A Ticket to Adventure

by Roy J. Snell

  CHAPTER III SEVEN GOLDEN CANDLESTICKS

  Three days later Florence found herself seated on the shore of the littlelake that lay at the edge of their claim. She was alone. "How still itis," she whispered. Not a leaf moved. The dark surface of the lake laybefore her like black glass.

  "The land of great silence," she thought. She shuddered and knew not why.

  This was to her a strange world. All her life she had known excitement.The rattle of elevated trains, the honk of auto horns, the drum ofairplane motors, all these seemed still to sound in her ears.

  "Rivers," she whispered thoughtfully, "have eddies. There the water thathas been rushing madly on comes to rest. Do lives have eddies? Has mylife moved into an eddy?"

  She did not enjoy the thought. Adventure, thrills, suspense, mystery,these were her favorite words. How could one find them here? And yet,there was the cabin that lay just up the rise. Their cabin now, it hadbelonged to others. Russians probably, spies perhaps.

  "What if they come back?" Mary had whispered during their return journeyfrom that first visit. "What if they demand the cabin?"

  "We'll throw them out," Florence had said, making a savage gesture. "Iwonder if we would?" had been Mary's reply. Florence wondered about thatnow. She wondered about many things. Why had she come to this place atall? Because of her love for the little family, her relatives, Mary,Mark, and their mother. Could love make people do things? She wondered.Could it make them do slow, hard, drudging, everyday things? If it could,how long would that last?

  The thoughts that came to her there were neither sad nor bitter. Theywere such dreamy thoughts as come after a long day of toil. They hadworked, all of them; oh! how they had worked getting settled!

  "I--I'd like to go back, back to the city to the wild romance of manypeople!" she cried to the empty air of night.

  Then, of a sudden, she realized that she did not wish to go back, butrather to go on, on, on, on into the North. For, as she sat there sheseemed to see again the little man, Mr. Il-ay-ok, and to hear him say,"Tom Kennedy, yes, I know him," and Tom Kennedy was her long-lostgrandfather.

  "Yes," she exclaimed, "and I shall go!" Springing to her feet, she spreadher arms wide. Seeking out the north star, she faced the land over whichit hung. "Yes, Tom Kennedy, my grandfather, I am coming.

  "But not now--not now," she murmured. "One thing at a time. I have givenmy word. I am to help these others win a home. Adventure, thrills,mystery, romance," she repeated slowly, "can they be here?"

  Then as if in answer to her query, there came a faint sound. It grewlouder, came closer, the night call of wild geese.

  "How--how perfect!" she breathed. "The lake, the damp night air, thesilence, then a call from the sky."

  She waited. She listened. The speeding flock came closer. At last theywere circling. They would land. She caught the rush of wings directlyover her head, then heard the faintest of splashes.

  "Happy landing!"

  But not for long. She was creeping silently away. They were pioneers.Pioneers lived off the land. Here was promise of roast goose for tomorrowdinner. Too bad to spoil romance, but life must go on.

  Slipping up to the cabin, she took Mark's gun from its place beside thedoor. With her heart beating a tattoo against her ribs, she crept back.

  Closer and closer she crept until at last she lay, quite still, among thetall grass that skirted the pond.

  "Where are they?" she whispered to herself. No answer, save the distantflapping of wings. How was one to shoot a wild goose he could not see?

  "Ah, well," she thought. "I can wait. There will be a moon."

  Wait she did. Once again the strangely silent night, like some great,friendly ghost, seemed to enfold her in its arms. Far away loomed themountains, close at hand spread the plains, and over all silence. Onlynow and again this silence was broken by the flapping of wings, a suddenchallenging scream, the call that told her a rich dinner still awaitedher.

  At last the moon crept over the white crested mountains. It turned thelake into a sheet of silver. Dark spots moved across that sheet. Theycame closer and closer. Thirty yards they were from shore, now twentyyards, and now ten yards. The girl caught one long sighing breath. Then,bang! Bang! Both barrels spoke.

