RETURNING MEMORY
When Dick sat up he saw the walls of a tepee, the tall form of an Indian
of doubtful age, dressed in beaded moosehide, and the shadow of still
another figure on his right and a little behind him. Kantisepa’s
ministering effort had not been in vain. The strange being had recovered
consciousness!
As Dick’s mind grew clearer, memory came back to him. He recalled the
flight through the air from Peace River Crossing. As far as Fort
Vermilion he had travelled with Randall, but there had given up his
place to Sandy and Toma, he himself entering the plane which was being
piloted by Cliff Stewart, a member of the Edmonton relief expedition.
From that very moment their trouble had started. In “taking-off” Stewart
had slightly injured his machine in a collision with a tree. Later there
had been trouble with the motor. Two hundred miles north of Fort
Vermilion, a few minutes before the final tragedy, Dick had heard a
sudden crackling noise and had seen Stewart’s face turn pale as he had
reached for the controlling levers.
Dick shuddered at the memory of that fall from the skies when the plane
became unmanageable. A terrifying spinning sensation, a horrible rush of
air from below, the cracking and splitting of wood and steel,
culminating in a terrific descent and the lapse of consciousness.
How he had contrived to escape with his life seemed more than a miracle.
Had Stewart been equally as fortunate? Who had brought him here? He
looked up into the expressionless eyes of the old Indian who stood
opposite.
“Where am I?” he asked in Cree.
The old chief started. Here indeed was undeniable evidence of the
divinity of this strange being. He was a god surely. Did he not speak
the language of their tribe, this stranger who had come from some
shadowy land beyond the moon?
“Glorious one, do not fear. You are safe among friends. I give you my
assurance and the assurance of all my people. We are deeply honored by
your coming.”
“But who brought me here?”
“I did,” the man beside him spoke up unhesitatingly. “When the magic
ship crashed to the earth, I bore you here in my own arms.”
“And my companion?” trembled Dick.
“He is dead.”
For a moment the young man could not speak. Something choked him. The
memory of the valiant pilot was a particularly poignant one. In one
sense of the word, Stewart had become a martyr in a noble cause. Like
many another fearless flyer he had engraved his name in blood on the
flaming altar of achievement. It was several minutes before Dick could
trust himself to speak.
“Did the other ships come back to our rescue?”
“No,” answered Kantisepa, “they sailed on through the heavens and became
lost in the mists of a distant country.”
It was strange, thought Dick. Queer the others had not seen their fall.
But surely by this time they had discovered the absence of the third
plane and would come back to investigate.
“How long has it been since we fell to the ground?” Dick inquired of
Kantisepa.
“Late yesterday afternoon. This is another day.”
Dick’s heart sank at the information. He had supposed that only a few
hours had passed since the accident.
“And you saw no sign of the ships returning?” he persisted. “Are you
sure?”
Kantisepa shook his head.
“I am sure, my brother. Even if I had not seen them, had they returned,
my ears would have caught the sound of their coming. Perhaps they have
gone back to the land of your people, the place beyond the stars.”
For the next ten or fifteen minutes the young adventurer attempted to
make his two companions, credulous and highly imaginative Indians,
understand that there was nothing in any way magical or mysterious about
those ships of the air; and that neither he nor his friends were gods
from some vague land beyond the rim of the world, but flesh and blood
men like themselves, men who had come from Edmonton to bring help and
relief to hundreds of their kinsmen suffering from the plague.
Both Kantisepa and the chief had heard of the existence of the big city
to the south, and the name “Edmonton” was not unfamiliar to them. But
neither had ever heard, or if they had heard would have believed that
ordinary mortals, even the smartest of the white race, could fashion
boats from wood and iron that could float through thin air. Finally,
however, when Dick had nearly exhausted his patience and his vocabulary,
he saw that in a measure, at least, they had begun to credit his story.
“It is very wonderful,” said the chief, “that men are now able to go
floating through the skies. But tell me, my brother, have not certain of
the braver ones already journeyed to the stars?”
“No,” answered Dick. “Thus far no boat has ever been built which would
be strong enough to undertake such a voyage. Perhaps that will come in
time.”
An interval of silence ensued, broken at length by the appearance of an
Indian squaw, who brought food and drink and placed it before the young
man. Then, while Dick ate, he talked. He told them of the smallpox
epidemic north of the Mackenzie, of his adventures in going to Peace
River Crossing at the request of Inspector Cameron of the mounted
police, and subsequently of his ill-fated ride from Fort Vermilion.
