by Roy J. Snell
CHAPTER III MARIAN FACES A PROBLEM
Marian buried her hand in the thick warm coat of the spotted reindeerthat stood by her side and, shading her eyes, gazed away at the distanthills. A brown spot had appeared at the crest of the third hill to herright.
"There's another and another," she said. "Reindeer or caribou? I wonder.If it's caribou, perhaps Terogloona can get one of them with his rifle.It would help out our food supply. But if it's reindeer--" her browwrinkled at the thought, "reindeer might mean trouble."
At that instant something happened that brought her hand to her side.Quickly unstrapping her field glasses, she put them to her eyes.
A fourth object had appeared on the crest. Even with the naked eye onemight tell that this one was not like the other three. He was lighter incolor and lacked the lace-like suggestion against the sky which meantbroad spreading antlers.
"Reindeer!" she groaned. "All of them reindeer, and the last one's a sleddeer. His antlers have been cut off so he'll travel better. And thatmeans--"
She pursed her lips in deep thought as the furrows in her brow deepened.
"Oh, well!" she exclaimed at last. "Perhaps it doesn't mean anythingafter all. Perhaps they're just a bunch of strays. Who knows? But a sledreindeer?" she argued with herself. "They don't often stray away."
For a moment she stood staring at the distant hillcrest. Then, seizingher drive line, she spoke to her deer. As he bounded away she leapednimbly upon the sled and went skimming along after him.
"We'll see about that," she said. "They're not our deer, that's sure.Whose are they? That's what we're about to find out. A circle across thatlong valley, then a stiff climb up a gully, will just about bring us totheir position."
Fifteen minutes later she found herself atop the first elevation. For thetime, out of sight of the strange reindeer, she had an opportunity toglance back down the valley where her own herd was peacefully feeding.Her eyes lighted up as she looked. It was indeed a beautiful sight.Winter had come, for she and Patsy Martin had now been following the herdfor three months. Winter, having buried deep beneath the snow every traceof the browns and greens of summer, had left only deep purple shadows andpale yellow lights over mountain, hill and tundra. In the midst of theselights and shadows, such as are not seen save upon a sun-scorched desertor the winter-charmed Arctic, her little herd of some four hundred deerstood out as if painted on a canvas or done in bas-relief with wood orstone.
"It's not like anything in the world," said Marian, "and I love it. Oh,how I do love it! How I wish I could paint it as it really is!"
As she rode on up the valley her mind went over the months that hadpassed and the problems she and Patsy now faced.
Great as was her love for the Arctic, fond as she was of its wild, freelife, her father had made other plans for her; plans that could not becarried out so long as they were in possession of the herd. This seemedto make the sale of the herd an urgent necessity. Every letter from herfather that came to her over hundreds of miles of dog-sled and reindeertrail, suggested some possible means of disposing of the herd.
"We _must_ sell by spring," his last letter had said. "Not that I am inimmediate need of money, but you must get back to school. One year outthere in the wilderness, with Patsy for your companion, will do no harm,but it must not go on. The doctor says I cannot return to the North forfour or five years at the least. So, somehow, we must sell."
"Sell! Sell!" Marian repeated, almost savagely. It seemed to her thatthere could be no selling the herd. There was only a limited market forreindeer meat. Miners here and there bought it. The mining cities boughtit, but of late the increase to one hundred thousand reindeer in Alaskahad overloaded the market. A little meat could be shipped to the States,there to be served at great club luncheons and in palatial hotels, butthe demand was not large.
"Sell?" she questioned, "how can we sell?"
Little she knew how soon a possible answer to that question would come.Not knowing, she visioned herself following the herd year after year,while all those beautiful, wonderful months she had had a taste of, andnow dreamed of by day and night, faded from her thoughts.
She had spent one year under the shadows of a great university. Marvelousnew thoughts had come to her that year. Friendships had been made, suchfriendships as she in her northern wilds had never dreamed of. Thestately towers of the university even now appeared to loom before her,and again she seemed to hear the melodious chimes of the bells.
"Oh!" she cried, "I must go back. I must! I must!"
