He was about to ask how Frank intended to drive their enemies from cover by stampeding the reindeer, but Frank grinned at him, and he paused. Dawning comprehension came into his eyes, too.
“That’s it,” Frank said. “I see you get my idea.”
He turned his gaze toward Farnum, farthest from the center, but who had overheard the conversation.
“You see, Mr. Farnum,” he said, “when the reindeer come dashing down, Lupo’s men will have to run for it to get out of the way. A stampeding herd isn’t anything to monkey with, I expect. Then you’ll have your chance. But the reindeer won’t dash in among these few close-set trees, so you’ll be safe. No, sir; as I figure it, they’ll just head right on past here and try to get through the hills beyond.”
Farnum’s glance approved.
“A fine idea,” he said, but then he added in a tone of doubt: “I don’t know as I ought to let you go, though. Mr. Hampton wouldn’t like it, maybe, putting yourself into danger like that.”
“Oh, nonsense,” said Frank. “I can slip unseen into the water. And I can swim like a seal. Ask Bob.”
And at once, to prevent any interruption of his plans, he resumed worming his way to the bank of the river.
The river ran at this point between six-foot banks, and the clump of trees in which camp was situated stood so close to the water that the roots of several projected through the soil of the land. Frank had little difficulty in getting down to the water, and felt sure that he accomplished the feat unseen by the enemy. He let himself into the stream, which was of sufficient depth right up to the bank to enable him to float downstream under the protection of the high bank, without the necessity of wading out to get to deeper water.
“For God’s sake, be careful, boy,” whispered Farnum, as Frank disappeared.
Frank was naked, and unarmed except for a long knife. He had not figured out how he would set about stampeding the reindeer. He was leaving that to chance. What concerned him now was to get toa position behind the herd without discovery. He stuck close inshore, floating, his eyes roving along the edge of the bluff above him for signs of the enemy.
None was to be seen. After all, he thought, it was hardly likely that any of the enemy lay in hiding here, as none of the shots fired at them had come from so close to the river. On the contrary, the enemy lay inland, showing they had come upon the camp from the landward side. Becoming bolder, therefore, he turned over and struck out, swimming strongly, the long knife in a sheath at his belt. He felt for it several times, to reassure himself it was there and had not fallen out.
Frank was a strong swimmer. Indeed, this was the one athletic sport at which he excelled both Bob and Jack, although they, too, were excellent swimmers. It did not take him long, therefore, aided by the current, to come abreast of the trees clothing the first of the two hills between which the reindeer had entered their valley. The hill sloped abruptly down to the water, and Frank had marked from camp how trees clothed it entirely, even dipping into the stream. When he had passed, as he believed, beyond a point at which there was any possibility of his being seen, he seized a branch of a willow tree and pulled himself ashore. Then, after climbing a short distance up the hill, he began working his way around itthrough the trees. Presently he was on the hillside facing the valley where were his friends in the distant clump of trees, and the enemy hidden in the long grass. The reindeer had not moved far. They were only a short distance from him, and Frank hurried forward at the best pace he could command.
For the first time since starting on his wild project, a doubt as to its success entered Frank’s mind. But he put it resolutely aside as he sped forward, crouching, sliding under the low branches, determined to make the best speed possible. His companions were in a ticklish situation. He wanted to do what he could to relieve them as soon as possible. As to his own danger, he gave it not a thought.
What worried Frank was the possibility that he would be unable to stampede the reindeer herd. This was the thought which he put aside. But it kept recurring. And when he had come into position behind the herd, and saw them feeding quietly below him, not a stone’s throw away, at the foot of the hill, where the trees ended abruptly and the grassy plain began, he was still without an idea as to what to do.
Originally, he had thought that stoning the herdmight set them into motion and stampede them forward. But doubt as to the workability of that method had seized him as he first climbed from the water and, from among the trees, obtained his first view of the herd. The animals, grazing quietly, were so well spread out that he feared stoning them would not alarm them sufficiently to start a stampede.
“Well, here goes for a try, anyway,” he muttered to himself.
Fortunately, there were numerous pieces of rock lying about. Collecting a heap of these, he began pelting away at the nearest reindeer, a brown and white spotted cow. His aim was good, and the startled animal, struck on the flank, snorted, tossed her head and gave a little jump. She went forward only a step or two, however, and then settled down to grazing again.
Once more Frank let fly, and this time the stone caught her on the side of the neck. She tossed her head angrily, and sidled forward again. The movement brought her sharply into contact with another cow, and for a moment Frank was filled with hope that the pair would start fighting and alarm the rest of the herd. He was disappointed. The first cow sheered away from the other, and both resumed grazing.
What should he do now? Frank was perplexed. He had already considered the possibility of startlingthe reindeer by shouting at them, but had given up that idea because it would apprise the hidden enemy in the grass ahead of his presence. He wanted them to know nothing of the menace in their rear until the stampeded herd should sweep down upon them.
“I wonder——” he said, muttering the words for the comfort of hearing his own voice.
Then he fell silent, thinking. Art had said they were tame reindeer, accustomed to the presence of man. Yes, but of man clothed and in his natural state. And of Eskimos at that—men dressed a good deal differently from the way in which he ordinarily clothed himself. What would those reindeer think if they saw a naked, white body dash down upon them suddenly?
“I’ll do it,” he said. “That’s the only way. And it will work, too, I’ll bet.”
Drawing his long knife from the sheath, he looked around and selected a tough branch the thickness of his thumb. This he cut off, stripped from it the projecting twigs, and made of it a long, pliant whip.
Whip in one hand, knife in the other, eyes gleaming and determined, Frank made his way to the edge of the trees, and then stole out into the long grass, crouching low. He did not want the reindeer to see him until he was upon them, and as they were grazing away from him, this was not so difficult.In fact, he was within several yards of a clump of cows before one swung about and looked at him.
