“Come in. I have been waiting for you. You are welcome to an old man’s lonely house; doubly welcome, coming as you do in time for Sunday vespers.”
This strange, almost uncanny proceeding so startled the girl that for a second she was tempted to turn and flee. The next second she had complete control of herself. Pushing the door open, as if entering the chamber of the king of fairies, she made a little bow and said:
“Thank you.”
Then, realizing how perfectly absurd her action had been, she broke into a hearty laugh and in this laugh the old man joined.
So, with the ice broken, they became friends at once.
To her vast relief she found that the old man, though he had undoubtedly been expecting them or someone else, did not know all about them. He asked if they travelled with dog team or reindeer. Upon being told that they drove reindeer, he smiled and said:
“Good. It’s lucky I have feed for your deer. Reindeer people seldom come this way. Once I was caught unprepared to entertain them, so last autumn I put in a good stock of moss and willow leaves. Your deer shall be safely housed and richly fed, and so shall you. Go bring them at once. Or shall I go with you?”
“Oh no; that is not necessary,” Marian hastened to assure him.
“Very well then, while you go I will put the birds on to broil. You are doubtless very hungry.”
Ten minutes later Marian was chattering to Attatak:
“The queerest place you ever saw; and the strangest old gentleman. But really, I think he is a dear.”
The curiosity of the two girls knew no bounds as they neared the strange abode. Who was this man? Why did he live here all by himself? How had he brought his pipe organ to this remote spot? Whence had come those peculiar skylights through which the yellow light gleamed? Whence came the power for those electric lights? How had this strange man known of their coming? Or had he known? Had he been expecting someone else and had he, as a perfect host, pretended it was Marian he had known to be at the door? These, and many other questions, flashed through Marian’s alert mind as she guided her deer over the remaining distance and up to the entrance to the cave-like structure.
Lights flashed on here and there as they passed inside. A long corridor, walled on either side by hewn logs, led to a stall-like room where was food in abundance for their reindeer, and, what was better still, perfect protection from any night prowler.
Marian was wondering what sort of meal was being prepared for them when they were at last led into the large room. Here, on the side opposite the pipe organ, great logs crackled merrily in a fireplace half as wide as the room itself.
After taking their fur parkas, the host motioned them to seats beside the fire. There, charmed by the drowsy warmth, Marian experienced great difficulty in keeping awake. Strange fancies floated through her mind. She fancied she was aboard a ship at sea; the walls about her were the walls of her state-room; the huge beams above, the ship’s beams; the strange cupola affairs above, the lights to her cabin.
As she shook herself free from this fancy, she realized that aside from the fireplace, the inside of the room was very like a cabin of a high class schooner.
“It must all come from some vessel,” she reasoned. “Even the lighting fixtures look as if they had been taken from a ship. I wonder what ship, and why?”
She thought of stories she had read of beach combers who wrecked ships by displaying fake shore lights on stormy nights that they might gather the wreckage from the beach. For a moment she fancied this bearded patriarch playing such a role. Finding this too absurd even for fancy, she shook herself free from it.
“Food,” she murmured to herself, “I’m ravenously hungry. He spoke of putting on the birds. I wonder what he could have meant?”
She did not have long to wait. A moment later there came to her nostrils the delicious aroma of perfectly brewed coffee. Mingled with it were various savory odors which gave promise of a rich meal.
“You are not yet fully warmed,” said their host, “so you may eat by the fire.”
He was pushing before him a tea-wagon of wonderful design and craftsmanship. This was fairly creaking under its load of chinaware of exquisite design, and silver which did not require a second look to tell that it was sterling. Marian barely avoided a gasp at sight of it.
If the service was perfect, the food was no less so. Four ptarmigan, those wonderful “quail of the Arctic,” broiled to a delicious turn, were flanked with potatoes, gravy, peas and apple sauce. The desert was blueberries preserved in wild honey.
“Only idleness or indifference,” smiled their host as he caught their looks of appreciation, “can hinder one from securing appetizing foods in any land.”
