Lindy Falls was reached one afternoon about two o’clock. It was little more than a boat and trading station and here the Rover boys got their first sight of Alaskan Indians, members of the Chilkoot tribe.
Immediately on landing they made inquiries concerning Tom and the miner named Ike Furner. They soon learned that Furner was a well-known character, and from a trader heard that this man and his young companion had set off but a few hours before.
“I think they went to Dawson City,” said a man standing nearby. “Anyway, Furner told me he was goin’ there first, an’ then up to Lion Head.”
This put a new view on the matter, and the boys and Jack Wumble questioned the stranger. The upshot was that they decided to go directly to Dawson, that mecca of all gold hunters in Alaska.
“Now, the thing of it is, How can we get to Dawson from here?” said Sam.
“That’s easy,” replied Jack Wumble. “Just leave it to me.”
Inside of an hour their arrangements were made and they were off. Previous to going they made more inquiries concerning Tom and his strange companion, and reached the conclusion that the pair had really headed for Dawson.
“But there is no telling how soon they will change their minds and go somewhere else,” said Dick, with a sigh.
It is not my purpose to tell the particulars of the tedious journey to Dawson City, about three hundred and fifty miles north of Skagway. At that time all of the improvements that now exist had not been made and the crowd suffered from many inconveniences.
But the boys were surprised when they reached Dawson to find it so “up to date,” as Sam expressed it. They had expected to see a rough mining town—and that is what Dawson was but a handful of years ago. Instead, they saw a built-up city, with many stores and not a few hotels.
“Goin’ to be a reg’lar ’Frisco some day,” said Jack Wumble. “Beats all how the towns grow up here!”
The party had arrived in Dawson late at night and put up at the best hotel to be found. Immediately after breakfast the search for Tom was renewed.
It had rained the day before and now it was blustery and cold, with a suggestion of snow in the air. The boys were glad enough to don their sweaters under their coats.
“Ye’ll have to git some heavy clothin’ if ye go North,” said the old miner.
“I hope Tom is dressed warm enough,” said Sam. “It would be too bad if he took sick, along with his other troubles.”
For two days the boys and the old miner hunted around Dawson for some trace of the missing one. They visited all sorts of places, but all to no purpose. During that time the weather grew suddenly colder and on the second night came a light fall of snow.
“Won’t be long now before winter will be on us,” announced Jack Wumble. “And winter up here is somethin’ wuth rememberin’, believe me!”
The next morning found Dick at a large trading store, where many miners and prospectors purchased their supplies. Here he asked all newcomers if they had seen or heard of Tom or Ike Furner.
“Sure, I see Furner!” cried one old prospector. “See him yesterday afternoon.”
“Where?” demanded Dick, eagerly.
“Over on the Lion Head trail.”
“Alone?”
“No, he had a young feller with him.”
CHAPTER XX
IN THE MOUNTAINS OF ALASKA
“Sam, I think we are in for a heavy snow today.”
“I think so myself, Dick. How much further do we go?”
“About two miles,” came from Jack Wumble. “I reckon I got a bit off the trail yesterday, but I know I am right now, boys.”
“But where is Tom?” came from Sam.
“He must be right ahead of us—if what we have been told is true,” answered his brother.
The conversation recorded above took place just ten days after Dick and Sam arrived in Dawson City. During that time the Rover boys and Jack Wumble had spent two days in buying the necessary outfit, to follow Tom and his strange companion to the wild region in Alaska known as Lion Head. The start had been made, and now the three found themselves on a narrow mountain trail in a country that looked to be utterly uninhabited.
For three days they had been close behind Tom and Ike Furner, this being proven by the remains of campfires and other indications. Once they had met some prospectors returning to the Klondyke and these men had told of passing the pair ahead, and that Furner had said they were bound for a spot not many miles from Lion Head called Twin Rocks.
“I never heard o’ Twin Rocks before,” said Jack Wumble. “But if it is nigh Lion Head we ought to be able to locate it.”
“Provided we don’t get snowed in before we reach it,” returned Sam.
On and on trudged the three. They had left the last supply depot behind. They had passed only a handful of white folks and a band of five Indians.
“Do you know, I didn’t like the looks of those Indians we passed yesterday,” remarked Dick, as they went forward over the rough, upward trail.
“They looked pretty sharply at our outfits,” said Sam. “I guess they’ll like to own them,” he added.
“We have got to keep our eyes open,” said Jack Wumble. “Them Injuns ain’t above stealin’ if they git a chanct.”
“In such an out-of-the-way place as this, we can’t afford to lose our things,” asserted Dick.
“Maybe we had better set a guard, at night,” suggested his brother.
“Oh, we don’t want to lose any sleep, if we don’t have to.”
It had grown colder and colder, and now the wind swept around them in anything but a pleasant fashion. About noon came a flurry of snow.
“I don’t like that,” said Dick, shaking his head and looking up at the darkening sky.
“Oh, let’s hope it won’t amount to much, Dick,” replied Sam.
The traveling was steadily upward, for they had to pass over a high hill to get into the valley leading to Lion Head. There was something of a trail, made by wild animals originally and now used by prospectors. This wound in and out among the rock and bushes. The footing was uncertain, and more than once one or another would go down in a hole.