The minute that occurred, Frank realized there was no longer any possibility of concealment, and that the time had come to strike. And strike he did. Jumping to his feet, he bounded forward, swinging his whip so that it sank through the air.
Bringing the whip down with a cruel lash on the flank of the nearest reindeer, Frank swung it around on all sides. Every swing landed. The swish as the pliant green wood struck the animals reminded him oddly of the sound of a stick beating rugs at home. Many a time he had heard that same thud-thud from behind his house.
Not a sound did he make as he lashed about him, for he felt that if no sound indicating that he was human came from him, the consternation of the reindeer would be increased.
And that he had not miscalculated became at once apparent, for the reindeer near him lifted up their sharp little hooves and sprang to get out of the vicinity of this strange animal with the lash. Naturally, to escape him, there was only one way for them to go, and that was forward, so forward they went. Right into the main body of the herd they dashed, with Frank prancing and bounding behind them, with each leap bringing his whip down upon the flank of a laggard.
Suddenly, one reindeer, nearer than the rest, dashed by so close on his right as to brush Frank. He was not being charged. The animal was panicky, and merely seeking to escape. But he had to leap nimbly aside to avoid being bowled over. And as he leaped, the long knife clutched in his hand pricked the animal’s flank.
The reindeer screamed, a shrill, terror-stricken cry, and launched itself forward like a thunderbolt into the midst of the disturbed herd. That, apparently, was all that was needed to complete the impending panic. Frank’s inexperienced eye could not have told the composition of the herd, but Art, when they had first caught sight of the reindeer from the hilltop, had pointed out the majority were cows, and the bucks numbered only a handful. If any buck had a masculine curiosity to discover what this strange white-skinned animal that looked so like and yet so unlike a man was, he did not get the chance to gratify it. For the now thoroughly frightened cows started forward in a rush that would have overborne any animal foolish enough to try to stem it.
And then Frank did what might have been considered a foolish thing. Carried away by the enthusiasm engendered by seeing his plan to stampede the herd work out successfully, he continued to bound along behind, at first able to whip thebunched-up stragglers, but soon falling hopelessly behind as the herd picked up speed and swept forward like the wind.
Straight toward the clump of trees sheltering Frank’s friends dashed the reindeer. And an exultant throb filled his breast. For the hidden enemy lay in the long grass between the herd and the trees, and inevitably, therefore, the stampeding animals would drive them out.
Regardless of the risk to himself, Frank continued on his way, running as fast as the nature of the ground permitted. The herd beat the long grass flat in its advance, as flat as if a great board had been pressed down on all, and the going was easier than he had looked for.
Suddenly a shot rang out, then another, and a little wisp of smoke showed the young fellow the discharge came from the trees. His own friends were shooting. At what? Again an exultant thrill swept over him. He felt certain his friends were firing at the enemy, and that the stampeding herd was driving the latter ahead of it, although because of the presence of the animals between himself and the enemy he could not see whether such was the case.
That Frank’s surmise was correct, however, was soon borne out. For the first shots fired from thetrees were succeeded by a rapid rattle that told him everybody was in action.
Then followed a confused medley of shots interspersed with shouts and cries, and Frank, pausing a moment to peer ahead and listen came to the conclusion that the enemy was desperately shooting at the reindeer in an effort to turn the herd aside. If that was the case, however, their efforts were unsuccessful, for the animals filled with the unreasoning spirit of panic did not swerve from their course.
“By golly,” Frank exclaimed aloud, “I believe I can reach camp all right.”
And once more he began to run forward. For it seemed to him that the herd, sweeping the enemy before it, would leave the ground free for him to reach the clump of trees and rejoin his friends.
On swept the herd, and on ran Frank in the beaten down grass behind it. His eyes were strained towards the trees. He began to wave and shout, as he came closer and made out the outline of Mr. Hampton’s tent. He paid no attention to his surroundings.
Then a form rose up from the long grass beside the swathe beaten down by the reindeer, there was a shot, and Frank fell forward on his face, a buzzing in his ears, and lost consciousness.
When next Frank opened his eyes, he lay on a blanket in camp and the sight of Bob and Jack bending anxiously above him while Mr. Hampton and Farnum worked at his shoulder greeted him.
“Hello,” he said, trying to grin, but wincing as a sharp stab of pain passed through his shoulder.
“Don’t move, Frank, We’ll have you fixed up right in a minute,” said Mr. Hampton soothingly.
“Is it bad, Dad,” Jack anxiously inquired.
“Just grazed the bone,” said Mr. Hampton, putting the finishing touches to the bandage, and straightening up. “There, Frank, now you’ll be all right.”
“What happened to me?” asked Frank, struggling to a sitting position, and finding his right arm bound across his chest.
“Bullet through your shoulder brought you down,” said Mr. Hampton. “And your head struck a rock hidden in the grass, so you were knocked out.”
“Good enough,” said Frank, “but who shot me? I was dashing along, yelling to attract your attention, and never knew what hit me.”
“I guess you didn’t,” said Jack. “If it hadn’t been for Art, you might have been finished. But he shot down the fellow that winged you.”
“Yes, and your two pals ran out as if there wasn’t an enemy in sight and carried you in,” said Art, as he saw Frank about to thank him. “Give your gratitude to them.”
Frank smiled.
“I guess I owe it to you all,” he said.
“You were foolish to follow the reindeer herd so closely, Frank,” said Mr. Hampton, reprovingly. “Unarmed, too.”
“Well, I was stampeding ’em, Mr. Hampton,” said Frank. “I couldn’t do that, you know, without being there.”
The older man shook his head.
“If I had been myself, Frank, I wouldn’t have let you take that chance,” he said. “No, Farnum,” he hastened to add, “I’m not criticizing you. When these boys take it in their heads to do something it’s hard to head them off. However, it all turned out for the best.”
“Tell me about it,” Frank said. “How did my scheme work out?”
