BREASTING A BLIZZARD IN AN AIRSHIP
When Roy turned over his half dozen telegrams to Colonel Howell, the two
boys saw that the messages were of some significance. A little later they
saw their patron reading them a second time. But when the beefsteak
supper was served he seemed to have forgotten business. But that was only
his way. When the prospector had reached his after-dinner cigar, he said
abruptly:
"So you say everything went all right!"
"Like taking a buggy ride," answered Norman. "Don't you want us to go
oftener? If it wasn't for using up the gas, there isn't any reason why we
shouldn't meet each mail stage."
"I'm glad o' that," answered Colonel Howell, smiling. "I'd like to have
you take a telegram over for me in the morning and wait for an answer."
"Don't you think I can go in this time?" asked Paul at once.
The other boys gave him no heed for a moment.
"We could go to-night," volunteered Norman, "if you like."
"That wouldn't do any good," answered the colonel. "You probably couldn't
get the operator. I'll be more than satisfied if you duplicate to-day's
trip--except as to the meat," he added. "We've enough of that for some
days."
Paul sat in suppressed excitement.
"I don't want to butt in," he urged in the pause that followed; "but I
want to help all I can. You don't need to be afraid--"
The boys could not resist a glance toward the bunk house door, where they
well knew that Paul's embarrassing box still stood intact. And both
Norman and Roy flushed.
"You can go," announced Norman instantly. "You won't be afraid!"
"Only afraid of disappointing Roy," answered the elated Paul.
The latter was disappointed, but he gave no sign of it and when he smiled
and waved his hand, the thing was settled.
"I've been holding an option on a fine piece of oil property near Elgin,
Kansas," the colonel began in explanation, "and I had forgotten that the
limit was about to expire. Several of these telegrams are from my agent,
who tells me we must have the property. The telegrams are now over three
weeks old and I've just got two days in which to get word to him to buy."
"Write your message to-night," suggested Norman, "for we'll get away a
little earlier in the morning, since we've got to wait for an answer."
The second flight to Athabasca Landing was of course Paul's first
experience in an airship. For some time he was subdued and Norman could
see his tense fingers gripping the edge of the cockpit. But when
assurance came to him, he made up for his preliminary apprehension and
was soon taking impossible pictures of the far-away hills and trees
beneath him.
Reaching the landing place on the Athabasca Hills, Paul at once said:
"I s'pose you'd feel better if you looked after the telegrams yourself.
I'll stay with the machine."
This was the program Norman had outlined but when the suggestion came
from the young Austrian himself, Norman had not the courage to humiliate
his companion with such a plain indication of his fear. Without
hesitation, he answered:
"What are you talking about? Nothing like that now! Besides, I want to
look over the engine. You go and attend to things--I'll be here when you
get back."
A little after twelve o'clock, a boy arrived from the other side of the
river, carrying Norman's dinner in a basket. The messenger was from the
Alberta Hotel and he also carried a note from Paul announcing that no
answer had yet been received to Colonel Howell's telegram.
As the afternoon wore slowly away, Norman became more and more
apprehensive. It was nearly six o'clock when Paul came in sight,
breathless and exhausted from his rapid climb up the hill. Norman could
not resist a sigh of relief when he saw that the delay was not due to any
new indiscretion of the young Austrian.
"I don't blame you," panted Paul, "and I bet you've been sweating blood.
I don't deserve anything else, but you're going to save a lot of time if
you'll just forget what I used to be. I ain't going to make any promises,
but I'll show all of you that I'm not what you all thought I was."
Norman only smiled, but he gave his young friend a look of sympathy. Then
he announced a little variation in the general plan.
"We're so late now that it's goin' to be dark before we get back and a
little further delay won't do any harm. Just back of the new H. B.
Company store I remember there's quite an open space on the other side of
the town. We're flying pretty light and I think we'll cross the river,
make a landing there, and get a couple of tins of gasoline. We want an
extra supply on hand."
This flight was easily accomplished but it involved an experience that
Norman had not anticipated. Having made a safe landing, while he visited
the trading post and arranged to have oil delivered at once, nearly
everyone in Athabasca Landing seemed to learn of the arrival of the
airship. When he came riding back to the monoplane, in the delivery
wagon, the _Gitchie Manitou_ was the center of a mob of curious people.
The sergeant of police was there, as well as the people from the hotel.
It was impossible to leave at once. Politeness demanded decent replies to
many inquiries but Norman almost felt repaid when he noted that this was
the first meeting during the day between Paul and his old friend, the
Mounted Policeman.
Yet, in the midst of the general greeting, the boys finally took their
leave. As they swung over the city and the river, the mist was beginning
to rise from the latter. For a part of the return trip at least, Norman
knew that he would have to resort to his compass or to the guidance of
the varying air currents that marked the river course at night.
