by Roy J. Snell
CHAPTER II THE INDIAN GIRL'S WARNING
Hours later Florence stirred uneasily in her sleep, then half-awakemurmured dreamily: "A ticket to adventure. That's what he said, aticket--"
Conscious now that some disturbing sound had come to her in her sleep,she shook herself into further wakefulness.
"Strange," she murmured. "Everything is so strange."
Indeed it was. The bed on which she and Mary slept was hard, a mattresson the dock. About her, shielding her from the Arctic wind was a tent.
"Tomorrow," she thought, "we start to the Promised Land." This land wasthe Matamuska Valley in Alaska. "Not far now, only a short way by rail.And then--" A thrill ran through her being. They were to be pioneers,modern pioneers, she and Mary, Mark and her aunt. What would life in thisnew land be?
She had seen much of life, had Florence, city life, country life, thewild beauty of Isle Royale in Lake Superior, and the finished beauty ofFrance were not new to her. But Alaska! How she had thrilled at thoughtof it! She was thinking of all this when, of a sudden, she raised herselfon one elbow to listen. "What was that sound?" she whispered. It wasfaint, indistinct, disturbing.
Then Mary sleeping at her side, did a strange thing. Sitting bolt uprightshe said: "Don't you want to kill him?"
For a space of seconds she appeared to listen for an answer. Then, with asigh, she murmured, "Oh! All right. Some other time." At that, she sankback in her place to draw the covers closely about her.
"Talking in her sleep," the big girl thought. "Dreaming of the little manin black. She--"
There was that sound again, more distinct now. "A child crying in thenight." Florence listened intently.
"It's such a low cry," she thought wearily, creeping back among theblankets. "It can't be anything very much. There has been so muchcrying."
Ah yes, there had been children's cries that day; rough, unkind words hadbeen said at times to the children. Little wonder, for they had thatday--hundreds of men, women and children--disembarked from a ship thatcarried them far toward their promised land, the Matamuska Valley inAlaska.
They had been dumped quite unceremoniously, a whole shipload of peoplewith cows, horses, dogs, cats, canaries, trucks, tractors, tents, lumber,hardware, groceries, shoes, hammers, saws, and clothespins on the dock atAnchorage. Men dashed about searching for tents and baggage. Women soughtout lost or strayed pets. Children had cried and above it all had comethe hoarse shout of some enthusiast: "On! On! to our new home! Threecheers for Alaska!"
Over all this darkness had fallen. After a cold supper, having pitchedtheir tents and spread their blankets, they had stretched out on therough surface of the dock to sleep, if sleep they could. And now Florencewas hearing that distressing moan of a child.
"Near at hand," she thought, raising herself on an elbow to listen oncemore, this time more closely. "A strange sort of cry. Can't be a childfrom our party. I've heard them all cry."
Indeed she had. The long journey half way across America, then along thecoast to Alaska had been hard on the children.
"A ticket to adventure," she whispered once again. They had come here,their little party of four, to begin life anew, to secure for themselvesa home and if possible, a modest fortune. Would they win? With God'shelp, could they? And was true adventure to be thrown in for goodmeasure? The girl thrilled at the thought, for, ambitious as sheundoubtedly was, she was human as well, and who does not feel his bloodrace at thought of adventure?
However, at this moment something other than adventure called, the cry ofa child in the night. Florence dearly loved small children. She could notbear to have them suffer.
"I--I've just got to get out and hunt her up," she murmured.
With a shudder she dragged her feet from the warmth of the blankets,slipped on knickers and shoes, then crept out into the cheerless night.
She did not have far to go. Huddled in a corner, out of the wind, shediscovered two blanket-wrapped figures. Girls they were, one small, onelarge. Indians, she saw as she threw her light upon their dark faces.
"What's the matter?" she asked, striving to keep her teeth fromchattering.
"Dog bite her," the older girl spoke in a slow, deep tone. "White mandog. Strange white man dog. Come steamboat this day."
"Yes," Florence moved closer. "We all came by steamboat. There are manydogs. Too many! Let me see."
The small child thrust a trembling hand from a greasy blanket.