“Couldn’t have been better, old thing,” said Bob.“Lupo’s men ran like rabbits when those reindeer swept down on them. They tried a few shots in an attempt to head them off, but seeing the uselessness of their efforts, turned and ran. We gave them a few shots to help them on their way. We counted nine.”
“And they got away?”
“All but the man Art shot,” said Jack. “The fellow who shot at you. And you haven’t heard who he was.”
Jack’s eyes were bright. Frank looked at him questioningly.
“Not——”
“Yes,” said Jack. “It was Lupo himself. Art wounded him in the chest. He died before we could do anything for him. But Dad got some information from him first.”
He looked at his father. Mr. Hampton’s face was both grim and sad.
“Yes, Frank,” he said. “We learned who set these men on us, and who plotted against Thorwaldsson. But let us not discuss it now. It’s bad business all the way through.”
Mr. Hampton turned aside, taking Farnum with him, and the two fell into a low-toned discussion. Bob and Jack, meanwhile, helped Frank to resume his clothing which still lay where he had discardedit before taking to the river. Art busied himself at packing up the camp equipment.
Presently, the two older men called Art to them and, after a few words of discussion, rejoined the boys.
“Boys,” said Mr. Hampton, “we want your opinions on this, too.”
“On what, Dad?”
“Well, we saw nine men go bounding off away from the reindeer, and we accounted for Lupo. That makes ten, and it doesn’t seem likely there were more. Yet there is the bare possibility that out there in the grass may be one or more badly wounded men, fellows whom we shot at one time or another, who were too hard hit to escape. If there are any such, we can’t go off and leave them there to die. I wouldn’t treat a dog like that.”
“They’re not dogs,” muttered Farnum, bitterly. “They’re wolves.”
“Mr. Farnum considers we would be taking too great a risk,” Mr. Hampton continued. “He says that if we go out to search for wounded, we are likely to be shot for our pains.”
“Oh, surely not by a wounded man whom you were going to help,” protested Jack.
“You don’t know them,” said Farnum.
“Well, just the same,” said Jack, “I think Dad isright. It would be shameful for us to go away without investigating.”
“I’d feel like a murderer,” said Bob. “Shooting ’em down in a fight is one thing. It was their lives or ours. But leaving a wounded man to die in the wilderness is something entirely different.”
Farnum made a gesture of surrender.
“I guess I seem hard-hearted,” he said. “But you don’t know what I’ve been through in the past. All right, we’ll make a search. But I warn you to be on guard.”
“Hardly likely after all that there are any wounded out there,” remarked Frank, taking part in the discussion for the first time. “They must have been in hiding right in the path of the reindeer, and you can’t see any forms there now. If there were any too badly wounded to escape, they’d also have been too badly wounded to drag themselves to the side.”
Mr. Hampton nodded.
“The grass is so beaten down, too,” he said, “that if there were anybody out there, we could see him. However, I cannot rest easy without making a search. Now, you three boys remain in camp and keep watch. The rest of us will take care of the search.”
To this the boys made no objection. As a matter of fact, it was one time that exclusion from activitydid not irritate them. They had no stomach for what they might discover. Frank and Jack, especially, thinking of the terrible affair on the island in the lake, kept silence. Bob protested, but more as a matter of form and because he considered manliness demanded it, than otherwise.
Mr. Hampton shook his head.
“None of us want to do this, Bob,” he said. “It has to be done, however. But I certainly don’t want you boys along.”
The three men, revolvers clasped in their hands for use in case of emergency, set out, while the boys watched from the trees. Keeping close together, they quartered the plain, going far beyond the beaten down stretch of grass left by the passing of the reindeer herd. Presently, the boys saw them return, and with a sigh of relief, Jack said:
“Well, thank goodness, that’s over.”
Mr. Hampton’s spirits were considerably higher on his return, as the boys could see by his features.
“Nobody anywhere,” he reported, “and we made a thorough search, too.”
“More thorough than there was need for,” said Farnum, grumpily.
Mr. Hampton smiled slightly. On long trips into the wilderness, where men are thrown into intimate contact every hour of the day and night, they get to know each other better than would be the casethrough a lifetime of association under ordinary circumstances. It was so here. Mr. Hampton had come to love the silent, capable Farnum. Behind the latter’s bitter hatred of Lupo and his like, the easterner knew there was some good reason. He sensed a tragedy in Farnum’s past, about which, perhaps, the other would some day speak in a moment of confidence. And he forgave the man’s seeming brutality accordingly.
“All right, everybody,” said Mr. Farnum, cheerily. “Let’s pack up and be on our way.”
Thanks to Art’s previous preparations, the business of breaking camp was speedily concluded, and the party embarked in the canoes and once more got under way. Farnum and Art both considered that, because of Frank’s wounded shoulder and his inability to paddle, Art should take his place in the canoe with Bob and Jack while Frank went with Mr. Hampton and Farnum. But to this arrangement the boys protested vigorously, and Mr. Hampton settled the matter by supporting them.
“Bob and Jack are splendid canoeists,” he said. “They have given plenty of evidence of that on this trip, and at home they are always in the water when they aren’t flying. No, let Frank stay with them. They don’t like to be separated.”
Another period of uneventful canoe travel followed, corresponding in time to the passage of a day, although there was nothing to mark the lapse except the slightly-deepened twilight preceding the reascension of the sun. Camp was pitched on an island in the stream which was small and compact and could be easily defended in case attack on them was renewed.
Of the latter contingency, however, Mr. Hampton felt there was little danger. With Lupo gone, the rascals composing his party would no longer be held to their purpose, and start to make their way out of the wilderness and back to their accustomed haunts.
When travel was resumed after an undisturbed camp, everybody felt rested and in a more cheerful frame of mind.
“We ought to be reaching the Coppermine soon,” Farnum exclaimed, as they set out.
