THE HUNCHBACK BOWMAN
Three days, coming to earth only for fuel and sleep, Curlie and Jerry
skimmed the far horizon searching for some sign of the “Gray Streak.” The
days were fair. Beneath them lay the earth, a blanket of white broken
only by streaks of black where spruce and tamarack followed a narrow
stream. Beyond, to the north, south, east and west, lay the gray rim of
the horizon. Three times Curlie’s heart leaped at sight of a plane on
that horizon. Each time he met with disappointment. A commercial plane
bringing trappers in from the Barrens and two mineral hunters, they
brought him no news of the ship he sought.
And then, on the third day at a time when he was feeling the urge of duty
to turn back, the “Gray Streak” hove in sight.
What to do? To follow? To turn back? The thing must be decided on the
instant. Official orders said, “Turn back.” Romance, adventure, the
desire to avenge a fallen comrade, the common good of all those who had
come to dwell in the North, urged him on.
Duty whispered.
The call of romance rang in his ears. Romance won.
“Jerry, we’re going after them.”
“Absolutely, son.” Jerry’s grin was good to see.
Three hours later Curlie found himself following the lead of that
mysterious ship. Grave doubts had by this time entered his mind.
“How is this to end?” He asked this question many times. Many times, too,
he told himself it was his duty to turn back, that a cargo of freight for
the north awaited him, that each mile on this mad adventure was counting
against him as a pilot with a blameless record; yet something still urged
him on.
A hundred, two, three, four hundred miles they flew.
Then like a flash it came to him that he was being led away into a land
where no man was.
“They hope I will run out of gas and be obliged to land where there is no
fuel supply. And then?”
He shuddered at thought of that which might follow. Save for his bow and
arrow, neither he nor Jerry was armed. “And if they did not attack us, we
would be in a fair way to starve before we could beat our way back across
this rocky wilderness.”
* * * * * * * *
At this same moment Johnny Thompson was enjoying adventures all his own.
With his dog team on his second journey in search of pitchblende he had
traveled fifty miles, and the day was still young. That was because he
had started at two o’clock in the morning. In this north country where at
one time of the year there is no night at all and in another there is no
day, men forget the conventions of life. Instead of three meals a day,
they may eat five, or two, or only one. If a journey is to be made, they
start when they are ready. Johnny had been ready at two in the morning.
He was fond of night travel. Then the moon casts ghostly shadows. The
stars burn like candles. All living things are afoot. White foxes are
barking on the crests of rocky ridges. Wolves follow a traveler for
hours. He did not mind the wolves. Like Curlie, he was an archer. His
powerful bow, a curious affair made of wood, rawhide and some secret
glue, presented to him by an Indian, was ever at hand.
Now and then a dark bulk that was a caribou loomed in the distance.
“If I could pick off one of those I could make my journey twice as long,”
he told himself.
He thought of the mineral he had come to seek, pitchblende. More illusive
than gold and many times more precious, radium, the product of
pitchblende, had somehow gotten into his blood.
Sandy possessed several books and pamphlets on radium. During his spare
time Johnny had delved into these and had been fascinated by the story of
radium. He had learned that while radium is worth sixteen million dollars
a pound, a quantity worth twenty cents mixed with phosphorescent zinc
will so illuminate a watch dial that time may be read from it on the
darkest night.
Sandy had shown him a spinthariscope. In this curious instrument he had
witnessed the flash of light that comes from a single atom of radium.
“And think!” Sandy had lowered his tone impressively. “Should this
instrument be left in a dark chamber for a thousand years, that tiny atom
would still give off light!”
As he traveled he paused now and then to chip off a bit of rock with his
hammer, only to cast it away. He would do this to-day, to-morrow and the
next day. Then, unless he obtained an extra food supply, he must turn
back.
Yet in three days he could travel far. Beside some ancient river bed, on
the rocks above a cataract that even winter could not conquer, at the
crest of some mountain-like ridge, he might come upon the brownish-black,
velvet-like quartz that would spell riches for old Sandy, Scott and
himself. Always he thought first of his brawny, gray-haired friend.
“He is past seventy,” he told himself. “A prince of a man. Always lived
for others. Ever a prospector, this is his last great adventure. It must
be a real one. It surely must!”
His mind returned often to the strange tales Curlie had told him, tales
of the “Gray Streak.”
“What if they were to swoop down upon me here on this river?” he said to
himself with a shudder.
Once more he thought of pitchblende. “I’ll have some that shines like a
candle in the dark before I turn back.”
Before he turned back? How little he knew of that which would happen
before he turned his face toward camp!
Two things happened in quick succession. A caribou appeared on a ridge
not fifty yards from his sled. A quick, fleeting arrow, and his food
supply was supplemented by two hundred pounds of rich, juicy meat. Part
of this he would hide in a scrub spruce tree, ready for use on his
return. The rest would feed his dogs and himself for three days. And
there was other food on his sled.
It was while he was preparing this meat that a truly curious thing
happened. On a ridge a quarter of a mile from where he stood appeared a
lone traveler. He drove a dog team. And such a team as it was! Up until
that moment the boy had not believed that dogs could go so fast.
“Like the wind!” he exclaimed. “As if they had wings and raced an
airplane.”
The driver was stranger still. He was short and broad. As one looked at
him from a distance it seemed that a pair of very broad shoulders had
been set upon a pair of long legs, and a head placed atop it all. Yet
those legs were powerful and fast. This strange being followed the team
with ease.
“The hunchback bowman.” Johnny’s lips parted with wonder, and a thrill
ran through his being. The bow and his sled had been made by a hunchback,
an Indian. But this Indian had lived hundreds of miles away. “The
hunchback bowman,” he repeated, then turned to the task of the hour.