, perhaps the excitement of big business, and again, it may have been a premonition of things to happen. Whatever it may have been, he could not sleep.
His racing mind whispered to him of treachery out of the night. It had been a wonderful evening. They had been treated to a feast such as he had seldom dreamed of. Surely these Mongols could concoct from beef, rice, sweetpotatoes and spices the most wonderful of viands. And, as for tea, he had never tasted real tea before. The aroma of it still haunted his nostrils.
And the Mongol had told him many things. He had traveled far, had this trader; he had seen much. He spoke of Russia, of China, Japan and India. He told of matters that made Johnny’s blood run cold, of deeds done in that border-land between great countries, each seething with revolution and bloodshed. Not that he, the Mongolian, had done these things, but he had seen them accomplished. And he had traded for the spoils, the spoils of rich Russians driven from their own land and seeking refuge in another. He was a trader. It was his business. He must have profit. What should one do? If he did not take the riches, another would. But as for committing these deeds himself, Confucius forbid it; he had scowled to show his disapproval.
At the same time, as Johnny thought it all through, and felt the hard lumps about him thatwere sacks of gold, he found it very difficult to fall asleep.
His interpreter, lying not an arm’s length away, breathed with the steady ease of one in deep slumber. The Mongol had drawn a curtain of ermine skins between them and his own bed. Could it be that this interpreter had made his way into the good graces of Mazie only to turn murderer and robber at the proper time? Johnny had only Mazie’s word that the person could be trusted, and Mazie was but a girl, not accustomed to the deep-seated treachery in the oriental mind.
He had traveled far that day; he had talked long and dined well; he was a healthy human being; and sleep came at last.
How long he had slept, he did not know when he was awakened by an indescribable sensation. Had he heard something, felt something? He could not tell. He breathed on, the steady deep breath of a sleeper, and did not stir, but he opened an eye a mere crack. A shadow stretched across him. It was made by a person who stoodbetween him and an oriental lamp which flickered dimly in the corner. His eye sought the place where the interpreter lay. The skins were too deep there and he could not tell whether he was there or not.
The shadow shifted. The person was moving into view. He could see him now. He was short and brown of face.
“The interpreter!” These words formed themselves on his lips, but were not spoken.
The next second he knew it was not the interpreter, for there came a stir at his side as the interpreter sat up.
So there were two of them. Treachery! Well, he should not die alone. His hand gripped the cold steel of his automatic. He tilted it ever so slightly. Fired from where it lay, it would send a bullet crashing through the crouching interpreter’s chest. He was about to pull the trigger when something arrested his attention.
A blade gleamed in the hand of the interpreter. Even in this darkness, he recognized the weapon as one he had taken from a would-bemurderer, a Russian Chukche. He had given it to a very good friend, a Japanese lady—Cio-Cio-San!
A cold chill ran down his spine. Had he come near killing a friend? Was this one crouching in the act of defending him against an enemy? Cold perspiration stood out upon his brow. He made a tremendous effort to continue breathing evenly. He could only take a desperate chance and await the turn of events.
Hardly had Dave Tower discovered the imminent peril of drifting out over the ice-packed sea, than a ray of hope came to him. Scattered along the mainland of this vast continent there was, here and there, an island. Should they be so fortunate as to drift upon one of these, they might be saved.
Hurriedly climbing down from his perilous perch, he hastened to inform Jarvis of their position.
“Blind my eyes!” exclaimed Jarvis. “Wot don’t ’appen to us ain’t worth ‘appenin’.”
Then Dave told him of his hope that there might be an island ahead.
“I ’opes so,” said Jarvis, as he seized a glass and rushed outside to scan the broken surface of the sea.
In the meantime, the balloon was sinking rapidly. It was only a matter of time until the cabin would bump upon an ice-pile. Then it was doubtful if even the quickest action could save their lives.
They brought the stranger, who was now able to sit up and stare about him, to the outer deck. He gazed down at the swaying, flying landscape and was badly frightened when he discovered that they were in midair, but Dave reassured him, while Jarvis brought sleeping-bags and boxes of food to a position by the rail.
“If the worst ’appens, we’ll at least h’eat and sleep on the floe until it ’eaps up an’ buries us,” he grumbled.
“Land ahead!” exclaimed Dave suddenly, throwing down his glasses and rushing inside the cabin. He was out again in a moment, bearingon his shoulder a coil of steel cable, and dragging a heavy land anchor after him.
“We may be able to save the old boat yet,” he yelled excitedly. “Jarvis, bring out the rope ladder.”
Jarvis hastened inside and reappeared almost immediately with the ladder.
