I are still kids at heart.”
“That’s as it should be,” the professor said. “It’s one of the things I
admire most about you Americans—your boyish exuberance. You’re always
looking for an excuse to give a party. I think it’s one of the reasons
why you have so many national holidays.”
“Nothing shy about us Canadians when it comes to a party either,” one of
the weathermen put in. He turned to his two partners. “Let’s show these
Yanks a real Christmas party. What do you say?”
There was a chorus of “ayes.”
After a hearty meal of tinned ham, fried potatoes and frozen candied
yams, topped off by a flaming plum pudding, they gathered in a tight
circle about the little fireplace and sipped hot cider and nibbled
marshmallows toasted in the winking embers. About nine o’clock the
weathermen picked up a Canadian Broadcasting Corporation program of
Christmas carols on their shortwave radio and piped it through a big
hi-fi speaker over the fireplace.
“This is more like it,” Jerry sighed contentedly, stuffing himself with
marshmallows and roasted nuts, staring at the lights twinkling on the
Christmas tree and listening to the strains of “Silent Night.”
Dr. Steele grinned mysteriously. “And who knows, maybe Santa will find
you boys even up here. Better pin up your stockings before you go to
bed.”
There were only two extra cots at the weather station, so the boys, Lou
Mayer and Tagish Charley bedded down in their sleeping bags around the
fireplace. Just before he turned in, Charley fed the dogs and let them
run for a while on the deserted highway. Then he penned them in on the
big front porch of the weather station.
Sandy fell asleep as soon as his head touched the pillow, and the next
thing he knew, sunlight was streaming into his eyes. Yawning, he sat up
and looked around. Tagish Charley and Lou Mayer were already up and off
somewhere. Only Jerry was still asleep, curled up in his sleeping bag
like a hibernating bear.
Sandy’s eyes widened as they came to rest on the little Christmas tree
in the corner. Beneath it were piled assorted boxes wrapped in gaily
colored tissue and tied with tinseled ribbon. He leaned over and shook
his friend.
“Hey, Jerry, wake up!”
Jerry snorted and opened his eyes, heavy-lidded with sleep. “Whazza
matter?” he mumbled.
Sandy grinned. “Looks like Santa was here while we were asleep. C’mon,
get up.”
Sandy rolled out of his sleeping bag, put on his trousers, shirt and
boots and went over to the tree. Kneeling down, he read the tags on the
packages: “‘_To Sandy from Dad_,’ ‘_To Jerry...._’ Hey! There’s
something here for everybody.”
He looked up and saw his father, Professor Crowell and Lou Mayer
standing in the doorway that led into the tiny kitchen. They were all
smiling broadly.
“Well, don’t just sit there,” Dr. Steele said. “Pass them around.”
As Sandy had observed, there was something for everyone. An intricate
chronometer wrist watch that told the days of the month and even the
phases of the moon for Sandy; a candid camera for Jerry; a gold fountain
pen for Lou Mayer; and a fine steel hunting knife with a silver inlaid
handle for Tagish Charley. Professor Crowell, with genuine Yuletide
spirit, gave a set of ivory chessmen he had bought from an Indian at
Fort Nelson to the three weathermen. They, in turn, presented the
professor and Dr. Steele each with a pair of fine snowshoes.
After they had burned the wrappings in the fire, Sandy remarked rather
sadly, “Gee, Dad, now I wish I hadn’t left your present back home. But
Mom said we’d save all the gifts till we got back.”
Dr. Steele put his arm around his son’s shoulders. “Sandy, the best
present you could ever give me is just being here.” He reached for Jerry
with his other arm. “That goes for you too, Jerry.”
Right after breakfast, they said goodbye to their new friends and headed
north again. They drove into Watson Lake, just across the border in
Yukon territory, about two o’clock. Watson Lake was one of the largest
towns along the Alaska Highway. In addition to a Mountie station and an
R.C.A.F. base, there was an airstrip for commercial airlines and
accommodations for putting up passengers overnight. They drove straight
out to the air force base, where the sentry ushered them through the
gate with a snappy salute as soon as Professor Crowell identified
himself.
“The old prof really rates in these parts, doesn’t he?” Jerry mused, as
they drove through the precisely laid-out checkerboard streets past neat
log-cabin barracks to the HQ building.
They were even more impressed by the reception the professor received
from the Base Commander, an old friend he had worked with in World War
II.
“You’re just in time for Christmas dinner,” the Commander told them
happily. “Roast turkey with all the trimmings.”