“Talk about walking!” gasped Sam, after pulling himself out of a hole well concealed by bushes. “I’m thankful I didn’t break a leg that time.”
“An’ ye can be thankful ye didn’t stir up no snakes,” came from Jack Wumble.
“Are there snakes up here, Jack?”
“So they say—although I never see none.”
“It’s pretty cold for snakes,” remarked Dick. “They only come out in the summer time.”
“I wish we were on horseback,” said Sam, with a sigh.
“Hosses would be fine, if we could feed ’em,” answered Jack Wumble. “But ye can’t do thet when the ground is covered with snow.”
“The outfits are so heavy, Jack.”
“True, my boy, but thet can’t be helped. We’ll be lucky if our grub holds out.”
It was after four o’clock when they reached the top of the hill. Had it been clear they might have seen for many miles around them, but now the dullness in the sky hid what was in the distance from view.
“Lion Head is over thar,” said Jack Wumble, pointing with his hand. “An’ Twin Rocks can’t be far off.”
“And how far is Lion Head from here?” questioned Sam.
“Betwixt twenty an’ thirty miles, Sam.”
“Then maybe we’ll reach there by tomorrow night.”
“Let us hope so, lad. O’ course you must remember we’ve got the wust part o’ this journey to go.”
“Perhaps we’ll catch Tom before we get to Lion Head,” suggested Dick.
“Not by the way he has been traveling,” answered his brother. “It does beat the nation how he and that Furner have been able to get over the ground.�
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On the top of the hill the wind was blowing a regular gale and the boys and the old miner were glad enough to go down on the other side, where they would be somewhat sheltered. But even below it was cold, and the air seemed to strike to their very backbones.
“Winter is comin’ all right enough,” announced Jack Wumble. “We’ll be lucky if we git out o’ here afore it catches us.”
They trudged along until all were too weary to walk another step. They were keeping their eyes open for a spot where they might camp for the night, when Dick uttered a cry.
“Look! They must have remained here last night!”
The others gazed to where he pointed and saw, in a shelter of the rocks, the remains of a campfire. Beside the ashes lay a part of a broken strap and also some fine shavings from a stick.
“Ike Furner’s mark,” remarked Wumble, pointing to the shavings. They had been told by several men that one of Furner’s habits was to whittle a stick. He never rested and talked but what he got out his jackknife and started to cut on a bit of wood. At another campfire, two days back, they had come across a heap of just such whittlings.
“How new is that campfire?” asked Dick, of the old miner.
Jack Wumble examined the heap of dead ashes with care.
“I should say not more’n a day—maybe not thet,” he answered. “Boys, I reckon we’re close on ’em.”
“Oh, if only it wasn’t so dark and we weren’t so tired!” murmured Sam.
“We can’t do much in the darkness, and with a storm coming on,” returned Dick. “We’ll have to wait until morning. But we had better start out directly it is daylight.”
While the others were preparing supper, Dick commenced to arrange the shelter for the night. While he was doing this he noticed something white fluttering on the ground in the wind. He picked it up. It was a sheet of paper, evidently a page torn from a notebook.
“Look what I found,” he said, coming close to the light of the campfire. He gazed at the sheet with deep interest. “Well, I never! Sam, look at this!” he cried.
“What is it, Dick?”
“I think Tom wrote this. Poor fellow! Isn’t it too bad!”
The sheet of paper had been scribbled on with a lead pencil. The writing was in all sorts of curves, and was largely as follows:
To To To To Ro Ro Ro To
Ro To Bri To Ro Bri
Nel Nel Nel Di S S
To Ro To Ro Tover Tomer
Nel Nel Nel Nel Neltom
“Oh, Dick, what do you make of this?”
“What do I make of it? Can’t you see, Sam? Tom was trying to think. He wanted to get something that was hidden away in his memory—his own name, and mine and yours, and Nellie’s, and the name of Brill. Maybe a flash of his real self came back to him.”
“Oh, if it only would, Dick! Yes, you must be right. First he tried his best to write Tom Rover, but all he got was To Ro, and then he went to Bri for Brill and Nel for Nellie, and Di and S for Dick and Sam. It’s as plain as day. It’s just like a little child trying to write.”
“And it’s enough to make a fellow cry,” was the sober response.
The two boys studied the paper for a long time and let Jack Wumble look at it. Then, somewhat silently, all sat down to supper. Their hard walk had made them hungry and they ate every scrap of what had been prepared.
By the time they were ready to turn in, it had begun to snow. The had found a shelter under a cliff of rocks, with some brushwood to keep off the most of the wind. They rolled themselves in their blankets and soon all were in the land of dreams.
Dick had slumbered the best part of several hours, when he suddenly awoke with a start. Some furry body had swept across his face. He sat up in bewilderment and looked around the camp, lit up only by the flickering rays of the dying fire. Then he gave a gasp. From beyond the dying fire two savage eyes were gazing at him intently. Without hesitation he reached down under his blanket, brought out the pistol he carried, and fired.