“It’s an island,” said Dave, “and, as far as I can judge, we’re only two or three hundred feet from its surface when we get above it. We’ll throw over the anchor and if it catches somewhere, we’ll go down the ladder. In time the balloon will lose gas enough to bring her to earth.”
“You ’ave a good ’ead, me lad,” approved Jarvis. “’Ere’s ‘opin’ it ’appens that way!”
It did happen that way, and, in due course of time, the three men found themselves on the brow of a low plateau which seemed as deserted as the pyramids of Egypt, and quite as barren of life.
“One thing’s sure,” said Dave. “We’ve got to get the gas back into that old cloth tank andcatch a fair wind, or get that engine to working, if we don’t wish to starve.”
“Aye,” said Jarvis.
“There’s a strange pile of rocks up on the ledge there. I’m going for a look at it,” said Dave.
He returned in a few moments, mingled excitement and amusement on his face.
“Jarvis,” he smiled happily, “we’re not so badly off, after all. Here we are right back in old United States of America!”
“United States?” Jarvis stared.
“Says so in this message I found in a brass can. Says—”
Dave broke off suddenly. Something on the crest to the right of them had caught his attention. Grasping his automatic, Dave went skulking away in the shadow of the hill.
Jarvis, too, had seen it and awaited the outcome of this venture with eager expectancy.
CHAPTER XIIICIO-CIO-SAN
Hardly had Johnny Thompson’s finger lessened its pressure on the trigger of his automatic, than the interpreter sprang straight at the figure that cast the shadow.
A scream rent the air.
With a spring, Johnny was on his feet, just in time to see one of the figures drop. In the dim light he could not tell which one. He stood there motionless. It had all happened so quickly that he was stunned into inactivity.
In that brief moment bedlam broke loose. The Mongol chief sprang from behind his curtain. Other Mongols, deserting all night games of chance, came swarming in on all sides. Their jargon was unintelligible. Johnny could not tell them what had happened, even had he rightly known.
The fallen man was dragged out upon the snow, where his blood made a rapidly spreading dark circle on the crystal whiteness. He was dead beyond a doubt.
Slowly the group settled in a dense ring about some one who was talking rapidly. Evidently the survivor of the tragedy was explaining. Was it the interpreter or the other? Johnny could not crowd close enough to tell.
He flashed his electric torch upon the fallen body. The sight of the hilt protruding from the chest, over the heart, gave Johnny a start. His interpreter had won. It was his knife that had made the fatal thrust. The dead man was undoubtedly Oriental and not a member of the Mongolian tribe.
That knife! Johnny started. How had this person come into possession of that blade which he had given to Cio-Cio-San? That Cio-Cio-San would not give it away, he was certain. What then had happened? Had it been stolen from her, or was this strange interpreter, who had doubtless just now saved his life, Cio-Cio-Sanherself? It seemed unbelievable, yet his mind clung to the theory. He would soon know.
Slowly the crowd dispersed. The killing of an Oriental in such a camp as this was merely an incident in the life of the tribe, a thing soon to be forgotten. Two servants of the chief bore the body away. Once more Johnny found himself sitting in the triangle with his interpreter and the Mongol. In his hands he held two knives; one he had drawn from the heart of the dead man and had cleansed in the snow; the other was the one dropped by the murderer. This last one evidently had been meant for him.
The Mongol was profuse in his apologies, while he lauded to the sky the bravery of the little interpreter. The slain man, he explained, was no member of his company. He was one of three who had camped on the outer edge of the village that very night. Doubtless they had followed Johnny with the purpose of murdering and robbing him. He had sent at once for the other two men, but they had fled. He hoped now that his guests might sleep in peace.
After delivering this message, he bowed himself back through the curtains. Johnny and the interpreter were left alone. It was a dramatic moment. The interpreter’s fingers twitched nervously. Once the brown eyes fell upon the knives Johnny held, but instantly they flashed away. Johnny had drawn a freshly lighted fish-oil lamp to his side.
“Friend,” said he in a low tone, “you have done me a great service this night. Will you do me but one more?”
“Gladly, most gracious one.”
The small head bent low.
“Allow me.” Johnny took one of the brown hands, and began rolling up the loose sleeve of the brown-skin parka. The brown face blanched a trifle. He uncovered a sleeve of pink silk, and beneath that a slender brown arm. On the arm, a finger’s length beneath the elbow, was a triangular scar.
Johnny sighed, then carefully rolling down the sleeve, dropped the hand.
