The big canoe which Dick and Art had captured from the Indians was
turned over to MacDonald. It was easily capable of transporting five--the
three prisoners, MacDonald and Dick. With the two latter in the bow and
stern respectively, and the prisoners unarmed between, there was little
danger so long as MacDonald and Dick maintained reasonable watchfulness.
Two of the half-breeds were cowed and broken in spirit, moreover, while
Long Tom was _hors de combat_ on account of the injury to his arm, and
would be for some time to come. MacDonald's skin kayak was to be towed
behind, containing his slender outfit, and one of the prisoners could
carry the whole business alone at portages.
MacDonald had entered the lake by a considerable stream flowing into it
from the southwest, and not the stream down which the Hampton party had
come. He set out for this other stream before the others quit the
island, with the intention of retracing his steps into the wilderness in
large measure. This would facilitate his travel. Farther to the south,
he said, was a large river which could be reached by a ten-mile portage,
and down which they could travel for many miles.
"If you ever want to join the Mounted," he said to Bob, to whom he had
taken a great fancy, "let me know. I'll fix it for you."
Bob laughed, but he was young enough to be flattered by the sincere
compliment.
"I may take you up on that some day," he said. "Who knows?"
Then MacDonald stepped into the canoe, goodbyes were said, and the craft
shot away.
"There go a couple of good men," commented Farnum, as under the powerful
strokes of the paddles the canoe drew swiftly down the lake.
"One good man, anyhow," said Art, who overheard the observation. "Ol'
Dick an' me had a li'l talk. I'm going to join up with the Mounted, too,
when we git back. We been pals fifteen year."
"Fifteen years," exclaimed Frank. "In the wilderness all that time?"
Art nodded absently, his eyes on the retreating canoe.
"Sure," said Art. "It's home to us. Ain't no wilderness. Cities is the
real wilderness. Dick an' me's been separated now and then, like now,
but we always come together agin. I expect when we git to be old men
like some prospectors I seen we'll be together all the time, fightin'
and jawin' each other, but ready to tear the heart out o' anybody that
jumps one of us."
"It's a wonder Dick went off with MacDonald like he did, in that case,"
said Jack.
"Huh. Somebody had to go. He knew we'd meet agin."
Art said no more, but turned away to busy himself with the outfit.
Presently everything was in readiness for departure and then the two
remaining canoes, with the outfit distributed between them, the three
boys in one and the three men in the other, started up the lake in the
opposite direction from that taken by MacDonald and Dick. Previously,
when in pursuit of Lupo, Mr. Hampton had discovered the lake was of so
considerable extent that, despite their hours of travel up the side,
they had been unable to discern the farther end. In fact, the lake
broadened out considerably some distance beyond the island. It was his
intention, inasmuch as it followed the general northeastward direction
they would pursue, to stick to it as long as possible. He believed there
would be some stream at the farther end sufficiently large to float
their canoes.
In this he was not mistaken, for after four hours of steady paddling,
they discerned the outlet of a stream of considerable width, quartered
across the lake and entered it. Almost immediately Jack called to his
father, in surprise:
"Dad! Oh, Dad! This stream flows out of the lake; not into it. Do you
notice?"
The leading canoe slowed up while the boys approached.
"It certainly does, Jack," said his father. "What do you make of it,
Farnum?"
The latter shook his head, puzzled.
"I don't know," he said. "You must remember this is unexplored country.
We're liable to find anything here. But, maybe----"
"What?"
"I don't know. We're near the Coppermine, aren't we, Art?"
"Figure we must be."
"Maybe this stream flows into the Coppermine."
"I'll bet that's it," Art approved. "The waters of that lake empty into
the Coppermine. Yes, sir; I'll bet that's what it is. Well, that makes
travel easy for awhile, anyhow."
Two days of travel, unbroken by any but routine incidents such as the
occasional shooting of wild duck Or geese, brought the party at camping
time at the end of the second day to a pleasant, open, grassy prairie
between two low-wooded hills. Here it was decided to make camp.
After the evening meal was over, and while Mr. Hampton, who was feeling
out of sorts, retired to his little tent to try and sleep without taking
part in the usual desultory conversation about the fire--which was kept
going for the companionship and cheer it imparted and not from any need
of warmth you may be sure--Jack arose and stretched.
"My legs are stiff from that position in the canoe all day," he said. "I
want to stretch them a bit. Who'll come with me to the top of that
nearest hill? The sun is pretty low, but we ought to get a considerable
view."
Bob and Frank both volunteered to accompany him. Farnum sat, smoking his
pipe and staring into the fire absently. He didn't care to go. But Art
arose and joined the party. It was not far to the top of the hill,
although a stiff climb through the trees and brush. The crest, however,
was bare of timber.
Frank, who lighter than the others, was first to reach the top, stood
struck with amazement. He turned to beckon the others forward with one
hand, while laying the other over his mouth in a gesture enjoining
silence.
"For the love o' Pete," whispered Art, eyes bulging, as he stood beside
Frank and peered down into the grassy vale beyond, half overgrown with
young willows.
"Are they caribou?" asked Jack, low-voiced. "They don't look like the
caribou we've run across along the streams."
