REVENGE FOR A LOST COMRADE
For a second, as he stood there on the sled, with the big Arctic moon
rising above the forest, with the crack of the strange rifle, the roar of
dogs and the howl of wolves dinning in his ears, Joe fancied himself
acting a part in the movies. It was too strange to seem real.
This lasted but a second; then, realizing that the battle was more than
half won but that some of his dogs might be in danger, he sprang from the
sled. The next instant with the butt of his rifle he crushed the skull of
a wolf whose fangs were tearing at the throat of a dog. The wolf,
crumpling over, lay quivering in death.
As he bent over the prostrate dog he saw that it was Sport.
Frightened, bewildered, disheartened by the crack-crack of the newcomer’s
rifle, the remnant of the wolf-pack took to its heels. Soon save for the
growl and whine of dogs, silence reigned in meadow and forest.
The man with the rifle stepped forward. To Joe’s surprise he saw that it
was Jennings.
“Why! It’s you!” he exclaimed.
“Who did you think it might be?” laughed the miner.
“Why, it might have been most anyone. Might even have been the man
Curlie’s looking for, the outlaw of the air. I thought you were with
Curlie. Curlie’s coming—must be most of the way here.”
“Then,” said Jennings quickly, “I’d better go back and meet him, then he
and I will go back and bring the other sleds. Here,” he handed Joe two
clips of cartridges, “guess they’ll not come back. Never can tell though.
You’ll be safe with these.” He turned and walked quickly away.
Left with his dogs and his outfit, Joe made a thorough examination of
things. Three of his dogs, Ginger, the leader, Major, the sled guard, and
Bones, his team-mate, were sitting on their haunches or curled up licking
their wounds.
“Sport’s done in,” he murmured with a queer catch in his throat. “Dogs
get to be a fellow’s pals up here. Pete’s missing. Rushed out after the
retreating enemy to avenge his team-mate, I guess. Only hope he doesn’t
get the worst of it.”
Five dead wolves lay near the sled. These he dragged into a pile. “Enough
pelts there for a splendid rug,” he told himself. “I’ll get some Indian
woman to tan them.”
Then, realizing that it would be some time before his companions would
return, and having nothing else to do, he began skinning the carcasses.
He had nearly completed the task when, from the edge of the forest, there
came a long-drawn howl.
“What, again?” he exclaimed seizing his rifle. “All right, come on. I’m
ready for you this time.”
A pair of fiery balls shone out of the shadowy edge of the forest.
Lifting his rifle he took steady aim. His breath came quick. To shoot in
the quiet calm of perfect self-composure was quite different from a
pitched battle.
He had a perfect bead on the spot between the eyes, when the creature
moved.
He came a few paces closer; then again halted and howled.
And now once more the boy had a perfect aim. His finger was on the
trigger. It was a high-power rifle. The shot could not fail.
“Now!” he whispered to himself. “Now!”
But at that instant a strange thing happened. Old Ginger, the leader,
answered the creature’s call. The answer was not hostile but friendly.
Joe’s rifle dropped with a soft plump into the snow. The next instant he
cupped his hands and shouted.
“Pete! Pete, you old fool, come on in here. You nearly got shot.”
It was indeed Pete, the huskie. He had returned safely from his
expedition of revenge for a lost comrade.
As he came trotting in, head up and ears pricked forward, he marched
straight up to Joe, as a huskie will, and jamming his nose straight
against his leg, gave a big sniff. After that he curled up with his
comrades to lick his wounds.
Two hours later the camp in the forest was once more in order. The meat
had been piled high upon a hastily made cache of strong boughs, roped
between trees. The dogs had been bedded down with spruce boughs. All was
snug for the night.
They were preparing to turn in. To-morrow would be a busy day. They would
spend the greater part of it in camp. The broken sled must be mended.
Joe’s dogs must be allowed to recover from the first shock of the battle.
Jennings would repair the sled. Curlie and Joe would go ahead breaking
the trail on snowshoes for a few miles. This would be the day’s work;
that and keeping a sharp lookout for the outlaw of the air.
“The outlaw of the air!” Curlie was thinking of him when there came a
rattle from the loud-speaker attached to the receiving set tuned for long
wave lengths.
Leaping to the tuner, he touched its knob, twisted it first this way,
then that. He touched a second and a third knob, then bent his ear for
the message.
“Another government affair,” he told himself. Then, suddenly, as if
bursting out from the very room, came a loud, “Bar-r-r-r!”
Instantly his hands flew to the radio-compass as he muttered.
“That’s him, the outlaw!”
He measured the distance accurately, calculated the direction, then
located it on the map.
“There!” he murmured. “He’s right there. Not forty miles. A little off
the trail. For safety from discovery I suppose. Camped there for the
night. By a forced march we could reach that spot before nightfall
to-morrow. Question is, shall we do it?”
Throwing on his coat, he went out of the tent. There for ten minutes he
bathed his temples, throbbing with excitement, in the cold night air.
Pacing up and down on the narrow trail he debated the problem.
“If we try to steal upon him, he may discover us first and elude us,” he
told himself. “If he does that, probably we can’t catch him, for his dogs
will be fresher than ours. If we wait for him here, he may take some
Indian trail which cuts around this point and we may never see him. So
there it is.”
It was a difficult decision but much quiet thinking led him to believe
that there was more to be gained by waiting than by moving. They ought
not break trail beyond the point where they now were. That would but give
the man warning. Early in the morning, he would send Joe exploring
across-trail for any other trail that might pass close to this one. They
would move camp to a position a few yards off trail in the forest. Then
he would set a watch.
Instinctively, as he entered the tent, he examined the clip of cartridges
in his rifle.
“Not looking for him to-night, are you?” grinned Joe.
“No, not looking for him, but you never can tell,” said Curlie soberly.
“Think it’s necessary to set a watch?”
“No. That dog that guards your sled, old Major, is watch enough. He’ll
let us know if anyone comes down the trail, and even if they should
attempt to escape us they couldn’t do it—not with two of our teams in
prime condition.”