[Illustration: In five minutes they dragged their young Indian friend
free of the lodged snow. (Page 169)]
Dick Kent
With the Eskimos
By MILTON RICHARDS
AUTHOR OF
“Dick Kent with the Mounted Police”
“Dick Kent in the Far North”
“Dick Kent, Fur Trader”
“Dick Kent and the Malemute Mail”
[Illustration: Logo]
THE SAALFIELD PUBLISHING COMPANY
Akron, Ohio New York
Copyright MCMXXVII
THE SAALFIELD PUBLISHING COMPANY
_Made in the United States of America_
Contents
CHAPTER PAGE
I The Whalebone Spear 3
II The Face in the Ice Window 14
III Big Game 24
IV The White Eskimo 34
V At Sea in Kayacks 44
VI Lost in an Arctic Fog 54
VII On the Glacier 64
VIII Sipsa Vanishes 76
IX An Indian Bedtime Story 88
X Adrift on a Floe 100
XI The Camp of Frozen Men 111
XII Trapped! 123
XIII A Narwhal 135
XIV The Floating Manuscript 145
XV Musk Oxen 154
XVI Buried in a Snow Slide 166
XVII A Race with Death 177
XVIII The Long Night 189
XIX A Strange Trail 199
XX Under an Arctic Moon 211
XXI A Proposition 222
DICK KENT WITH THE ESKIMOS
CHAPTER I
THE WHALEBONE SPEAR
Muffled from head to foot in hooded caribou shirts and bearskin
trousers, five persons slowly plodded across a vast tundra within the
Arctic Circle. Many days, by land and by boat from the Canadian coast,
had brought them to a point where they must go on with dogs only. And
now as they drove twelve big huskies to a long sledge filled with
supplies, all armed with rifles and two with revolvers, the fur-clad
figures presented a grim appearance upon the snowy bosom of that frozen
wasteland.
A hood rimmed with blue fox fur almost completely hid the face of the
athletic figure breaking through the snow at the head of the dog team.
But one who knew him would have had little trouble in identifying that
graceful, swinging step as belonging to Dick Kent. He it was—again on
the adventure trail, his dark, clear eyes shining and eager behind the
smoked glasses he wore to protect his sight from the glare of the
snow-reflected sun, which, though it was midday, hung low on the
southern horizon, a ball of baleful red.
Bringing up the rear were Sandy McClaren, Dick’s chum, and the Canadian
Indian boy, Toma, an inseparable of the two American lads since they
first had entered the north on a visit with Sandy’s Uncle Walter, a
Hudson’s Bay Company factor. The remaining two of the travelers were big
men, alert and vigorous, whose very appearance showed that they
represented the authority of law and justice. They were officers of the
Royal Northwest Mounted Police, and under their furs reposed important
orders bearing the King’s seal.
“Hey, Dick!” Sandy McClaren’s shout sounded startlingly loud and high in
the icy air.
“Better take a rest while I break trail,” called the young Scotchman.
“I’m not tired,” declared Dick, but nevertheless he dropped back behind
the dog team, whose lolling, red tongues revealed how difficult was the
going.
Sandy started forward to take Dick’s place, but before he could pass the
huge Eskimo dog in the lead, one of the policemen had overtaken him.
“You young fellows have been doing too much of this trail breaking,”
sang out Corporal Lake McCarthy.
Sandy was only too glad to give way to the big officer, and he quickly
dropped back with Dick, where the heavy sledge, loaded with supplies,
packed the snow and made snowshoeing comparatively easy.
For a time the chums trudged on without speaking, then, while they were
passing a ridge of ice, which had been carved by wind and sun into queer
patterns, Dick gave voice to a conviction:
“Sandy, this looks as if it was going to be a dull trip. Here we’ve been
mushing north for a month and we haven’t seen anything more dangerous
than caribou, ptarmigans and snowshoe rabbits.”
“I wouldn’t be too sure just yet,” said Sandy. “Uncle Walter was half a
mind not to let us go on this trip. You know there was something
dangerous in the wind or he wouldn’t have felt that way about it. I
asked him why the policemen were being sent up here, but he just kind of
laughed and said, ‘Oh, nothing,’ like he meant it was a whole lot.”
While they talked, the boys were bent over their snowshoes, and did not
instantly notice a shirring sound followed by the muffled plunk of an
object striking the packs on the sledge with considerable force. The
first either knew anything unusual had occurred was when Dick chanced to
glance up and caught sight of something protruding from the packs and
the rear of the sledge.
“Stop the team!” cried Dick excitedly.