“And now,” he said as they finished, “there are questions you may wish to ask; information that you may wish to impart.”
“Why—we—” Marian began in some confusion.
He interrupted her with a wave of the hand. “It will all keep until morning. This habit young people have, of sitting up talking all hours of the night because life seems too exciting for sleep, is all wrong. You are in need of rest. ‘Everything in its good time’ is my motto. Fortunately my guest room is warm. The fire is not yet burned out. Last night I had the honor of furnishing a night’s lodging to the Agent of our Government.”
“The Agent?” Marian asked in surprise.
“Yes. He came up here to ask me about the lay of the land above here. I think,” there was a merry twinkle in his eye, “that I may lay claim to being the oldest resident of this town. No doubt I was able to give him some valuable information.”
“And he is—is gone?” Marian gasped.
“Left this morning. Why? Did you wish to see him? Surely—yes, you would. Being connected with the reindeer business, you would. Unfortunate that you did not reach here a few hours earlier. He left on foot. The trail around the rapids is rough. He did not try to bring his dogs and sleds through. Left them with his driver at the foot of the rapids. Well enough that he did. Couldn’t have made it.”
Upon realizing that she had missed the man she had come so far to see, Marian could have burst into tears.
“You may find him at the Station, though,” her host assured her. “I believe he means to stay there a day or two. His dogs are footsore from travelling over crusted snow.”
Marian’s heart gave a leap of joy. But what was this about the trail and the rapids?
“Did—did you say that one could not pass over the trail with a sled?” she asked in the calmest tone she could command. “Are the rapids not yet frozen over?”
“Frozen?” he stared at her incredulously. “Have you not heard them? Ah, then, you came from up stream. The forest shuts out the sound. Slip on your parka and come with me, and you shall hear. It is grand music, that ceaseless rush and roar, that beating of waters and tumbling of ice.”
It may have seemed glorious to the old man, but to Marian, who listened to the wild tumult of waters, it was frightening and disheartening.
“Can a boat run the rapids?” she asked, though she knew the question was foolish and that no boat could run them.
“None ever has.”
“Can—can a sled pass over the trail above?”
“None has. None can. The way is too rough; the trees too closely crowded together. Dogs, reindeer, men, yes; but sleds, no.”
“How far is it to the station?” Marian faltered.
“Three days journey.”
“Are there any houses on the way?”
“None.”
“Then, without our sleds, we would not dare undertake the journey.”
“No. It would not do. You would starve or freeze.”
It required all Marian’s power of will to remain standing as she faltering said; “Then we are defeated. We—we must turn back. We—” She could not go on.
The aged man studied her face for a moment. Then quietly he asked:
“Is it very important that you get to the station; that you see the Agent?”
“Oh, very, very important! We—”
Again he motioned for silence. “Do not tell me now. I think it can be arranged that your sleds may pass the rapids. Itshallbe arranged. I promise it. Come, you are worn out. It is time you should sleep.”
The two girls had carried no suit-case, satchel or duffel bag on this trip. Their spare clothing was stowed away in their sleeping bags. When their host had lighted their way to the room that was to be theirs for the night, and had retired to his large room, they tip-toed back to their sleds, unlashed their sleeping bags and carried them as they were to their room.
For some hours Marian had not thought of the ancient treasure found in the cave, but once she began unrolling her sleeping bag she was reminded of it. A piece of old ivory went clattering to the floor. With a cry of surprise she picked it up, then carefully removed the other pieces of ivory, copper and ancient pottery and stood them in a row against the wall.
Again there came the temptation to give them a thorough examination. Events transpired later that caused her to wish that she had done so. But weary and troubled by the turn affairs had taken, she again put off this inviting task. She slipped at once into her sleeping gown and plunged beneath the covers of the most delightful bed she had ever known. Attatak followed her a few seconds later.
They found themselves lying upon a bed of springy moss mixed with the fragrant tips of balsam. Over this had been thrown wolfskin robes. With one of these beneath them, and two above, they snuggled down until only their noses were showing.