"They ain't, neither," said Art. "They're reindeer."
"Must be Santy Claus's," chuckled Bob. "Always did believe there was
something to that story about the old boy living up here near the North
Pole, even though people insisted on calling it a fairy tale. Now I
know."
His joke was ignored, however, as Art continued:
"Yes, sir, reindeer. Caribou are always brown. Some o' these are white,
some brown, and some spotted. Then they ain't the size o' caribou.
Besides, I know they're reindeer. I see 'em often enough in Alaska to
know."
"Alaska? Do these reindeer come from there?"
Art nodded.
"Look at 'em. They're tame. Must'a winded us, but that don't scare 'em
none. They're used to humans. No more scared o' bein' hunted than cattle
are back in the States."
"Tame?" queried Frank. "What do you mean?"
"Why, the Eskimos in Alaska, not the wild one, of this Far North, but
the regular ones that come in touch with the white man, they keep herds
o' reindeer just like a farmer in the States keeps cows. Look at 'em.
Must be two-three hundred there right now. They're eight-ten hundred
miles from home, too. Must 'a wandered away. Bet you there's a desprit
Eskimo lookin' for 'em right now."
Jack looked thoughtful.
"What a shame for a man to lose a big herd like that," he said.
"Yes, sir," affirmed Art emphatically. "Must be six-seven thousand
dollars worth o' tame reindeer there. Pretty tough."
"We can't do anything about it, though," said Bob.
"Seems a pity-like we can't ride herd on 'em till some Eskimo shows up
to claim 'em," said Art. "But it can't be done. Yore father, Jack, is
all for pushin' on fast as we kin."
After some further discussion, the party retraced its steps, with Art
explaining to the boys the big difference existing between the
semi-civilized Eskimos of Alaska and the little that was known of the
wild Eskimos of the Arctic.
"Folks think Alaska's right up next to the North Pole," he said.
"Leastways folks in the States do. People comin' to Nome from the States
every so often give me that knowledge. But they're shore mistaken.
Alaska's great country that'll be settled up some day. Shore, we got
hard Winters. But boys, in the Summer, with the sun a-shinin' all the
time, everything grows just three times as fast as in the States. My Pap
was a farmer back in York State, an' I was raised on a farm. We had hard
scratchin' an' our Winters was long an' hard, too. An' we didn't have
Summers like in Alaska to make up for 'em. I'll bet if my Pap were
livin' today an' farmin' in Alaska he'd find life a lot easier than what
we had it on the old farm."
"But why don't more people live in Alaska, then?" asked Frank.
"Oh, I don't know. Hard to get to, for one thing. Ain't developed up
with railroads, neither. Some day, though, you'll see 'em forced to come
here, the way they're a-crowdin' up down in the States. Why, we got only
60,000 people in all Alaska, yet she's quarter as big as the States an'
could darn near feed the whole push herself, if she was put to it and
farmed right."
"Art, why don't you go to farming? I'd think that would be the thing for
you to do."
"Mebbe I will some day," said Art. "But I'm an old batch. Got no wife,
an' kind o' like to feel free to knock around instead o' bein' tied to
one place."
It was a feeling with which the boys could sympathize. They were young,
with life ahead of them, and they wanted to see the world. In fact they
had seen a good deal of it already, as those who have followed them
through their various adventures, know. Of this they spoke as they made
their way back to camp, where they discovered Farnum ready to turn in,
and merely awaiting their return before doing so. Since their first
encounter with Lupo, and their discovery that they were not alone in the
wilderness, a watch was always kept, and Farnum had combatted sleepiness
in order to keep guard until their return.
"Art, you've got the first watch," he said, when they appeared. "The
rest of you better turn in, and not sit up talking. With luck we ought
to make the Coppermine tomorrow, I figure, and then we'll do some
traveling. We've got to hit a fast pace from now on, for already we are
having real twilight, and pretty soon we'll be having short nights while
the sun dips entirely below the horizon. That means the season is
growing short, and we have not got much time left before we'll have to
start for the outside."
Jack and Bob heeded the injunction and followed Farnum's example
shortly, but Frank, who did not feel sleepy and, moreover, loved to
talk, sat up a considerable time gossiping with Art and telling him of
some of their previous adventures.
Suddenly, as he talked along, low-voiced so as not disturb the nearby
sleepers, Frank noticed Art was not paying attention, and stopped.
"Oh, well," he said, half petulantly, "if I'm boring you----"
Art leaned close, and laid a hand on his arm.
"Sorry, Frank," he said, in a whisper, "but I was a-listenin.' I got a
strange feelin' like as if somebody had his eyes on the back a' my head.
I wasn't payin' no attention to you but a-listenin' to see if I could
hear anything."
He was so intense that he communicated some of his trepidation to Frank.
Instinctively, the latter reached for his rifle as Art half stood up to
peer at their twilit surroundings. They were camped in a tiny grove of a
half dozen spruces, like an islet in a midst of long, matted grass.
As Art stood up, a single shot rang out, shattering the stillness. He
threw himself prone, dragging Frank down with him. Then a fusillade was
poured in on them, seemingly from all sides.