SMOKE!
Sandy MacClaren put down the moccasin he had been attempting to patch
and turned to his friend, Dick Kent, who had been listening attentively
to Sandy’s absorbing narrative. The story dealt with the exciting
experiences of one Clement McTavish, Scotch prospector and trapper, who
had returned from the foothills a few days before. McTavish had
relinquished his former trap-line, seceding his claims to a more
ambitious enemy—a colony of murderous grizzlies.
Dick laughed. “You mean, Sandy, that those grizzlies drove him out?”
Sandy picked up the moccasin again and scowled at the results of his
handiwork.
“Exactly. They drove him out. And he was glad to go, too. There wasn’t
just one or two to contend with—but a whole regiment. The country was
simply infested with ’em. McTavish is so badly frightened that you
couldn’t get him to go back with a bodyguard.”
“I think I talk McTavish,” Toma began eagerly. “Where you say he find
all these bad grizzlies?”
“Four miles east of Lake Florence.”
“I think I like to go there,” Toma made the assertion as calmly, as
unconcernedly, as if he spoke of entering the next room.
“Me too,” said Dick, quite ungrammatically. “I’d like to investigate
that story. My personal opinion is that McTavish was spoofing you.”
“Sure,” retorted Sandy. “What I thought myself. But there are a few
things rather difficult to explain. McTavish brought back five grizzly
pelts and his arm in a sling. Killed five of ’em! Think of that! But in
a fight with one of them he got clawed up. Hurt pretty bad.”
“I’m going,” said Dick with quiet determination.
“I go too,” Toma echoed.
“Well, if you fellows are willing to risk it,” declared Sandy, not very
enthusiastically, “you’d better include me in your party. Personally,
I’m not very keen about going. I’ll have another talk with McTavish
and——”
A knock sounded at the door.
“Come in!” Sandy shouted.
Factor MacClaren stood framed in the doorway.
“Thought I’d find you here. Dick,—someone to see you. A runner from
Mackenzie River. It’s important. He’s waiting out in the trading room.”
Dick rose excitedly and streaked for the door. He pushed his way past
the factor, hurried down the hallway and soon emerged in the spacious
storeroom of the company. For a brief interval he paused, gaze darting
through the crowd, then made his way unerringly to a tall young Indian,
who stood waiting near the counter.
“I’m Dick Kent,” said that young man.
“By Gar, monsieur, I glad I find you here. Et ees veree important thees
letter from Inspector Cameron. He told me to geeve et in your own
hands.”
With trembling fingers Dick broke the seal. He read:
“Mr. Richard Kent,
“Fort Good Faith,
“Province of Alberta.
“Dear Richard:
“I am compelled to ask you and your two friends, Sandy MacClaren and
John Toma, to undertake a very urgent and important journey on behalf
of the people in this territory. I received this morning the news of a
terrible smallpox epidemic, two hundred miles northwest of here—an
epidemic which can only be checked through the media of outside help
and assistance.
“You will proceed at once to Peace River Crossing and report there to
Inspector Anderson, who will give you further instructions. I have
notified Edmonton of our plight and have asked the authorities of that
city to send out a relief expedition, which you are to meet and
conduct back by the shortest route to Mackenzie River Barracks.
“I need not impress upon you the necessity of haste. Many lives hang
in the balance. May good fortune attend you.
“Sincerely,
“Jason C. Cameron,
“Inspector R. N. W. M. P.,
“Mackenzie River Barracks.”
His face very sober, Dick thrust the letter in his pocket, thanked the
messenger and hurried back through the hallway in time to meet Sandy and
Toma, both of whom were laughing and scuffling as they came up.
“Hey! What is it?” Sandy piped out in a tone of voice intended to be
jocular. “Invitation to a wedding or a message from the War Department?
We’re dying to hear.”
Sandy checked himself, however, as he perceived Dick’s serious look.
“Why—what’s the matter?”
“Smallpox north of the Mackenzie. A terrible epidemic. Inspector Cameron
has asked us to go south to meet a relief expedition, which is being
sent up from Edmonton. We leave at once.”
“What! Right now?”
“Just as soon as we can get ready. You boys pack your things together
while I see Mr. MacClaren and arrange for the supplies—our grubstake.
We’ll take our ponies for the first stage of the journey.”
The boys separated hurriedly, each going to his own particular task,
nimble fingers and hands making short work of their preparations. Within
thirty minutes they had “packed” one of the company’s ponies and had
their own saddled and bridled. It was exactly two o’clock by the
factor’s watch when they bolted into their seats and waved an
enthusiastic farewell. A short time later they cantered across the
meadow and swung south on a well-beaten trail.
At Fort Bentley, three days later, they secured fresh mounts and another
pack-horse. It was while they were resting for a few hours here that
they received their first disappointing news.
“Big fire raging to the south of here,” stated Nesbitt, the factor. “The
area affected is wide—hundreds of square miles, lying on the east side
of the Peace. Unless you make a wide detour, you’ll never get through.
It will be impossible to travel along the direct route to Peace River
Crossing.”
The faces of the three messengers fell.
“Gosh!” exclaimed Sandy.
“My advice to you,” Factor Nesbitt hurried on, “is to proceed straight
west to Fort Vermilion, thence travel along the west side of the river
until you reach the Crossing.”
“Will there be any chance to get a boat at Vermilion?” Dick asked.
“I should think so. Company boats will be running up to Peace until the
freeze-up.”
