Below the plane, twin mountain peaks reached up through the wispy
clouds. Cupped in the valley between them lay a gigantic glacier whose
front was a solid wall of ice ten miles across and as high as a
fifteen-story building.
“That’s why there are plenty of jobs for bush pilots,” Parker explained.
“We’re like taxi drivers back in the States. To get around in the big
land you have to take giant steps. A quick trip to the city may mean a
hop of a hundred miles or more. You should see Lake Hood on a Saturday
morning in the summer—that’s in Anchorage, my home town. Hundreds of
little planes.”
“It looks like a supermarket parking lot,” Sandy finished the thought
for him. “Professor Crowell told us.”
“It’s worse. More like Times Square in New York.”
“But since so many people up here have their own planes, doesn’t it cut
down on your jobs?” Sandy wanted to know.
“Not really. Most of the amateurs are pretty cautious, as they should
be. They’ll only fly in perfect weather, and stick to the safe air
routes. When there’s a tough job to be done in a hurry, they call on a
bush pilot. I’ve carried everything from heavy machinery to medical
supplies. I’ve been a flying ambulance, too; I don’t know how many lives
I’ve helped to save in the back country.”
“Do you often get assignments like this one?” Sandy asked.
“I’ve flown my share of VIPs, but mostly it’s a job for military
pilots.”
“You consider my dad and Professor Crowell VIPs?”
“I got that impression,” Parker said guardedly. He was about to add
something else when a burst of static from the radio diverted his
attention. “Tower at Anchorage calling us,” he told Sandy, adjusting his
earphones. He listened, then flipped the switch over to transmit. “N-140
to Anchorage ... Read you clear ... Climbing to 12,000 feet ... Over and
out.” He flipped the switch and reported to Sandy. “We’re climbing
another 4,000 feet. We’re heading into a snow squall off Kodiak, moving
northeast.”
Jerry awoke from his nap and came up front to join them. “You guys
hungry? I’m going to break out the sandwiches.”
Sandy laughed. “Is eating all you ever think about?”
Jerry flicked Sandy’s cowlick with one finger. “Especially when I ride
in airplanes. I have to keep my stomach weighted down so it won’t do
flip-flops.”
“Okay, I’ll join you,” Sandy agreed. “How about you, Mr. Parker?”
“I’ll wait awhile,” the pilot declined. “Soon as we level off at 12,000,
I’ll set her on automatic pilot.”
The boys walked back to their seats and opened the lunchbox the hotel
had prepared for them that morning.
“I was just thinking,” Jerry said, chewing on a chicken leg, “we haven’t
seen anything of those characters who took pot shots at us for a few
days now. Think they’ve given up?”
Sandy’s brow furrowed in anxiety. “I don’t know, Jerry. From what we
know of them, they don’t seem to be the kind who give up so easily.
They’ve been after the professor for months now. Maybe we should have
stayed with them back at Cordova.”
“Aw, what could happen to them in Cordova? Those birds wouldn’t try
anything in the middle of a big town like that.”
Sandy nibbled at his sandwich without relish. “I suppose not. But Dad
and the professor are going to be out poking around some old abandoned
mine sites.”
The discussion ended when Parker called back, “I’m ready for that
sandwich now. And a cup of coffee if you don’t mind. Black, no sugar.”
“I’ll take it up to him,” Jerry said.
It was still bright daylight in the air when they sighted Kodiak, but
the island and the sea around it were shrouded in purple dusk. Lights
began to twinkle on below as they circled the city of Kodiak, losing
altitude. Towering prominently over the other low buildings were a pair
of onion-shaped domes.
“What’s that?” Sandy asked Parker. “They look almost Turkish.”
“The Russian Orthodox church,” the pilot said. “Remember, the Russians
founded Kodiak.”
“How did those Russians ever get way over here?” Jerry wanted to know.
“Boy, are you dumb!” Sandy said. “On the west side only a thin strip of
water separates Alaska from Russia. The Bering Strait is only about
forty miles wide.”