His words were prophetic, because at the end oftwo hours, on rounding a bend, they discerned not far ahead a broad and rapid river, into which emptied the stream they had been following.
“The Coppermine beyond a doubt,” said Farnum.
In this diagnosis, Mr. Hampton and Art agreed. And, before long, all question of doubt was conclusively settled by the discovery of great rocks of a dull reddish color lining the banks. These were the copper deposits from which the river took its name.
“Sometime, when the transportation problem has been solved, this region will be supplying copper to the world,” Mr. Hampton observed.
The canoe containing the boys was close alongside, as the older men had let their paddles swing idly to enable Bob and Jack to catch up with them.
“Why can’t it be taken out now, Dad?” asked Jack.
“Because,” explained Mr. Hampton, “the only method would be by ship through the Arctic, and even in the short Summer that is a passage often blocked by ice. No, development of the copper resources of this wilderness, as well as of the oil we hope to find, will have to wait on the building of a railroad.”
“But ice and snow will block the railroad.”
“Not nearly to the same extent,” Mr. Hampton said. “Throughout the Summer, such a road couldbe in continuous operation. Even in Winter, with properly designed equipment, the road could be kept open—perhaps. That, however, is doubtful, for of the continuous severity of Winter here you boys can have no conception.”
“Well, if we don’t turn back soon, they’ll get some idea of it, all right,” said Farnum, grimly.
“You mean we’ll be caught by Winter before we can get out?” asked Mr. Hampton.
“When the old North Pole starts sliding south, she slides fast,” said Farnum, sententiously.
As if spurred by the specter of approaching Winter, all dug their paddles into the stream with renewed vigor, and the two canoes swept on between the dismal, rocky banks hour after hour.
That night there was real twilight, and a sharpness in the air to which the party was not accustomed. Art pointed skyward, as he and the boys worked at building the campfire. Their gaze followed whither he indicated.
“The moon,” he said. “Sure sign the season’s getting late. That’s the first time you could see it real good.”
“How late in the Summer is it, anyway?” asked Frank. “I, for one, have kept no track of time. And I don’t see how anybody else could with the continuous daylight we have had.”
“Dad religiously checks off the days every twenty-four hours,” said Jack. “I’ve seen him do it.”
Over the evening meal, Mr. Hampton explained that from Long Tom, the Indian they had taken captive on the island in the lake, he had gotten directions as to where the latter believed Thorwaldsson and his men to be. The explorer, according to Long Tom, was making his way along the Coppermine, in an endeavor to get out to the south before caught by the Winter. He had started late, and in all likelihood, Mr. Hampton’s party was still to the south of Thorwaldsson.
“From now on, however,” said Mr. Hampton, “we must keep our eyes open as we proceed for any signs along the way which would indicate Thorwaldsson already had passed, going south. Not that I consider that to be likely, however,” he added. “On the contrary, if Long Tom wasn’t lying, and I believe he was telling the truth, Thorwaldsson should be close at hand, and we ought soon to encounter him.”
Camp again was uneventful, but when the boys awoke in the morning they found a thick wet fog over all. Their blankets were wet with it, the rocks were wet, and the river which had lain spread out before them under the moonlight when they turned in for the night, now could not be seen. Only a gray wall of fog greeted them, blurring the outlineseven of Mr. Hampton, Farnum and Art, who stood in anxious conversation.
When the boys joined their elders, they found the question up for discussion was the question of whether to proceed or remain where they were until the fog lifted.
“We’ve had unexampled good weather so far, Mr. Hampton,” said Farnum. “But this fog may mark the breaking-up. We may be in for it from now on.”
“I realize all that,” Mr. Hampton said, his slight impatience mute evidence to Jack, at least, that his Father was worried. “What I’d like to know now, is whether to move on or wait till the fog lifts.”
“Why not move on, Dad?” asked Jack.
“Oh, you boys up, hey? Well, for one thing, if we travel in this fog we run the danger of being caught in rapids and sucked forward before being able to reach the bank. For another, we might—just might—pass Thorwaldsson, in the fog, without knowing it. He might be traveling, too.”
After some further discussion, it was decided the party should remain until the fog lifted, and that all should be on guard to catch any sound of movement out of the fog which would indicate somebody, presumably Thorwaldsson, was passing. Following breakfast, in fact, all but Mr. Hampton, who remained in camp, as a guide in case the others blundered andlost their way in the fog, took up positions along the bank of the river, some twenty yards apart to maintain “listening posts.”
An hour passed, and then another, with no indication that the fog was thinning out, and with no sound coming to straining ears except the lap of the water along the rocks at their feet. It was nerve-trying work in a way, to sit there for so long a period, isolated, as if entirely alone in an unpeopled world. The boys, at their various stations, felt the strain considerably, more so, indeed, than did Farnum or Art who were old hands at the wilderness game.
In assigning all their stations, Mr. Hampton had decided, because of the greater experience of the two older men, that they should take up their positions at the south end of the line. If any party south-bound along the Coppermine escaped the attention of the boys, Farnum and Art would be pretty likely to remedy the oversight.
To Bob fell the most northerly position. And, as he sat there, hunched up on a rock, staring out into that thick greasy wall of mist, he felt, if anything, more lonely than his companions. Jack and Frank, at least, had the consolation of knowing there was someone to either side. But, with none of his friends beyond him on the north, Bob felt very much alone, indeed.
All sorts of reflections entered his mind, reflections that had no bearing whatsoever on the situation in which he found himself. He thought of sunny days on Long Island, of flights in his airplanes or zipping trips along the coast in his speed boat. He thought of one thing and another, classroom, Mexican mountains, that strange city of another world found immured in the Andes, and—of Marjorie. Ever since his first meeting with his sister’s friend, Miss Faulkner, she had occupied a position of growing importance in Bob’s scheme of things. Someday——
“Some girl,” Bob said to himself. “I’ll have to see more of her.”