Jerry rubbed his stomach gleefully. “This stands to be the best holiday
season of our lives, Sandy. Wherever we go people give us Christmas
dinners.”
The geologists decided to stop over at Watson Lake and get an early
start the next morning for the long, grueling uphill drive over the
divide.
“What is the divide?” Jerry asked.
“A high shelf on the continent that determines the direction of water
drainage,” Dr. Steele explained. “In the case of North America, it’s the
Rocky Mountains. All the rivers and streams on one side of the Rockies
run in a generally easterly direction; on the other side they flow to
the west.”
“Will we have any trouble driving up those mountains with all this snow
and ice?” Sandy inquired of the R.C.A.F. Commander.
“Well, it’s a pretty tortuous route,” the officer admitted. “But the
ascent is fairly gradual. With chains you shouldn’t have too much
trouble. Of course, if it should snow again, that would be another
matter.”
“We’ll get an early start,” Professor Crowell told them. “About six
A.M.”
CHAPTER SIX
Attack from the Air
It was gray and cold when they left Watson Lake on the last leg of their
journey on the Alaska Highway.
“At Whitehorse, we’ll give the car and truck a rest and take to the
air,” Dr. Steele explained. “The Canadian government has put a plane at
the professor’s disposal for as long as we’re up here.”
But the big attraction at Whitehorse as far as the boys and Tagish
Charley were concerned was the big dog-sled race to Skagway.
“The professor says it’s okay with him if Jerry and I ride ballast,”
Sandy informed the Indian. “That’s if it’s all right with you?”
“Okay by me,” Charley said. He glanced sideways at Jerry. “But this boy
keep eating so much he get too fat to sit on sled.”
Sandy let out a guffaw and Jerry pretended to sulk. “You guys have a
nerve,” he said. “You both lick your plates cleaner than Black Titan
does.”
“If Tubby, here, is too much of a load for the huskies,” Sandy
suggested, “we can always let him run behind the sled.”
Suddenly, Charley hunched down and squinted through the windshield.
“Plane,” he announced curtly.
The boys followed his gaze but could see nothing. “Where?” Sandy asked.
Charley pointed toward a line of snow-capped mountain peaks in the
distance surrounded by blue haze. Sandy saw a speck that moved out of
sight behind one of the peaks. He couldn’t make out what it was.
“Are you sure it wasn’t a bird?” he said uncertainly.
“It plane,” Charley said firmly.
“Maybe it’s from one of the road stations,” Jerry suggested.
“I guess so,” Sandy said and pushed down a little harder on the
accelerator to close the gap between them and the station wagon, which
had drawn about a quarter of a mile ahead.
Gradually the road climbed, winding and twisting through canyons and
hugging mountainsides in hazardous stretches. At one such spot Jerry
peered down into the chasm that dropped off steeply on one side and
clapped his hands over his eyes.
“I think I’ll get out and walk the rest of the way,” he groaned.
Sandy’s face was grim as he nursed the big truck around the curves,
never letting the speedometer needle climb above the 30 on the dial.
Then, without warning, a great throbbing roar bore down on them from the
rear. Instinctively, they ducked their heads as it seemed to shatter the
roof of the cab. An instant later a plane appeared through the
windshield zooming down the road toward the station wagon.
“Yipes!” Jerry exclaimed. “What does he think he’s doing?”
“The crazy fool!” Sandy said angrily. “He could have scared us off the
highway. Look at him! He can’t be more than fifty feet off the ground.”
The little ship skimmed over the station wagon and started to climb in a
wide arc.
“You think it’s a scout plane from one of the road stations?” Jerry said
anxiously.
“I don’t know,” Sandy replied, trying to keep one eye on the road and
the other on the circling plane. “It looks as if he’s coming back
again.” Gratefully, he noted that they were approaching a less
treacherous section of highway.
Once more they heard the little plane gunning its motor at top speed as
it flew up behind them. As it passed over them, a small round hole
appeared, as if by magic, at the top of their windshield.
For a moment they were too stunned to react, then Jerry yelled, “They’re
shooting at us!”
With an unintelligible oath, Tagish Charley whirled in the seat and
reached back through the curtain partition into the rear of the truck.
“Stop!” he told Sandy as he pulled out his hunting rifle.
As Sandy brought the lumbering vehicle to a skidding halt at the side of
the road, he saw that the station wagon had pulled up also, and the
three geologists were piling out frantically.
Tagish Charley motioned to a patch of timber about a hundred yards away.
“Go—fast.” The three of them floundered through knee-deep drifts as the
engine roar of the plane built up in their ears.
