THE TRAIL OF BLOOD
That same evening Patsy made her second startling discovery. An hour
before night was to set in, she had harnessed a sled deer and struck out
into the hills in search of a brown yearling that had been missing for
two days.
“Strange where they all go,” she murmured as she climbed a hill for a
better view of the surrounding country. “Marian was right; unless we
discover the cause of these disappearances and put an end to them, soon
there will be no herd. It’s a shame! How I wish I could make the
discovery all by myself and surprise Marian with the good news when she
gets home.”
As she scanned the horizon away across to the west, she saw a single dark
figure on the crest of a hill.
“Old Omnap-puk,” she said, taking in with admiration the full sweep of
his splendid antlers. “It’s the first time I’ve seen him for a long
while. We can’t lose you, can we? And we can’t catch you,” she said,
speaking to the lone figure.
Old Omnap-puk was neither reindeer nor caribou; at least this was what
Marian had said about it. She believed that he was a cross-breed—half
reindeer and half caribou. He was large like a caribou, larger than the
largest deer in the herd. He had something of the dark brown coat of the
caribou, but a bright white spot on his left side told of the reindeer
blood that flowed in his veins.
But he was very wild. Haunting the edge of the herd, he never came close
enough to be lassoed or driven into a brush corral. Many a wild chase had
he lead the herders, but always he had shown them his sleek brown heels.
Many times the girls had debated the question of allowing the herders to
kill him for food and for his splendid coat; yet they had hesitated. They
were not sure that he was not a full-blooded reindeer; that he was not
marked and did not belong to someone. If he was a stray reindeer, they
had no right to kill him. Besides this, it seemed a pity to kill such a
wonderful creature. So the matter stood. And here he was on their feeding
ground.
As Patsy stood there gazing at this splendid creature, she slowly
realized that the Arctic sun had flamed down below the far horizon and
long shadows raced out of the West. A full orbed moon stood just atop the
trees that lined the eastern rim of hills. Turning reluctantly to leave,
her eyes caught sight of a dark spot in the snow. She bent over to
examine it, and a moment later straightened up with a startled
exclamation.
“Blood! It is a trail of blood. I wonder which way it goes?”
Unable to answer this question, she decided to circle until she could
find some sign that would tell her whether or not she was back-tracking.
Satisfied at last of the direction, she pushed on, and there in the eerie
moonlight, through the ghostly silence of an Arctic night, she silently
followed the trail of blood.
Suddenly she stopped and stood still. Just before her was a large
discoloration of the snow. And, though the snow was so wind packed that
she walked on it without snowshoes, her keen eyes detected spots where it
had been broken and scratched by some hard, heavy object.
Dropping on her knees, she began examining every detail of the markings.
When she arose she spoke with a quiet tone of conviction:
“This is the track of a man. He has killed one of our deer and had been
carrying it on his shoulder. Blood dropped from the still warm carcass.
That explains the trail of blood. The load has become too heavy for him.
At this spot he has laid his burden down. In places the antlers have
scratched the snow. After a time he has gone on. But which way did he
go?”
Once more she bent over. On the hard packed snow, the sole of a skin boot
makes no tracks. After a moment’s study she again straightened up.
“There’s a long scratch, as if he had dragged the carcass to his shoulder
as he started on, and an antler had dragged for two or three feet. That
would indicate that he went the way I have been going. Question is, shall
I go farther, or shall I go for the herders with their rifles?” She
decided to go on.
The blood spots grew less and less as she advanced. She was beginning to
despair of being able to follow much farther, when, with a startled
gesture, she came to a sudden halt.
“The purple flame!” she said in an awed whisper.
It was true. As she stared down at a little willow lined valley, she saw
the outline of a tent. From the very center of it there appeared to burst
that weird purple light.
“Well,” she concluded, “I am at least sure that they’ve killed one of our
deer; killed several, probably. No doubt they have been living off our
herd.”
For a moment she stood there undecided; then, with reluctant feet, she
turned back. It was the only wise thing to do. She was alone and unarmed.
To follow that trail further would be dangerous and foolhardy.
But what should she do, once she had reached her own camp? She was
convinced in her own mind that the slain creature was one of their deer;
yet she could not prove it. Should she lead her armed herders to the
stranger’s tent and demand an explanation? Oh, how she did wish that
Marian was here!
As she walked homeward she felt terribly depressed. There was a girl in
that tent of the purple flame. She had seen her. She had hoped that
sometime, in the not too distant future, they might be friends. Such a
friend in this lonely land, especially since Marian and Attatak were
gone, would be a boon indeed. Now she felt that such a thing could never
be. It was as if a great gulf had suddenly yawned between them.
After reaching her camp and sipping a cup of tea and munching at some
hard crackers, she sat for hours thinking things through. Her final
decision was that for the present she could do nothing. Marian might
return any day now. In such matters her judgment would be best and Patsy
did not feel warranted in starting what might prove to be a dangerous
feud.