THE LAST HUNT
It was Barwell Dawson's intention to strike out directly for Cape
Richards, the most northerly point of Grant Land. It may be added that
this locality was only a short distance west of the point from which
Commander Peary made his successful dash for the Pole. Dr. Cook's route
was still further westward, so Mr. Dawson's trail lay almost midway
between those of the world-renowned Pole-seekers.
It was a clear, mild day, and for the first few miles the going was
excellent. Everybody was in the best of humor, and the boys felt like
whistling. Estankawak was in the lead with his sledge, and Olalola
followed him, while the others came behind in a bunch. The dogs trotted
along evenly, and the drivers had little trouble with them.
"This weather is fine," remarked Barwell Dawson. "I only trust it
continues."
"Well, it will continue for a few days, that is certain," answered
Professor Jeffer. "But after that----" He shrugged his shoulders. "We'll
have to take what comes."
For several days the expedition traveled through the heart of Ellesmere
Land, and there found excellent hunting. Polar bears, musk oxen, and
caribou were there in plenty, and the party also laid low many Arctic
hares and foxes, and likewise a few Arctic petrel.
"We must hunt while we have the chance," said Barwell Dawson. "The more
meat we secure now, the greater will be our stock of provisions when we
get to where there is nothing but ice and snow." And all understood
this, and hunted to the best possible advantage.
By the time the north shore of Grant Land was reached it was much
colder, and now they occasionally encountered snowstorms, but
fortunately these were of short duration. Reaching the vicinity of Cape
Richards, they went into a temporary camp, to rest up and repair some of
the sledges which had become broken.
"I am going on another hunt tomorrow--possibly our last," announced
Barwell Dawson. "Do you boys want to go along?"
Both were eager to go, and the start was made directly after breakfast.
They took with them two rifles and a shotgun, and provisions to last for
four meals.
After skirting a small hill of ice, they came upon a narrow lead of
clear blue water and following this, reached a point where the ice had
been driven in a tight pack for miles. Here they saw the traces of a
polar bear, and were soon hot on the trail, which led them along the
lead, and then into the interior.
"I see him!" whispered Andy, after nearly a mile had been covered. "He
is lying down behind yonder hummock!"
Andy was right, but before they could reach his bearship, the animal
scented them and hobbled away.
"He is lame!" cried Chet. "I think we can catch him! Anyway, let us
try."
The others were willing, and away they went over the ice, which soon
became comparatively smooth. Once Chet lost his footing and went flat.
But he soon got up and continued after the others.
Finding he could not escape those who were pursuing him, the polar bear
turned as if to attack them. Both Andy and Barwell Dawson fired at the
beast, and he rolled over in a death convulsion, and was speedily put
out of his misery by Chet with his hunting knife.
"See, his forefoot is gone," said Andy, as they surrounded the game.
"Looks to me as if some other animal had chewed it off."
"If it hadn't been for that, he would have outrun us," answered Mr.
Dawson.
They spent the remainder of the day looking for more game, and toward
nightfall started for camp, dragging the bear after them.
"We'll take him as far as possible, and then send the Esquimaux out for
him with a sledge," said the explorer.
All thought they knew the direction of the camp, but in looking for game
they had become more or less turned around, and now Barwell Dawson
called a halt.
"We may as well camp here for tonight," he said. "We don't want to tire
ourselves out when it isn't necessary."
Some snow was scraped up, and a hut constructed, and they went inside
and had supper. It was a cold meal, but they were hungry, and enjoyed
every mouthful. Then they fixed the snow hut a little better, and lay
down to sleep.
They had been resting for about three hours, when Chet awoke with a
start. A loud barking had awakened him.
"Dogs!" he murmured. "Must be one of the Esquimaux has come for us."
The barking had also awakened the others, and getting up, the three
crawled out of the snow hut.
"They are not dogs, they are foxes!" cried Barwell Dawson.
"Yes, and look at the number!" ejaculated Andy. "Must be fifty at
least!"
"Fifty?" repeated Chet. "All of a hundred, or else I don't know how to
count!"
Chet was right--there were all of a hundred foxes outside, sitting in a
bunch, with their heads thrown back barking lustily. They had followed
the blood-stained trail of the polar bear, and wanted to get at the
game.
"This is very unpleasant," said the explorer, gravely. "I didn't think
we'd meet foxes so far north. They can't get much to eat up here, and
they must be very hungry."
"Do you fancy they will attack us?" questioned Andy.
"I don't know what they will do. They want the bear, that's certain."
"If we only had a good campfire that would keep them at a distance."
"Yes, but there is nothing here with which to build a fire."
"Supposing we give 'em a dose of shot?" suggested Chet.
"You can try it."
Chet had the shotgun, and taking careful aim at the pack of foxes, he
fired. The flash of the firearm was followed by a wild yelp from the
animals, and three leaped up, and then fell on the ice badly wounded.
