by Roy J. Snell
CHAPTER XIII SAVED BY A WHISPER
Back in the camp Jennings was working on an Eskimo type of harness forGinger, Joe Marion's leader. The white man's collar, which was very muchlike a leather horse collar, had worn a sore spot on his neck. A harnessmade of strips of sealskin and fashioned in a manner somewhat similar toa breast collar, would relieve this.
Joe Marion had gone a short way from camp in the hope of finding asnowshoe rabbit or a ptarmigan. His search had been rewarded. In crossinga low hill he had caught the whir of wings and had, a moment later,sighted three snow-white ptarmigan. These quails of the Arctic wildernesswent racing away across the snow. His aim was good and, with all three ofthese in his bag, he was sure of some delicious broth and tender, juicymeat that night.
He was searching about for other birds when a sudden gust of wind sentcutting bits of snow into his face.
"Huh!" he grunted, looking away to his left. "Well, now, that looks likebusiness. Came up quick, too. I'd better be getting back."
He had no trouble finding his way back to camp, but by the time hereached it the snow fog was so thick he could not see three rods beforehim.
He found Jennings struggling with the tent ropes. The tent was in acomplete state of collapse.
"Wind tore it down," shouted Jennings. "Give--"
The wind caught the tent and fairly tore it from his grasp.
"Give us a hand," he puffed as he regained his hold. "This is going to bebad. Got to pack up and get out of here and find shelter of some kind.Tent won't stand here."
"There's a lot of willow bushes with the dead leaves on down there by alittle stream," suggested Joe.
"That's the place. We can tie the ropes to the willows. Willows keep offthe wind. Come on, let's pack up." Jennings threw the tent into a heap.
"But Curlie? He'll be coming back."
"Set up a stake. Write a note. Tell where we've gone. Got a pencil,paper?"
"Yes."
"You write it."
Creeping beneath the overthrown tent, Joe managed to scribble a note.This he fastened securely to an Alpine staff and, having tied a redhandkerchief to the staff that Curlie might not miss it, set it solidlyin a hard-packed snowbank.
"That'll do," said Jennings. "Now give us a hand. Watch your face; it'sfreezin'--your cheeks. Take your mitten off and rub 'em."
The dogs, with tails to the wind, stood patiently enduring the storm. Butwhen Jennings tried to get his team together they backed, twisted andturned in such a manner as to render them useless.
"Here, Ginger," shouted Joe, "here Bones, Pete, Major. Show 'em what areal dog team can do!"
So great was the comradeship between these dogs and their young masterthat he was able in a moment's time to hitch them to the sled, ready foraction.
"Good old boys!" he muttered hoarsely; "we've fought wolves together. Nowwe'll fight this blizzard."
A sled-load of camp equipment was soon moving down to the willows by thecreek bed.
In the course of an hour they had succeeded in establishing a safe andfairly comfortable camp. The dry willow leaves served in lieu of Arcticfeathers, while the stems and branches made a crackling fire whose genialwarmth pervaded the tent in spite of the storm.
"Now for a feed," said Joe, producing his hunting bag.
"What you got?"
"Ptarmigan. Three of 'em."
"Good!"
"We'll save one for Curlie," said Joe, tossing one of the birds into thecorner. "It'll be better piping hot."
"I'm worried about Curlie," said Jennings, cocking his head on one sideto listen to the howl of the storm. "This is no night to be out alone.Ought to do something, only we can't; not a thing. Be lost yourself in notime if you went out to look for him."
"You fix these birds and I'll set up the radio-phone," suggested Joe. "Hetook his belt set with him. We can at least listen in for him."
A half hour later, as he sipped a cup of delicious broth, Joe gave anexclamation of disgust:
"What's the good of all my listening in? He can't get a message off. He'dhave to have a high aerial for that. Could manage it with balloons on astill night, but not in this gale. Wires would tangle in an instant. Youcan--"
He broke off abruptly, to clasp his receivers to his ears. He was gettingsomething.
* * * * * * * *
Curlie had once read a book written by a man whose daring exploits in thenorth he had greatly admired. This writer had said that the notion thatfalling asleep when out in a blizzard might cause one's death by freezingwas a great mistake.
"Should you find yourself lost in a blizzard," he remembered the words aswell as he might had he read them but an hour before, "seek out asheltered spot and compose yourself as best you can. Save your strength.If you can fall asleep, so much the better. You will awake refreshed. Youwill not freeze. If you become chilled, the cold will waken you."
"I wonder if that is true?" he thought to himself as he huddled againstthe cut bank between his two walls of snow to watch the snow sifting downthe hillside like sand down a dune.
He did not attempt to decide whether or not he would put the thing to atest. He merely sat there until the white, sifting snow became brown andgold, until the gale became a gentle breeze, until all about him was thewarmth of a tropical clime.
Before him a palm tree spread its inviting shade. Across the horizon aslow procession moved, camels and horses. "A caravan," he murmured. Thensilently the scene shifted. Before him instead of palms were cacti.Instead of camels a great herd of cattle urged on by men on horseback,who swung sombreros and lariats. A cloud of dust followed the herdlazily. But ever just before him the brown sand sifted, sifted, siftedeternally.
Into this scene there moved a beautiful girl. She was dressed in the gaycostume of a Mexican; her cheeks were brown with the sun, but she wasgood to look at. Moving with a strange grace, she came close to him andwhispered in his ear. What she said was:
"Curlie! Curlie Carson, are you there?"
The question seemed so strange that he started, and, starting, hesuddenly awoke. The girl and her desert vanished like magic. Before himthe sifting still went on, but now again it was sifting snow. Drowsy withfatigue, benumbed but not chilled by the cold, he had fallen asleep andhad been dreaming. The two deserts were but dreams.
As he sat there staring at the snow he suddenly realized that part of hisdream was reality; the whisper continued:
"Curlie Carson, can you hear me?"
Clapping his hands to his ears, he suddenly realized that his belt radiowas working and that the Whisperer had returned.
Springing to his feet, he attempted to grasp the coil aerial. His handsand arms were like blocks of wood.
Madly he thrashed them about until circulation was partially restored.The Whisperer was still speaking. What she said was not as important asthe mere fact that she was speaking at all. He had remembered that he waslost. He thought he knew about where she and the outlaw should belocated. If he could but discover the direction from which this whispercame, he might take a course to the left of it and in that way find thecamp of his companions. It was a desperate chance but better than none.He was now convinced that the writer of that book was mistaken. He knewnow that a person with a clear conscience has no business going to sleepwhen the mercury is thirty or forty below.
"Are you - there - Curlie?" came the whisper. "I would - have - called -you - sooner Curlie - but I - could not. We - have come - a - long way."
Ah, now his fingers were working. He could move the coil. He held hisbreath. Had the last word been spoken? Was he lost as before? No!
"Something - tells - me - you - are - near - us - now - Curlie. Do - be -careful. It - is - dangerous - very - very dangerous."
As the whispered words ceased, Curlie's fingers trembled. He had locatedthe Whisperer not forty miles away. He thought he knew the way back tocamp. The wind had fallen somewhat. There was now a chance, a chance fo
rhis life. Dragging out his pocket compass, he fought his way to the topof the hill, then mapped out as best he could a course which should takehim to camp.