THE FIRE PATROL
A few hours before daybreak they had successfully circled the fire and
had reached a sparsely wooded height of land. So tired and worn out were
the three messengers, that as soon as they had picketed out their
ponies, they crawled into their blankets without troubling to prepare
something to eat. Dick had almost fallen asleep when he was startled by
a most peculiar sound—a sound so unusual and different from anything
that he had ever heard since coming to the northern wilderness, that he
sat bolt upright, wondering if his senses had not suddenly deserted him.
The metallic thub, thub, thub grew louder. He sat staring in the
darkness, bewildered, a little frightened, and yet very curious to know
its cause. More than anything else, it sounded like a high-powered motor
boat, such as he had often seen and heard near his own home on the Great
Lakes, back in the United States. Yet it was not a motor boat. They were
still forty miles from the Peace River, and no body of water of any
extent lay between them and the river.
Then, suddenly, he had it. An airplane! His mouth curved in a smile of
wonder and admiration. An airplane! What was it doing here? With an
unearthly howl, he bounded to his feet and was soon shaking Sandy and
Toma.
“Wake up! Wake up!” he shouted. “Listen to that!”
Daubing one hand across his sleep-dimmed eyes, Sandy gave vent to an
ejaculation:
“For the love of Pete! Where did that come from?”
Immediately he broke forth in a howl of glee, pointing a finger at Toma.
In all his long acquaintance with the young Indian, Dick had never seen
the guide display any great amount of fear; yet he was frightened now.
He sat huddled in his blankets, frozen with a nameless panic. Here was
something beyond his ken and experience—to him an inexplicable,
supernatural thing: A noise from the heavens, some horrible monster
swooping down upon them from the black vault of the sky.
“What you—you call ’em that?” he finally stammered.
“Airplane,” said Sandy.
“A boat that flies through the air,” Dick elucidated. “What do you
suppose it’s doing here?”
The sound grew louder and presently the plane alighted less than two
hundred yards away. The boys raced madly along through the darkness,
finally coming out in an open space, where they could see a dark blur
and hear the sound of voices.
Approaching, Dick hailed them:
“Hello there! Who is it?”
“Dominion Government cruising plane, C 94,” came the prompt answer. “Put
out from Peace River Crossing to investigate this fire.”
Two men stood beside the plane and when the boys came up plied them with
questions. Had they come through the fire? Were there many cabins
destroyed in the country north of there? Where were the boys going?
Sandy and Dick gave them what information they could, in turn asking
many questions of their own. Then Dick stated their errand:
“We’ve been sent out by Inspector Cameron to meet a relief party, which
is bringing help to the people suffering from smallpox in the remote
districts north of the Mackenzie. The situation is very serious.
Hundreds have already died from the disease and probably hundreds more
will before assistance can arrive.”
Horace Alderby, one of the aviators, spoke up quickly:
“Queer we didn’t hear anything about it when we left the Crossing. I
should think that if Inspector Cameron had wired to Edmonton the people
at Peace River——”
“But look here, Horace,” interrupted the other, “have you forgotten that
the wires are down as a result of this fire?”
“Why, yes, Randall, so I have,” laughed Alderby. “The line is clear from
Peace River Crossing to Edmonton, but north the service has been
disrupted. It is quite likely,” turning to the boys, “that your
Inspector Cameron has not been able to get in touch with Edmonton at
all.”
“That’s too bad,” said Dick. “It makes it all the more important why we
should hurry on and send in the news from Peace River Crossing. Our plan
is to go over to Fort Vermilion and from there try to secure a ride up
the Peace in a steam or motor boat.”
“That’s a good three days’ trip,” stated Alderby. “It’s fortunate we ran
across you.”
“Why?” Sandy asked innocently.
“Because,” the aviator replied, “we can take you over there ourselves
just as soon as we look over our motor.”
“Did motor trouble force you to land?” Dick inquired.
“Yes, but it’s nothing serious. We’ll have it ready in a jiffy.”
“Trouble is,” said Randall, “there’s room only for one of you.”
This statement immediately relieved Toma’s mind. He had begun to fear
that he would be asked to sail through the sky in the bowels of that
awesome monster—an invitation he had firmly decided to decline.
“That’s all right me, Dick. Mebbe you or Sandy go, but I like stay here
with the ponies.”
“Dick will have to go, of course,” Sandy stated, experiencing a moment
or two of regret as he looked at the plane and thought of the thrilling
ride through the clouds. “As Toma just said, he and I can remain here
with the ponies. We’ll make camp and wait for your return.”
“Good heavens, you can’t do that!” Dick expostulated. “You’ll be in
danger here with the fire so close. You never can tell when the wind may
change and blow it this way.”
“But we no stay here,” Toma enlightened him. “We go on to Fort
Vermilion. You come back that way.”