“It is enough,” he smiled, “you are my oldand very dear friend, Cio-Cio-San. You have to-night added greatly to the debt of gratitude which I owe you and can never repay. But why did you come? And why, most of all, are you in disguise? Why are you in Russia at all? Why not in your beloved Japan?”
Cio-Cio-San sighed as if relieved at feeling the mask removed.
“I came to Russia to find a very dear relative who had lived with my family in the interior of Russia before this revolution came upon us. I met Mazie; your so good friend. She pressed me into her service. Who could refuse? I was glad to be of help.
“Then, because there was no Japanese man who could speak for you to the Mongols, she asked me to go. And, because it is unsafe for a woman to go on such a journey, undisguised, I dressed as a man. So, there you have it all. I am glad you know, you are a man of great honor. You will not tell others. You will protect me from them.” There was no question in her voice.
Johnny put out his hand in silence. Her small brown one rested in his for a moment.
Then in drowsy silence they sat by the sputtering lamp until the tinkle of bell, the clatter of harness, the shout of drivers, and the distant lowing of cattle, told them it was another day.
That day’s business was quickly brought to a close. Before the sun was high in the heavens, Johnny found himself once more tucked beside his interpreter in the cutter, slowly following his Russians, who drove a splendid herd of cattle over the snow-clad fields and hard-packed roads toward Vladivostok. Johnny owned that herd. Soon it would be supplying nourishment to the hungry little ones.
The return journey was crowded with recollections of other days, of those days when he and Cio-Cio-San had followed the glistening trail to the far Northland. But, as the spires of the cathedral in the city loomed up to greet him, Johnny’s mind was filled with many wonderings and not a few misgivings. He was coming to the city of eastern Russia which morethan any other had seen revolt and counter-revolt, pillage and sudden death. In that city now, starvation and disease stalked unmolested. In that city, the wary Japanese military police maintained order while many a rampant radical lurked in a corner to slay any who did not believe in his gospel of unlimited freedom and license. Into that city Johnny must go. Every man in it craved gold and food, and Johnny had both. He would use it for the good of the sufferers, if he was given time. But those who rob and kill, do not wait. He was troubled about Mazie. He had trusted gold to her care. Had he acted unwisely; subjected her to needless perils?
He thought of the Oriental who had attempted to take his life back there in the Mongol’s camp. There had been a strong resemblance between this man and the band of men who had attempted to rob Mine No. 1. Had they secured reindeer and made their way to Vladivostok? If so, they would dog his trail, using every foul means to regain possession of the gold. AndMazie? If they had entered the city, had they discovered that part of the gold was in her hands? He shivered at the thought of it.
At last, leaving the cattle in a great yard, surrounded by a stone fence, some five miles from the outskirts, he drove hurriedly into Vladivostok.
CHAPTER XIVNEARING THE CITY OF GOLD
The creature for which Dave had gone on a double-quick hunt, after the balloon had landed on the desert island, was a reindeer. He had probably crossed over on a solid floe from the mainland. It was his last crossing. Soon Dave came back dragging two hundred pounds of fresh meat behind him.
“No more ‘gold fish’ in cans,” he exulted. “No more evaporated milk and pickled egg. We eat, Jarvis, we eat!”
“That’s fine,” smiled Jarvis, “but what’s all the words you been spillin’ about this bein’ America?”
“Oh!” laughed Dave. “That was something of a joke, though this island really does belong to old U.S.A. Captain DeLong, an American, whose ship was crushed in the icenear this island, was its first discoverer. He claimed it in the name of his country and christened it Bennett Island. It says that in the message he left in his cairn. But that don’t feed us. I’m starved. There’s driftwood on the beach. C’mon.”
Soon they were roasting strips of delicious venison over a crackling fire. Supper over, they lay down with faces to the fire and talked over prospects for the future. The stranger was with them, but had little to say. He seemed puzzled at the unusual circumstances of the journey and was constantly asking when they would return to the native village at the mouth of the river.
“Evidently,” said Dave, after a long and fruitless attempt to draw from him any account of his life with the Orientals in the mine, “the rap he received on his head blotted out all memory of those days. If we can’t get that particular stretch of memory in working order, we may never know how Frank Langlois was killed, nor who it was that sent us strange messageson phonographic records and moving-picture films. I’m hoping his memory’ll come back. A sudden shock may bring it round at any time.”
Their conference regarding the future resulted in a determination to wait for a change of wind which would insure them a safe trip to the mainland. In the meantime, Dave would prepare the chemicals for immediate inflation of the balloon and Jarvis would study over the Japanese puzzle of a gasoline engine which would not respond to his touch.