“Down!” Charley bellowed. “Flat!” As the boys flattened out, the Indian
turned, dropped to one knee and threw the rifle to his shoulder. He
squeezed off two shots, leading the plane as if it were a wild duck. In
return, a fusillade of shots from the plane kicked up the snow all
around them.
“Those guys really mean business!” Jerry yelled as they scrambled to
their feet and ran for the woods again.
“This is like one of those nightmares where you’re being chased by a
wild animal and your legs move in slow motion,” Sandy gasped, churning
through the snow.
They reached the trees just before the plane swooped over them again.
Crouching behind a tree bole, Charley emptied his rifle at the
retreating ship. A slug splattered the bark just above his head.
This time as the plane climbed, a thin spiral of smoke trailed back from
the engine, and the rhythm of the motor was uneven.
Sandy let out a cheer. “You got him, Charley! Good shooting.”
Immediately the plane broke off its attack and headed north. Sandy led
the way down the road to where the three geologists were standing by the
station wagon, watching the ship dwindle to a speck in the distance.
“Are you okay, Dad?” he yelled anxiously. “Anybody hurt?”
“No, just badly frightened,” Dr. Steele replied. “How about you
fellows?”
“No casualties,” Sandy reported breathlessly. “Just a bullet hole in the
windshield.”
“It seems as if Charley saved the day,” Professor Crowell said. He took
one of the Indian’s big hands in both of his. “I’m glad you decided to
come along, my friend.”
Charley gave him one of his rare, quick smiles. “Bad men try hurt you—”
He paused and drew a finger across his throat.
“Like I said before,” Jerry declared, “I’m glad he’s on our side.”
The Indian cocked his head toward the truck, where the dogs were setting
up a raucous clamor. “I go see if huskies okay.”
Lou Mayer shivered and hugged his arms tightly around his body. “And to
think I could have been a teacher in a nice cozy classroom in some
peaceful college in the balmy South instead of shooting it out with
enemy agents in the Yukon—” He stopped short and looked guiltily at Dr.
Steele. “I’m sorry, sir. That just slipped out.”
“That’s all right, Lou,” Dr. Steele said. “I think by now the boys have
a pretty good idea of what we’re up against.” Sensing the question that
was forming in Sandy’s mind, he added hastily, “But for the present, at
least, that’s all we can tell you.” As Lou and the professor were
getting back into the station wagon, he whispered to his son, “At least
this little incident answers our question about Charley, once and for
all.”
“It sure does,” Sandy agreed. “We’ll see you later, Dad.” He and Jerry
turned and trudged back to the truck.
Jerry’s voice was small and numb. “Wow! Enemy agents! Wow! Wait till the
guys hear about this!”
CHAPTER SEVEN
The Big Race
They rolled into Whitehorse late that night. The boys were surprised to
find a fairly modern city with paved streets, rows of stores and shops
and street lamps. As they drove down the main street, festively
decorated with wreaths, colored lights and holly, Jerry shook his head.
“Why, it looks pretty much like Valley View.”
“They even have bowling alleys,” Sandy pointed out. “And neon signs.”
Later, as they ate supper in the hotel dining room, Dr. Steele told them
about the origin of the city: “Whitehorse was born in the gold rush,
when thousands of sourdoughs trekked over the mountains from Alaska and
the Pacific ports to seek their fortunes. Whitehorse was sort of a
jumping-off place. They ran the rapids to Lake Laberge in anything that
would float—barges, rafts, scows—and on down the Yukon River to Dawson.
A few of them struck bonanzas, but most of them found only poverty and
disillusionment. There’s just no way to get rich quick.”
“I know you’re right, Dr. Steele,” Jerry remarked. “Though I was kind of
hoping that Sandy and I could strike out north with Professor Crowell’s
dog team and stake ourselves a claim. That French cook back at the road
station even gave me a jar of that sourdough of his to get us started.”
Professor Crowell laughed. “Before you boys do anything like that, you
had better see how you stand up to the rigors of the trail during the
big race to Skagway.”
“When do we start?” Jerry asked.
“The day after tomorrow.”
Charley gulped down a small roll with one bite. “Tomorrow we give
huskies plenty exercise. Not much to eat.”
Sandy frowned. “You’re going to starve them before the race? Won’t it
weaken them?”
Charley grunted. “No starve. Huskies can go week without food. They
little hungry, they run faster and fight harder.”
“What are you, Lou and Professor Crowell going to be doing the rest of
this week?” Sandy asked his father as they left the table.