“Those ships of the air,” he concluded, “are carrying medicine to the
sick.”
The two Indians appeared to be very much interested, offering their
services in any way that would be useful in such a cause. The chief
said:
“We will give you ponies so that you may proceed on your journey.”
Dick thanked them. “That is very kind of you.”
He looked up with beaming eyes, then abruptly his face darkened as a
thought occurred to him.
“I must take the body of my friend with me,” he trembled. “I must start
today. The great white father of the police will be pleased to hear of
your kindness. Perhaps some of your people will be so good as to
accompany me on my journey.”
The chief advanced and laid a hand benevolently on the young man’s head.
Something closely akin to a smile lighted the wrinkled, weatherbeaten
face.
“I myself,” he announced proudly, “will lead the expedition which will
set out this afternoon for the Mackenzie River. It is said.”
And with a stiff, formal bow, he turned with great dignity and strode
out of the tepee.
A few minutes later Dick rose and followed Kantisepa outside. They
proceeded to a far end of the village, where a poplar pole corral had
been built. This corral or compound contained between thirty or forty
Indian ponies. A number of youths had already entered it, carrying
lassos. Following much shouting and stampeding of hoofs, they soon had a
number of the little beasts saddled and bridled in preparation for the
journey northward.
Kantisepa and Dick stood near the entrance of the corral, conversing in
low tones. It was during this conversation that Dick learned for the
first time that the place where the plane had crashed to the ground was
not close to the village. This information had come as a result of his
request that he be taken to the spot.
“Come,” he said to his Indian friend, “we will walk over there while the
young men are packing the ponies.”
Kantisepa stared at the other in mild disapproval.
“Why do you wish to go now?” he asked. “It is far to walk.”
“How far is it?” asked Dick.
“Six miles,” came the astonishing reply. “Very soon we will go that way.
The magic ship lies broken in a little meadow that lies straight in the
direction of the noonday sun.”
“And you carried me here all that way?” Dick asked in amazement.
“Yes, it is so,” Kantisepa answered, the tone of his voice implying that
the achievement was scarcely worthy of mention.
Dick looked at the stalwart Indian with something very much like a lump
in his throat. He could see it all plainly now: The shattered airplane,
himself crawling dazedly from the wreckage, only to sink unconscious in
a place where eventually he would have died, had not this dusky friend
come to his rescue. Impulsively he stepped forward and imprisoned one of
Kantisepa’s long, thin hands in his own.
“My brother,” his voice quavered, “I have very much to thank you for,
and never shall I forget your kindness.”
Not long afterward a young Indian led a pony over to where Dick and
Kantisepa stood and indicated with a gesture that the beast belonged to
Dick. Immediately behind, came another youth with a mount for Kantisepa.
Soon the cavalcade was formed. At two o’clock they rode forth in the
bright glare of October sunshine.
As they went forward in the direction of the little meadow, Dick was
conscious of many mixed emotions. He was glad that they had started out
on the trek to Mackenzie River, yet the thought of approaching the
shattered airplane and taking Stewart’s crushed body north for burial
filled him with many unhappy thoughts.
On they went through the beauty of a perfect Indian Summer. The earth
was languorous and quiet, wrapped in a blue haze, made resplendent by
the vari-colored autumn foliage. Kantisepa, who was riding close beside
Dick, presently raised one arm and pointed ahead to where the trees
thinned out to form a natural meadow.
“We will be there soon,” he announced.
Dick looked, then turned his head away. He hated the coming ordeal. With
difficulty, he steeled himself for the trying experience of approaching
the battered plane and removing Stewart from the wreckage. In his
weakened, nervous state, he felt unequal to the task. He rode forward,
eyes on the ground, feeling sick and unhappy.
They pushed their way to the edge of the meadow, when, suddenly as if by
a common impulse, the cavalcade checked itself and a low murmur of
excitement, mixed with fear, ran along its entire length.
Dick supposed that the sight of the broken plane had been the cause of
the momentary delay. However, when he looked up, he too became excited.
A surge of happiness welled up in him. He leaned over dazedly and
grasped the pommel of his saddle.
Straight ahead, not far from the ruins of the craft in which he had
nearly been killed, stood two gray airplanes, graceful as birds. They
had come back to rescue him.