  A moment later, waist deep, the girl waded for the shore. In each handshe carried a dead bird, two big, fat geese. Tomorrow there would be afeast. Romance? Adventure? Well, perhaps, a little. But much more was tocome. She felt sure of that now. Her heart leaped as she hurried forwardto meet Mark and Mary, who were racing toward her demanding what all theshooting was about.

  "A feast!" Mary cried joyously. "A real pioneer feast. Thanksgiving inJune! The Pilgrim Fathers have nothing on us."

  Such a feast as it was! Roast wild goose with dressing, great brown bakedpotatoes, slashed and filled with sweet home-made butter, all this toppedwith cottage pudding smothered in maple sauce.

  "Who says pioneering is a hard life?" Mark drawled when the meal wasover.

  "It couldn't be with such a glorious cook," Florence smiled at her aunt.

  When, at last, she crept up to her bed in the loft that night, she wasconscious of an unusual stiffness in her joints. Little wonder this, forall day long she had wielded a grubbing hoe, tearing out the roots ofstubborn young trees. They were preparing their land for the plow. Theywould raise a crop if no one else among the new settlers did. What crops?That had not been fully decided.

  As Florence lay staring at the shadowy rafters she fell to musing aboutwhat life might be like if one remained in this valley year after year."A farm of your own," she thought, "cows, chickens, pigs, a husband,children." Laughing softly, she turned on her side and fell asleep.

  Five days later their first real visitor arrived. She was Mrs. Swenson, ashort, plump farm mother and old-time settler of the valley. She hadlived here for fifteen years.

  Florence, who was churning while Mary and her mother were away in thetown, gave her an enthusiastic welcome. The handle of the old-fashioneddasher churn went swish-swash.

  "Just keep right on churnin'," Mrs. Swenson insisted. "You don't darestop or the butter won't come.

  "It's the strangest thing!" her eyes roved about the large room. "TheChicaskis--that was the name of the people who built this cabin--theydisappeared, you might say, overnight."

  "Oh! Did you know them?" the swish-swash stopped for a space of seconds.

  "Well, yes and no," Mrs. Swenson smiled an odd smile. "No one got to knowthem very well. They left on foot," she leaned forward in her chair."They'd had a horse. They sold that to Tim Huston. So away they went,each of them with satchels in both hands. That's all they took. It's thestrangest thing."

  She paused. The churn went swish-swash. The little tin clock in thecorner went tick-tick-tick. Florence's lips parted.

  Then her visitor spoke again: "They had other things. Wonderful things. Ahuge copper kettle and," her voice dropped to a whisper, "seven goldencandlesticks. Leastwise, I always thought they was gold. She always had'em up there above the fireplace, and how they did shine! Gold! I'm sureof it.

  "They might have took them. Maybe they did, the candlesticks, I mean. Butthat huge copper kettle. They never took that, not in a satchel.

  "I don't mind admitting," Mrs. Swenson's tone became confidential, "thatthose of us who've lived around here ever since have done a lot ofsnoopin' about this old place, lookin' for that copper kettle and--andother things.

  "There are those who say they hid gold, lots of Russian, or maybe Germangold, around here somewhere. But, of course, you can't believe all youhear. And no one has ever found anything, not even the big copper kettle.So," she settled back in her chair, "perhaps there's nothing to it afterall. Mighty nice cabin, though," her tone changed. "Make you a snug homein winter. Not like these cabins the other settlers are building out ofgreen logs. Them logs are goin' to warp something terrible when they dry.Then," she threw back her head and laughed, "then the children will becraw
lin' through the cracks, and with the temperature at thirtybelow--think what that will be like!"

  Florence did think. She shuddered at the very mention of it, andwhispered a silent prayer of thanksgiving to the good God who had guidedthem to their snug cabin at the edge of the clearing beside that gem of alake.

  At thought of it all, she gave herself an imaginary hug. From withoutcame the steady pop-pop-pop of a gasoline motor. Mark was driving a smalltractor, plowing their clearing. They were to have a crop this firstyear, for it was still June. Few settlers would have crops. They werelucky.