His father thought about it a minute before answering. “Well, tomorrow
we thought we’d fly up to Fairbanks and visit the University of Alaska.
The president’s an old friend of mine. We hope to inspect some of the
fossils they’ve dug up lately. I understand they have some fine
specimens on display.”
“Gee, I wish we could come with you,” Sandy said. “That sounds like
interesting stuff.”
“Yeah,” Jerry agreed. “We kids in the States never get to see things
like that.”
“Why, that’s not so, Jerry,” Professor Crowell objected. “Your American
museums and universities contain some of the most fascinating specimens
of prehistoric beasts that I’ve ever seen. The last time I visited the
American Museum of Natural History in New York I saw the leg of a baby
mammoth that was completely intact. It had been preserved for centuries
in a glacier, and the museum kept it in a deep freeze.”
“The professor’s right, Jerry,” Sandy admitted. “The trouble with so
many of the kids we know is that they’re too lazy to use their eyes and
their ears—and their legs.”
Dr. Steele interrupted. “As a matter of fact, did either of you boys
know that Black Bart, the notorious stagecoach bandit, is reputed to
have buried a strongbox with $40,000 in gold in the hills back of
Stockton?”
“Gosh, no!” Jerry exclaimed. “What do you say, Sandy? Let’s go on a
treasure hunt next summer. That’s practically in our back yard.”
Professor Crowell smiled. “That beats digging for gold in the Yukon, I’d
say.”
“How long will you be in Fairbanks?” Sandy wanted to know.
“Oh, no more than a day,” Dr. Steele said. “We want to get back to
Skagway to see you fellows come across the finish line in the big race.”
“In first place, of course,” Jerry added smugly.
“That would be a treat,” Professor Crowell said.
“Now I think we should all go up to our rooms and get a good night’s
sleep,” Dr. Steele suggested. “We’ve had a long, trying day.”
“That sounds good to me,” Lou Mayer seconded. “It will be a real
pleasure to rest my weary bones on an honest-to-goodness bed with a soft
mattress.”
“You chaps go ahead,” said Professor Crowell. “I’m going down the street
to the police barracks and report that incident with the plane today.”
“Do you really think that’s wise?” Dr. Steele asked gravely.
“The chief constable is a reliable man,” the professor told him. “He can
be depended upon to be discreet. He may have received a report from one
of these local airstrips about a small plane making an emergency
landing. I don’t think those fellows could have traveled too far with
their engine smoking like that. If they did land near here, we can put
our people on their track.”
Dr. Steele nodded. “Good idea. Do you want me to come with you?”
“That won’t be necessary,” the older man assured him. “I’ll take Charley
along.”
Upstairs, when the boys had bathed and changed into their pajamas, they
lay in the dark in the small hotel room they shared and discussed the
events of the day.
“What do you think it’s all about, anyway?” Jerry wondered. “We know
enemy agents are after the professor. But why? It’s not like he was an
atomic scientist or something. What could they want with a plain old
geology professor?”
“I don’t know,” Sandy said worriedly. “But it must have something to do
with our reason for coming up to Alaska. You can bet my dad and the
professor didn’t make the trip _just_ to look at fossils and take soil
samples. Well, we’ll just have to wait and see.”
“Br-r-r,” Jerry said, “it’s like walking through a haunted house on
Halloween Eve. You don’t know what to expect. But whatever it is, you
know it won’t be good.” He threw back the covers and got out of bed.
“Hey, where are you going?” Sandy demanded.
Jerry padded across the room barefoot. “I just want to make sure that
door is locked.”
The day of the big race was bitter cold and the sky was leaden with snow
clouds scudding across the mountain peaks around Whitehorse. A huge
crowd had gathered at the starting line on the outskirts of the city,
and the air rang with merry voices and the yelping of dogs. Sandy and
Jerry huddled close to a big bonfire outside the officials’ tent while
Tagish Charley made a last-minute check of the sled and the dogs’
harnesses.
One of the judges came up and spoke to Sandy. “I understand you boys are
from the States. What do you think of our big country?”
“It’s very exciting, sir,” Sandy said.
“And very cold,” Jerry added.
The judge laughed. “Wait until you’re out on the trail a few hours. Then
you’ll know how cold it is. You’re riding with Professor Crowell’s team,
right?”
“Yes, sir. And we’re really looking forward to it. This is some big
event, isn’t it?”
The air was charged with a holiday atmosphere. Men and women were
laughing and singing as they sipped from steaming mugs of coffee and
tea; and a few were drinking from mugs that Sandy suspected contained
even stronger brew.