The boys decided to go that way. Both Dick and Sandy had visited Fort
Vermilion on a previous occasion. They recalled with a great deal of
pleasure their meeting with Sheridan Lawrence, the intrepid pioneer, who
had achieved almost world-wide renown for his enterprise and foresight.
There in the heart of a wilderness were hundreds of acres of cultivated
fields, mills, an electric light plant, and the bustling activity of a
progressive modern village.
Lawrence possessed launches and boats of his own and would be eager to
help in a worthy cause. With this valuable assistance, the boys would be
able to make the trip from Fort Vermilion to Peace River Crossing in a
very short time.
“It’s our best plan,” approved Dick. “Do you suppose, Mr. Nesbitt, that
the fire has worked very far north?”
“I couldn’t say. All I know is that it’s one of the worst we have had in
years. A trapper who arrived here yesterday from that region reported
that it had destroyed the government telegraph line and had completely
wiped out Jess Haldane’s trading post on Little Brush Creek.”
“Little Brush Creek!” Sandy frowned at the information. “Why, that’s
only about twenty miles south of the trail we propose to take now—the
one to Fort Vermilion.”
“No,” said Dick, turning to his chum. “It’s farther than that. I’d call
it a good fifty miles.”
“Well, have your own way. But what’s fifty miles to a fire like that? By
the time we get there, it may be raging not only south but north of the
trail as well. You can’t deny it.”
“It’s quite possible,” Dick agreed.
“True enough,” appended Nesbitt. “I’m a little afraid that no matter
which way you go, south to Peace River Crossing or west to Fort
Vermilion, you stand a good chance of meeting the fire.”
“Tell you what we can do,” proposed Sandy. “We’ll strike out for the
Peace, not west, but northwest of here and follow it up to Fort
Vermilion.”
Dick and Nesbitt both laughed.
“Take us hundreds of miles out of our way and through a country almost
impassable,” Dick objected. “Not a single trail to guide us. No, it
would be foolish to attempt it. Our best plan is to follow the Vermilion
trail and then, if necessary, circle around the fire.”
With considerable misgiving, they started out. Three days from Fort
Bentley they made their way into an enveloping cloud of smoke, so thick
and dark that at times it was almost impossible to see the sun. It
formed a huge blanket which wrapped the earth. Hourly, it grew denser;
breathing more difficult. It soon became apparent that they would be
unable to get through. Turning to their right, they entered a densely
wooded area, groping and gasping for breath. At times it was almost as
dark as night. The smoke which settled around them was of a greenish
tinge. It crept up the coulees and hollows in twisting snake-like form,
while above the treetops swirled a heavy black cloud.
That night the stars were hid, but off to the southeast the sky was an
orange curtain of fire. Its lurid glow lit up the horizon, a ghastly and
awesome sight, giving the impression that the earth itself was being
devastated, devoured by the ruthless monster of flame.
On and on the boys hurried in an effort to pass safely around the
terrible conflagration. Worry and apprehension shadowed the faces of the
three as they paused for their evening meal. Little was said. Their eyes
were smarting and their throats burned. In spite of their weariness, the
ponies grew restless and frightened, pawing and stamping the ground,
sometimes raising their heads and, with distended nostrils, neighing
plaintively.
Again the boys pushed on. Dick took the lead, wondering how much longer
he and his two companions could bear up under the strain. Fortunately
the coming of night did not interfere materially with their progress.
The forest was illuminated. The ghostly reflection of the fire was cast
across their path.
Every hour was taking them closer and closer to the northern end of the
great conflagration. Not far ahead they could see the flaming blood-red
sheet. Its close proximity struck terror in their hearts. It was a race
with death. Their only advantage was the help of the wind, from the
northwest, whose chill, unabating blasts contrived to keep the oncoming
fury somewhat in check. If the wind fell, their only hope of escape lay
in a precipitous retreat to the north.
“We’ll make it,” said Sandy, moistening his parched lips, “if that
northwester continues to hold. But it may die down before midnight.
Sometimes I think that it doesn’t blow as hard as it did a few hours
ago.”
“We must get through, Sandy,” Dick declared grimly. “If necessary, we’ll
ride our horses until they drop. Think of the lives that hang in the
balance.”
Shortly after midnight they approached so close to the fire that the
stillness through which they had been travelling gave place to a
rumbling, crackling roar. A withering, scorching heat came out to them.
The ponies seemed to stagger under their burdens. Dick, who was in the
lead, waved his arm encouragingly.
“A few more miles,” he called.
“No can make!” Toma’s voice suddenly rose above the deafening roar about
them. “My pony him no walk any farther.”
Dick and Sandy dismounted quickly and went back to where the young
guide’s horse stood quivering and panting. Toma loosened the cinches and
drew off the saddle just as the exhausted beast sank to the ground. Each
one of the boys knew what was about to happen—what ought to be done—but
each waited for the others to move.
“You take ’em what supplies you can from packhorse,” Toma ordered.
“Yes,” said Dick, “the rest we’ll have to leave here. Throw your saddle
on the pack-horse, Toma, and lead him up where the other ponies are.
Wait there for me.”
Sandy turned a white face in the direction of his chum.
“Are you really going to do it, Dick?” he quavered.
“Hate to,” answered the other, attempting to conceal the tremor in his
voice. “But hurry on, Sandy. I’ll join you in just a moment.”
Determinedly he turned, one hand trembling above his holster and walked
over to where the doomed pony lay.