Corporal McCarthy’s booming command was followed by a brief tangle of
snarling dogs, then the sledge came to a dead stop. All the members of
the party gathered about Dick Kent, who was pulling something from the
packs.
What he at last succeeded in extracting was a short, barbed spear, the
head made of whalebone lashed to a smooth spruce handle with reindeer
sinews. The weapon evidently had been thrown from the top of the ice
ridge alongside which they had been sledging, and what was even clearer,
the spear arm of the hidden enemy had been exceedingly powerful and
well-trained. Instinctively, almost, all eyes were lifted to the brow of
the ridge, and the policemen drew their pistols. But nothing was to be
seen save the barren crest of the icy hill.
“I’ll go up and take a look around,” Corporal McCarthy spoke briskly.
“Jim!” he turned to the other officer, “you stay here. It’s possible
this fellow was an Eskimo, but again it may be one of the renegade Taku
Indians that were reported as far north as this. I’ll be back pretty
quick.”
With that the big policeman drew a 30.30 rifle from the sledge lashing
and started up the icy slope of the ridge. The others silently watched
him disappear over the summit. At any moment they expected to hear the
report of a rifle. But the minutes ticked by and all remained silent. At
first they were relieved, then their fears mounted. It was possible that
whoever had thrown the spear had other deadly weapons at his disposal.
If Corporal McCarthy were ambushed——
“Well, it looks like I might be right about what I said a while ago,”
Sandy finally turned and said to Dick.
“That spear _did_ take the words out of my mouth,” admitted Dick, “but
we can’t be sure yet. Anyway, this is the first bit of excitement we’ve
had on this freezing trip.” He shivered a little as he looked at the
spear. “Whew! That thing didn’t miss me more than four feet!” he
exclaimed. “His aim must have been for you and me, Sandy.”
“Looks like him Eskimo spear.” The low, throaty voice was that of Toma,
who had so faithfully stood by Dick and Sandy on their previous
adventures in the north. The boys turned to find the young Indian
examining the weapon carefully.
“Eskimos!” The magic word leaped to the lips of Dick and Sandy almost
simultaneously.
Dick called to the policeman, who was repairing a trace on the dog
harness. “Mr. Sloan, when are we going to see some Eskimos?”
“Can’t be long, lad, but——” Constable Jim Sloan’s statement was cut off
by a loud shout from the top of the ridge. All eyes were turned upward,
and Dick and Sandy whistled. Bearing down upon them was Corporal
McCarthy accompanied by a strange figure.
“It looks like you boys’ll see an Eskimo sooner than I thought,” resumed
Constable Sloan, as he watched the Corporal draw nearer with a small
man, swathed in furs, walking a little ahead at the point of the
officer’s rifle. It was apparent that a captive had been taken.
“Got him easy,” called the Corporal as he came up. “He was hiding behind
a lump of ice and thought I’d pass him by. He’s an Innuit alright.”
“A what?” Sandy turned to Dick.
“Innuits is what the Eskimos call themselves,” replied Dick, eyeing the
captive curiously. “It means ‘the people.’ I read a lot about the
Eskimos in school. Look, he has another spear.”
All now gathered about the policeman, listening to his story of how he
had captured the Eskimo. Dick and Sandy were principally interested in
the appearance of this native of the polar regions. They found him to be
about Sandy’s height, with light brown skin, and Chinese-like eyes. The
hood of his caribou shirt had been pushed back and a heavy thatch of
straight black hair was revealed. The Eskimo’s cheekbones were high like
an Indian’s and his skin was very oily looking. Constable Sloan, who had
been detailed on the expedition principally because of his special
knowledge of the Eskimos in their native haunts, was endeavoring to
carry on a conversation with the sullen fellow.
“He won’t talk much,” the Constable turned to Corporal McCarthy. “Says
his name is Mukwa and that four families of Eskimos are about a day’s
march from here, on the shores of a bay somewhere near Cape Richards.
Swears he hasn’t seen any white men, and claims he’s an outcast of his
tribe. I don’t believe all he says. I believe he could speak English if
he wanted to.”
“Well, we’ll have to hold him anyway,” declared the Corporal. “The
fellow seems to be hostile, and maybe he’ll talk after a while. If
everything’s ship-shape we’ll mush on before it gets too late.”
Constable Sloan’s thirty-foot dog whip cracked out over the team and the
dogs set off, yelping eagerly. Corporal McCarthy took up the rear with
the Eskimo captive. There was little talking, since every member of the
expedition realized he must save his wind for the gruelling miles that
must be covered before they made camp.