They did not sleep at once. Left to himself, the mysterious old man had seated himself at his organ, and now sent forth such wild, pealing tones as Marian had never heard before. He was doing Dvorjak’s wildest symphony, and making it wilder and more weird than even the composer himself could have dreamed it might be made.
Throughout its rendition, Marian lay tense as a bow-string. As it ended with a wild, racing crash, she settled back with a shiver, wondering what could throw such a spell over an old man as would cause him to play in that manner.
Had she known the reason she would have done little sleeping that night. The aged host was tuning his soul to such a key as would nerve him for a Herculean task.
Since Marian did not know, she puzzled for a time over the trail they must travel in the morning; wondered vaguely how her host was to keep his promise of bringing their sleds safely past the rapids; then fell asleep.
As for their host, fifteen minutes after the last note of his wild symphony had died away, he tip-toed down the silent corridor which led to the door of the room in which the girls were sleeping. Having convinced himself by a moment of listening that they were asleep, he made his way to the spot where their two sleds had been left. These he examined carefully. After straightening up, he murmured:
“Took their sleeping-bags. That’s bad. Didn’t need ’em. Can’t disturb ’em now. Guess it can be managed.”
After delivering himself of this monologue, he proceeded to wrap the contents of each sled in a water-proof blanket, then dragged them out into the moonlight.
Having strapped an axe, a pick and a shovel on one sled, he tied the other sled to it and began pulling them over the smooth downhill trail that led toward the falls.
For a full mile he plodded stolidly on. Then he halted, separated the sleds, and with the foremost sled gliding on before him, plunged down a steep bank to the right. Presently he came toiling back up the hill for the other sled.
At the bottom once more, he stood for a moment staring into the foaming depths of a roaring torrent.
“Pretty bad,” he muttered. “Never did it before at this time of year. Might fail. Might—”
Suddenly he broke off and began humming, “Tum—te—tum—tum—tum.” He was going over and over that mad symphony. It appeared to give him strength and courage, and seizing the pick, he began hacking away at some object that lay half buried in the snow.
Fifteen minutes later he had exhumed a short, square raft.
“Built you for other purposes, but you’ll do for this,” he muttered. “Other logs where you came from.”
He set both sleds carefully upon the raft; then with yards upon yards of rawhide rope, lashed them solidly to it.
This done, he began running out a heavier rope. This he carried up the bank to a spot where there was a mass of jagged rock covered here and there by hard packed snow.
More than once he slipped, but always he struggled upward until at last he stood upon the topmost pinnacle. A heroic figure silhouetted in the moonlight, he stood for a full five minutes staring down at the racing waters below. Dancing in the moonlight, they appeared to reach out black hands to grasp and drag him down.
Before him, on the opposite side, gleamed a high white bank. A sheer precipice of ice fifty feet high, this was the end of a glacier that every now and again sent a thousand tons of ice thundering into the deep pool at its foot.
Beneath this ice barrier the water had worn a channel. A boat drifting down on the rushing waters would certainly be sucked down beneath this ice and be crushed like an eggshell.
What the old man intended to do was evident enough. He meant to set the raft, laden with the sleds and trappings so precious to his young guests, afloat in those turbulent waters and then to attempt by means of the rope to hold it from being drawn beneath the ice, and to guide it a half mile down the river to quieter waters below. There was no path for him to follow. Jagged rocks and ice-like snow, slippery as glass, awaited him; yet he dared to try it.
Here was a task fit for the youngest and the strongest; yet there he stood, the spirit of a hero flowing in his veins—age serving youth. The gallantry of a great and perfect gentleman bowing to fair ladies and daring all. How Marian would have thrilled at sight of this daring act.
With a swift turn he tightened the rope, then with the “de—de—dum” of his symphony upon his lips, strained every muscle until he felt the rope slack, then eased away as he saw the raft tilt for the glide. Then he relaxed his muscles and stood there watching.