For several days in the latter part of August there had been nightly
frosts. Then there had been a short spell of warm weather and this night
the boys could see that cool weather was rapidly approaching. As the
monoplane winged its way into the gathering gloom and the crisp evening
passed into dusk, the body of the _Gitchie Manitou_ grew wet with cold
dew. After dark, this began to turn into frost. Paul was able to wrap a
light blanket about himself, but Norman, with no relief present, stuck to
his post, protected only by his gloves and sweater.
As it was impossible to make out the course of the river from any
distance, he had to defy the air currents in the rather hazardous light
between the high river banks. It was far from the even flight made during
the day in the sunlight, and again Norman could see his companion
gripping the edge of the cockpit. There was little conversation, and in
order to divert his companion, Norman manufactured a job for Paul by
assigning to him the duty of watching the engine revolution gauge and the
chronometer.
As Paul flashed the bulbs, throwing their little shaded lights on these
instruments, and sang out the reading every few moments, Norman could not
resist a smile. He read both instruments each time as quickly as his
assistant.
About eleven thirty, the sun having now wholly disappeared, Norman's
long-waiting ear caught the unmistakable roar of the head of the Grand
Rapids. From this place, he had a compass bearing to Fort McMurray, and
he could have predicted their arrival at the camp almost within minutes.
"You can take it easy now," he suggested to Paul. "We're practically
home."
When the roar of the Rapids finally ceased, the river fog cleared
somewhat and, with the help of the stars, the outline of the river became
plainer below.
"How much longer?" asked Paul in a tired tone.
"We've been coming pretty slow," was Norman's cheery response. "We'll hit
her up a bit. It's forty miles to the camp, but we'll save a little by
cutting out the big bend. See if I ain't there in three-quarters of an
hour."
"I'd think they'd have a light for us."
"If they're all asleep," answered Norman.
But they were not asleep. Some apprehension on the part of even Roy had
kept him and the colonel wide awake. When it grew dark and the monoplane
had not returned, he made a fire of cordwood and during the long evening
renewed it constantly. At half past one the _Gitchie Manitou_ concluded
its second successful trip.
The answer brought to Colonel Howell, in response to his telegram,
appeared to be highly satisfactory to that gentleman. As he read it in
the light of Roy's poplar wood signal fire, he remarked:
"I told you young men that you didn't know how much you might be worth to
me. If I hadn't made good on that option, there's no way to tell what I
might have lost. I wouldn't let go the deal I made to-day for twenty-five
thousand dollars."
"I'm sorry I didn't have anything to do with it," exclaimed the benumbed
Paul, "but I'm glad I got a ride at last."
Colonel Howell opened his mouth as if to make reply and then checked
himself with a smile. The words behind his lips were: "And a month ago
you'd have probably spoiled any deal you had a finger in."
"You had as much to do with it as anyone," Norman suggested aloud. Then
he laughed and added: "But you mustn't work so hard. Look at your hands."
Paul opened his yet clenched fingers and held them before the snapping
blaze. The palm of each hand bore traces of blood.
"That's where I lifted her over the high places," he said with a laugh of
his own. "But look, it's dry. I ain't been doing it for some time."
This night was the real beginning of the colder weather. When they were
able, in late July, Ewen and Miller had sacrificed a few potatoes out of
their store to plant a patch of this vegetable. During August the little
garden had thriven and was at last in full bloom. But this night, to the
keen disappointment of all, the creamy blossoms fell a victim to the
first blighting frost. From now on, while the days were even sunnier and
often quite warm, the nights rapidly grew colder and each morning there
were increasing frosts.
For two weeks preliminary to the removal of the derrick to the better
prospect, the arm of the drill pounded ceaselessly up and down all day.
There were small accidents that frequently delayed the work, but no
result other than dulled drills and the accumulation of promising-looking
sand and rock.
The hunting trips also continued and moose now became very plentiful.
Philip, the cook and hunter, did not always accompany the boys on
shooting trips, as the half-breed had joined Ewen and Miller in the work
on the well.
The airship was safely housed, as if for the winter. The third week in
September came in with a lessening in the daily sunshine. A haze began to
hang over the river valley and a murkiness now and then took the place of
the keen and clear atmosphere. The evenings had grown so cool that
considerable attention was being given the fire in the living room.
On an evening such as this, while Colonel Howell and his young assistants
stood on the riverbank, watching the red sun turn to silver gray, Colonel
Howell exclaimed:
"By our calendar, the fall's coming along a little early. And judging by
the trees over there and the nip in the air, we're going to have some
weather before long. Maybe not for several days, but it's on its way.
Before it gets here, why not make another trip to the Landing and see if
there's anything at the post office?"
"All letters ready at five in the morning," announced Norman impulsively.