"Ah!" Florence breathed. "That's rather bad. Not very deep, but dog bitesare bad. It must be dressed. I'll be back."
Stepping quickly to the tent she poured warm water from a thermos bottleinto a basin, snatched up a first-aid kit, then hurried back.
"Here you are," she said cheerily. "First we wash it. Then we dry it.Then--this will hurt a little, quite a bit, I guess." She produced abottle of iodine. "You tell her. Tell her it will hurt." She spoke to theolder girl, who said some words in her own language to the attentivechild. When she had finished, Florence received her first reward--nor wasit to be the last--for this bit of personal sacrifice, the child fixedupon her a look that registered perfect faith and confidence.
Florence applied the severe remedy. Then she watched the child's face. Asingle tear crept from the corner of her eye and ran down her cheek.
It hurt, that iodine, hurt terribly for the moment. Florence knew that.Yet not a muscle of the child's face moved.
"This," Florence thought, with a little tightening at the throat, "is thespirit of the North. It is with this spirit that we all must face thetrials and dangers that lie before us in this world. If we do this, weshall be real pioneers and we shall win.
"We shall win!" she whispered hoarsely, as standing erect, hands clenchedtight, she stood for a moment facing the bitter Arctic gale.
"Feel better now?" she asked, dropping again to the child's side.
The child nodded.
"All right. Now we'll bind it up tight and it will be fine."
Five minutes later Florence saw the child's head fall against her oldersister's side. Her pain gone, her cry stilled, she had fallen asleep.That was Florence's second reward, but not her last.
As she once more crept beneath the warm covers in her tent, she felt theslender arms of Mary, her cousin, close about her and heard her murmurwith a shudder: "It is so far and so cold!"
"She's talking in her sleep again," Florence told herself. Then, out ofsympathy for the frailer girl, she too shuddered.
Yes, it had been a long way and even though it was early June, it wascold. Yet Florence thrilled at thought of it all. That journey, how ithad unfolded, first on paper, second in their minds, then in reality!
Mark and Mary had lived with their mother in the Copper Country ofMichigan. Because she had few relatives and was in need of a home,Florence had joined them there.
No copper was being mined, so there was no work and, struggle as theymight, they had grown poorer and poorer.
Then had come word of what appeared to them a wonderful opportunity. Thegovernment was to send two hundred or more families to the rich MatamuskaValley in Alaska. They were to be given land and to be loaned money thatthey might make a fresh start.
"Pioneers! They will be pioneers in a new land!" Florence, who was oftrue pioneer stock, young, sturdy and strong, had exclaimed. "Why shouldwe not go?"
Why, indeed? They had applied, had been accepted, and here they were atthe seaport of the railroad that was to bear them on to their new world.
"Tomorrow," she whispered softly to herself. "Tomorrow, to--" At that shefell fast asleep.
If the scene of confusion on the dock at Anchorage with the trucks,tractors, tents, and groceries had seemed strange, the picture beforeFlorence, Mary and Mark a few days later might, to a casual observer,have seemed even more strange. Palmer, dream city of the future, laybefore them. And such a city! A city of tents. Yet, city of tents as itwas, it did not lack signs of excitement. This was the great day. On thisd
ay the future home owners of this rich valley, surrounded by itssnow-capped mountains, were to draw lots for their tracts of land. Sometracts were close to Palmer, some ten or twelve miles away. A fewsettlers there were who wished for solitude in the far-off spots. Manyhoped for tracts close in, where they might walk into town for their mailand to join in the latest gossip. Florence, Mary, and Mark had sensed thebleak loneliness of distant farms during the long winter. They too hopedfor a spot close at hand.
"Now," Florence whispered as, after a long time of waiting in line, Markapproached the drawing stand. "Now it is your turn!"
Mark's hand trembled as it went out. Florence felt her heart pause, thengo leaping. It meant so much, so very much, that tiny square of paperwith a number on it.
Turning away from the curious throng, Mark cupped his hand, then togetherthey all three peered at that magic number.
