SHIPS THAT PASS IN THE NIGHT
Much as they regretted it, Joe Marion and Jennings after a night’s sleep
were forced to admit that it seemed their duty to push on over the trail
left by the outlaw.
“’Twouldn’t be so bad if we hadn’t caught Munson’s message,” said Joe
thoughtfully. “In a case like this, one is obliged to consider the
highest good to the greatest number. It might easily happen that a delay
on our part at this moment would mean the loss of Munson’s entire party.
It would almost surely mean that if they arrived at Flaxman Island to
find their supply depot in ashes.”
“And as for Curlie,” added Jennings, “if he came out of that blizzard
alive with his rifle in hand, he’ll take care of himself, trust him for
that.”
“Yes, and with that hind-quarter of caribou meat.”
So it was decided that they should press on. They had followed the trail
of the outlaw for ten miles or more when they came upon footprints in the
snow beside the trail which seemed to indicate that the outlaw had paused
in his travel.
“Wonder what he stopped there for?” said Jennings, examining the tracks
carefully. “From the position of his feet I’d say he’d been looking down
the hill.”
“Aw, c’mon,” said Joe. “The big point is, he went straight on and we’re
following.”
A hundred yards farther on they came to a place where a reindeer and sled
joined the trail.
“That’s queer!” said Jennings, pausing again. “Funny that fellow would
follow the outlaw. Looks exactly like the track made by that other fellow
when he pulled out of that clump of willows after he’d left his deer tied
there all night and had camped in our thicket. Wonder if it could have
been the same man.”
He would have wondered still more had he known that his companion,
Curlie, was on that sled and that each mile he traveled brought him
closer to the curly-haired young radiophone expert.
His wonder did grow apace when, mile after mile, the reindeer driver
followed the trail of the outlaw.
“Wonder what he’s after,” he mumbled over and over.
When presently he saw the reindeer tracks suddenly swing to the right and
down the ridge, and by straining his eyes he made out a large herd of
reindeer feeding at the edge of the scrub forest, he was truly
disappointed.
“Thought it meant something,” he grumbled, “his following along that way.
But I guess he was just following the ridge for good going till he got to
his reindeer herd. We might go down and buy some reindeer meat. I think I
see a cabin at the edge of the forest. They might have other things to
eat, coffee, hardtack and the like. Natives often do.”
“Can’t afford to use up the time,” said Joe. “We’re doing well enough on
caribou meat. Got quite a supply of it yet. So we’d better mush along.
All right, Ginger! Let’s go,” he shouted. His leader leaped to his feet
and they were away.
It would be interesting to speculate on just what would have happened had
they decided to descend the hill to trade with the natives. They might
have been ambushed and slain, for Curlie Carson was at that moment in the
cabin at the edge of the forest and he was far from free to go his own
way.
So like ships in the night they passed, Curlie Carson and his pals. Only
once Jennings paused to look back. Then as he shaded his eyes he said to
Joe:
“Seems like I see something hovering up there about the tree tops.”
“White owl or raven,” said Joe.
“No, I don’t think it is. Can’t quite make out what it is, though.”
Then they pressed on over the trail left by the sleds of the outlaw.
The fluttering above the edge of the forest was caused by neither white
owl nor raven, but by three balloons bobbing about in the air; a red one,
a white one and a blue one. These balloons, considerably larger than toy
balloons, were kept from fluttering away by silk cords reaching to the
cabin below.
Before we can explain their presence here we must first tell what had
happened to Curlie Carson since we left him huddled behind a snowbank
with bullets singing over him.
Without knowing why he had been attacked Curlie realized that he was in
grave danger. These rough men, whoever they might be, were apparently
bent on his destruction.
For the moment he was safe. The snowbank was thick and solid. A bullet,
he knew, made little progress in snow. But they might outflank him and
come in to the right or left of him. They doubtless believed him to be in
possession of a rifle, or at least an automatic. They would plan their
attack with extreme caution but in time they would get him.
Twisting about under cover he studied the lie of the snow to right and
left of him. It was not reassuring. True, there were other snow ridges,
but to reach these he must expose himself. This would not do. To cut
himself a trench along the hillside would take too long. Besides he would
be detected in the attempt. He thought of his belt radiophone equipment.
“Might get up a balloon aerial,” he told himself, “and send an S. O. S.
But that would take time—too much time. Besides, who’d come to my rescue?
Deuce of a mess, I’d say!”
He at length determined on a bold move.
“Might get shot down on the spot,” he admitted, “but it’s better than
waiting.”
The thing he did was to leap suddenly upon the crest of the snowbank with
his hands held high in air, at the same time keeping a sharp eye on the
attackers. If they shot he would instantly drop back.
They did not shoot. Their rifles went to their shoulders but when they
saw his hands in air they hesitated.
After a brief consultation, two of them, with rifles extended before them
for a hip-shot, walked slowly toward him.
When they were within twenty yards of him Curlie said in the calmest tone
he could command:
“What’s the matter with you fellows? I didn’t steal your reindeer. Found
him tangled in a thicket where he would have starved. Besides, I have no
guns. What harm could I do you?”
Without a word the two men proceeded to advance. As they came closer
Curlie became convinced that they were Indians and not Eskimos as he had
supposed them to be.
“That makes it look different,” he told himself. “They may be reindeer
rustlers who have stolen the reindeer herd. Probably are. Never heard of
a reindeer herd being given to Indians. Might have, for all that. Or they
may be just herding them for some white men.”
As the two men came up to him one man felt of his clothing for concealed
weapons. After this, with a grunt, he pointed toward the cabin, then led
the way, leaving his companion to bring up the rear.
Arrived at the edge of the forest, the foremost man joined the man who
had remained behind. After a short consultation in tones too low to be
understood, he returned to Curlie and again motioning him to follow, led
him to a low log cabin.
Once inside this cabin, he pushed Curlie into a small dark room, after
which he swung to a heavy door and dropped a ponderous bar.
“Well now, what about that?” Curlie whispered to himself.
A hasty survey of his prison revealed a chair and a rough bed made of
poles on which there rested some filthy blankets. The place was lighted
by two windows, not more than ten inches square. The walls were of heavy
logs.
“I wonder who they are and who they think I am,” he asked himself.
He sat down to think and as he did so his arm brushed his belt. At that
moment an inspiration came to him.
“Worth trying anyway,” he whispered as he rose hastily. “Have to be quick
about it though. Lucky that window’s at the back of the cabin.”