Life flowed along very pleasantly indeed, for the boys, during the weeks
that followed. They were so far north that the sun shone constantly, and
never a cloud came to trouble the sky, never a storm to drive them to
take shelter. When they camped it was usually in the dim cool recesses
of a forest of firs, beneath the dense shade of which could be found the
only semblance of night.
Never before had they known the delights of camp life, as they were now
living it. It was like being on one continuous picnic. For a
considerable period of time they found themselves in a mesh or network
of streams and lakes, through which Tom Farnum guided them steadily
northeastward, with never a sign of doubt as to the course to take.
They wondered about this, asked why they took certain forks of river or
stream, why avoided others. Tom answered readily enough. From Mr.
Anderson he had received a minute report containing every scrap of data
Farrell had been able to furnish as to the course taken by him and
Cameron on going into the wild country.
"So you see," he added, "while I may not be following in the exact
footsteps of Thorwaldsson, yet I am going over the same general route.
Sooner or later we will cover the same ground which he covered again,
and then I expect we shall find some other record which he has left
behind, just as in the case of that note on the Hare Indian."
This was enough for the boys. It satisfied their curiosity. They
dismissed, or practically so, from their minds all worry as to the "Lost
Expedition." They were too busy enjoying life as they found it each
waiting moment.
Around each bend in a stream that their paddles took them, on the shore
of each deep, silent lake, was some new marvel. Now it would be a bear
grunting on the bank. Again, a deer, probably a runaway from some Eskimo
herd on Summer pasture as Farnum explained, standing in the stream, and
starting with a snort into the timber at their approach. Occasionally a
gray wolf could be seen loping in the distance. Now and again a beaver
cut across stream.
With their light rifles the boys occasionally were permitted to pick off
some game, usually wild ducks or geese, of which there were numbers
along the watercourses. But nothing was shot wantonly. Many a time,
youthful fingers itched on the trigger, only to be restrained by the
thought of the cruel uselessness of shooting merely for sport.
Of other inhabitants in this vast northern wilderness, none were
encountered. And at this the boys marvelled. It was as if they had the
world to themselves. They could not understand it. To them it was a
paradise.
"Wait till you see this in Winter," said Farnum grimly. "Or rather, pray
that you never do. It is a land of perpetual night, and the temperature
is so low that when you stop moving you must have a fire or you will
freeze to death. And it isn't every day that you can travel. For this
isn't a land of tame Winter as you boys know it. Out of the north comes
storms succeeding storm, pitiless in severity. Even the creatures of the
wild cannot stand it, in many cases, and drift to the south."
"But how about the Eskimo?" asked Jack. "This is their country, isn't
it? How do they stand it?"
"Sometimes they don't," said Farnum. "When the hunting is poor and
famine stalks through the Eskimo village, only the hardiest survive."
"Where do they live, anyway?" struck in Frank. "Why aren't they around
here? Why haven't we seen any?"
"They may have seen us," said Farnum, "and are avoiding us. They are a
timorous people, know the white man only by tradition. To the Eskimo,
the white man is a sort of god, at least to the Eskimo of all this
country north of us. Back along the coast of Alaska, of course, some
sort of contact has been made. But these Eskimo never come in touch with
the whites. They are a migratory people. In Summer they range far and
wide on the hunt. In the Winter, they retire to the edge of the Arctic
Ocean."
"But why?" asked Bob, in surprise. "I should think that would be the
very place for them to steer away from."
"Oh, no," said Farnum. "You see, all game goes far to the south in
Winter, so the Eskimo goes to the ocean because it is the home of the
only game left--the seal. He builds his snow house or igloo and camps
near the air holes of the seal, spearing them as they come up for air.
Occasionally he slays a polar bear, too."
"I confess I know very little about the Eskimo," said Jack. "What are
his weapons?"
"Bows and arrows tipped with flint or copper, copper-pointed spears, and
wooden knives edged with copper," said Farnum.
"But, a bear," cried Bob, incredulously. "How could an Eskimo kill a
great polar bear with such weapons?"
"Single-handed, he couldn't," said Farnum. "But when the bear is hunted,
the whole tribe of hunters go together. They attack in a circle. Their
spears or harpoons have lines attached. And as these harpoons sink into
the body of the bear, the lines pull him this way and that as he charges
on his tormenters. Eventually, if the Eskimo are lucky, they have him so
surrounded that he cannot move. Then one dashes in and administers the
death blow."