Parker nodded. “In the winter you can cross it on a sled.”
That thought seemed to sober Jerry.
Parker touched the Norseman down gently on its skis and reversed the
propeller to brake their slide. As they climbed out of the plane, the
figure of a man emerged out of the glare of the landing lights. Clad in
fur trousers, fur hood and fur parka, he looked like an Eskimo. But as
he approached, Sandy could make out a small clipped mustache and rimless
eyeglasses.
“Welcome to Kodiak,” he greeted them. “You must be Dr. Steele’s son.” He
held out his hand.
“Yes, sir.” Sandy smiled. “I’m Sandy.”
“I’m Kenneth Stern.”
Sandy performed introductions all around. It turned out that Parker and
the young university teacher were friends. “My wife took some courses
with Professor Stern,” the pilot explained.
Stern clapped his fur mittens together. “I have my jeep parked over at
the edge of the field. Let’s get back to the lodge. Dora—that’s my
wife—has a big bear roast in the oven. I imagine you fellows are pretty
hungry.”
“You go ahead,” Parker said. “I want to make sure they put my baby
safely to bed. I’ll hitch a ride to your camp.”
“All right, Russ,” Stern said. “We’ll hold supper for you.”
“What’s he got to do?” Jerry inquired as they walked through the crunchy
snow to the jeep, which was almost hidden by the great cloud of smoke
that was pouring out of the exhaust.
“He wants to make sure the crankcase gets drained,” Stern said. “You
really do have to treat machinery as if it were a baby in cold like
this. That’s why I left the jeep running. It could freeze up in a few
minutes.”
As they drove through the town of Kodiak, the boys were fascinated by
the atmosphere. The cultures of three centuries and varied races were
blended startlingly but not offensively.
“It’s like being on a Hollywood sound stage where the sets are all mixed
up,” Sandy said breathlessly.
“Mostly, it reminds me of the Old West,” Jerry said. “Dodge City. I
almost expect to see Wyatt Earp come striding down the middle of the
street with his hands on his six-guns.”
Professor Stern laughed. “That’s an apt description, Jerry. This is the
twentieth-century American frontier in a sense. It’s only fitting that
the characteristics of the frontier should predominate.”
The hunting lodge was a sprawling two-story log building about a mile
outside of Kodiak, with a wide porch running around it on three sides.
Lights blazed warmly from its windows as they pulled in the drive and
bumped along to a big barn at the back of the house.
“Four other teachers and myself own it jointly,” Stern explained. “We
bought it about ten years ago as a summer place. The fact is, we’ve been
using it just as much in the winter as a hunting lodge.”
“Did I understand you to say we were having bear roast for supper,
Professor?” Jerry inquired politely.
“Yes. You’re not squeamish about eating it, are you?”
“Uh, no!” Jerry assured him. “After some of the things I’ve been eating
since I came to Alaska, bear sounds like steak to me.”
“It’s better,” Stern told him. “You wait and see.”
“Did you shoot the bear, sir?” Sandy asked.
“No, we haven’t been out yet. This is a piece of meat we’ve had in the
freezer since last year.”
Jerry laughed. “You’re kidding. What do you need a freezer for up here?”
“That’s where you’re wrong, young fellow. It so happens that the old
joke about selling ice-boxes to Eskimos isn’t such a joke any more.
During the war, the Army discovered it was a lot more practical to keep
food in freezers than it was to stow it in a shed outside. You see, the
temperature drops to sixty and seventy below zero some nights in this
country. That’s about forty to fifty degrees lower than the coldest deep
freeze. At that temperature food takes hours to thaw out. In the
freezer, it keeps just right.”
Jerry shook his head. “Can you beat that! Next thing you know, the Arabs
on the Sahara desert will be turning to steam heat.”
They followed Stern along a path to the back door of the lodge. Mrs.