With a slow graceful movement the small raft glided out upon the water. An eddy seized it and whirled it about. Three times it turned, then the current caught it, and whirled it away. The rope was tight now, and every muscle of the grand old man was tense. A battle had begun which was to decide whether or not the two girls were to reach the station and fulfill their mission.
That same evening Patsy made her second startling discovery. An hour before night was to set in, she had harnessed a sled deer and struck out into the hills in search of a brown yearling that had been missing for two days.
“Strange where they all go,” she murmured as she climbed a hill for a better view of the surrounding country. “Marian was right; unless we discover the cause of these disappearances and put an end to them, soon there will be no herd. It’s a shame! How I wish I could make the discovery all by myself and surprise Marian with the good news when she gets home.”
As she scanned the horizon away across to the west, she saw a single dark figure on the crest of a hill.
“Old Omnap-puk,” she said, taking in with admiration the full sweep of his splendid antlers. “It’s the first time I’ve seen him for a long while. We can’t lose you, can we? And we can’t catch you,” she said, speaking to the lone figure.
Old Omnap-puk was neither reindeer nor caribou; at least this was what Marian had said about it. She believed that he was a cross-breed—half reindeer and half caribou. He was large like a caribou, larger than the largest deer in the herd. He had something of the dark brown coat of the caribou, but a bright white spot on his left side told of the reindeer blood that flowed in his veins.
But he was very wild. Haunting the edge of the herd, he never came close enough to be lassoed or driven into a brush corral. Many a wild chase had he lead the herders, but always he had shown them his sleek brown heels.
Many times the girls had debated the question of allowing the herders to kill him for food and for his splendid coat; yet they had hesitated. They were not sure that he was not a full-blooded reindeer; that he was not marked and did not belong to someone. If he was a stray reindeer, they had no right to kill him. Besides this, it seemed a pity to kill such a wonderful creature. So the matter stood. And here he was on their feeding ground.
As Patsy stood there gazing at this splendid creature, she slowly realized that the Arctic sun had flamed down below the far horizon and long shadows raced out of the West. A full orbed moon stood just atop the trees that lined the eastern rim of hills. Turning reluctantly to leave, her eyes caught sight of a dark spot in the snow. She bent over to examine it, and a moment later straightened up with a startled exclamation.
“Blood! It is a trail of blood. I wonder which way it goes?”
Unable to answer this question, she decided to circle until she could find some sign that would tell her whether or not she was back-tracking. Satisfied at last of the direction, she pushed on, and there in the eerie moonlight, through the ghostly silence of an Arctic night, she silently followed the trail of blood.
Suddenly she stopped and stood still. Just before her was a large discoloration of the snow. And, though the snow was so wind packed that she walked on it without snowshoes, her keen eyes detected spots where it had been broken and scratched by some hard, heavy object.
Dropping on her knees, she began examining every detail of the markings. When she arose she spoke with a quiet tone of conviction:
“This is the track of a man. He has killed one of our deer and had been carrying it on his shoulder. Blood dropped from the still warm carcass. That explains the trail of blood. The load has become too heavy for him. At this spot he has laid his burden down. In places the antlers have scratched the snow. After a time he has gone on. But which way did he go?”
Once more she bent over. On the hard packed snow, the sole of a skin boot makes no tracks. After a moment’s study she again straightened up.
“There’s a long scratch, as if he had dragged the carcass to his shoulder as he started on, and an antler had dragged for two or three feet. That would indicate that he went the way I have been going. Question is, shall I go farther, or shall I go for the herders with their rifles?” She decided to go on.
The blood spots grew less and less as she advanced. She was beginning to despair of being able to follow much farther, when, with a startled gesture, she came to a sudden halt.
“The purple flame!” she said in an awed whisper.
It was true. As she stared down at a little willow lined valley, she saw the outline of a tent. From the very center of it there appeared to burst that weird purple light.
“Well,” she concluded, “I am at least sure that they’ve killed one of our deer; killed several, probably. No doubt they have been living off our herd.”