"Then necessity forces them to live in tribal groups?" asked Jack.
Farnum nodded.
"In the Summer they often hunt alone, ranging far, for they are great
travelers. But in Winter, the hunters are all back with the tribe."
"And the Indians?" asked Frank.
Farnum's face darkened.
"There are not many," he said. "I wish there were less. You may say all
you please about the 'noble red man.' But all I ever heard about the
Indians of the Far North doesn't predispose me in their favor. They are
cutthroats, thieves and liars. Usually they hunt somewhat to the south
of us, and make their way in towards the northern Canadian settlements
as Winter approaches. Let's hope we encounter none of them."
The boys wondered as they went along whether this were gold-producing
country into which they were pushing. They spoke of the matter to Dick,
their canoe mate, at times. Taciturn though he was usually, at every
mention of gold his eyes brightened, and he became almost voluble.
"Never been this far north," he said on one occasion, "no white man ever
has been in here, reckon. But I'd like to stop at the foot o' some of
these rapids and wash a little gravel for luck. I sure would like to."
"Let's do it the next rapids we come to," suggested Frank, with eager
interest. "It wouldn't take long, would it?"
"Orders is not to waste time."
"Well, I'll speak to father," said Jack. "I'm sure he'd let us try it
just once."
In this surmise he was correct, for the noon halt happened to be at the
foot of a rapids that would necessitate a portage, and Dick and Art
reported the graveled bank showed signs of "color." Even Farnum, his
mind concentrated on the task of getting his party along and on the job
in hand, showed interest when addressed on the subject. With pick and
pan, therefore, the two men got busy, while the boys watched with
breathless interest the process of rocking the pan and washing out the
gravel.
"Whoopee," cried Dick, suddenly. "Thar she is. Color in the pan."
"Sure as I'm born," ejaculated his partner. "Strong, too."
All the boys could discern, however, were some dully gleaming particles
at the bottom of the pan, out of which most of the gravel had been
washed with the water. They had half expected to spy nuggets. Farnum and
Mr. Hampton, however, were as eagerly interested as the two old-timers.
"Try another pan, men," suggested Mr. Hampton. "Let us go a little
farther upstream."
Once more the process was repeated. This time the pan was rich in "pay"
and the excitement of the four older men mounted, hectic spots glowing
dull beneath their tan in the cheeks of the two old-timers especially.
Then Dick, who was wielding the pick, attacked a clump of rocks in the
edge of the stream at the very foot of the rapids, standing in his boots
almost knee-deep in the water. For several minutes he picked and pried
and finally, with a shout of delight, turned to his audience behind him
on the bank and, having plunged an arm into the water, held it up
dripping.
"Look," was all he said.
They gazed, all eyes.
"Well! Well!" cried Art.
A small but sizable nugget lay on Dick's outstretched palm.
"What luck," cried Jack. "You certainly looked in the right place."
"Bet there's more gold around here," cried Frank. "Maybe a bonanza. Who
knows?"
"You ought to stake a claim, Dick," said big Bob. "I don't know much
about the process. But that's the thing to do, isn't it?"
"Huh," said Dick, generously. "Belongs to you boys well as me. You
thought of it."
"Oughter work it," spoke up Art. "Might take out a good poke this
Summer."
This remark recalled Tom Farnum to the object of his expedition.
"No, no, men," he said, sharply. "Don't get bitten with the gold fever
now. We've got work ahead of us, work that we contracted to do."
"Right," said Dick.
Art's face fell, but he, too, nodded agreement.
"Just the same," said Farnum, softening, "there's nothing to prevent you
two from staking a claim. Some day you may come back to work it."
"Belongs to us no more'n the rest o' you," said Dick, sturdily. "The
young fellers wanted us to make a try at it here just for luck, an' we
did."
A warm debate followed, the boys protesting they were not entitled to
any part in the find. Finally Dick capitulated.
"Tell you what," he said. "Art an' me'll stake this claim an' file on
it. But if we ever come back to work her an' she pays, we'll declare you
in."
"Not unless you let us help to finance the expedition," said Jack,
turning for confirmation to his comrades. "Isn't that right, fellows."
Bob and Frank agreed. Farnum put an end to the discussion.
"Good enough," he said. "Let it go at that. Now we must buckle into the
job. Do you realize we've spent more than two hours here, when we should
have stopped only a half hour? We've got to make this portage and push
on. Come on. Everybody to his task."