Here was a task fit for the youngest and the strongest; yet there he stood, the spirit of a hero flowing in his veins—age serving youth. The gallantry of a great and perfect gentleman bowing to fair ladies and daring all. How Marian would have thrilled at sight of this daring act.
With a swift turn he tightened the rope, then with the “de—de—dum” of his symphony upon his lips, strained every muscle until he felt the rope slack, then eased away as he saw the raft tilt for the glide. Then he relaxed his muscles and stood there watching.
With a slow graceful movement the small raft glided out upon the water. An eddy seized it and whirled it about. Three times it turned, then the current caught it, and whirled it away. The rope was tight now, and every muscle of the grand old man was tense. A battle had begun which was to decide whether or not the two girls were to reach the station and fulfill their mission.
CHAPTER XVIII
THE TRAIL OF BLOOD
That same evening Patsy made her second startling discovery. An hour before night was to set in, she had harnessed a sled deer and struck out into the hills in search of a brown yearling that had been missing for two days.
“Strange where they all go,” she murmured as she climbed a hill for a better view of the surrounding country. “Marian was right; unless we discover the cause of these disappearances and put an end to them, soon there will be no herd. It’s a shame! How I wish I could make the discovery all by myself and surprise Marian with the good news when she gets home.”
As she scanned the horizon away across to the west, she saw a single dark figure on the crest of a hill.
“Old Omnap-puk,” she said, taking in with admiration the full sweep of his splendid antlers. “It’s the first time I’ve seen him for a long while. We can’t lose you, can we? And we can’t catch you,” she said, speaking to the lone figure.
Old Omnap-puk was neither reindeer nor caribou; at least this was what Marian had said about it. She believed that he was a cross-breed—half reindeer and half caribou. He was large like a caribou, larger than the largest deer in the herd. He had something of the dark brown coat of the caribou, but a bright white spot on his left side told of the reindeer blood that flowed in his veins.
But he was very wild. Haunting the edge of the herd, he never came close enough to be lassoed or driven into a brush corral. Many a wild chase had he lead the herders, but always he had shown them his sleek brown heels.
Many times the girls had debated the question of allowing the herders to kill him for food and for his splendid coat; yet they had hesitated. They were not sure that he was not a full-blooded reindeer; that he was not marked and did not belong to someone. If he was a stray reindeer, they had no right to kill him. Besides this, it seemed a pity to kill such a wonderful creature. So the matter stood. And here he was on their feeding ground.
As Patsy stood there gazing at this splendid creature, she slowly realized that the Arctic sun had flamed down below the far horizon and long shadows raced out of the West. A full orbed moon stood just atop the trees that lined the eastern rim of hills. Turning reluctantly to leave, her eyes caught sight of a dark spot in the snow. She bent over to examine it, and a moment later straightened up with a startled exclamation.
“Blood! It is a trail of blood. I wonder which way it goes?”
Unable to answer this question, she decided to circle until she could find some sign that would tell her whether or not she was back-tracking. Satisfied at last of the direction, she pushed on, and there in the eerie moonlight, through the ghostly silence of an Arctic night, she silently followed the trail of blood.
Suddenly she stopped and stood still. Just before her was a large discoloration of the snow. And, though the snow was so wind packed that she walked on it without snowshoes, her keen eyes detected spots where it had been broken and scratched by some hard, heavy object.
Dropping on her knees, she began examining every detail of the markings. When she arose she spoke with a quiet tone of conviction:
“This is the track of a man. He has killed one of our deer and had been carrying it on his shoulder. Blood dropped from the still warm carcass. That explains the trail of blood. The load has become too heavy for him. At this spot he has laid his burden down. In places the antlers have scratched the snow. After a time he has gone on. But which way did he go?”
Once more she bent over. On the hard packed snow, the sole of a skin boot makes no tracks. After a moment’s study she again straightened up.
“There’s a long scratch, as if he had dragged the carcass to his shoulder as he started on, and an antler had dragged for two or three feet. That would indicate that he went the way I have been going. Question is, shall I go farther, or shall I go for the herders with their rifles?” She decided to go on.
The blood spots grew less and less as she advanced. She was beginning to despair of being able to follow much farther, when, with a startled gesture, she came to a sudden halt.
“The purple flame!” she said in an awed whisper.
It was true. As she stared down at a little willow lined valley, she saw the outline of a tent. From the very center of it there appeared to burst that weird purple light.
“Well,” she concluded, “I am at least sure that they’ve killed one of our deer; killed several, probably. No doubt they have been living off our herd.”
For a moment she stood there undecided; then, with reluctant feet, she turned back. It was the only wise thing to do. She was alone and unarmed. To follow that trail further would be dangerous and foolhardy.
But what should she do, once she had reached her own camp? She was convinced in her own mind that the slain creature was one of their deer; yet she could not prove it. Should she lead her armed herders to the stranger’s tent and demand an explanation? Oh, how she did wish that Marian was here!