He leaned forward, elbows planted on his knees, eyes staring into the fog. In reality, his thoughts, as can be seen, were far, far away. But presently, a sound, muffled and faint, pierced his consciousness and he sprang into instant alertness. He listened, holding his breath, straining to hear.
It came again.
Bob started on a stumbling run for Jack, the first man to the south.
“Jack, Jack,” he shouted, as he ran through the fog, blindly, but remembering to veer away from the river bank a little to avoid the danger of tumbling in. “Jack, Jack, where are you?”
A shadow, fog-distorted, loomed before him, big, enormous. A hand gripped his shoulder and brought him to a halt.
“Here I am, Bob. What’s the matter?”
Bob rubbed the back of a big hand across his eyes.
“I heard something out there,” he said, pointing into the fog upon the river. “I guess I’d been asleep, or daydreaming, anyway. I couldn’t be sure I had heard anything. It came twice—that sound. Then there was silence. So I came down here to ask whether you had heard, too.”
“But, Bob, what was it? What did you hear? I heard nothing.”
“Jack, it was the sound of a baby’s cry.”
Bob’s voice was solemn. A shiver ran throughJack, as if a breath of cold air had fanned him. In that fog-enwrapped isolation, in that far northern wilderness, what could a baby be doing? It was preposterous. More, it was uncanny.
“Bob, you were asleep. Yes, sir, you certainly were dreaming. A baby. Huh.”
“Maybe so,” Bob said, reluctantly. “But, true as I live, Jack——”
The other’s grip on his shoulder tightened.
Out of the fog came a wailing sound, distant, thin, but unmistakable. It was the cry of a baby, if ever there was such a thing.
But this time it came not from the river, but from inland. The two listened, straining to hear, but the cry died away without being repeated. They looked at each other, an unnamable fear gripping them.
“Jack, I’m afraid,” confessed Bob in a whisper. “I don’t know—there’s something strikes a chill into me—I—I——”
He paused. Jack nodded.
“I feel the same way, Bob,” he said, low-voiced. “What a pair of fools we are, though,” he added, brightening. “That must be some bird, or animal, perhaps.”
Almost unconsciously, they had been making their way southward and now another figure rose up in the fog before them—that of Frank. He was about to speak, when once more the wailing cry rose, andthis time it came from two quarters, from the river and from farther inland. The three stood, silent, speechless, and in that moment, while the echoes of the cries still rang in their heads, Farnum and Art materialized out of the fog.
“Good, there you all are,” said Farnum, in a low, tense voice. “Follow me to camp.”
And without a word of explanation he started at right angles away from the river, for they had taken their stations in such fashion that Frank, holding the middle position, would be directly opposite the camp. This was in order to enable them to reach it without losing their way in the fog.
“What is it, Art?” asked Jack, his voice matching Farnum’s.
“Indians,” answered Art, tersely. “Stick close together and don’t make no noise.”
It was a situation to tax the nerve of the bravest, and the three boys hurrying along in the wake of Farnum and Art could not be accused of cowardice for experiencing a chill premonition of trouble ahead. Often had Farnum spoken of the cruelty of these far northern Indians. Bitter had been their experiences with Lupo’s half-breeds, in whose veins flowed the blood of the Indians of the north.
As they hurried along, there flashed through their minds some of the stories Farnum had told. Had they gotten so far, so near the end of their quest forthe “Lost Expedition” only to be wiped out by Indians, on the very eve of success? Such thoughts raced through the mind of each. But they were determined fellows, accustomed to confront danger, used to tight places. The first onrush of panic was swept aside, and, by the time they tumbled into the little hollow in which camp had been pitched, and where Mr. Hampton awaited them, each had himself well in hand.
Mr. Hampton looked at their determined faces, and a smile of grim approval was his greeting.
“Indians, boys,” he said. “Farnum told me. I suspected as much. Now, we have no trees here for bulwark, but this little hollow is good enough. Let us lie down and line the edge of the pit. We’ll be pretty close together, and if any Indians stumble on us they’ll get a warm reception. Listen.” He spoke in a low voice. “There goes that cry again. Does it sound closer? Yes,” as the other nodded, “I thought so. Quick. Take your positions. Jack, my boy, you stay beside me.”
There was a little tremor in his voice. That was all. But Jack understood. He clasped his father’s hand strongly, then threw himself prone beside him, while the others ranged themselves in a circle as commanded.
Once more came the wailing cry from the inland. Once more it was answered in kind from the water.But to all it was apparent that the sounds were farther removed, and Mr. Hampton broke the painful silence with a whispered:
“They’re moving on, moving away.”
“Look, Dad,” Jack exclaimed excitedly. “I can see those rocks ahead where a minute ago was only the white fog. Why, the fog’s lifting. It’s lifting, Dad, sure enough.”
“You’re right, Jack,” his father replied, low-voiced, but there was anxiety rather than jubilation in his tone. “That will make it bad for us. We’ll be exposed to sight.”
Once again came the wail, faint and far away. As faint came the reply from the water. Both cries were to the north. Originally they had come from that direction. Now they were withdrawing whence they had come. What could it mean?
The next minute a rattle of rifle fire broke the silence. At the same time a cold breeze blew across the crouching figures in the shallow pit and the fog began to shred out fast before it.
Farnum sprang upright, gazing to the north. The others also gained their feet. The shooting now was fast and furious.
“I can’t understand,” said Farnum, in a puzzled tone.
With an exclamation, Jack seized his father’s arm.
“Dad,” he cried, “you said Thorwaldsson might be near.”
“Yes, why—”
“That’s it,” said Art, in a tone of conviction. Mr. Farnum turned towards him.
“You mean?”
“Jack guessed it. Thorwaldsson’s being attacked.”
Jack nodded.
“That’s what I meant, Dad.”