  She looked at her torn and blistered hand, then heaved a sigh of content.Those small trees had been stubborn, some had been thorny. It had been aheartbreaking job, but now all that was over. The tractor chuggingmerrily outside was music to her weary soul.

  The tractor? That, too, had been a streak of luck. Or was it luck? Markhad always loved fine machinery. Because of this he had made it hisbusiness for years to learn all about trucks, tractors, mine hoists,motor-boats, and all else that came within his narrow horizon. When hehad asked down at Palmer about the use of a tractor the man in charge hadsaid: "Over yonder they are. Not assembled yet. Put one up and you canuse it."

  "Sure. I'll do that," Mark grinned. And he did.

  Then they had wanted him to stay and set up others. He had turned hisback on this promising position with good pay. He had come to this landto make a home for his family, and he was determined not to turn back. Sohere was the clearing, ten acres nearly plowed. A short task theharrowing would be. And then what should they plant?

  "I'll ask Mrs. Swenson about that after a while," Florence promisedherself. Mrs. Swenson had come a long way and was to stay for dinner.Florence had raised biscuits and a large salmon baking in the oven of thestove they had brought up from Palmer. They were to have one more royalfeast. Three other guests were to arrive soon.

  She smiled as she opened the oven door, releasing a wave of heat anddelightful odors of cooking things.

  "Mr. McQueen's an old dear," she thought. "He'll be the godfather of ourlittle settlement. I'm sure of that."

  Yes, the newly arrived settler whose land joined theirs at the back wasan interesting old man. Gray haired and sixty, he stood straight as aramrod, six feet four in his stockings. Strong, brave, wise with thewisdom that comes only with years, he would indeed prove a grandcounsellor.

  And there was Dave, his son, just turned twenty. "Slow, silent, steadygoing, hard working, dependable," had been Florence's instant snap-shotof his character; nor was she likely to be wrong.

  Then, there was Bill Vale, whose land joined them on the west. Howdifferent was Bill! A dreamer, at twenty-two he was more a boy, less aman, than Dave. And Bill's mother, who adored him, agreed with him inevery detail. The girl's brow wrinkled as she thought of Bill and hismother. How were such people to get on in a hard, new land? But then,what was the good of shouldering the problems of others? They hadproblems of their own. What were they to plant? That was their immediateproblem and a large one.

  The meal was over and they were all seated before the broad, screeneddoor, looking away at the lake, blue as the sky, when Florence asked aquestion:

  "Mrs. Swenson, what shall we plant?"

  Mrs. Swenson did not reply at once. The dinner they had eaten was a richand jolly one, just such a dinner as Florence could prepare. The day waswarm. Mrs. Swenson was fat and chubby. Perhaps she had all but fallenasleep.

  "Mrs. Swenson," Florence repeated, louder this time, "what shall weplant?"

  "What's that?" the good lady started. "Plant? Why, almost anything. Peas,beans, carrots, beets, some oats and barley for your cow. May not getripe, but you cut it for fodder. Soy beans are good, too. And potatoes!You should have seen our potatoes last year, four hundred bushels on anacre!"

  "Four hundred on an acre!" Florence stared. "That would be four thousandon our ten acres if we planted it all to potatoes. Four thousand at howmuch a bushel, Mrs. Swenson?"

  "Why, dear, at nothing at all!" Mrs. Swenson exclaimed. "You can't sell'em. We haven't a market. A few go to Fairbanks. Those are all sold longago."

  No market. There it was again. Florence's heart sank.

  "Potatoes and tomatoes," Mark gave a sudden start. His face lighted asthe earth lights when the sun slips from behind a cloud.

  "No," said Mrs. Swenson, quite emphatically. "Not tomatoes. You'll gethuge vines and blossoms, beautiful blossoms, that's all."

  "Tomatoes," Mark repeated with a slow, dreamy smile. "Bushels and bushelsof tomatoes."

  Mrs. Swenson stared at him in hurt surprise. "No tomatoes," she saidagain.

  Florence favored Mark with a sidewise glance. She had seen that look onhis face before two or three times and always something had come of it,something worth while. Like a song at sunrise, it warmed her heart.

