COLONEL HOWELL MAKES A NOVEL PROPOSAL
"My name is Howell," began the man; "Hill Howell," he went on, "and in
the places where I'm best known I'm frequently called 'Colonel' Howell,
but I don't get that title because I am a native Kentuckian. I secured it
up in this part of the world--just why, I don't know. I'm not going to
tell you the story of my life or of any remarkable adventures, because
I'm only a plain business man. But I'll have to repeat to you some
account of my experience in the Northwest before you understand why I'm
so interested in your machine and in you young men.
"In Kentucky," resumed Colonel Howell, after he had helped himself to a
cigar from his vest pocket, "we once thought we had oil. To prove how
little we had, I spent my own small means and, while I got no oil to
speak of, I got a considerable knowledge of this industry. This came just
in time for me to make my way to Kansas. That was fifteen years ago.
There I found not only oil but considerable return for my labors. It
didn't make me a rich man, but it gave me all the money I needed.
"Then I discovered that I had considerable of the spirit of adventure in
me and I started for the Klondike. Like many another mistaken prospector,
I determined to go overland and down the Mackenzie River. With a small
party I started down the Athabasca River from Athabasca Landing. I would
probably have gone on and died in the wilderness, as most adventurers did
who took this route, but when we had gone three hundred miles down the
river and were just below the Big Rapids, at a place they call Fort
McMurray, I caught the odor of oil again and the Klondike fever
disappeared.
"When I saw the tar sands and the plain signs of oil in the Fort McMurray
region, I separated from the party and stopped in the new oil region.
There were a few prospectors in the vicinity and having got the oil mania
again, I found I was not prepared to make more than a preliminary
prospect. My former companions had consented to leave me but few
provisions. I had to live practically alone and without adequate
provisions or turn back towards civilization at once.
"To the others in the field I discredited the possibilities of the region
and set out on foot, with a single Indian as a guide, to make my way to
Athabasca Landing. Here I planned to secure food and proper tools and
machinery to return to Fort McMurray and develop what I believed would be
a sensational sub-arctic oil region."
"I've heard about it," broke in Norman. "You pass Lac la Biche going
there, don't you?"
Colonel Howell nodded and proceeded: "It was impossible to return to
Athabasca Landing by canoe, as the river is too swift. For that reason I
made a thirty-day trip on foot and reached the Landing with the winter
well advanced.
"Here I found I could not get what machinery I needed and I put off my
project until the next season when the ice had gone out of the river. I
returned to the States and in the following July I went back to the
Landing ready to go down the river once more. I took with me, from
Chicago and Edmonton, well-boring machinery and ample provisions for a
year's stay in the wilderness. At Athabasca Landing I found it impossible
to buy proper boats and I lost considerable time in making two large
flatboats patterned after the Hudson's Bay Company's batteaux."
"'Sturgeon heads,'" exclaimed Roy. "I've always wanted to see one of
them."
"That's what they call 'em," exclaimed the colonel. "I guess I don't need
to describe them to you. Well, when they were completed, I loaded my
machinery, quite a batch of lumber, and my flour and pork--I freighted
all of this one hundred miles from Edmonton--and with three workmen, set
out down the river with an Indian crew and a couple of old-time
steersmen."
"Who were they?" broke in Roy, with apparently uncalled-for eagerness.
"The best on the river," answered the colonel. "Old Moosetooth Martin and
Bill La Biche."
"Why, they're here on the ground!" almost shouted Roy.
"Yes," exclaimed Colonel Howell. "Do you know them? I'm on my way back to
the Landing now. They're going with me again."
Roy's mouth was open, as if this was a statement not to be lightly passed
over, but Norman stopped him with an impatient: "Go on, please."
"I'll tell you about them later," the colonel added, as if to appease
Roy. "They're both fine old Indians and I've been with them a good bit
to-day. But even the best of them have their faults. You know, at the
Grand Rapids these flatboats ought to be unloaded. Even then the best
steersman is bound to lose a boat now and then on the rocks. Both
Moosetooth and La Biche cautioned me against running the Rapids loaded,
but as it would take a week to portage around the Rapids, I took a
chance. Moosetooth got through all right, but La Biche--and I reckon he's
the better man of the two--at least I had him on the more valuable
boat--managed to find a rock and we were in luck to reach the bank alive.