It seemed a good arrangement and soon afterward Dick climbed aboard,
crouching down in the limited space assigned to him. He felt a little
nervous now that they were about to start. At the first crackling roar
of the powerful motor, his heart leaped up in his throat. He called out
something unintelligible to Sandy and Toma, grabbed for his hat as the
plane commenced bounding along the uneven ground, then stole one
frightened look over the side just as the earth commenced to drop away
from him in a manner that was both sickening and disconcerting. Nearly
ten minutes had passed before he had recovered sufficiently from the
shock to realize that he had actually started out on his first journey
through the air.
“How do you like it?” asked Randall.
“Do-o-n’t kn-n-ow yet,” he managed to articulate. “How long are we going
to be up here?”
“Just a few hours,”—reassuringly.
Just a few hours! Saints and martyrs! Could he stand it that long? When
minutes were terrible, what would hours be like? Instantly he dismissed
what remained of a once overpowering ambition to become an aviator. It
wasn’t exactly in his line anyway. He lacked the necessary physical
qualifications. He hadn’t realized it before, not until now, but his
stomach was weak. It felt as if there was a big hole there, through
which a current of cold air passed every few seconds at a terrific rate
of speed. It made him almost ill.
In an effort to keep his thoughts in more comfortable channels, he
addressed himself to Randall:
“You said this was a government plane?”
“Yes,” came the ready answer, “one of five sent out to this north
country to assist in the prevention and control of forest fires. The
country will need all this valuable timber some day. Millions of dollars
going up in smoke. Time we put a stop to it.”
Randall’s voice trailed off and became lost in the roar of the motor and
the screeching of the wind. Dick tried to stretch his legs. He tried to
sleep. He endeavored to accustom himself to the queer, unpleasant motion
of the plane. He was unutterably glad when he heard Alderby trumpeting
in Randall’s ear:
“Crossing lights!”
Dick steeled himself and looked down. Ahead and far below he perceived a
faint effulgence—like glow-worms shining feebly across a vale of
darkness.
Not long afterward they began to descend. Hills took shape. The wide
ribbon of the Peace and the Hart, cascading down through the hills to
join it. The shape of trees, the rugged contours of the land and,
finally, straight below them, a level field, which seemed to come up,
up, up to meet them, and upon which, a short time later, they landed in
safety.
“Here!” exclaimed the jovial voice of Alderby.
In the chill, gray light of dawn, Dick followed Randall past the hangar
and into the town. His heart was beating jubilantly.
His companion led the way through the streets of the little town,
pausing at length in front of a small brick building, which served as an
office for the government telegraph. The door was locked, but following
a short rattling at the knob, they were admitted by a sleepy operator,
who demanded to know their business.
In a few words, Randall explained the reason for their early call.
“We would like to know,” he continued, “if you have any information
concerning a smallpox epidemic in the north, or of a relief party which
has been sent out from Edmonton?”
“Yes, I know something about it.”
The operator invited them inside and switched on the lights. He in turn
asked a question of Randall:
“Is this one of the young men Cameron instructed to come here to meet
the relief party?”
Before Randall could answer, Dick produced the letter he had received
from the Indian messenger and handed it over.
“That will serve as my introduction. Read it.”
“Fine!” exclaimed the operator, glancing over the missive. “Yes, Cameron
got his message through. The relief expedition is already on its way.”
“But I thought the government line was out of order, had been destroyed
by the fire north of here.”
“So it was. Inspector Cameron’s s.o.s. was broadcast by radio from
Mackenzie River and someone in Edmonton picked it up. The message was
repeated again early this morning. It’s common property now all over the
province. Every available airplane in Edmonton and Calgary is being sent
up. A few of the planes ought to arrive any time. Also a special
passenger train is scheduled to arrive tonight.”
“Can the airplanes go as far north as the Mackenzie?” Dick asked.
Randall replied in the affirmative. “The only difficulty is to carry
enough gasoline.”
“In that case,” said Dick, a little crestfallen, “our services will no
longer be required.”
“Don’t worry. You’ll have plenty to do,” laughed the operator.
“Your troubles have only commenced,” smiled Randall. “I’ll take you back
and pick up your friends at Fort Vermilion, then we’ll pilot the other
planes through to the Mackenzie. You’ll be a regular air-hawk before
long.”
He turned to the operator. “Thank you very much for your kindness. I
think I’ll take Dick over to one of the hotels and then slip back to the
flying field.”
“I can’t go to a hotel just yet,” Dick interposed. “I was told to report
to Inspector Anderson at the police barracks here.”
Hardly were they in the street again, when the aviator clutched Dick’s
shoulder with one hand, while with the other he pointed aloft. Through
the still air there came to them the distant strum, strum, strum of a
motor.
“Look!” he shouted. “The first plane from Edmonton!”