“You’re right, Jack,” said his father. “Come on. It can’t be anything else. Nobody but Thorwaldsson is in this wilderness. We must help him. Stick close together.”
And scrambling out of their shallow pit, Mr. Hampton started on the dead run towards the direction of the shooting, with the others at his heels.
The ground was bare of verdure, and great rocks of the copper ore were scattered around. On this account their view was restricted, but the sound of the rifle fire grew momentarily louder, apprising them that they were nearing the scene of conflict. Suddenly Bob, who was in the lead, having out-distanced the others several yards, rounded a big rock and found himself on a bank above a narrow strip of beach.
Below lay a number of forms, as of men dead or wounded. Two canoes were drawn up on the beach, and behind one of these, using it as a bulwark,crouched a man, rifle to shoulder. Farther down the beach were three other canoes grounded, and beside them several forms of wounded men, and five or six men, crouching, firing at the lone defender of the attacked position, creeping up on him.
Just as Bob reached the edge of the bank, the attackers mustered up courage for a rush, and with wild shouts swept forward. It looked dark, indeed, for the lone defender of the upturned canoes. Bob looked back to see how close were his companions, but they were not yet in sight. His dash had carried him farther than he had believed to be the case.
It had taken only a glance to show Bob which way the land lay. The lone defender was the survivor of Thorwaldsson’s party, if the explorer’s party it was, of which Bob had little doubt. He was a white man. The others were half-breeds, and if Bob was not mistaken they were of the same gang which he had encountered before.
It was distinctly up to him to lend a hand. Throwing his rifle to his shoulder, he prepared to open fire on the crushing enemy. But as his finger pressed the trigger, he groaned. The mechanism of the rifle had became jammed in some fashion. Desperately he worked to release the trigger, but to no avail.
Then the light of battle came into big Bob’s eyes. The half-breeds were just below him now. Severalof their number had fallen in the rush, shot down by the defender of the canoes. Four were left, and they evidently were bent on polishing off their lone opponent. So absorbed were all in their own drama, they had not seen Bob.
Clubbing his rifle, Bob leaped. He came down on the back of one of the attackers, and bore him to the ground. With catlike swiftness, Bob, who himself had fallen on his hands and knees, gathered himself together, regained his feet, and swinging his clubbed rifle, let out a yell fit to “frighten a wolf pack,” as Frank later described it.
The stock of the rifle came down with a thud on the shoulders of another of the half-breeds, felling him as if he had been struck by lightning. So tremendous was the blow, that it tore the rifle from Bob’s grasp. But he leaped for another of the enemy, a fellow whose startled face was close to his, seized him about the waist and whirled him aloft to be tossed aside as if he were a sack of meal. The fourth man was dropped by a shot from the defender of the canoe.
“Attaboy, Bob,” came Frank’s voice, from the bluff above.
One after the other, Bob’s friends leaped to the beach.
As Frank and Jack clapped him on the back, andtried to grasp his hand, uttering enthusiastic praise the while, Bob looked around.
“Say, where’s that chap? Why, he’s fainted.”
Freeing himself from his companions’ clutches, Bob leaped over the up-ended canoe and bent above the recumbent body of the doughty defender.
“Why, he’s badly wounded,” he cried.
Mr. Hampton pushed him aside.
“Here, let me look, Bob,” he said. “You fellows help Farnum and Art in looking after the others. The place is a shambles, with wounded men everywhere.”
It was a week before the wounded could be moved. At close range though the fight had been, none had been killed. When the boys exclaimed in amazement at this, Art shrugged his shoulders.
“More bullets fly in a fight than ever reach their mark,” he said. “I’ve seen men, tough fellows, regular two-gun men, shoot at each other in Alaskan saloons in the old days without anybody being killed. When a man sees red, he don’t take no good aim.”
The majority of the wounded were not hit in vital spots, but Thorwaldsson had been shot in so many places that his recovery at first was a matter of doubt. It was he who had been the last of his party to keep firing, he whom Bob had rescued in the nick of time.
From Farrell and others of Thorwaldsson’s five companions, however, the story of what had occurred had been obtained. They had been on their waydown the Coppermine when they, too, had been overtaken in the fog. They had landed in the little beach to wait for the fog to lift. There the half-breeds, survivor’s of Lupo’s gang, who had been dogging the trail of Mr. Hampton and his party, had come upon them.
The surprise had been mutual, for the half-breeds had been looking for the Hampton party and not for Thorwaldsson. However, they had attacked, the majority from the canoes, and three who had been scouting along shore, from the land. Surprised thus, Thorwaldsson’s party had put up a game fight, but one after the other had been shot down until only the leader was left. He, barricaded behind the canoes, had held off the rest of the attackers until the final rush and Bob’s timely arrival.
As the days passed by, with the twilight deepening into short nights, Art and Farnum both grew increasingly anxious to be on their way for the outside. They knew their North, and they realized that the time remaining to them before Winter set in was narrowing down to a perilously small edge.
“We’ll have a mighty hard job of it, Mr. Hampton,” Farnum pleaded. “What with wounded on our hands, and prisoners to guard, it looks almost hopeless as it is for us to get out. But, anyway, we can’t afford to waste time. Can’t Thorwaldsson be moved? He’ll be all right in a canoe.”
“As long as the traveling is easy, yes,” said Mr. Hampton. “He will be all right. But how about at the portages? He’s lost lot of blood already. He can’t afford to lose any more. However, I expect that with care we can prevent his wounds from reopening. We’ll start tomorrow.”
Accordingly, on the day appointed, camp was broken, and the party got under way. Frank’s shoulder was healed sufficiently to permit him once more to wield a paddle, although still a trifle stiff, and he took his place in the canoe with Bob and Jack. They had another passenger this time in Farrell, whose right arm had been broken by a shot in the sanguinary fight on the river beach. Thorwaldsson was taken in the canoe occupied by Mr. Hampton and Farnum, Art going in one of the other craft with members of Thorwaldsson’s party. Several of the latter had been creased by rifle bullets and one shot through a leg, but all could wield paddles.