Stern, a young woman in ski pants and sweater, was in the kitchen
basting the roast when they came in. “Supper will be another hour yet,”
she apologized. “I hope you boys can hold out.”
“That’s good,” Stern said. “Russ Parker will be along later.” He turned
to the boys. “Come on inside and meet Chris Hanson and his wife. They’ll
be spending a few days with us too.”
“Chris Hanson?” Sandy repeated it thoughtfully. “There used to be an
All-American tackle by that name.”
Stern grinned. “That’s our boy. He’s an athletic coach at the
university.”
“Say, that’s great!” Jerry exclaimed. “Chris was the best.”
Self-importantly, he added, “As a matter of fact we have a lot in
common. I expect to make All-American tackle myself some day.”
Sandy smirked and dug his fist playfully into Jerry’s midsection. “You
get any fatter, you won’t be able to bend down to flip the ball.”
Chris Hanson was a brawny man who made even a six-footer like Sandy
Steele feel like a little boy. He reminded Sandy of the paintings of
fierce Vikings he had seen in grade-school history books, though his
blond hair was a bit thin on top. His wife was a small, thin woman who
sat as close to the fire as possible, despite the fact that she was
bundled up in sweaters. The Hansons were just finishing a game of
Scrabble when the boys arrived.
“I’m a Georgia girl, you know,” Mrs. Hanson said in a marked Southern
accent. “And I don’t believe I’ll ever get used to this climate.”
“We have a friend who would sympathize with you,” Sandy told her. “Lou
Mayer, my father’s assistant.”
Chris grinned devilishly. “Oh sure, we met Lou when your dad came up to
Fairbanks. Took him skiing once. I don’t think he likes me very much.”
While they waited for supper to be served, the boys coaxed Chris to
reminisce about some of his big gridiron games. Hungry as they were, it
was an unwelcome interruption when Mrs. Stern announced: “Chow’s on the
table.”
There were seven people at the table—including Russ Parker, who arrived
just as they were sitting down—and among them they picked an eight-pound
sirloin bear steak clean.
Jerry swabbed his plate clean with a crust of bread. “That was
delicious, Mrs. Stern.”
“That’s an understatement,” Sandy said, “considering that you had three
portions.”
“I know I made a hog of myself,” Jerry admitted. “But when I bag one of
those big Kodiaks tomorrow, you can fill up your freezer with steaks.”
Mrs. Stern smiled. “That’s very thoughtful of you, Jerry.”
Chris Hanson looked amused. “You ever done any hunting before, Jerry?”
“No, but I’m on the high-school rifle team back home.”
Sandy winked at Chris. “He’s the guy they’re talking about when they
say, ‘He couldn’t hit the side of a barn.’”
Jerry reddened as everyone laughed, and glared at Sandy. “I suppose you
think you’re Davy Crockett?”
“Seriously, though,” Professor Stern interjected, “a bear hunt can be
very dangerous. Some of these brutes on Kodiak are virtually
indestructible. And when they’re wounded—well, just watch out. There’s
an old saying among hunters that you’ve got to kill a Kodiak with your
first shot, or you never will kill him. I’ve heard men who have stalked
lions, tigers—all kinds of big game—concede that a Kodiak is the most
fearsome of all beasts.”
“On second thought,” Jerry said gravely, “maybe I’ll just stay back here
and play Scrabble with the ladies.”
After supper the boys cornered Chris Hanson again and discussed football
and other sports. At ten o’clock, Professor Stern drove Russ Parker into
town.
“Some of the boys invited me to a party at the airport,” Russ explained.
“I hate to run away like this, but my brother-in-law is going to be
there. I haven’t seen him in a while. He’s in the service, stationed in
the Aleutians.”
“That’s perfectly all right,” Mrs. Stern said.
“You don’t fool us, Russ,” Chris Hanson kidded him. “You just want to
sneak out of that bear hunt tomorrow.”
Parker snorted. “You aren’t going to drag me off after any bears. Not
unless I can hunt them from the air.”