Though at that time of year there was no darkness at night, Dick and
Sandy felt that it was long past evening before Corporal McCarthy called
a halt. There was not enough vegetation for a campfire to be built, but
the policemen were forearmed with small oil stoves, for heat and
cooking. It was not long before the dogs were secured for the night, and
the boys were hovering in the doorway of their tent over a bubbling pot
of tea.
“Tomorrow we ought to see an Eskimo village,” Dick said, trying to keep
his teeth from chattering.
“It’ll be a great experience,” Sandy rejoined, “but the farther we go
the more I wonder just why we are up here. Uncle Walter tried to cover
up everything under that sham about him thinking we ought to see the
Eskimos, but they don’t send the King’s men up here for sight seeing.”
Dick studied a moment, then replied: “I haven’t wanted to say anything
until I was sure, but I believe now that I have it figured out right.
You know Corporal Thalman was sent up here a year ago to bring in a
murderer. The fellow was reported to be part Eskimo. Fred Mistak by
name. I think the two officers with us are looking for Corporal Thalman
and Mistak. They intend to leave us in some winter camp with plenty of
meat and fuel, while they do the dangerous business.”
Sandy sniffed. “I’d like to see them keep me out of the fun.”
“I feel that way too,” agreed Dick, blowing on a cup of hot tea, “but we
mustn’t be stubborn about it. It’s best that we mind our own business.”
Constable Sloan had finished preparing the evening meal of beans,
pemmican and biscuit, and the boys joined the rest of the party,
conversation giving way, for the time, to other exercises of the jaws.
Immediately after the meal was over everyone retired in their sleeping
bags, except Toma, who was left to guard Mukwa, the Eskimo captive, for
the first part of the night. The wind had been steadily rising and now
was howling at terrific speed across the frail tents, carrying a burden
of fine snow along with it.
Dick Kent dozed to the droning rattle of the icy particles upon the tent
walls. Sandy already was fast asleep. It was frightfully cold, and Dick
dared not peep out of his sleeping bag without something over his ears.
Uncovered, they would have been frozen in a few seconds. As he lay
thinking over the events of the day, he could hear faintly the voice of
Toma as he endeavored to quiet some whimpering dogs. Finally those
sounds, too, died away and nothing remained except the whistle of the
driving gale, which soon lulled Dick to sleep.
It seemed to Dick he had been asleep only a moment when he awakened
suddenly, all senses alert, an unmistakable scream of anguish echoing in
his ears. Holding his breath, he listened, but the sound was not
repeated. He tried to recollect if he had been dreaming and was sure he
had not. No, from a sound slumber something had awakened him—something
whose peril he sensed subconsciously, and which set his heart pounding
faster. An instant longer he listened, then, drawing his hood about his
head, he wriggled part way out of his sleeping bag.
The wind was blowing almost as hard as before he had gone to sleep, but
now and again it died down. During one of these lulls, Dick heard a
groan. With a start, he jumped up. He must find out that it was not
merely his imagination before he awakened the others. They needed sleep.
Cautiously, he grasped his rifle and crawled to the opening of the tent.
He drew back the tent flap and looked out. Toma’s tent was the point
that attracted his attention first. Everything plainly visible under the
midnight sun, Dick could see that the tent’s flap was closed. Then, out
of the corner of one eye he detected a movement. A dark blotch appeared
on the snow in front of Toma’s tent where the Eskimo captive had been
left, well tied with thongs. The dark blotch moved again. With a cry of
consternation, Dick suddenly galvanized into action and sprang forward.
He found Toma lying in the snow, a spear protruding from one of his
thighs, and a red stain in the snow under the young Indian’s head.
“What’s wrong?” came Corporal McCarthy’s call, as he awakened and
hurried out upon hearing the sound of Dick’s voice.
“Toma has been wounded!” cried Dick.
“Is the Eskimo gone—the captive?” McCarthy answered his own question by
snatching back the flap of Toma’s tupik. Yes, Mukwa was gone!
A little later, a cup of tea having completely revived him, Toma told
his anxious listeners what had happened.
“I can hear nothing but wind,” he said in his quaint throaty dialect. “I
am sit in tent—Eskimo back inside. I think about my home, my mother. I
dream. Think no harm come out of storm. Then I jump to see face looking
at me. That fella throw spear. Hit me in leg. Somebody hit me on head
same time. All get black like night. Me think Mukwa’s friends come git
him.”
A careful examination showed that the spear wound in Toma’s leg was
slight, the bearskin trousers having protected him, and aside from a
lump on his head, the hardy young aborigine would soon be well again.
But there was no sleep after that. Dick and Sandy sat up with Toma,
drinking hot tea and listening to the mutter of voices from the
policemen’s tent. Evidently, action could not be long off, since a
council of war was underway.