And so the long trip out of the wilderness began, with the half-breeds in three canoes, deprived of arms and closely watched by their captors in the four canoes bringing up the rear. With reasonable care, it was felt, the prisoners could be controlled until they should near civilization. Without weapons they would be in a hopeless plight in the wilderness, unable to defend themselves against wild animals, unable to provide food for themselves. Therefore, noattempt on the part of their captives to escape was looked for by the others, until they should near the outlying settlements of the inhabited country.
“When that time comes,” Mr. Hampton had warned the boys, “we must be on the lookout, for the half-breeds, unless closely watched, will try to get back their weapons and make a break for it. And I am determined to take them into civilization as witnesses to prove my statement of the murderous conspiracy against us on the part of an eminent gentleman in faraway New York.”
Mr. Hampton spoke bitterly, for from all that had occurred and from the accounts, first of Long Tom and of the dying Lupo, and again of Farrell and the surviving members of Thorwaldsson’s party, he had pieced together the story of the conspiracy against them.
To the boys he confided this tale, the main theme of which was that when Farrell had told his story to Mr. Otto Anderson concerning the discovery of the oil-bearing region in the Arctic, Mr. Anderson’s confidential secretary had gone to a New York financier and sold him the information. He had not been able to tell definitely, however, the location of the oil region, for the very good reason, as before related, that Farrell was not certain of it himself, his vicissitudes in getting out of the country having unsettled his mind. Therefore, this financier had senthis agents westward with word that Thorwaldsson be tracked.
“Perhaps this financier, Old Grimm, ordered the mere tracking of Thorwaldsson,” said Mr. Hampton. “But I doubt it. The attacks on Thorwaldsson’s expedition, the disappearance of his ship and crew, all look like parts of a deep-laid plan to attain Grimm’s ends at whatever cost in human life. And, on top of it all, the attack on us by Lupo, who was paid a handsome sum down in Dawson by Anderson’s former secretary, acting as agent for Grimm, show the latter aimed to put us all out of the way.”
“And all for money,” said Jack. “It’s hard to believe.”
“Ah, you don’t know Grimm,” said his father. “The man who develops this Arctic oil region may become the richest in the world. Grimm is ambitious for that position. He’s got a lot of money so far, in one crooked way or another. But he’s not one of the big ones yet, not one of the richest. And he wants to be supreme. Well, he has overreached himself this time, for I’ve got the evidence, and I’ll see that we get more in Dawson and Seattle and New York. Mr. Grimm will no longer have the power or freedom to toy with men’s lives when I get through with him.”
Although Thorwaldsson lay as in a stupor and could not be questioned, the full account of what hadbefallen his expedition since it set out from Seattle was learned from the others. First of all, they had succeeded in retracing Farrell’s earlier footsteps, and had found the oil region and the river running through it. A thorough survey of the country had been made, with maps showing the outlet by water to the Arctic Ocean.
In fact, the party had made its way out the river into the Arctic Ocean and around the coast into the Coppermine. There they had encountered and made friends with a tribe of Eskimo. They had started down the Coppermine, or rather up, as it flows north into the Arctic, but had been attacked, losing half the members of their party and a large part of their equipment, including the radio. It was after this that the aviator of the expedition had attempted to fly to the outside with news of Thorwaldsson’s plight, the latter meanwhile being cared for through the following Winter by the friendly Eskimo at the mouth of the Coppermine, to which they had put back. The death of the aviator, near the MacKenzie, of course, was not known to the Thorwaldsson party until the news was imparted by the boys.
The course followed as they struck southward was not that pursued by Farrell when he had made his way back to civilization. On that occasion he had frequently been light-headed, and it was felt it would be unwise to trust now to his guidance. Instead,Mr. Hampton and Farnum decided to retrace their own trail back to the island in the lake where MacDonald had been encountered, and thence follow his course to the Fort of the Northwest Mounted Police.
Day after day they pushed ahead, the nights ever growing longer and colder, with frost on the ground in the mornings. The honking of the wild geese overhead, as they made their way south, also was a warning that the mantle of Winter soon would settle down.
“You see,” Art said to the boys one day, “Winter in this country not only means dreadful cold for which we ain’t prepared in the matter of clothing or snowshoes or nothing, but also it means there ain’t no food to be had. Yes, there’s plenty of game now, geese and duck everywhere along the streams, caribou plentiful. But you notice they’re all going south. When Winter strikes, there’ll be nothing in this wilderness but rabbit and beaver. Beaver’s all right—if you can dig ’em out o’ their huts. But rabbit—huh! Well, you can starve fine on rabbit.”
Winter, after all, caught them in its icy grip far north of where they had planned to be when the cold should really set in. This was due to a variety of circumstances. The slowness of Thorwaldsson’s recovery was one of the retarding influences, which prevented them making the desired speed. After weeks of travel he was still in a comatose condition, and Mr. Hampton feared his brain had been affected by a bullet that ploughed along the left side of his head. The other wounded, although quick to recover, also acted as a hindrance, especially at the first.
Then, too, the season was unusual. Winter arrived weeks ahead of the expected time. And daily, as the ice on stream and river thickened, it became increasingly hard to break a way. Yet the canoes could not be abandoned, for, once snow began to fly, the travelers would have been helpless on land, without sleds or snowshoes. Sleds of a sort couldbe constructed, of course, and makeshift snowshoes made, too, but neither would be worth much, and the manufacture of them would take a good deal of time.
Two sentries were always posted at night now; one by a fire around which slumbered the prisoners, the other by a fire in the midst of a circle composed of the Hampton and Thorwaldsson parties combined. It was Jack’s turn to keep guard one cold but clear night, after a heavy snowfall, which had caused a great deal of suffering to all, and had brought them, indeed, to the verge of despair. For they were insufficiently clad, even though the skins of many animals slain for food in the past weeks had been saved and roughly cured for wraps; and, in addition, with the closing-in of Winter game had become so scarce that the camp was virtually on the verge of starvation.