  Then, quite suddenly, the subject was changed. "I don't see what's thegood of a market. Not just now," Bill Vale drawled. "The government'swilling to provide us everything we need to eat or wear, and a lot ofthings besides. Mother and I are getting a gasoline motor to run thewashing machine and a buzz-saw. No freezing at twenty below sawing woodfor me."

  "Nor me," laughed Dave McQueen. "I aim to work too fast on our oldcross-cut saw to have time to freeze."

  "Fact is, Bill," Mark put in, "in the end we've got to pay for all thesethings."

  "Yes," Bill laughed lightly. "Got thirty years to pay, start in fiveyears."

  "Well," the older McQueen drawled. "Five years have rolled round a dozentimes in my lifetime. They all seemed strangely short. And when thepayments start, they'll be coming round with ominous regularity. Mark andFlorence here have the right idea--keep debts down and get proceedsrolling in at the earliest possible moment."

  "Tomatoes," Mark said dreamily. "Bushels and bush--"

  At that they all started to their feet. From somewhere just out of theirview had come the loud heehaw, heehaw of a donkey.

  "What?" Florence sprang out the door. Then her lips parted in a smile,for there before her stood one more odd character from this strange newworld: the oddest, she thought, of them all.

  Tall, slim, white-haired, an old man sat astride a burro. And behind himcame two other burros heavily laden with packs. From one pack protrudedthe handles of a pick and a shovel.

  "A forty-niner," Florence thought.

  "A real old sourdough Alaskan prospector!" Bill exclaimed, wild withenthusiasm.

  "Whoa! Hello!" the old man shouted in one breath. "People livin' here!That's bad for me. I've been camping here as I came and went for a longspell."

  "The latch-string is still on the outside," Florence laughed a welcome."We've got hot raised biscuits," she encouraged. "Hot raised biscuits,sweet, home-churned butter and plenty of coffee."

  "Hot raised biscuits." The man passed a hand before his eyes. "And sweetbutter. Haven't heard those words in twenty years. Came to Alaska duringthe rush in '97. Just out of college then. Been prospecting for gold eversince. Found it twice. It's all gone now. But there's gold in themhills." His face lighted as he looked away at the snowy peaks. "Gold," herepeated softly. "Sure," his voice changed, the light in his eyes faded."Sure. Hot biscuits and sweet butter. Sure, I'll stop and rest awhile."

  "Well, folks," Mark stood looking away at his partly plowed field. "I'vegot to get back to work. Season's short. Must get in our seed."

  "Bill," he slapped the tall boy on the back, "you've got an acre or twothat's nearly clear. You get busy and root out the brush. Then I'll plowit for you."

  "Yeah, maybe." Bill scarcely heard. His eyes were on the prospector'spack.

  "How about offering the same to us?" Dave asked.

  "Sure," Mark exclaimed. "But you got a hard forty to clear, all timber,looks like."

  "We've picked a spot," Dave drawled. "We've got strong backs and weakminds, Dad and I have," he laughed a roaring laugh. "We'll have a gardenspot ready in two days. You'll see."

  Florence flashed Dave an approving smile.


  "Mr. McQueen," she said quietly, turning to Dave's father, "we're havingsome of the folks in for a sing Sunday afternoon. Mary will play our reedorgan, you know. Per--perhaps you'd like to say a few words to thefolks."

  "Why, yes, I--" the old man hesitated. "I--I'm no orator, but I might saya word or two. Good, old-fashioned time we'll have."

  "Sure will!" Mark agreed.

  While the others returned to their work, Bill lingered behind to talkwith the prospector. After laying out a generous supply of food, Florenceretired to the kitchen and the dinner dishes. Through the door theredrifted scraps of Bill's talk with the old man.

  "Ever really find gold?"... "Lots of times."... "Boy! That must have beengreat! I'm getting me a pick and shovel right now."... "Take your timeabout that, son," the old man counselled. "But there's gold. Plenty ofit. I'll find it this time. Sure to." His voice rose.

