BOWS AND ARROWS.
Soon they headed away from the shore into the thickets of willow and
jack-pine and began to climb the ascent that led away from the river, up
and up, until right ahead they could see the somber, interminable green
of the forest. It was cool here, a welcome coolness after the stiff
climb. They were all panting for breath, fearful lest the wild man be
still in pursuit of them. None of the boys wanted to meet him, cared
about engaging in a hand to hand fight with that gorilla-like monster.
So, plunging in the forest, they continued on, leaving the river far
behind. At the end of a half hour, they swung south, guided by the sun,
and continued their difficult journey in the direction of Half Way
House.
When Dick felt perfectly sure that they were no longer being followed,
he called a halt and brought up the subject closest to all of them.
“What about something to eat?” he inquired. “This will never do. We must
eat. Toma, let’s put your plan into execution.”
“You mean ’em bows and arrows? All right, you get ’em fish-line.”
Dick handed it to him. With his hunting knife the young Indian set to
work, cutting and fashioning the bows, while Dick and Sandy sharpened
some straight sticks for arrows. Under Toma’s instructions, they tufted
one end of each arrow with some tough, fibrous bark the young Indian
found for them. In a little less than twenty minutes they were ready.
Walking at a distance of about one hundred yards apart and, still moving
south, they commenced to hunt.
Dick was not very hopeful. The first bird he saw, a bird that resembled
a king-fisher, he shot at and missed. Five minutes later, his heart
landed up in his throat as a rabbit scurried into his path and, for the
second time he bent his bow and again he missed. He missed a squirrel
that ran up a tree in front of him. Recovering his arrows each time, he
took five shots at the squirrel and in the end lost sight of it. Every
minute he was becoming more discouraged and more hungry. The arrows
never went just where he expected. Usually, he was a foot or two wide of
his mark, whether that mark was moving or stationary. After what seemed
like an hour, he pressed over more to his right to discover if either of
the others had had any better luck. There he found Sandy.
“How are you getting on?” he inquired eagerly.
Sandy turned his head. No need to ask him how he had fared. The
discouraged lines in his face told the story. His words confirmed it.
“Dick, I’ve seen two rabbits and three grouse and I failed to get any of
them. Think I’m too excited and eager. What did you get?”
“Nothing!” Dick’s eyes were tragic.
The young Scotchman averted his face.
“Cripes!” he choked.
When he turned toward Dick again the latter experienced a momentary
feeling of utter discouragement and despair. Slow starvation—had it come
to that? He noticed how gaunt and drawn his chum’s face was.
“Every minute that we have to spare, we must practice with these bows
and arrows, Sandy,” Dick told him. “It’s our only salvation. In time
we’ll grow expert in their use. I had a chance once to take up archery
and now I wish I had.”
They heard a shout near at hand. The bushes parted and Toma plunged
forward to join them. Toma was carrying something. What was it? Staring,
Sandy suddenly let out a whoop and bounded forward to meet him.
“A porcupine!” he shouted. “Dick, Dick, come here! A porcupine and two
rabbits! Thank God for that.”
Dick merely stood there, gasping—doubting the evidence of his own
senses. A queer feeling swept through him. It was not merely joy at the
successful outcome of their hunt, but a feeling of relief, of tension
relaxed. The future did not look quite so dark now. With food they could
make it. Good old Toma! Faithful ever, a wonderful help in time of
stress or emergency.
All the boys contended that they had never tasted anything so good as
that porcupine, which they roasted, Indian fashion, over the fire. When
they had eaten they were actually happy. For nearly an hour Toma
instructed them in the use of their bows and arrows. Then they sat down
to decide what to do next.
“I don’t know what would be the best plan,” puzzled Dick, “keep on as
we’re doing or retrace our steps to the river. What would you boys
suggest?”
“Go back to the river,” answered Toma unhesitatingly.
“But why?” asked Dick.
“Follow the river,” explained Toma, “an’ then no chance we get lost. Bad
to get lost now without grub, blankets. Pretty soon all our clothes wear
out. What we do then?”
“Yes, that’s true,” agreed Dick. “There’s no danger of getting lost if
we follow the river. The only thing I was thinking of, will we find as
much game in the river valley as we will up here?”