For a moment she stood there undecided; then, with reluctant feet, she turned back. It was the only wise thing to do. She was alone and unarmed. To follow that trail further would be dangerous and foolhardy.
But what should she do, once she had reached her own camp? She was convinced in her own mind that the slain creature was one of their deer; yet she could not prove it. Should she lead her armed herders to the stranger’s tent and demand an explanation? Oh, how she did wish that Marian was here!
As she walked homeward she felt terribly depressed. There was a girl in that tent of the purple flame. She had seen her. She had hoped that sometime, in the not too distant future, they might be friends. Such a friend in this lonely land, especially since Marian and Attatak were gone, would be a boon indeed. Now she felt that such a thing could never be. It was as if a great gulf had suddenly yawned between them.
After reaching her camp and sipping a cup of tea and munching at some hard crackers, she sat for hours thinking things through. Her final decision was that for the present she could do nothing. Marian might return any day now. In such matters her judgment would be best and Patsy did not feel warranted in starting what might prove to be a dangerous feud.
As the raft, which had been dragged from the bank of the river by the hermit of the mysterious lodge, swung out into the ice strewn current, it shot directly for the glacier’s end as if drawn by a magnet.
Taking a quick turn of the rope about a point of rock, the aged man braced himself for the shock which must come when the raft, with its load of sleds and other trappings, had taken up the slack.
All too soon it came. Bracing himself as best he could, he held his ground. The strain increased. It seemed that the rope must snap; that the old man’s iron grip must yield. Should the raft reach the glacier it would be lost forever. The muscles in the man’s arms played like bands of steel. Blood vessels stood out on his temples like whipcords, yet he held his ground.
Ten seconds passed, twenty, thirty, then with a whirl like some wild animal yielding to its captor, the raft swung about and shot away down stream.
Plunging forward, leaping rocks, gliding over glassy surfaces of snow, puffing, perspiring, the old man followed.
Now he was down; the cause seemed lost. But in a flash he was up again, clutching at a jagged rock that tore his hand. For a second time he stayed the mad rush of the raft. Then he was on again.
Bobbing from reef to reef, plunging through foam, leaping high above the torrents, the raft went careering on. Twice it all but turned over, and but for the skill of its master would have been crushed by great grinding cakes of ice.
For thirty long minutes the battle lasted; minutes that seemed hours to the aged man. Then with a sigh he guided the raft into a safe eddy of water.
Sinking down upon a hard packed bank of snow, he lay there as if dead. For a long time he lay there, then rising stiffly, made his way down the ledge to drag the raft ashore and unlash the sleds. After this he drew the sleds up the hill one at a time and set them across the blazed trail.
“There!” he sighed. “A good night’s work done, and a neat one. I could not have done it better twenty years ago. ‘Grow old along with me,’” he threw back his hair as if in defiance of raging torrents, “‘The best is yet to be. The last of life, for which the first was made—’”
Having delivered this bit of poetical oration to the tune of the booming rapids, he turned to pick his way back over the uncertain trail that led to his strange abode.
Eight hours after she had crept into the luxurious bed in the guest room of the strange lodge, Marian stirred, then half awake, felt the drowsy warmth of wolf-skin rugs. For a moment she lay there and inhaled the drug-like perfume of balsam and listened to the steady breathing of the Eskimo girl beside her. She was about to turn over for another sleep, when, from some cell of her brain where it had been stowed the night before, there came the urge that told her she must make haste.
“Haste! Haste! Haste!” came beating in upon her drowsy senses. It was as if her brain were a radio, and the message was coming from the air.
Suddenly she sat bolt upright. At the same instant she found herself wide awake, fully alert and conscious of the problems she must face that day—the passing of the rapids and covering a long span of that trail which still lay between them and their goal.
She did not waken Attatak. That might not be necessary for another hour. She sprang out upon the heavy bear skin rug, and there went through a set of wild, whirling gestures that limbered every muscle in her body and sent the red blood racing through her veins. After that she quickly slipped into her blouse, knickers, stockings and deerskin boots, to at last go tiptoeing down the corridor toward the large living-room where she heard the roar of the open fire as it raced up the chimney.
