SAVED BY A WHISPER
Back in the camp Jennings was working on an Eskimo type of harness for
Ginger, Joe Marion’s leader. The white man’s collar, which was very much
like a leather horse collar, had worn a sore spot on his neck. A harness
made of strips of sealskin and fashioned in a manner somewhat similar to
a breast collar, would relieve this.
Joe Marion had gone a short way from camp in the hope of finding a
snowshoe rabbit or a ptarmigan. His search had been rewarded. In crossing
a low hill he had caught the whir of wings and had, a moment later,
sighted three snow-white ptarmigan. These quails of the Arctic wilderness
went racing away across the snow. His aim was good and, with all three of
these in his bag, he was sure of some delicious broth and tender, juicy
meat that night.
He was searching about for other birds when a sudden gust of wind sent
cutting bits of snow into his face.
“Huh!” he grunted, looking away to his left. “Well, now, that looks like
business. Came up quick, too. I’d better be getting back.”
He had no trouble finding his way back to camp, but by the time he
reached it the snow fog was so thick he could not see three rods before
him.
He found Jennings struggling with the tent ropes. The tent was in a
complete state of collapse.
“Wind tore it down,” shouted Jennings. “Give—”
The wind caught the tent and fairly tore it from his grasp.
“Give us a hand,” he puffed as he regained his hold. “This is going to be
bad. Got to pack up and get out of here and find shelter of some kind.
Tent won’t stand here.”
“There’s a lot of willow bushes with the dead leaves on down there by a
little stream,” suggested Joe.
“That’s the place. We can tie the ropes to the willows. Willows keep off
the wind. Come on, let’s pack up.” Jennings threw the tent into a heap.
“But Curlie? He’ll be coming back.”
“Set up a stake. Write a note. Tell where we’ve gone. Got a pencil,
paper?”
“Yes.”
“You write it.”
Creeping beneath the overthrown tent, Joe managed to scribble a note.
This he fastened securely to an Alpine staff and, having tied a red
handkerchief to the staff that Curlie might not miss it, set it solidly
in a hard-packed snowbank.
“That’ll do,” said Jennings. “Now give us a hand. Watch your face; it’s
freezin’—your cheeks. Take your mitten off and rub ’em.”
The dogs, with tails to the wind, stood patiently enduring the storm. But
when Jennings tried to get his team together they backed, twisted and
turned in such a manner as to render them useless.
“Here, Ginger,” shouted Joe, “here Bones, Pete, Major. Show ’em what a
real dog team can do!”
So great was the comradeship between these dogs and their young master
that he was able in a moment’s time to hitch them to the sled, ready for
action.
“Good old boys!” he muttered hoarsely; “we’ve fought wolves together. Now
we’ll fight this blizzard.”
A sled-load of camp equipment was soon moving down to the willows by the
creek bed.
In the course of an hour they had succeeded in establishing a safe and
fairly comfortable camp. The dry willow leaves served in lieu of Arctic
feathers, while the stems and branches made a crackling fire whose genial
warmth pervaded the tent in spite of the storm.
“Now for a feed,” said Joe, producing his hunting bag.
“What you got?”
“Ptarmigan. Three of ’em.”
“Good!”
“We’ll save one for Curlie,” said Joe, tossing one of the birds into the
corner. “It’ll be better piping hot.”
“I’m worried about Curlie,” said Jennings, cocking his head on one side
to listen to the howl of the storm. “This is no night to be out alone.
Ought to do something, only we can’t; not a thing. Be lost yourself in no
time if you went out to look for him.”
“You fix these birds and I’ll set up the radio-phone,” suggested Joe. “He
took his belt set with him. We can at least listen in for him.”
A half hour later, as he sipped a cup of delicious broth, Joe gave an
exclamation of disgust:
“What’s the good of all my listening in? He can’t get a message off. He’d
have to have a high aerial for that. Could manage it with balloons on a
still night, but not in this gale. Wires would tangle in an instant. You
can—”
He broke off abruptly, to clasp his receivers to his ears. He was getting
something.
* * * * * * * *
Curlie had once read a book written by a man whose daring exploits in the
north he had greatly admired. This writer had said that the notion that
falling asleep when out in a blizzard might cause one’s death by freezing
was a great mistake.
“Should you find yourself lost in a blizzard,” he remembered the words as
well as he might had he read them but an hour before, “seek out a
sheltered spot and compose yourself as best you can. Save your strength.
If you can fall asleep, so much the better. You will awake refreshed. You
will not freeze. If you become chilled, the cold will waken you.”
“I wonder if that is true?” he thought to himself as he huddled against
the cut bank between his two walls of snow to watch the snow sifting down
the hillside like sand down a dune.
He did not attempt to decide whether or not he would put the thing to a
test. He merely sat there until the white, sifting snow became brown and
gold, until the gale became a gentle breeze, until all about him was the
warmth of a tropical clime.
Before him a palm tree spread its inviting shade. Across the horizon a
slow procession moved, camels and horses. “A caravan,” he murmured. Then
silently the scene shifted. Before him instead of palms were cacti.
Instead of camels a great herd of cattle urged on by men on horseback,
who swung sombreros and lariats. A cloud of dust followed the herd
lazily. But ever just before him the brown sand sifted, sifted, sifted
eternally.
Into this scene there moved a beautiful girl. She was dressed in the gay
costume of a Mexican; her cheeks were brown with the sun, but she was
good to look at. Moving with a strange grace, she came close to him and
whispered in his ear. What she said was:
“Curlie! Curlie Carson, are you there?”
The question seemed so strange that he started, and, starting, he
suddenly awoke. The girl and her desert vanished like magic. Before him
the sifting still went on, but now again it was sifting snow. Drowsy with
fatigue, benumbed but not chilled by the cold, he had fallen asleep and
had been dreaming. The two deserts were but dreams.
As he sat there staring at the snow he suddenly realized that part of his
dream was reality; the whisper continued:
“Curlie Carson, can you hear me?”
Clapping his hands to his ears, he suddenly realized that his belt radio
was working and that the Whisperer had returned.
Springing to his feet, he attempted to grasp the coil aerial. His hands
and arms were like blocks of wood.
Madly he thrashed them about until circulation was partially restored.
The Whisperer was still speaking. What she said was not as important as
the mere fact that she was speaking at all. He had remembered that he was
lost. He thought he knew about where she and the outlaw should be
located. If he could but discover the direction from which this whisper
came, he might take a course to the left of it and in that way find the
camp of his companions. It was a desperate chance but better than none.
He was now convinced that the writer of that book was mistaken. He knew
now that a person with a clear conscience has no business going to sleep
when the mercury is thirty or forty below.
“Are you - there - Curlie?” came the whisper. “I would - have - called -
you - sooner Curlie - but I - could not. We - have come - a - long way.”
Ah, now his fingers were working. He could move the coil. He held his
breath. Had the last word been spoken? Was he lost as before? No!
“Something - tells - me - you - are - near - us - now - Curlie. Do - be -
careful. It - is - dangerous - very - very dangerous.”
As the whispered words ceased, Curlie’s fingers trembled. He had located
the Whisperer not forty miles away. He thought he knew the way back to
camp. The wind had fallen somewhat. There was now a chance, a chance for
his life. Dragging out his pocket compass, he fought his way to the top
of the hill, then mapped out as best he could a course which should take
him to camp.