Jarvis’ work netted nothing. Three days later an onshore wind arose, and the balloon, wafted upward on its gentle crest, brought the explorers back to the mainland.
“Land! Land! And the City of Gold!” exclaimed Jarvis, as the evening clouds lifted and gave them a momentary view of that strange golden gleam which for so long had haunted their dreams.
Once before, many months ago, the two of them had neared the spot on an ocean craft, but duty to marooned comrades had called themback. Now they had only themselves to think of, and the City of Gold, if city it be, would offer to them a haven of refuge.
What wonder that their hearts beat wildly as they caught its gleam and realized that in a very few moments they would be landing within a quarter of a mile of that mysterious city, which, according to the natives whom they had met long ago, did really exist as a place of many people and much gold.
“Pull the cord! Pull the cord!” shouted Jarvis excitedly. “We’re nearin’ shore.”
He had spoken the truth. As Dave gripped the cord attached to the gas valve on the balloon and in his imagination heard the hiss of escaping gas and felt the drop of the balloon, his thoughts sobered. After all, what did they know about these strange people? What sort of treatment would they receive from them? If they landed they might, in less than an hour, be dead. Might it not be better to allow the balloon to rise and to attempt a journey back to some Russian town? But instantly he realizedthat this gale which was coming would carry them to the heart of Bolsheviki Russia. What chance would they have there?
“Pull the cord! Pull the cord!” insisted Jarvis.
Mechanically, Dave’s hand came down. The hiss of air was followed by the sagging drop of the car. The die had been cast.
For an hour, after admitting the white man’s dog to his secret mine, Pant sat listening for any sound that might tell of his discovery. After this, heaving a sigh of relief, he turned at once to the work that lay before him. He realized that whatever he did must be done soon.
Dragging the newly acquired batteries back to where the others were lined up along the wall, he attached one of them to the circuit, then threw in the switch which should set the buzz-saw mining machine into operation. An angry spit and flare was his only reward.
Nothing daunted, he cut in another battery, then another. As he touched the switch afterattaching the third battery, a loud whirring sound rewarded him.
“Eureka! I have found it!” he cried, leaping high in air. “Now we win!”
The dog barked loudly at this singular demonstration, but since the vault-like mine was sound proof, it mattered little how noisy was his rejoicing.
The cutting machine was instantly set in operation. The sing of the wheel against the frozen earth was deafening. The earth-tremble, started by the machinery, could not fail to make itself felt outside the mine. But when he realized that only the yellow men knew the cause of such a tremble and that they were many miles from that spot, making their way south with dog team or reindeer, Pant had little fear. He would find his way to the mother-lode, would melt snow from the inside of the bank by the mine’s entrance, would wash out the gold; then, if only he could evade the Russians and the Chukches, he would begin the southward journey.
Hour by hour, the stacks of dark brown cubes of frozen pay dirt grew at the sides of the mine. Hour by hour, the yellow glistened more brightly in the cubes. Yet he did not come to the mother-lode. He slept but little, taking short snatches now and then. Sometimes he fell asleep at his task. One thing began to worry him; the gasoline was running short. With no gasoline to run his motor, there could be no electric current, no power.
Now and again he fancied that men were prowling about the snow-blocked entrance. He knew these were only fancies. Sleepless days and nights were telling on his nerves. When would the rich pay come?
At last, while half asleep, he worked on the upper tiers of cubes, there came a jarring rattle which brought him up standing. The wheel had struck solid rock. This meant that there was a ledge, a former miniature fall in the river bed. At the foot of this fall, there would be a pocket, and in that pocket, much gold. The gasoline? There was yet enough. To-morrowhe would clean up the mother-lode. Then he would be away.
He stumbled, as in a dream, to his blankets, and, wrapping them about him, fell into a stupor that was sleep and more.
As the balloon, in which Dave Tower and Jarvis rode, drifted toward the shore of the mainland, Dave, shading his eyes, watched the yellow gleam of the City of Gold darken to a purplish black, then back to a dull gray.
“Man, it’s gone. I ’ates to look,” groaned Jarvis. “It’s gone, the City of Gold.”
Dave had been expecting something like this to happen. “Probably the surface of some gigantic rock, polished by wind and rain, reflecting the rays of the sun,” was his mental comment. He did not have the heart to express his thoughts to Jarvis.
They drifted on. Suddenly Dave dived into the cabin and returned with a pair of powerful binoculars. He turned these on the spot where the shining City of Gold had been.
What he saw brought an exclamation to his lips. It died there unuttered. “After all,” he thought to himself, “it may be nothing, just nothing at all.”