  "Any bears up there?" Bill asked.

  "Plenty of 'em. But I don't bother 'em and they don't bother me."

  "I'd bother them," Bill cried.

  "Yes," Florence thought. "Bill would bother them." She remembered thehigh-powered rifle that decorated Bill's tent.

  "Temptation," she thought, "does not belong to great cities alone. Hereboys are tempted to go after big game, to search for gold, to chaserainbows." Already Bill's young brain was on fire.

  To her consternation, she suddenly realized that her blood too wasracing. Had she caught the gleam of gold on the horizon? Would she listento the call of wild adventure until it led her away into thosesnow-capped mountains?

  "No," she whispered fiercely. She had come to this valley to help thoseshe loved, Mary, Mark, and their mother, to assist them in securing forthemselves a home. She would cling to that purpose. She _would_! Shestamped her foot so hard the dishes rattled and Bill in the other roomgave a sudden start.

  "Probably thought I was a bear," she laughed low.

  Then a thought struck her with the force of a blow. "He said he'd been inAlaska since '97. That old man said that," she whispered. "Perhaps--" Shesprang to the door.

  "Mister--er," she hesitated.

  "Name's Dale--Malcomb Dale," the old man rose and bowed.

  "Oh, Mr. Dale," Florence caught her breath. "You said you had been inAlaska a long time. Did you ever know a man named Tom Kennedy?"

  "Tom Kennedy! Sure! A fine man, but like the rest of us." He smiledoddly. "A little touched in the head, you might say, always looking forgold."

  "And did--did he ever find it?"

  "Yes, once, I'm told. Let's see. That was, well, never mind what year.They found gold, he and his partner, found it way back of the beyond, youmight say, and--"

  "And--" Florence prompted.

  "And they lost it."

  "Lost--lost it?" Florence stared.

  "His partner, Dan Nolan, became ill. Tom Kennedy dragged him all the wayto Nome on a small sled. No dogs. Stormed all that time. No trail,nothing. Got lost, nearly froze, but he came through. Powerful man, TomKennedy. Good man, too, best ever. True a man as ever lived."

  "Oh, I--I'm glad." Unbidden the words slipped out.

  The prospector stared at her. "I said they lost the mine, never found itagain. Nolan died."

  "And Tom Kennedy, he--"

  "He's alive, far as I know. He's always hunting that mine. Never found ityet. But then," the old man sighed, "there's plenty of us like that uphere where the sun forgets to set in summer. Gets in your blood.

  "Well," he put out a hand, "I'll get my burros started. I--I'll begoin'," his voice was rich and mellow with years. "I shall not forgetyou. And when I strike it rich--" he hesitated, then smiled a smile thatwas like the sunset, "I'll trade you gold and diamonds for raisedbiscuits and sweet butter." He stared for a moment, as if seeing a visionof the past, then bowed himself out. He was gone. Bill went with him. Howfar he would go the girl could only guess.

  Left alone with her thoughts, Florence found herself wondering about manythings. Was there truly no market for the things they raised? As themonths and years rolled on, would there still be no market? Fairbanks, asmall city to the north of them, was in need of many kinds of food. Couldthey not supply some of these needs?

  Then, of a sudden, she recalled Mark's words, "Tomatoes. Bushels andbushels of tomatoes." Why had he insisted, why repeated this word, evenafter Mrs. Swenson had said, "no tomatoes"? Mark had something in mind.What was it? She could not guess, but dared hope.

  She recalled Mrs. Swenson's words about the mysterious pair that had,with so much labor, erected this cabin, cleared this land, then left itall. "I wonder why they left?"

  Then, "Seven golden candlesticks," she murmured, "and a great copperkettle. We could use that kettle." After that, in spite of her desire tobe practical, she found herself searching the place from foundation tothe loft. All she found was an ancient Dutch oven, rusted beyondreclaiming.

  "All the same," she thought, "it _is_ strange what became of that copperkettle and--" She did not allow the thought to finish itself. She hadbeen about to think "gold." She knew that in this land one must notdream--at least, not too much.