“When are we going back to Cordova, Mr. Parker?” Sandy asked him.
“I figure you can have a couple of days of hunting. The professor
expects us back on the third of January.”
Professor Stern asked the boys whether they wanted to ride into town
with him and see how the Kodiakans celebrated the New Year, but they
declined.
“We heard they had some pretty wild times up here,” Jerry said. “But the
way I feel, the only thing that would look good to me is a soft, warm
bed.”
And by twelve o’clock they were in bed. “I wonder what the gang is doing
back in Valley View,” Jerry sighed as they lay in the dark listening to
the sound of foghorns in St. Paul’s harbor blending with church bells
and firecrackers in distant Kodiak.
“You can bet they’re not planning to go bear hunting at six in the
morning,” Sandy answered sleepily.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Treed by a Wounded Bear
Professor Stern roused the boys at eight o’clock on New Year’s morning.
“Put on two suits of long woolen underwear and two pairs of socks,” he
instructed them. “We’ll probably be out until dark.”
They dressed quickly and went downstairs to the big kitchen, where Chris
Hanson was cooking breakfast. “How’ll you have your eggs, fellows?” he
asked.
“Sunny side up,” Sandy answered. “Can we help?”
“Sure. You can start the toast.”
Sandy took a handful of sliced bread out of the bread box and began
searching through the cupboards. “Where’s the toaster?” he asked
finally.
Chris smiled and pointed to the stove. “Right here. Just butter the
bread lightly and spread the slices out between the lids.”
For the first time, Sandy became aware that the cooking stove was the
old-fashioned, cast iron, wood-burning type; the kind you saw only in
Western movies in the United States. A long tongue of flame and a shower
of sparks shot up into the air as Chris lifted one of the front lids and
set the teakettle over the opening.
“When we first bought the place,” Chris said, “we planned to install one
of those newfangled electric stoves in a year or two. But we got
attached to this old girl. We’ve never regretted it either. I don’t know
how many times the electric power has conked out for days at a time.
Anyway, this cooks better than any gas or electric stove I’ve ever
seen.”
After they had eaten, they stacked the dishes in the sink and went out
to the garage. Chris Hanson and Professor Stern were armed with .30-.30
Winchester rifles. Stern said their neighbor down the road had promised
to provide weapons for the boys. They piled into the jeep, which had
been warming up for a half hour, and drove about two miles into the
foothills to the ranch of Vladimir Thorsen, the son of a Russian-Swedish
sourdough who had struck it rich in the gold rush. Thorsen was a short,
rugged-looking man of fifty, with jet-black hair and a Vandyke beard.
His English was precise, with just a trace of an accent. He welcomed the
boys heartily and insisted that the men join him in a last cup of strong
black coffee mixed with brandy.
“I don’t think we will have to look far for our bear,” he announced
grimly. “Two nights ago, a big brute came right into the barnyard and
carried off one of my lambs.”
Chris Hanson whistled shrilly between his teeth. “He had his nerve,
didn’t he?”
“A cunning old monster,” Thorsen said. “From the size of his footprints,
I would estimate he weighs about 1,400 pounds. He has toes missing on
his two forefeet.”
“He’s evidently been in some battles,” Stern said. “And won them.”
When the men had finished their coffee, Thorsen escorted them into his
den. The walls were covered with pistols and rifles and the mounted
heads of every kind of big game imaginable. The rancher took down two
big, unwieldy, ancient-looking rifles and handed them to the boys. “Here
are your weapons.”
Sandy and Jerry couldn’t help but show their disappointment. “They’re
very nice guns, sir.” Sandy made an effort to sound appreciative.
“But—what are they?”
“They look as if they were left over from the Revolutionary War,”
Professor Stern said tartly. “What are you trying to pull on these kids,
Thorsen?”