What he had seen was still brownish gray in color, but instead of the flat even surface of a rock broken here and there by irregular fissures, he had seen innumerable squares, placed as regularly as the roofs of a house. “Nature does not build that way. Man must have had a hand in it. Here’s hoping.” Such were his mental comments as he saw land rise up to meet them. Were they nearing an inhabited land?
He did not have long to wait for the answer. As the balloon drifted in over the land, figures ran across the snow, in evident pursuit of the drifting “sausage.”
Jarvis, who had taken the glass, let out a roar. “It’s ’uman’s, me lad, ’uman bein’s it is, and if it’s no one but the bloody, bloomin’ ’eathen, I’ll be glad to see ’em.”
He was right. As the anchor, catching in a claybank, jerked the balloon to a sudden halt,they could see the people racing toward the point where the car was sure to land.
Dave’s mind was in a whirl. First his right hand gripped his automatic, next it hung limp at his side. What manner of people were they, anyway? If that broad flat surface of little squares meant the roof of a building, then these certainly were not natives, Chukches or Eskimos. Those always lived in houses of deer skin or snow. And, if it was a house, what an immense thing it must be. A hundred feet long, perhaps two hundred, and half as wide.
There was little time for speculation. The balloon carriage dropped rapidly. Their daft professor hung to the rail, babbling incoherent things about returning to the mouth of the Anadir. Jarvis was silent. Evidently there was but one thing to do; to trust themselves to the tender mercies of these people.
As the cabin bumped the snowy tundra, Dave sprang over the rail, followed by Jarvis, who assisted the still feeble professor.
They found themselves at once in the midst ofa curious-eyed group of people. These, with their long beards and droll clothing and droll manners, made Dave feel as if he were another Rip Van Winkle entering a land of dreams.
In the crowd there were some twenty men, slowly straggling in. There was a woman of middle age, and beside her a girl of about sixteen years, evidently her daughter. Dave’s eyes approved of the girl, and though she was a stranger to his tongue, she did not fail to find an immediate means of letting him know that she looked upon him with much favor.
All these people were dressed in skins, fawn skins for the most part, though there were occasional garments of leather. The garments were not cut at all after the manner of Chukches or Eskimos. The girl wore a skirt and a loose middy-like jacket of white buckskin, the skin of which had been split thin. The garments suited her wonderfully well.
Dave had concluded, before one of them spoke, that they were Russians. When the oldest man of the group attempted to address him,he knew his guess to be correct, though he understood not one word of what was being said.
“But what,” he asked himself, “are these people doing here so far within the Arctic Circle, and how do they live?”
Having made it evident that he did not understand their language, he awaited further attempts at conversation. Other languages were tried with no success, until a man of thirty years or past suddenly said:
“Do you speak English?”
Dave could have wept on his shoulders for pure joy. What he did do was to extend his hand with a hearty, “Put her there, old chap, that’s just what I do!”
“You must be hungry,” said the new-found friend.
“We could eat,” admitted Dave.
“Come this way.”
Having made sure that the balloon was in a safe position, Dave and Jarvis, assisting the professor, followed their host round a point ofrock and up to a row of cabins on the southern side of the hill. Having entered one of these, they were invited to sit down while the professor was helped to a room in the rear and tucked into bed.
“Now, gentlemen,” said the stranger, “we can offer you only venison and fresh sweet potatoes for your main course. You will perhaps not mind that. But in the matter of salads, we can give you a little choice. Will you have head lettuce or sliced cucumbers?” He smiled genially.
Dave looked at Jarvis; Jarvis stared at Dave. Was this man jesting? Head lettuce and cucumbers in mid-winter, inside the Arctic Circle? What a rank impossibility! Yet the man did not smile.
“Mine’s ’ead lettuce an’ a little whale blubber,” laughed Jarvis.
“And yours?” smiled the host, turning to Dave.
“S-s-same,” stammered Dave,
“’E’s a jolly sport,” sighed Jarvis, as theman went out. “Next ’e’ll offer strawberries for dessert.”
Imagine their utter astonishment when the man returned presently with a wooden tray heavily laden with food, and on it, not only two heaping wooden bowls of head lettuce, but two smaller bowls of luscious red strawberries, and beside each of these, a little wooden pitcher of rich cream.
“Sorry we have to offer our food in such plain dishes,” smiled the host. “We have experimented with pottery but have had no success as yet.” He bowed himself out of the room.
“Dave, old pal,” said Jarvis, “don’t move, don’t speak to me. Don’t wake me up. I’m ’aving such a beautiful dream.”