As she walked homeward she felt terribly depressed. There was a girl in that tent of the purple flame. She had seen her. She had hoped that sometime, in the not too distant future, they might be friends. Such a friend in this lonely land, especially since Marian and Attatak were gone, would be a boon indeed. Now she felt that such a thing could never be. It was as if a great gulf had suddenly yawned between them.
After reaching her camp and sipping a cup of tea and munching at some hard crackers, she sat for hours thinking things through. Her final decision was that for the present she could do nothing. Marian might return any day now. In such matters her judgment would be best and Patsy did not feel warranted in starting what might prove to be a dangerous feud.
CHAPTER XIX
PASSING THE RAPIDS
As the raft, which had been dragged from the bank of the river by the hermit of the mysterious lodge, swung out into the ice strewn current, it shot directly for the glacier’s end as if drawn by a magnet.
Taking a quick turn of the rope about a point of rock, the aged man braced himself for the shock which must come when the raft, with its load of sleds and other trappings, had taken up the slack.
All too soon it came. Bracing himself as best he could, he held his ground. The strain increased. It seemed that the rope must snap; that the old man’s iron grip must yield. Should the raft reach the glacier it would be lost forever. The muscles in the man’s arms played like bands of steel. Blood vessels stood out on his temples like whipcords, yet he held his ground.
Ten seconds passed, twenty, thirty, then with a whirl like some wild animal yielding to its captor, the raft swung about and shot away down stream.
Plunging forward, leaping rocks, gliding over glassy surfaces of snow, puffing, perspiring, the old man followed.
Now he was down; the cause seemed lost. But in a flash he was up again, clutching at a jagged rock that tore his hand. For a second time he stayed the mad rush of the raft. Then he was on again.
Bobbing from reef to reef, plunging through foam, leaping high above the torrents, the raft went careering on. Twice it all but turned over, and but for the skill of its master would have be
en crushed by great grinding cakes of ice.
For thirty long minutes the battle lasted; minutes that seemed hours to the aged man. Then with a sigh he guided the raft into a safe eddy of water.
Sinking down upon a hard packed bank of snow, he lay there as if dead. For a long time he lay there, then rising stiffly, made his way down the ledge to drag the raft ashore and unlash the sleds. After this he drew the sleds up the hill one at a time and set them across the blazed trail.
“There!” he sighed. “A good night’s work done, and a neat one. I could not have done it better twenty years ago. ‘Grow old along with me,’” he threw back his hair as if in defiance of raging torrents, “‘The best is yet to be. The last of life, for which the first was made—’”
Having delivered this bit of poetical oration to the tune of the booming rapids, he turned to pick his way back over the uncertain trail that led to his strange abode.
Eight hours after she had crept into the luxurious bed in the guest room of the strange lodge, Marian stirred, then half awake, felt the drowsy warmth of wolf-skin rugs. For a moment she lay there and inhaled the drug-like perfume of balsam and listened to the steady breathing of the Eskimo girl beside her. She was about to turn over for another sleep, when, from some cell of her brain where it had been stowed the night before, there came the urge that told her she must make haste.
“Haste! Haste! Haste!” came beating in upon her drowsy senses. It was as if her brain were a radio, and the message was coming from the air.
Suddenly she sat bolt upright. At the same instant she found herself wide awake, fully alert and conscious of the problems she must face that day—the passing of the rapids and covering a long span of that trail which still lay between them and their goal.
She did not waken Attatak. That might not be necessary for another hour. She sprang out upon the heavy bear skin rug, and there went through a set of wild, whirling gestures that limbered every muscle in her body and sent the red blood racing through her veins. After that she quickly slipped into her blouse, knickers, stockings and deerskin boots, to at last go tiptoeing down the corridor toward the large living-room where she heard the roar of the open fire as it raced up the chimney.
She found her host sitting by the fire. In the uncertain light he appeared haggard and worn, as if quite done in from some great exertion. Of course Marian could not so much as guess how he had spent the night. She had slept through it all.
With a smile of greeting the old man motioned her to a seat beside him.
“You’ll not begrudge an old man a half hour’s company?” he said.
“Indeed not.”
“You’ll wish to ask me things. Everyone who passes this way wants to. Mostly they ask and I don’t tell. A fair lady, though,” there was something of ancient gallantry in his tone, “fair ladies usually ask what they will and get it, too.”
For a moment he sat staring silently into the fire.
“This house,” he said at last, “is a bit unusual. That pipe organ, for instance—you wouldn’t expect it here. It came here as if by accident; Providence, I call it. A rich young man had more things than he knew what to do with. The Creator sent some of them to me.
“As for me, I came here voluntarily. You have probably taken me for a prospector. I have never bought pick nor pan. There are things that lure me, but gold is not one of them.
“I had troubles before I came here. Troubles are the heritage of the aged. I sometimes think that it is not well to live too long.
“And yet,” he shook himself free of the mood; his face lighting up as he exclaimed, “And yet, life is very wonderful! Wonderful, even up here in the frozen north. I might almost say, especially here in the north.
“I came here to be alone. I brought in food with a dog team. I built a cabin of logs, and here I lived for a year.