She found her host sitting by the fire. In the uncertain light he appeared haggard and worn, as if quite done in from some great exertion. Of course Marian could not so much as guess how he had spent the night. She had slept through it all.
With a smile of greeting the old man motioned her to a seat beside him.
“You’ll not begrudge an old man a half hour’s company?” he said.
“Indeed not.”
“You’ll wish to ask me things. Everyone who passes this way wants to. Mostly they ask and I don’t tell. A fair lady, though,” there was something of ancient gallantry in his tone, “fair ladies usually ask what they will and get it, too.”
For a moment he sat staring silently into the fire.
“This house,” he said at last, “is a bit unusual. That pipe organ, for instance—you wouldn’t expect it here. It came here as if by accident; Providence, I call it. A rich young man had more things than he knew what to do with. The Creator sent some of them to me.
“As for me, I came here voluntarily. You have probably taken me for a prospector. I have never bought pick nor pan. There are things that lure me, but gold is not one of them.
“I had troubles before I came here. Troubles are the heritage of the aged. I sometimes think that it is not well to live too long.
“And yet,” he shook himself free of the mood; his face lighting up as he exclaimed, “And yet, life is very wonderful! Wonderful, even up here in the frozen north. I might almost say,especiallyhere in the north.
“I came here to be alone. I brought in food with a dog team. I built a cabin of logs, and here I lived for a year.
“One day a young man came up the river in a wonderful pleasure yacht and anchored at the foot of the rapids. Being a lover of music, he had built a pipe organ into his yacht; the one you heard last night.”
“And did—did he die?” Marian asked, a little break coming in her voice.
“No,” the old man smiled, “he tarried too long. Being a lover of nature—a hunter and an expert angler—and having found the most ideal spot in the world as long as summer lasted, he stayed on after the frosts and the first snow. I was away at the time, else I would have warned him. I returned the day after it happened. There had been a heavy freeze far up the river, then a storm came that broke the ice away. The ice came racing down over the rapids like mad and wrecked his wonderful yacht beyond all repair.
“We did as much as we could about getting the parts on shore; saved almost all but the hull. He stayed with me for a few days; then, becoming restless, traded me all there was left of his boat for my dog team.
“That winter, with the help of three Indians and their dogs, I brought the wreckage up here. Gradually, little by little, I have arranged it into the form of a home that is as much like a boat as a house. The organ was unimpaired, and here it sings to me every day of the great white winter.”
He ceased speaking and for a long time was silent. When he spoke again his tones were mellow with kindness and a strange joy.
“I am seldom lonely now. The woods and waters are full of interesting secrets. Travellers, like you, come this way now and again. I try to be prepared to serve them; to be their friend.”
“May—may I ask one question?” Marian suggested timidly.
“As many as you like.”
“How did you know I was at the door last night when you were playing? You did not see me. You couldn’t have heard me.”
“That,” he smiled, “is a question I should like to ask someone myself; someone much wiser than I am. I knew you were there. I had been feeling your presence for more than an hour before you came. I knew I had an audience. I was playing for them. How did I know? I cannot tell. It has often been so before. Perhaps all human presence can be felt by some specially endowed persons. It may be that in the throngs of great cities the message of soul to soul is lost, just as a radio message is lost in a jumble of many messages sent at once.
“But then,” he laughed, “why speculate? Life’s too short. Some things we must accept as they are. What’s more important to you is that your sleds are beyond the rapids. When breakfast is over, you can strap your sleeping bags on your deer and I will guide you over the trail around the rapids to the point where I left your sleds.”
A look of consternation flashed over Marian’s face. She was thinking of the ancient dishes and how fragile they were. “I have some fragile articles in the sleeping bags,” she said. “They—they might break!”
“Break?” He wore a puzzled look.