"All my iron tubing and drilling machinery disappeared in the Rapids.
There was no way to recover it and we went to Fort McMurray in the other
boat. It carried my lumber and most of the provisions, but I couldn't
work without tools. There was nothing to do but make the best of it and I
left my three men to build a cabin and spend the winter in the wilderness
while I went back on foot again to the Landing to buy a new outfit."
"Gee, that was tough," commented Norman.
"You boys have lived in the Northwest long enough to have learned the
great lesson of this country," explained Colonel Howell. "This is a
region where you can't have a program and where, if you can't do a thing
to-day, you can do it some other time. And, after all, it isn't a bad
philosophy, just so long as you keep at it and do it sometime. They seem
to do things slowly sometimes up in this wilderness land, but they always
seem to do them in the end. I guess it's the Indian way. I notice they
always drive ahead until they get there, although there may be a good
many stops on the way."
"Then what?" persisted Roy.
"I had to come back to the States--that was the end of last season,"
continued the man, "and now I'm on my way again to reach the Athabasca.
My outfit is in Edmonton, I hope. But this year I'll have a little less
trouble. There's a railroad now between Edmonton and Athabasca Landing
and I expect to get my equipment and my stores to the river in freight
cars. I've been detained by other business and should have been in Fort
McMurray by this time, as the ice goes out of the river late in May. And
I have my boats this year that I bought before I left the Landing.
"But when I tried to arrange for my old steersmen to pilot me down the
river again, I found that energetic Calgary had beaten me to it.
Moosetooth and La Biche are not the best boatmen on the Athabasca, but
they are the ones I want. And I'm here, waiting for the show to close.
They will go with me, and I suppose their families as well," added
Colonel Howell with a grimace, "directly to Athabasca Landing, and in a
week from now there is no reason why we should not be drifting down the
big river again."
"Then your trouble'll begin again, won't it?" asked Norman.
Instead of answering, Colonel Howell sat in silence a few moments.
"There's a good deal I might say about the country I'm going into," he
continued at last, "but I think you young men understand it pretty well."
"Pretty well up into the Barren Lands, isn't it?" asked Roy.
"The last of the wilderness before you reach the treeless plains,"
explained the colonel, "but as far as Fort McMurray the region is a vast
trail-less extent of poplar and spruce. The winter comes in November and
lasts until June. In that period, when the nights grow long, you have a
pretty good imitation of the Arctic. There are Indians here and there and
game abounds, but the white man passes only now and then. The dog and
sled are yet the winter means of transportation and here you may find the
last of the trappers that have made history in the great Northwest.
"Some of this region will undoubtedly in time provide farms, but as yet
no farmer has learned how to use the rich black soil of its river lands
in the short summer seasons. In time, powerful steamers will navigate the
Athabasca and also, in time, there will be railroads. When they come,"
the speaker went on with a chuckle, "I hope to be able to supply them
with oil. This at least is why, for the third time, I'm making my way
into that little-known country."
"I hope you don't get dumped again," suggested Norman.
"How genuinely do you hope that?" asked Colonel Howell instantly and with
renewed animation.
"Why, I just hope it," answered Norman, somewhat perplexed.
Colonel Howell hesitated a moment and then said abruptly: "You two boys
are the best guarantee I could have against another accident. I want you
to help me make a success of this thing. I've an idea and I got it the
moment I saw your aeroplane to-day. Come with me into the wilderness."
"Us?" exclaimed both boys together.
"Why not?" hastily went on the oil man. "Don't you see what I've been
driving at? Don't you recall the two long trails I made back to
civilization--a month each time? Think of this: When I leave Athabasca
Landing, the only way by which I can communicate with the world behind me
is by courier, on foot; from Fort McMurray this means a tramp of four
weeks for me, and even to a skilled Indian it means three hundred miles
through the poplar forest."
"And what could we do?" asked the breathless Roy.