"Mail for Athabasca Landing, Edmonton, Calgary and points south leaves at
that time."
"Better bring a little more beef this time," suggested the colonel with a
laugh, "and anything else that looks tasty and you've got room for."
"I guess I've had all that's coming to me," suggested Paul. "Don't think
I'm afraid. Whenever you want a helper," he went on, addressing Norman,
"don't fail to call on me."
"I guess we won't make many more trips this season!" put in Roy, but in
that he was mistaken. The trip made the next day was memorable, but two
more that were to be made later were more than that, and the last one was
certainly ample justification for Colonel Howell's daring introduction of
the monoplane into these silent places of the North.
Shortly before five o'clock the next morning, in spite of an ominous gray
sky and a new sound of the wind in the trees, Norman and Roy were off on
their three hundred mile flight. They planned a short stay at the Landing
and upon reaching camp again before the shortening day was at an end.
They carried in the cockpit their Mackinaw jackets and their winter caps.
Philip also prepared a cold luncheon to be eaten on the return trip, thus
saving time at the Athabasca stop.
Early on their outward flight, for a time the red sun made an effort to
get through the clouds, but after nine o'clock had wholly disappeared and
the temperature began to fall. An almost imperceptible fine dry snow
appeared, but it was not enough to interfere with the conduct of the
machine. When a landing was finally made at the old place in the bend of
the river, although the day was dreary enough, only the chill atmosphere
and a few traces of snow gave premonition of possible storm.
This time Norman made the visit across the river and he was not gone much
over an hour and a half. To facilitate the delivery of his stores, which
were considerable, he pressed a horse and wagon into service and a little
after twelve o'clock Roy was glad to see his companion reappear in the
delivery wagon. The spitting snow had begun again. No time was lost in
luncheon this day, but the fresh meat, eggs and butter and a few fresh
vegetables were quickly stored in the rear of the cockpit.
There were no telegrams this time, but a larger quantity of mail with
considerable for the boys, some of which Norman had examined. At twelve
thirty o'clock everything was in readiness. On the wind-swept heights it
was now cold. Before mounting into the cockpit the boys put on their
winter caps, Mackinaw jackets and gauntlets.
Then, elevating the front protecting frame, they started the _Gitchie
Manitou_ on its return flight, the wind and snow already smiting its
resonant sides in a threatening manner.
The young aviators had little to say concerning the situation. They were
not alarmed and could not afford to be, as their surroundings were mild
compared with the conditions that the unique monoplane had been made to
overcome. And yet they were now beyond theorizing, and it looked as if
before the day was done they were to prove the merits or weaknesses of
their much-lauded craft.
"I'm glad of one thing," suggested Roy, a little later; "we're going to
have daylight all the way back."
"I hope so," answered Norman, but not very confidently.
"We ought to be there by seven o'clock!" retorted Roy.
"That's all right," said Norman in turn, "but I've seen snow in the
daytime so heavy that it might as well have been night."
"Anyway, as long as we don't lose the river," suggested Roy, "we can't go
far wrong. And the compass ought to help some."
"A compass is all right to keep you in a general direction," answered
Norman, "but the best of them, in a three hundred mile run, won't land
you at any particular street number."
"I think," suggested Roy again, a little later, "that we might as well
put up these shelters and have something to eat."
By this time the wind had died somewhat and the volume of the snow had
increased. It was falling so heavily that the top of the car was white.
Norman's silence giving approval, Roy managed to elevate the protecting
sections, which in turn immediately began to be plastered with soft
flakes. Almost at once part of the section on the lee side, which by good
chance happened to be the one next to the river, was lowered again that
the pilot might get a clear view. Then Roy opened Philip's bag of food.
[Illustration: "Don't shoot," he protested. "What's the use?"]
The aviators had both tea and water, but they drank only the latter and
made no attempt to use the heating apparatus.
At four o'clock the increasing snowfall was beginning to give the machine
some trouble, and yet it was plowing its way steadily through the air and
neither boy was more than apprehensive. Soon after this the snow ceased
suddenly and the wind rose as quickly.
"We're losing some of our extra cargo anyway," announced Roy, as the
first gusts tore some of the accumulated snow from the weighted planes.
"And we're losing some considerable gas," added Norman. "I hope we don't
have to buck this wind very long--it's coming dead ahead." It was just
then, the gloom merging into dark, that the alert Roy exclaimed:
"Look; a bunch o' deer!"
The car was crossing the snow-flecked river and flying low. Norman raised
himself and made out, in the edge of the timber below them, a group of
deer.
"Don't shoot," he protested. "What's the use?"
But his admonition was too late. Roy's twenty-two had already sounded.
However, nothing but a bullet was lost. When the monoplane had passed
swiftly on its way, the placid and apparently unmoved animals stood
gazing after the airship.