For a second she hesitated; then, reassured by the kindly face of the gentle old man, decided to tell him the story of their adventure in the cave. Then she launched into the story with all the eagerness of a discoverer.
“I see,” he said, when she had finished the story. “I know just how you feel. However, there is now only one safe thing to do. Leave these treasures with me. If the rapids are frozen over when the time comes for the return trip, you can pass here and get them. You’ll always be welcome. Better leave an address to which they may be sent in case you should not pass this way. The rapids freeze over every winter. I will surely be able to get them off on the first river boat. They can be sent to any spot in the world. To attempt to pack them over on your deer would mean certain destruction.”
Reluctant as Marian was to leave the treasure behind, she saw the wisdom of his advice. So, feeling a perfect confidence in him, she decided to leave her treasure in his care. Then she gave him her address at Nome, with instructions for shipping should she fail to return this way.
“One thing more I wanted to ask you,” she said. “How many men are there at the Station?”
“One man; the trader. He stays there the year ’round.”
“One man!” she exclaimed.
“One is all. Time was when there were twenty. Prospectors, traders, Indians, trappers. Two years ago forest fires destroyed the timber. The game sought other feeding grounds and the trappers, traders and Indians went with them. Gold doesn’t seem to exist in the streams hereabouts, so the prospectors have left, too. Now one man keeps the post; sort of holding on, I guess, just to see if the old days won’t return.”
“Do you suppose he could—could leave for a week or two?” Marian faltered.
“Guess not. Company wouldn’t permit it.”
“Then—then—” Marian set her lips tight. She would not worry this kind old man with her troubles. The fact remained, however, that if there was but one man at the Station, and he could not leave, there was no one who could be delegated by the Government Agent to go back with her to help fight her battles against Scarberry.
Suddenly, as she thought of the weary miles they had travelled, of the hardships they had endured, and of the probability that they would, after all, fail in fulfilling their mission, she felt very weak and as one who has suddenly grown old.
A cup of perfect coffee, followed by a dash into the bracing Arctic morning, completely revived Marian’s spirits. Casting one longing look backward at the mysterious treasure of ancient dishes and old ivory, throwing doubt and discouragement to the winds, with energy and courage she set herself to face the problems of the day.
The passing of the rapids by the overland trail was all that their host had promised. Struggling over rocky, snow-packed slopes; slipping, sliding, buffeted by strong winds, beaten back by swinging overhanging branches of ancient spruce and firs, they made their way pantingly forward until at last, with a little cry of joy, Marian saw their own sleds in the trail ahead.
“That’s over,” she breathed. “How thankful I am that we did not attempt to make it with the sleds, or with our treasure on the backs of the deer. There would not have been left a fragment of our dishes as big as a dime. As for the sleds, well it simply couldn’t be done.”
“No-me,” sighed Attatak.
“I wonder how he could have brought them by the rapids?” Marian mused as she examined the sleds. There were flakes of ice frozen to the runners. She could only guess at the method he had used, only dimly picture the struggle it must have taken. Even as she attempted to picture the night battle, a great wave of admiration and trust swept over her.
“The treasure is safer in his hands than in ours,” she told herself.
“But, after it has left his hands?” questioned her doubting self.
“Oh well,” she sighed at last, “what must be, will be. The important thing after all is to reach the station before the Agent has started on his way.”
Again her brow clouded. What if there was no one to go back with her?
To dispel this doubt, she hastened to hitch her deer to her sled. Soon they were racing away over the trail, causing the last miles of their long journey to melt away like ice in the river before a spring thaw.
In the meantime a third startling revelation had come to Patsy. First she had discovered that at least one of the persons connected with the strange purple flame was a girl. Next she had found the red trail of blood that apparently was made by one of Marian’s slain deer, and which led to the door of their tent. The third discovery had nothing to do with the first two, nor with the purple flame. It was of a totally different nature, and was most encouraging.
“If only Marian were here!” she said to herself as she paced the floor after receiving the important message.
This message came to her over the radiophone. It was not meant particularly for her, nor for Marian. It was just news; not much more than a rumor, at that. Yet such news as it was, if only it were true!