Thorsen stroked his pointed beard and cast a reproving eye on the
instructor. “You are an American teacher and you don’t recognize this
magnificent rifle! It is a Sharpe’s buffalo gun, the same kind that your
Buffalo Bill killed 1,800 buffalo with. I’m ashamed of you, Kenneth.”
“It’s only single-shot, too,” Jerry observed critically.
“With a gun like that you only need one shot,” Thorsen said. “You could
drop an elephant with one shot.” He opened a drawer of his desk and took
out a handful of enormous cartridges. “See?”
Chris Hanson picked one up and hefted it in his palm. “It’s a small
artillery shell.” He grinned at the boys. “You want to trade? I’d feel
plenty safe facing Mr. Bear with this cannon.”
“No,” Jerry answered quickly. “If it was good enough for Buffalo Bill,
it’s good enough for me.” He picked up one of the long rifles and
balanced it on his shoulder. “Hup-two-three-four....” He staggered
around the room. “Hey, doesn’t a weapons carrier come with this thing?”
The rancher smiled, showing two rows of strong, white teeth. “You are a
very funny fellow,” he said. “Maybe the bear will die laughing.... Come,
the horses are already saddled and waiting.”
Jerry’s face clouded over. “Horses?” he said.
“Yes, we may have to go ten or fifteen miles into the hills.” He led
them out of the den, through the kitchen and out the back door.
The boys fell behind as they approached the stables. “Have you ever
ridden a horse before?” Jerry whispered to Sandy.
“Sure, I’m a fair rider.” Realization suddenly dawned in his eyes.
“You’ve ridden before—haven’t you?”
“Only on the merry-go-round,” Jerry said miserably. “But don’t say
anything. I don’t want to spoil the party.”
“Well ...” Sandy was uncertain. “I suppose we’ll be walking the horses
mostly, so you can’t get into too much trouble.”
“Sure, we can hang back and you can instruct me in the fine points of
horsemanship.”
An Indian groom brought the horses out of the stable. They were much
sturdier animals than the ones Sandy had rented at any riding
academy—more like cowboy ponies. They wore Western saddles, too.
“They’re all mares,” Thorsen explained. “Not too high-spirited and very
manageable. Good mounts for tracking.”
Jerry’s eyes were round as he and his horse confronted each other. “This
is the closest I’ve ever been to one,” he confided to Sandy. “I never
realized they were so big.”
“You won’t have any trouble,” Sandy assured him. “She’s a gentle girl.”
He stroked the smooth flanks and the muscles rippled beneath the glossy
black coat. “Come on, I’ll give you a lift.”
Jerry mounted without difficulty and settled himself comfortably in the
big saddle with his feet planted in the stirrups. “Nothing to it,” he
said.
Sandy grinned. “Nothing to a jet plane either, while it’s sitting in the
hangar. Here.” He handed Jerry’s rifle up to him.
“What do I do with it?” Jerry demanded.
Sandy indicated a large leather sheath that was fastened to the right
side of the saddle. “Stick it in the saddle boot.”
They rode out single file, with Thorsen’s horse breaking trail through
knee-deep snow across a broad meadow behind the ranch house. A long
split-rail fence ran along the back of the property. Thorsen pointed out
a break in the fence, where the heavy logs lay scattered around like
jackstraws and a six-inch post was snapped off at the base.
“That’s where he came through.”
From the break in the fence a wide path, which looked as if it had been
plowed by a small bulldozer, led up a slope into a grove of spruce
trees.
“It won’t be much of a problem tracking him, will it?” Chris Hanson
said.
Thorsen shrugged. “It depends. We’re protected from the wind in the
valley. Farther up in the mountains, the trail may be covered over by
now. It’s been two days.”
Professor Stern swung down off his horse and knelt to examine the bear’s
footprints, which had been almost obliterated by blowing snow. He
brushed away some of the fine, white powder with his mitten. Abruptly,
he looked up at the rancher. “Did any one of your hands take a shot at
this fellow?”
Thorsen frowned. “Certainly not. Why?”