“Not much difference,” returned Toma. “Hunting pretty much the same
everywhere. It’s like what you call ’em—luck. If we lucky we see many
things to shoot. If not see ’em, no luck. ’Nother thing, by an’ by,
fishing get good again.”
Seeing the wisdom in all that Toma had said, they returned to the river
valley without discussing the matter further. After partaking of the
porcupine they had become more optimistic and were determined now to
push on to their destination more hurriedly. It was agreed that not only
would they walk all that night, but part of the next day before they
made camp. They had still some of the roasted porcupine and rabbit, so
it would not be necessary to stop long for lunch.
An hour later, breaking through a willow thicket, they perceived the
slope leading to the river, descended it and continued along the shore.
Occasionally, while they were marching, Dick and Sandy would test their
marksmanship by firing at some object ahead, picking up the arrow again
when they reached it. The interminable twilight of the Arctic made this
possible and it was not long before each of the boys began to note a
decided improvement in his marksmanship.
The feet of the three adventurers grew more sore and swollen through the
passing of the hours. Yet they pushed doggedly on. They had walked so
much that the action had become mechanical. Sometimes they plodded ahead
with eyes half-closed, nearly asleep. The twilight faded and the day
sprang forth. The gray morning mist lifted from the river. A hot sun
threw its slanting rays across the strip of white sand along which the
boys were proceeding.
Suddenly, Toma who was in the lead, stopped quickly, called sharply to
his two chums and pointed ahead.
“Look!” he shouted.
On their side of the river, less than a quarter of a mile away, gently
eddying among the tops of the spruce and balsam, were thin spirals of
smoke.
“A campfire!” shrieked Sandy in wonder. “Oh boy, we’re in luck! Maybe we
can get help—a canoe or a gun.”
Unmindful of his great weariness and tortured feet, he had started out
on a dead run, when Dick called to him sharply.
“Just a minute, Sandy. Not so fast. It may be Wolf Brennan and Toby
McCallum.”
Sandy stopped dead in his tracks.
“What’s that? Are you mad? If they had come up the river, we’d have seen
them.”
“I’m not so sure. They might have passed us while we slept, or yesterday
when we were in the woods after that experience with the wild man. One
can never be too sure, Sandy. Our best plan is not to rush that camp, to
make sure who they are before we let ourselves be seen.”
“That is right, Dick,” agreed Toma. “Brennan an’ McCallum very bad; also
very clever fellow. No tell just where they may be now.”
Sandy, quick to see the wisdom propounded by his two friends, nodded in
agreement while he waited for them to come up. They left the flat, sandy
shore, where they could easily be seen, and proceeded thereafter through
the jack-pine and willows farther up along the slope. Inside of twenty
minutes they had approached to within a short distance of the place
where the smoke was ascending.
At first they could see no one. They waited in a breathless inactivity.
The brush was very thick and, from where they crouched, the boys could
see only the light streamers of smoke drifting up from among a heavy
copse of willow. Indeed, to determine who might be sitting around the
campfire, the boys soon saw that it would be necessary to creep even
closer. This they did not care to do for fear that the sound of their
light movement might be detected. If only one of the campers would rise
up behind that brush. For ten long minutes they waited, undecided
whether to take the chance or not, For ten long minutes they watched the
smoke rising, curling and eddying up through the trees. Putting his
hands to his lips, Dick rose stealthily and tiptoed forward another
twenty feet, this time more to the right. Then through a narrow opening
in the thicket he caught sight of a kneeling form which he recognized
instantly. It was McCallum! And as McCallum put up a hand and leaned to
one side to evade a momentary puff of smoke from the fire, he saw Wolf
Brennan and another man. The third person sat in such a position that
Dick caught only his profile and so did not immediately recognize him.
Even when this third person did present a better view, Dick pondered
over his identity. There was something vaguely familiar about him. Where
had he seen him? A repulsive looking man, heavily bearded with deep-set,
staring eyes. His flannel shirt, open at the neck, revealed a hairy,
bear-like chest. The man was huge and muscular. One more look, then Dick
sat down, gasping. A slow flush mounted his cheeks. He knew now. It was
the wild man!