"If what you tell me about your airship is true, you can make almost
daily trips for mail. At least, it would be as easy for me to keep in
touch with civilization as if I had a railroad train at my disposal,"
declared Colonel Howell springing to his feet.
"But we couldn't do that," began Norman. "Our fathers--"
[Illustration: "I've an idea and I got it the minute I saw your
aeroplane to-day."]
"What's the use of all the energy you have expended on this machine?"
demanded the man earnestly. "Is it a dream or do you believe what you
have told me? I'm not a millionaire, but I'm sure I could make your
services to me worth while. At least you don't need to hesitate on that
score. I think you can do all you have said this machine can do. Anyway,
I'll pay you well for making the attempt, and I'll undertake to get the
consent of your fathers. Of course you can't go without that. Would you
be willing to go if I can arrange this?"
"You bet your life!" announced Roy instantly.
"It's a pretty serious thing," began Norman, "and dangerous too--"
"Oh," broke in Colonel Howell, "then you'd rather have some one else try
out your glass cage and electric stoves."
"But it's a long way from home," went on Norman, growing red in the face.
"No farther for you than for me," explained the colonel, still laughing.
"And we'll all go to Fort McMurray on the flatboats. If you can't fly
back you can at least do what I have done twice--walk."
"And Moosetooth and La Biche are going to run the boats?" asked Norman.
"They certainly are," answered Colonel Howell, "and if you're interested
in those things, there'll be plenty of moose and bear and deer standin'
on the river banks waiting for a shot."
Norman looked at Roy, who was almost a picture of disgust, and then, in
self-defense, he said: "I'd like to go if the folks consent. As for that
car, it'll do everything we've said and don't you forget that."
Colonel Howell, apparently taking this as a surrender, caught the two
boys by their shoulders and exclaimed:
"It's gettin' late. Lock up your shop and let's go and see what your
fathers think of my project."
Elated and nervous, the boys turned and, as if under a hypnotic spell,
began to push the car into the aerodrome. And once inside the little
building, with set lips, as if working his courage up to that point,
Norman broke the silence by saying: "I was going to make my first trip to
the States this winter."
"Next summer would be a better time. Why don't you go in style?" asked
Colonel Howell. "We'll come out in the spring and we ought to have a
comfortable enough home during the bad weather. You can't spend your
money and when you get back home you can make your trip and go all over
the States."
Both boys looked at him as if not knowing what to say next.
"I never hired any aviators," went on Colonel Howell, with his old smile
coming back, "and I don't know the union price of aerial operators, but
I'll give you your board and keep and three hundred dollars a month
apiece while you're with me. How does that strike you?"
"I don't think we'll be worth it," were the only words that Roy could
find to express his dazed feelings.
"But you don't know anything about that," said Colonel Howell promptly.
"You might easily be worth a great deal more."
While the colonel spoke, he could not help noticing Norman's rapid
calculation on the ends of his fingers.
"In April, that would be nine months," remarked Norman at last, "and
that's twenty-seven hundred dollars. We could go to France on that, Roy,"
he added suddenly. "Let's lock up and go home."
In a few moments the excited aviators and the well-satisfied Colonel
Howell emerged from the aerodrome just as young Count Zept ran up.
"Are you fellows going to stay here all night?" he exclaimed, almost out
of breath. "I thought you told me you'd meet me at seven o'clock at the
car. Father's been there for a half hour. We're waiting to take you
home."
It was necessary at once to introduce Colonel Howell to young Zept. As
the oil man heard the name, his face brightened anew.
"You're not the son of Jack Zept, are you?" the colonel asked as he
grasped the young man's hand.
"John C. Zept is my father's name," answered the Count. "He's a horse
ranchman. Do you know him?"
The colonel chuckled. "Of course," he answered hastily. "I met him on the
upper Peace; shot sheep with him in '95. Forgot he lived here. If I can
join you, I'd like to meet your father. You can put me down at the King
George. I think," the smiling colonel added, turning to Norman and Roy,
"that you boys had better go home, talk it over with your fathers, and
I'll look you up a little later in the evening."
"Anywhere you like," exclaimed the young Count, "the machine's waiting.
Father'll be glad to see an old friend."