And yet Marian was not unhappy. For the present she would not be anyother place than where she was. It was a charming life, this wanderinglife of the reindeer herder. During the short summer, and even into thefrosts of fall and winter, they lived in tents, and like nomads of thedesert, wandered from place to place, always seeking the freshest water,the greenest grass, the tallest willow bushes. But when winter truly cameswooping down upon them, they went to a spot chosen months before, thecenter of rich feeding grounds where the ground beneath the snow wasgreen-white with "reindeer moss." Here they made a more permanent camp.After that there remained but the task of defending the herd from wolvesand other marauders, and of driving the herd to camp each day, that theymight not wander too far away.
As for Patsy, she had fairly revelled in it all. Reared in a cityapartment where a chirping sparrow gave the only touch of nature, she hadcome to this wilderness with a great thirst for knowledge of theout-of-doors. Each day brought some new revelation to her. The snowbuntings, ptarmigans and ravens; the foxes, caribou and reindeer; eventhe occasional prowling wolves, all were her teachers. From them shelearned many secrets of wild nature.
Of course there had been long, shut-in days, when the wind swept thetundra, and the snow, appearing to rest nowhere, whirled on and on. Suchdays were lonely ones. Letters were weeks in coming and arrived butseldom. All these things gave the energetic city lass some blue days, buteven then she never complained.
Her health was greatly improved. Gone was the nervous twitch of eyelidsthat told of too many hours spent pouring over books. The summer freckleshad been replaced by ruddy brown, such as only Arctic winds and anoccasional freeze can impart. As for her muscles, they were like ironbands. Never in the longest day's tramp did she complain of weariness.With the quick adaptability of a bright and cheerful girl, she had becomea part of the wild world which surrounded her. The expression of herlips, too, was somehow changed. Firmness and determination were stillwritten there, but certain lines had been added; lines of patience thatsaid louder than words: "I have learned one great lesson; that one mayrun uphill, but that mountains must be climbed slowly, patiently, circleby circle, till the summit is reached."
They were in winter camp now. As Marian thought of it she smiled. At noother spot in all Alaska was there another such camp as hers. Marian, asyou know if you have read our other book, "The Blue Envelope," had, sometwo years before, spent the short summer months of the Arctic in Siberia,across from Alaska. Much against her own wishes, she had spent a part ofthe winter there. Someone has said "there is no great loss without somesmall gain"; and while Marian had endured hardships and known moments ofperil in Siberia, from the strange and interesting tribes there she hadlearned some lessons of real value regarding winter camps in the Arctic.Upon making her own camp she had put this knowledge into practice.
They were now in winter camp. As Marian thought of this, then thought ofthe four strange reindeer on the ridge above, her brow again showedwrinkles of anxiety.
"If it's Bill Scarberry's herd," she said fiercely, clenching her fists,"if it is!" In her words there was a world of feeling.
In the early stages of the reindeer industry in Alaska, the problem offeed grounds for the deer had been exceedingly simple. There were thebroad stretches of tundra, a hundred square miles for every reindeer.Help yourself. Every mile of it was matted deep with rich moss; everystream lined in summer with tender willow leaves. If you
chanced to sightanother small herd in your wandering, you went to right or left, and soavoided them. There was room for all.
Now things were vastly changed. One hundred thousand deer ranged thetundra. Reindeer moss, eaten away in a single season, requires four orfive years to grow again in abundance. Back, back, farther and fartherback from shore and river the herds had been pushed, until now it wasdifficult indeed to transport food to the herders.
With these conditions arising, the rivalry between owners for goodfeeding ground grew intense. Many and bitter were the feuds that hadarisen between owners. There was not the best of feeling between BillScarberry, another owner, and her father; Marian knew that all too well.
"And now maybe his herd is coming into our feeding ground," she sighed.
It was true that the Government Agent attempted to allot feeding grounds.The valley her deer were feeding upon had been written down in his bookas her winter range; but when one is many days' travel from even thefringe of civilization, when one is the herder of but four hundred deer,and only a girl at that, when an overriding owner of ten thousand deercomes driving in his vast herd to lick up one's little pasture in a weekor two, what is there to do?
These were the bitter thoughts that ran through the girl's mind as sherode up the valley.
The pasture to the right and left of them, and to the north, had beenalloted for so many miles that it was out of the question to think ofbreaking winter camp and freighting supplies to some new range.
"No," she said firmly, "we are here, and here we stay!"
Had she known the strange circumstances that would cause her to alterthis decision, she might have been startled at the grim humor of it.