The others of the pack retreated for a few minutes, then came back to
their former position, barking more loudly than ever.
"They are certainly game," said Mr. Dawson. "Killing off a few of them
don't scare the others."
"What are we to do?" asked Chet, dubiously. He had fancied the foxes
would disappear at the discharge of the shotgun--for that was what foxes
usually did down in Maine.
"We'll do our best to stand them off until it grows lighter," answered
Barwell Dawson.
"Do you think they will run away if we go out after them?"
"Not if they are very hungry. Remember, a hungry animal is always
desperate."
Sleep was now out of the question, and they took turns in watching the
foxes from the entrance to the snow hut. It was too cold to remain
outside long.
"They are coming closer," announced Andy, after two hours had passed.
The foxes had stopped barking some time previously.
The report was true. The beasts were coming up stealthily, moving a foot
or two, and then stopping to reconnoiter.
"I'll give them another shot from the gun," said Chet, and was as good
as his word. This time two of the foxes were killed, and almost
immediately their companions fell upon the carcasses, and began to tear
them apart.
"That shows how hungry they are," declared Barwell Dawson.
"Shall we give up the bear to them?" asked Chet.
"Not yet--but we may have to do so in order to escape them," answered the
explorer, with a doubtful shake of his head.
Another hour went by slowly, and by shouting they managed to make the
foxes keep their distance. But then the animals commenced to come closer
once more, slowly but surely encircling the snow hut.
It was a perilous situation to be in, and the youths realized it fully,
as did Mr. Dawson. At any moment the foxes might make a concerted
attack, and what could three persons do against ninety or more of such
beasts?
But now it was growing lighter, for which those in the hut were
thankful. As the glow of the morning sun shone in the sky, Andy set up a
loud shout and flung a fair-sized cake of ice at the foxes. The ice went
gliding along, and struck one fox in the forelegs, wounding him
severely.
"Hurrah! why didn't we think of that before!" cried Chet.
"A good idea," put in Barwell Dawson. "We'll treat them as if they were
ten-pins!"
Some loose ice was handy, and taking aim at the foxes, they sent piece
after piece bowling over the icy surface on which they stood. The
animals had again gathered in a pack, so they could not be missed. If
one leaped out of the way, the chunk of ice hit the next, and soon there
were howls of pain from several. Then the foxes retreated, and when Chet
fired another shot, they suddenly turned tail, and trotted off, around a
distant hill and out of sight.
"They didn't like the ice and the daylight," said Barwell Dawson. "I
doubt if they come back very soon. They may try it again tonight, but
we'll be in camp by that time."
Again they took up the march for camp, dragging the bear behind them as
before. Going was fairly easy, and dragging the bear over the smooth
surface was not much work, but whether they were heading just right was
a question. Many times Barwell Dawson tried to get his bearings, but
without success.
"I think I'll have to climb yonder hill and take a look around," said
he, when the sun was fairly high. "We ought to be able to locate the
camp from there."
"We'll go along," said Andy, who did not care to be left alone in such a
field of desolation.
"Yes, I would like to take a look around myself--just to see how the
land--or, rather, ice--lies," added his chum.
Leaving the bear where it was, the three started to climb the icy hill
on their left. The snow on the side aided them, and they reached the
summit with little difficulty.
"Phew! here is where one feels the wind!" cried Andy, as he drew his
coat closer.
"Cuts like a knife, doesn't it?" answered Chet. "Wonder what it will be
up at the Pole."
"Colder than this--you may be sure of that," answered Barwell Dawson.
All gazed around them. To the east and west, as well as the south, lay
the long stretches of snow and ice. Northward were the same ice and
snow, with numerous leads of clear, bluish water.
"There is our camp," said the explorer, pointing to some dark objects in
the distance.
"How far is it?" asked Chet.
"I can't say exactly. Probably two miles. Distances are very deceiving
in this atmosphere."
"There is that lead of water we must have followed yesterday," said
Andy, pointing.
"Yes," answered Barwell Dawson. "We won't go back that way, though--we'll
try the route over yonder."
They were soon down the hill again, and making for the spot where they
had left the polar bear. Resuming the load, they struck off as best they
could in the direction of the camp.
About half the distance had been covered when they found themselves
quite unexpectedly on the edge of some "young" ice,--that is, ice
recently frozen. It did not seem safe, and Barwell Dawson decided to
turn back, in the direction of the route they had followed when leaving
camp. This brought them to the lead of the day previous, and they were
surprised to note that the water was much wider than before.
"The ice must be moving," said Barwell Dawson. "I think the sooner we
get back to camp the better."
They had a small hill of ice before them, and started to skirt this.
Andy was in the lead, and as he passed a rise of ice and snow, he heard
a sudden roar that made him jump.
"What was that?" he cried, in alarm.
"A walrus!" answered Barwell Dawson. "And close at hand, too. Get your
guns ready, boys!"