"One hundred and twelve!" Florence whispered tensely. "Here--here is ourmap. Where is our farm? Here! Here! Let's look!"
One moment of hurried search, then a sigh of disappointment. "Seven milesfrom town." Mary dropped limply down upon a stump.
"Might have been twelve," Mark said cheerfully. "Bet there's a bear or amoose right in the middle of it waiting to be made into hamburger. Butthen," he sighed, "we couldn't kill him. Can't get a hunting license fora year."
Two hours later Mark and Mary with their mother and Florence close athand were listening to a tempting offer. Ramsey McGregor, a huge man fromthe western plains, had drawn a tract of land only a half mile from town.He had no cow. The Hughes family owned a cow, a very good milker. If theywould trade tracts of land and throw in the cow, they might have his farmclose to town.
"Think of it!" Mark cried. "Right in town, you might say!"
"Y-e-s," Florence agreed. "But then--" Already she had seen quite enoughof the noisy, quarrelsome camp. And besides, there was the cow. Preciouspossession, old Boss. Cows were dear--milk was hardly to be had at anyprice. "And yet--" she sighed. Long tramps through the deep snow, with awild Arctic blizzard beating her back, seemed to haunt her. "You'll haveto decide," she said slowly. "It's to be your home. I--I'm only ahelper."
Into this crisis there stepped an angel in disguise, an unimportantappearing, dark-faced angel, the older of the two Indian girls Florencehad seen and aided back there at the dock in Anchorage. Now the girl,approaching timidly, drew Florence's head down to the level of her ownand whispered, "Don't trade!"
"Why?" Florence whispered back.
"Don't trade," the Indian girl repeated. "Bye and bye I show you." Shewas gone.
"What did she say?" Mark asked. Mark was slow, steady, thoughtful,dependable. Florence had no relative she liked so much.
"She says not to trade." There was a look of uncertainty on the biggirl's face.
"Greasy little Indian girl," Ramsey McGregor growled. "What does sheknow?"
"Might know a lot," Mark wrinkled his brow. "What do you say?" he turnedto the others. "No trade?"
"No trade, I'd say," was Florence's quick response.
"Al--alright. No trade." Mary swallowed hard. She had wanted to be neartown.
"Whatever you children want," agreed the meek little mother. Life hadpushed her about so long she was quite willing to take the strong arm ofher son and to say, "You lead the way."
"It's a lot like playing a hunch," Mark laughed uncertainly. "After all,the claim we got is the claim we drew. Looks like God intended it thatway. Besides there's old Boss. We couldn't--"
"No, we couldn't do without her," Mary exclaimed. And so the matter wassettled. Somewhere out there where the sun set would be their home.
Two hours later Florence and Mary were enjoying a strange ride. From someunsuspected source, the Indian girl had secured five shaggy dogs. Thesewere hitched, not to a sled, for there was no snow, but to a narrowthree-wheeled cart equipped with auto wheels. Whence had come those autowheels? Florence did not ask, enough that they eased their way over thebumps along the narrow, uneven trail that might, in time, become a road.
The land they were passing over fascinated Mary, who had an eye for thebeautiful. Now they passed through groves of sweet-scented, low-growingfir and spruce, now watched the pale green and white of quaking asp, andnow went rolling over a low, level, treeless stretch where the earlygrass turned all to a luscious green, and white flowers stood out likestars.
The surprise of their journey came when, after passing through a widestretch of timber, they arrived quite suddenly upon an open space.
"A clearing! A cabin! A lake!" Mary exclaimed. "How beautiful!"
It was indeed beautiful. True, the clearing showed signs of neglect,young trees had sprouted where a field had been, the door of the cabin,standing ajar, seemed to say, "Nobody's home. Nobody's been home for manya day." For all that, the gray cabin, built of great, seasoned logs, theclearing sloping down to a small, deep lake, where a flock of wild ducksswam all unafraid, made a picture one would not soon forget.
"Come," said the Indian girl. A moment later they stepped in awed silenceacross the threshold of the cabin.