“One day a young man came up the river in a wonderful pleasure yacht and anchored at the foot of the rapids. Being a lover of music, he had built a pipe organ into his yacht; the one you heard last night.”
“And did—did he die?” Marian asked, a little break coming in her voice.
“No,” the old man smiled, “he tarried too long. Being a lover of nature—a hunter and an expert angler—and having found the most ideal spot in the world as long as summer lasted, he stayed on after the frosts and the first snow. I was away at the time, else I would have warned him. I returned the day after it happened. There had been a heavy freeze far up the river, then a storm came that broke the ice away. The ice came racing down over the rapids like mad and wrecked his wonderful yacht beyond all repair.
“We did as much as we could about getting the parts on shore; saved almost all but the hull. He stayed with me for a few days; then, becoming restless, traded me all there was left of his boat for my dog team.
“That winter, with the help of three Indians and their dogs, I brought the wreckage up here. Gradually, little by little, I have arranged it into the form of a home that is as much like a boat as a house. The organ was unimpaired, and here it sings to me every day of the great white winter.”
He ceased speaking and for a long time was silent. When he spoke again his tones were mellow with kindness and a strange joy.
“I am seldom lonely now. The woods and waters are full of interesting secrets. Travelers, like you, come this way now and again. I try to be prepared to serve them; to be their friend.”
“May—may I ask one question?” Marian suggested timidly.
“As many as you like.”
“How did you know I was at the door last night when you were playing? You did not see me. You couldn’t have heard me.”
“That,” he smiled, “is a question I should like to ask someone myself; someone much wiser than I am. I knew you were there. I had been feeling your presence for more than an hour before you came. I knew I had an audience. I was playing for them. How did I know? I cannot tell. It has often been so before. Perhaps all human presence can be felt by some specially endowed persons. It may be that in the throngs of great cities the message of soul to soul is lost, just as a radio message is lost in a jumble of many messages sent at once.
“But then,” he laughed, “why speculate? Life’s too short. Some things we must accept as they are. What’s more important to you is that your sleds are beyond the rapids. When breakfast is over, you can strap your sleeping bags on your deer and I will guide you over the trail around the rapids to the point where I left your sleds.”
A look of consternation flashed over Marian’s face. She was thinking of the ancient dishes and how fragile they were. “I have some fragile articles in the sleeping bags,” she said. “They—they might break!”
“Break?” He wore a puzzled look.
For a second she hesitated; then, reassured by the kindly face of the gentle old man, decided to tell him the story of their adventure in the cave. Then she launched into the story with all the eagerness of a discoverer.
“I see,” he said, when she had finished the story. “I know just how you feel. However, there is now only one safe thing to do. Leave these treasures with me. If the rapids are frozen over when the time comes for the return trip, you can pass here and get them. You’ll always be welcome. Better leave an address to which they may be sent in case you should not pass this way. The rapids freeze over every winter. I will surely be able to get them off on the first river boat. They can be sent to any spot in the world. To attempt to pack them over on your deer would mean certain destruction.”
Reluctant as Marian was to leave the treasure behind, she saw the wisdom of his advice. So, feeling a perfect confidence in him, she decided to leave her treasure in his care. Then she gave him her address at Nome, with instructions for shipping should she fail to return this way.
“One thing more I wanted to ask you,” she said. “How many men are there at the Station?”
“One man; the trader. He stays there the year ’round.”
“One man!” she exclaimed.
&nbs
p; “One is all. Time was when there were twenty. Prospectors, traders, Indians, trappers. Two years ago forest fires destroyed the timber. The game sought other feeding grounds and the trappers, traders and Indians went with them. Gold doesn’t seem to exist in the streams hereabouts, so the prospectors have left, too. Now one man keeps the post; sort of holding on, I guess, just to see if the old days won’t return.”
“Do you suppose he could—could leave for a week or two?” Marian faltered.
“Guess not. Company wouldn’t permit it.”
“Then—then—” Marian set her lips tight. She would not worry this kind old man with her troubles. The fact remained, however, that if there was but one man at the Station, and he could not leave, there was no one who could be delegated by the Government Agent to go back with her to help fight her battles against Scarberry.
Suddenly, as she thought of the weary miles they had travelled, of the hardships they had endured, and of the probability that they would, after all, fail in fulfilling their mission, she felt very weak and as one who has suddenly grown old.
CHAPTER XX
A MESSAGE FROM THE AIR
A cup of perfect coffee, followed by a dash into the bracing Arctic morning, completely revived Marian’s spirits. Casting one longing look backward at the mysterious treasure of ancient dishes and old ivory, throwing doubt and discouragement to the winds, with energy and courage she set herself to face the problems of the day.
The passing of the rapids by the overland trail was all that their host had promised. Struggling over rocky, snow-packed slopes; slipping, sliding, buffeted by strong winds, beaten back by swinging overhanging branches of ancient spruce and firs, they made their way pantingly forward until at last, with a little cry of joy, Marian saw their own sleds in the trail ahead.
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