Faint and far away, it came drifting in upon the air from some powerful sending station. Perhaps that station was Fairbanks, Dawson or Nome. She missed that part of the message.
Only this much came to her that night as she sat at their compact, powerful receiving set, beguiling the lonesome hours by catching snatches of messages from near and far:
“Rumor has it that the Canadian Government plans the purchase of reindeer to be given to her Eskimo people on the north coast of the Arctic. Five or six hundred will be purchased as an experiment, if the plan carries. It seems probable that the deer purchased will be procured in Alaska. It is thought possible to drive herds across the intervening space and over the line from Alaska, and that in this way they may be purchased by the Canadian Agent on Canadian soil. A call for such herds may be issued later over the radio, as it is well known that many owners of herds have their camps equipped with radio-phones.”
There the message ended. It had left Patsy in a fever of excitement. Marian and her father wished to sell the herd. It was absolutely necessary to sell it if Marian’s hopes of continuing her education were not to be blasted. There was no market now for a herd in Alaska. In the future, as pastures grew scarcer, and as herds increased in numbers, there would be still less opportunity for a sale.
“What a wonderful opportunity!” Patsy exclaimed. “To sell the whole herd to a Government that would pay fair prices and cash! And what a glorious adventure! To drive a reindeer herd over hundreds of miles of rivers, forests, tundra, hills and mountains; to camp each night in some spot where perhaps no man has been before; surely that would be wonderful! Wonderful!”
Just at that moment there entered her mind a startling thought. Scarberry’s camp, too, was equipped with a radio-phone. Probably he, too, at this very moment, was smiling at the prospect of selling six hundred of his deer. He wanted to sell. Of course he did. Everyone did. He would make the drive. Certainly he would.
“And then,” she breathed, pressing her hands to her fluttering heart, “then it will be a race; a race between two reindeer herd; a race over hundreds of miles of wilderness for a grand prize. What a glorious adventure!”
“If only Marian were here,” she sighed again. “The message announcing the plans may come while she is gone. Then—”
She sat in a study for a long time. Finally she whispered to herself:
“If the message comes while she is gone; if the opportunity is sure to be lost unless the herd starts as soon as the message comes, I wonder if I’d dare to start on the race with the herd, with Terogloona and without Marian and Attatak. I wonder if I would?”
For a long time she sat staring at the fire. Perhaps she was attempting to read the answer in the flames.
At last, with cheeks a trifle flushed, she sprang to her feet, did three or four leaps across the floor, and throwing off her clothing, crept between the deer-skins in the strange little sleeping compartment.
Just at dawn of a wonderfully crisp morning, Marian found herself following her reindeer over a trail that had recently been travelled by a dog team. She was just approaching the Trading Station where the questions that haunted her tired brain would be answered.
Since leaving the cabin in the forest above the rapids, she and Attatak had travelled almost day and night. A half hour for a hasty lunch here and there, an hour or two for sleep and for permitting the deer to feed; that was all they had allowed themselves.
An hour earlier, Marian had felt that she could not travel another mile. Then they had come upon the trail of the dog team, and realizing that they were nearing their goal, her blood had quickened like a marathon racer’s at the end of his long race. No longer feeling fatigue, she urged her weary reindeer forward. Contrary to her usually cautious nature, she even cast discretion to the winds and drove her deer straight toward the settlement. That there were dogs which might attack her deer she knew right well. That they were not of the species that attacked deer, or that they were chained, was her hope.
So, with her heart throbbing, she rounded a sudden turn to find herself within sight of a group of low-lying cabins that at one time had been a small town.
Now, as her aged host had said, it was a town in name only. She knew this at a glance. One look at the chimneys told her the place was all but deserted.
“No smoke,” she murmured.
“Yes, one smoke,” Attatak said, pointing.
It was true. From one long cabin there curled a white wreath of smoke.
For a moment Marian hesitated. No dogs had come out to bark, yet they might be there.