CHAPTER XXI
AT THE FOOT OF THE CLIFF
Crack!
The report of the pistol in that confined space sounded loud and clear, and brought Sam and Jack Wumble to their feet with a bound.
“What’s the matter, Dick?”
“What ye firing at?”
“Some wild animal. It just leaped over me!” cried the one who had used the firearm. Dick was now on his feet, too, and all stepped away from the shelter of the cliff.
Following the discharge of the weapon had come a short sharp bark or yelp, showing that the animal had been hit. Now followed more barks and yelps from a distance.
“A fox—an Alaskan fox, thet’s wot it was,” said Jack Wumble. “An’ I reckon as how ye hit him, Dick.”
“I’m sure I did, for I aimed right at him, and he wasn’t over twenty feet away,” was the reply. “Wonder if he’ll come back?”
“I don’t think so—not if he’s hurted,” returned the old miner. “He must have been putty hungry to come so clost. Must have smelt our grub.”
“Maybe he wasn’t alone,” suggested Sam. “I’d hate to have a pack of foxes come down on me.”
“I don’t think you’ll find any pack around here,” answered Jack Wumble. “They ain’t so plentiful. But I’ll tell ye what we might run across, an Alaskan moose—an’ they ain’t no nice beast to meet at close quarters.”
Some extra brushwood had been gathered before retiring and now a portion of it was heaped on the fire, so that they might have more light. The barking and yelping had died away in the distance, and all around the camp it was as silent as a tomb.
“It’s snowing yet,” remarked Sam, as he went out to look at the sky. “But it doesn’t seem to be very heavy.”
“If only we’re not snowed in until after we find Tom!” murmured his brother.
Gradually the excitement died away and then they laid down to rest once more. But Dick was nervous and only got into a doze, and he was glad when morning came.
The sky was now dull and heavy, “jest filled with snow,” as Jack Wumble expressed it. The soft flakes were still coming down, but no thicker than they had fallen during the night. The ground was covered with white to a depth of two inches. There was a gentle wind from the northwest.
“Let us not lose any more time than we can help,” said Sam. “In such weather as this, every minute may count.”
“Right ye are,” responded the old miner. “We’ll have breakfast quick as we kin an’ be off.”
Traveling that morning was comparatively easy and they covered quite a number of miles. But then they commenced to climb the mountain leading to Lion Head and Twin Rocks and progress became more difficult.
“Some work, eh, Sam?” remarked Dick, after they had helped each other over some slippery rocks on the trail.
“Do you think Tom and his companion got over these, Dick?”
“I suppose they did. It’s the only thing that looks like a trail around here. If they didn’t stick to this they’d soon become lost. And being lost on a mountain isn’t very nice—you know that.”
The snow was still coming down, and to the boys it seemed heavier than before. Jack Wumble looked at the sky many times and shook his head slowly.
“We’ll be in fer it by tomorrow,” he said. “An’ then nobuddy can tell how long it will keep up. Winter is comin’ sure!”
“Then the sooner we find Tom and get back to Dawson with him the better.”
It was about five o’clock in the afternoon when they reached a spot where the trail ran along the bottom of a tall cliff. Far below them was the valley they had crossed in the morning, now all but shut out from their view by the falling snow.
“Don’t either of ye slip here,” cautioned Jack Wumble. “Because, if ye do, thar ain’t no tellin’ whar ye’ll fetch up.”
“I’ll be as careful as possible,” answered Dick.
“And so will I,” added Sam.
The old miner was in the lead, with Sam coming next, and Dick bringing up the rear. Thus nearly half a mile more was slowly covered.
“We ought to be drawing close to Tom now,” said Dick.
“I’ve got an idea!” cried his brother. “Why didn’t we think of it before? Let us call to him, and fire one of the pistols.”
“All right,” said the old miner. “’Twon’t do no harm.”
All three raised their voices in a lusty shout, and Dick fired a shot into the air. Then they listened intently. There was no answer of any kind.
“Let us try it again,” suggested Sam. “Now then, all together!”
This time their yell was thrice repeated, and Dick fired two shots. They waited several seconds for an answer.
“Listen!” exclaimed Dick. “I hear something!”
All strained their ears, and from a great distance made out an answering cry. It appeared to come from somewhere above them.
“I believe Tom and that man with him are on the trail above the cliff!” cried Dick.
“Just what I think,” answered his brother. “Oh, if only we could climb right up there, instead of going away around!”
“Ain’t no way as I can see to do it,” said Jack Wumble, looking at the bare wall of rocks. “We’ll have ter go on till we reach some sort o’ a break.”
Once again they cried out and again came the answering call. But those above them were so far away that it was impossible to make out what was said.
“I’ve got it!” cried Dick. “If that is Tom I’ll give him a call he’ll know.”
“The old Putnam Hall locomotive whistle?” queried Sam.
“Yes. Now then, both together, Sam, and as loud and distinct as possible.”
Both youths took a deep breath, and then out on the snowy air rang a sharp, shrill whistle, once, twice, three times, rising and falling in a fashion known only to the cadets of the military school.
“By gosh, thet’s some whistle!” remarked Jack Wumble, in admiration.
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