The large room they entered was almost bare. A rustic table, twohome-made chairs, a great sheet-iron barrel, fashioned into a stove, afew dishes in the corner, a rusted frying pan and a kettle, that wasabout all. Yet, strangely enough, as Florence tiptoed across thethreshold she found herself listening for the slow tick-tock, tick-tock,of an old-fashioned clock. With all its desolation there was somehowabout the place an air of "home."
"Oh!" Mary breathed deeply. Then again, "Oh!"
A stout ladder led to a tall loft where a bed might, for all they couldtell, be waiting. At the back was a door opening into the small kitchen.
"Home," Florence breathed again.
"Home," Mary echoed.
Then together they tiptoed out into the sunlight.
Quite unexpectedly, the Indian girl spoke. "This," she said, spreadingher arms wide to take in the cabin, the clearing and the lake beyond,"this is it."
"Thi--this is what?" Mary stammered.
"This," replied the girl, "is your land."
"No!" Florence exclaimed. "It can't be."
"But yes, it is your farm." The girl smiled a happy smile. "This is thenumber you drew."
"Ours!" Florence whispered hoarsely. "An abandoned cabin, a clearing, alake! All ours! And to think, we nearly missed it!" Then, quite wild withjoy, she surprised the shy Indian girl by catching her up in her arms andkissing her on the cheek.
At that very moment, as if it were part of some strange drama, theresounded from the edge of the clearing a loud: "Get up! Go 'long there!"and a traveling rig as strange as their own burst from the edge of thetimber.
A moment later, a little man on a high-wheeled, wobbly cart, shouted,"Whoa, January!" to his shaggy horse, then sat for a full moment staringat the three girls.
"You're some of them new settlers?" he said at last.
Florence nodded. She was too much surprised to do more. The man, whosewhiskers had grown for months all untrimmed and whose hair fell to hisshoulders, looked as if he might have stepped from an illustration of RipVan Winkle.
"This your place?" he asked. Again the girl nodded.
"Well," his eyes swept the horizon, "you're lucky maybe--and then againmaybe not. There's the clearin' an' the cabin, but maybe the cabin'shaunted.
"No--no, not by ghosts!" he held up a hand. "By people who once livedhere. It's a notion of mine, this business of houses being haunted byliving folks.
"But then," his voice dropped. "Mebby they're dead. Some sort offoreigners they was, the ones that lived in this cabin. Came here durin'the war. Lot of queer ones in the valley them days. Deserters, some of'em. Some dodgin' the draft. Some foreign spies.
"Big man, that one," he nodded toward the cabin. "Big woman. Hardworkers. Not much to say for themselves.
"One day they'd gone. Where? Why? No one knows. Spies, maybe. Governmentboat at Anchorage just at that time. Shot 'em, like as not, for spies."
Fl
orence shuddered.
"Maybe not," the man went on. "Might come back--Chicaski was the name.Russians."
"If--if they come back, can they claim the cabin?" Florence was throwninto sudden consternation.
"No-o. I guess not. Didn't have no legal claim on it like as not. There'sother deserted cabins in the valley, lots of 'em. Folks got discouragedand quit. Raise plenty of things to eat. Can't sell a thing. No market.Trap fox and mink, that's all you can sell. Folks want things that don'tgrow on land.
"Got to git along," he exclaimed, clucking to his horse. "Live back therefive miles, I do. I'll be seein' you.
"Git up! Go 'long there!" The strange little man gave his shaggy horse alight tap with the rein and the odd outfit went rattling away.
"Peter Piper," said the Indian girl, nodding after the man.
"You mean that's his name?" Florence asked in surprise.
The girl nodded.
"Oh!" Mary exclaimed. "And did he pick a peck of prickly pears?"
The Indian girl stared at her until they all burst into fits of laughter.
For all that, it was a sober Florence who journeyed back to Palmer.Strange words were passing through her mind. "Maybe it's haunted. Raiseanything. Can't sell anything. No market--you want things that don't growon the ground." Her world seemed to have taken on a whirling motion that,like clouds blown by the wind, showed first a bright, then a darker side.What was to come of it all?
"A ticket to adventure," she thought at last. "Perhaps that man was moreright than he knew."