Stern pointed to faint, rust-colored streaks in the snow between the
imprints of the bear’s foot pads. “Looks like blood to me. Probably a
wound, high on the leg, and the blood trickled down between the toes.”
“Maybe he hurt himself when he broke through the fence,” Sandy
suggested.
“That’s possible,” Stern conceded. He walked back and inspected the
broken logs carefully. Finally, he shook his head. “No sign of blood
here. I’m afraid our bear has been the victim of a careless hunter.”
Thorsen scowled fiercely and muttered something in a guttural foreign
tongue. Then he exploded in English. “I would like to get my hands on
that filthy pig!”
“I don’t get it,” Jerry said to Sandy. “What’s he so excited about?
That’s the whole idea, isn’t it, to shoot the bear?”
“Sure, but once you wound an animal, it’s your obligation to finish him
off. That’s the first commandment of hunting. First of all, it’s cruel
to let an animal suffer. And when you’re dealing with big game, it’s
downright dangerous. A pain-crazed bear, for instance, can be a menace
to anything that comes anywhere near him.”
“That’s right,” Chris Hanson agreed. “We’re going to have to stay on our
toes from here on.”
Professor Stern swung back into the saddle and they followed the bear’s
trail into the woods. There were great, towering ancient pines,
clustered together so that their heavy foliage meshed to form a solid
roof above the forest floor. Only a fine dusting of snow had filtered
through their heavy branches onto the thick carpet of pine needles that
cushioned the earth. The horses’ hoofbeats were barely audible as they
picked their way between the trees, which were bare for at least twenty
feet up.
“It’s like being in a cathedral,” Sandy said reverently. The voices of
the men ahead sounded embarrassingly loud in the silence beneath the
pines.
A pine cone skittered out from under the hoof of Jerry’s horse and
rattled across the dry needles. Jerry started and almost slipped out of
the saddle.
“Watch it, boy,” Sandy cautioned him. “How is it going, anyway?”
“I’ll be okay, once old Dobbin and I get ourselves co-ordinated. Every
time he goes up, I’m coming down and vice versa.”
Sandy grinned. “You’re too tense. Relax and try to imagine you’re part
of the horse.”
“I know what part I feel like,” Jerry said wryly.
On the other side of the grove they picked up the bear’s trail again. It
headed up a steep, rocky hillside, dotted with patches of scrubby trees
and huge boulders. The horses had slippery footing and they went very
slowly now.
Thorsen took his rifle out of the saddle boot, levered a shell into the
chamber and rested it across the saddle in front of him. The other men
followed suit.
Professor Stern turned and smiled reassuringly at the boys. “Don’t be
alarmed. It just doesn’t pay to take any chances. I’ve heard of these
wily old bears doubling back on their trail and setting up an ambush for
unwary hunters.”
Jerry swallowed hard and cast a nervous glance back over his shoulder.
“Maybe it wasn’t such a good idea to bring up the rear.” His horse
skidded unexpectedly on a mound of loose stones and Jerry clutched it
frantically around the neck with both arms, burying his face in the
thick mane. When the horse had steadied itself again, he straightened up
and settled himself gingerly in the saddle.
He touched one hand to the seat of his pants and moaned. “How can one
part of you feel so hot when the rest of you is so cold?”
Sandy was sympathetic. “Yeah, I feel for you, pal. That old saddle gets
pretty hard after a while. And this is a rough way to get initiated to
horseback riding to begin with.”
They rode on for another half hour until they came to a shallow ravine
with a dense growth of white birch trees and underbrush. Thorsen studied
the steep rocky slopes of the ravine carefully. Except for a light
dusting of snow they were wind-blown clean, as was the rocky shelf on
the other side.
“I can’t see any sign of a trail. For all we know, he may be hiding down
there in those trees,” he said.
Professor Stern nodded in agreement. “It’s possible. I’d hate to run
into a Kodiak in those close quarters. What do we do now?”