“The race from Whitehorse is a time-honored ritual,” the judge told
them. “Back in the old days, the course was even longer. From Dawson to
Skagway, almost six hundred miles.”
“Good night!” Jerry said. “Those poor dogs must have worn their legs
down to the shoulder.”
“As a matter of fact,” the judge went on, “Klondike Mike Mahoney used to
operate a mail and freight route from Skagway to Dawson.”
“Who was Klondike Mike Mahoney?” Sandy asked.
“A rather fantastic young man who came to the Yukon during the gold rush
and became a living legend.” He smiled. “You might say he was our
counterpart of your Davy Crockett.”
“Hey! What are they doing?” Jerry pointed to a group of Eskimos who were
laughing and whooping as they catapulted an Eskimo girl high into the
air from a large animal hide stretched taut like a fireman’s net.
“That’s one of their favorite games,” the judge said. “You’ve probably
played something like it at the beach—tossing a boy up in a blanket.”
“Yeah,” Jerry said. “But not like _that_. She’s better than some
acrobats I’ve seen on the stage.”
Time after time, the slender Eskimo girl shot into the air, as high as
twenty-five feet, like an arrow, never losing her balance. While they
were watching her, Tagish Charley joined them by the fire. In his one
hand he held a sheet of oiled paper on which were spread a half-dozen
cubes that looked like the slabs of chocolate and vanilla ice cream
served in ice-cream parlors.
“Eat,” Charley said, offering them to the boys.
Sandy took one gingerly. “Looks good. But what is it?”
“_Muk-tuk_,” the Indian grunted.
“A Northern delicacy,” the judge said with a straight face.
Jerry stuffed one of the cubes into his mouth with gusto. “Say, that’s
good. Tastes like coconut.”
Sandy nibbled at his with more reserve. “It does a little. Maybe a
little oilier. What’s it made of?”
“Whale skin and blubber,” the judge informed him. “The white part is
blubber, and the dark is hide.”
Jerry gagged momentarily, swallowed his last mouthful, then smiled
manfully. “I wish you hadn’t said that, sir,” he declared. “But it still
tastes good.”
“You ready now?” Charley asked the boys. “Time for race soon.”
They shook hands with the official and followed Charley over to the
starting line, where the teams were lining up.
There were eight entries altogether. The dogs were prancing about
restlessly in their harnesses like proud race horses, their curved tails
waving over their backs. They were charged with excitement and seemed
eager to get started. The huskies on opposing teams eyed each other
sullenly, baring their long fangs and growling deep in their throats.
Occasionally, one would dart out of line and snap at another dog, but
there were no fights. Black Titan, like the good lead dog he was,
watched his team closely, and whenever one of them became too frisky and
pugnacious, he would bark a sharp command. Immediately, the offender
would drop his ears and quiet down.
“They act almost human,” Sandy said.
“I’ll say,” Jerry agreed. “That Titan reminds me of Mr. Hall, my math
teacher. No horseplay when he’s around.”
Charley helped the boys arrange themselves in the sled, Sandy in back,
with Jerry in front of him, sitting between his legs. “Just like on a
toboggan,” Sandy observed. They tucked the big robe that covered them
around their sides as Charley took his place behind the sled and gripped
the handles.
The sharp crack of the starter’s pistol split the crisp air and
Charley’s bellowing “Mush! Yea, huskies, mush!” almost split Sandy’s
eardrums. The figures lined up on both sides of them blurred rapidly as
the sled picked up speed, and wind and snow whipped into their faces.
Gripping the handles tightly, Charley matched the pace of the team
effortlessly with his long strides.
“He’s not going to run all the way, is he?” Jerry yelled to Sandy.
“I guess he wants to give the team the best of it this early in the
race. He’ll hop on when he gets winded.”
But a half hour went by and still the driver’s boots pounded behind them
in unbroken rhythm. At first the seven teams were bunched pretty close
together on the hard-packed trail, then gradually the distance between
them widened. Sandy kept glancing back as Charley urged their sled into
the lead and finally lost sight of the nearest team as they rounded a
hummock and entered a stretch of forest.
“If we keep this pace up, we’ll be in Skagway in time for lunch,” Jerry
said.
The big Indian reined in the dogs when they reached a spot where three
separate narrower paths forked off the main trail.
“Which way do we go?” Sandy called to him.
Still breathing as easily as if he had taken a short walk around the
block, Charley answered, “All go to Skagway. We take middle trail. More
snow, but less up and down.” Having made up his mind, Charley shouted to
the dogs: “Mush! Mush! Mush, huskies!” And they were off again.