Jack was mounting guard by the fire around which lay his friends. One of the Thorwaldsson party, Swenson, did sentry duty by the other fire. Looking across the little space which separated the two parties, Jack could see the huddled figures of the half-breeds lying so close to the fire, which Swenson fed constantly with fuel, that they seemed almost to be in it. Around him the members of his own party were similarly disposed.
With a sigh, Jack arose, caught up an armful ofwood and tossed it into the fire. The flames at once shot high and, as if that were a signal, out of the darkness beyond came a robust hail.
“Hello, there. Keep ’er goin’, sonny.”
Into the light of the fire a moment later strode a big fur-clad figure of a man on snowshoes. On his back was a pack which he dropped to the ground with a sigh of relief. Then he leaned his rifle in the crook of an elbow and, pulling off great fur mittens, spread his hands to the blaze, working his fingers gratefully back and forth.
“Cold an’ gittin’ colder,” he announced, casually. “Got a nice fire here.”
Jack was nonplussed. In the first place, to find another wanderer in this wilderness which they believed unpeopled was exciting enough. But to have him walk in casually and without vouchsafing any explanation of his presence took Jack’s breath away for the moment. Yet Jack knew enough of the woodland lore to realize that hospitality is the first law of the wilds, and that questions distinctly would not be in order. He decided the best thing for him would be to wait for the other to take the lead in the conversation.
This the intruder was not slow to do, beginning even as he eased his stiffened fingers in the warmth of the fire.
“Didn’t know there was anybody else in this country,” he said. “Been around here long?”
A look of clumsy craft from under shaggy brows accompanied the question. Jack had to smile to himself.
“No; not long,” he said composedly. “And you?”
“Oh, I been huntin’ an’ trappin’ ’round here,” the other said.
To Jack it seemed the man was an honest enough, even a likeable, type, and yet that he was acting evasively. He decided it would be a good plan to get a more experienced head to help him deal with the situation. None of his party apparently was awake, all being worn out with the terrific strain of the day’s travel. But Art lay near him. In fact, his foot was not six inches from Jack.
Unostentatiously, in order not to attract the newcomer’s attention, Jack moved his foot to a position where with his toe he could tap on Art’s ankles. It was sufficient for the purpose apparently, for, out of the tail of his eye Jack saw Art’s body stiffen and his head lift up slightly from the ground. For what followed, however, he was totally unprepared.
Art sprang to his feet, leaped forward and began thumping the newcomer vigorously on the back.
“Why, you ol’ son-of-a-gun,” he cried. “You ol’ son-of-a-gun.”
“Li’l Artie, or I’m goin’ blind,” cried the other, seizing Art by the hand and pumping up and down.
Jack turned in amazement to Art.
“Why—why—you know each other!” he cried.
“Know each other? Har, har, har,” roared the giant, in a guffaw that aroused the others about the campfire. “Know each other? That’s a good one.”
Mr. Hampton, Farnum, Bob and Frank, Farrell and several of the others gathered around, looking their questions, and Art turned to satisfy them.
“Ever hear o’ Long Jim Golden?” he asked. “Well, this is him—the daggonedest trapper on the face o’ the earth. Ain’t seen him in years since he left Circle City in the rush. Where you been, Jim?”
“Trappin’.” Jim looked around at the interested faces. “You tol’ who I am,” he said. “Now tell me who’s your friends, Artie.”
“Sure,” said Art heartily, effecting introductions. “Here we all are,” he concluded, and then his face fell as he added: “but where we’ll be soon, I don’t know, nor what’s to become of us.”
Long Jim looked first at one, then at another, then his eyes roved over the camp.
“How come?” he asked. “No sleds nor dogs nor snowshoes nor nothin’. How come?”
“Sit here by the fire and I’ll tell you, Jim,” said Art. “The rest o’ you, we won’t bother you nonewith loud voices. We’ll jest whisper-like. You’ll want to turn in and sleep, so go to it.”
Nothing loath, the others with the exception of Jack, who moved to one side so as not to intrude on the two old acquaintances thus strangely reunited, turned in and soon were once more asleep.
Briefly as possible, Art explained to Long Jim the circumstances leading up to their present position. From across the fire, Jack watched them. He saw that Long Jim paid close attention to Art’s narrative and that, indeed, it seemed to affect him strangely. For over his open, rugged features, not constructed to conceal their owner’s moods, swept doubt, uncertainty, indecision, as if within the man was going on a fight between two contending forces. Jack was puzzled. What could Long Jim be thinking of?
Then Long Jim slowly rose to his feet, placing a hand on the shoulder of his companion who remained seated but looking up at him. Jack unconsciously moved closer as the big trapper appeared about to speak. He did not want to eavesdrop, but Long Jim’s expression had puzzled him greatly. What could it mean?
“Artie,” said Long Jim in a louder tone than that in which their whispered conversation had been carried on, and one that reached Jack’s ears, “Artie, myboy,” he said, “I wish you didn’t have them skunks with ye.”
“Them breeds,” said Art, jerking a thumb back over a shoulder to indicate the prisoners sleeping about the other fire.
“Them same,” said Long Jim. “Cause why, you asks me? Cause I got a paradise to take you all to, where you can spend the Winter lapped in comfort. An’ I don’t want to take no rascals like them half-breeds there. But——”
Art was on his feet, excitement struggling with disbelief.
“What? What you mean, Long Jim?”
“Jest what I says,” answered the other emphatically. “A paradise, I calls it. An’ a paradise it is. An’ the quicker we git there the better, so wake up your friends an’ let me talk to ’em. If we have to take them skunks, why, we’ll take ’em.”