SOME CONSIDERABLE TREASURE
June Travis felt her hand tremble as she took down the receiver to call
Florence. “Whose hand would not tremble?” she asked herself. And indeed
the events of the past few days had been exciting. Now Florence had left
word to call her. “Something very important to talk about!” That was her
message.
“Hello! Hello!” she heard. “Yes, this is Florence.
“Oh, June, the strangest things do happen!” she exclaimed. “You remember
that little story I wrote about your lost father?”
“Yes. I—”
“Well, today while I was out, a little lady in gray called at the office.
Frances Ward talked to her. And was she mysterious! Wanted to talk to me,
no one else. After that, she said she would talk to you, or to both of us
at once. Had something tremendously important to tell you. It—it’s about
your father.”
“Oh!” June gasped.
“Of course—” the voice at the other end of the line dropped. “Of course,
you must not expect too much. She said something about mind-reading,
mental telepathy and all that. She may be just one more fortune teller.
But somehow I can’t help but feel that she isn’t. She lives in quite an
exclusive section of the city. Mrs. Ward says she wouldn’t be allowed to
put out a sign in that section. And what’s a fortune teller without a
sign? So—”
“Oh, I’m all excited!” June thrilled.
“Well, you mustn’t be—at least not too much. Tomorrow I’ve got to go
after something else. Remember that gypsy fortune teller who stole four
hundred dollars? I’ve got to find her.”
“But won’t that be terribly dangerous?” June’s voice wavered.
“Danger? What is danger?” Florence laughed. “Anyway, it’s part of my job.
I really haven’t accomplished much yet. Been drawing my pay all the time.
Perhaps this will be a scoop.”
As you shall see, it was a “scoop” in more ways than one.
If Florence was anticipating trouble, Jeanne, on far-away Isle Royale,
was in the midst of it at that very moment.
Who can describe Jeanne’s fright as she turned about on the wintry trail
to look into the gleaming eyes of a giant moose? She expected nothing
less than a wild snorting charge from the monster.
And where should she go? To swing about and dash back over the trail was
impossible. The way was too narrow. To go forward meant that she would
come at last to the brink of a rocky precipice. At the foot of this
precipice, piled up by an early winter storm, were great jagged masses of
ice.
“Go back!” she screamed at the top of her voice. “Go back!”
But the moose did not go back. Instead he lowered his great antlers, took
three steps forward, then after opening his great mouth and, allowing an
apparently endless tongue to roll about, he let forth a most terrific
roar.
To say that Jeanne was frightened would be not to express her feelings at
all. She was fairly paralyzed with fear.
As if this were not enough, her startled eyes caught some further
movement in the brush that grew to the right of the trail. As her
trembling fingers directed the light of her torch there, a second smaller
pair of eyes gleamed at her, then another and yet another.
“Wolves—bush wolves!” Her heart sank to the depths of despair.
She raced forward in a mad hope of finding foothold for descending the
cliff that led down to the lake’s shore. She caught the magnificent
picture of dark waters white with racing foam, a path of gold that was
moonlight, and beyond that, limitless night. Then a strange thing
happened. The giant moose, having given vent to a second roar, took one
more step forward; then stumbling, fell upon his knees.
Strangest of all, he did not rise at once. Instead, as if the great
weight of his towering antlers were too much for him to bear, he allowed
his head to drop forward until his broad nose rested on the ground. For
one full moment he remained thus.
As for Jeanne, she raced on to the edge of the precipice. Instantly she
shrank back. Surely here was no way of escape. A sheer drop of fifty
feet, and beneath that, up-ended fragments of ice standing like bayonets
waiting for one who might drop. This was what met her gaze.
Strangely enough, in the midst of all this terror, the glorious
scene—limitless water, golden moon and night, so gripped her that for the
instant her mind was filled with it.
“The heavens declare the glory of God,” she murmured.
Perhaps it was just this consciousness of the nearness of God and the
glory of His world that quieted her soul and gave her the power to see
things as they truly were.
As she turned back from the precipice, she saw the moose struggling to
regain his feet. “Until he is up again, he is harmless,” she assured
herself. Having thrown her light full upon him, she cried out in
surprise.
“Why! The poor fellow! He is like a walking skeleton! He must be
starving!”
Like a flash all was changed. Fear gave way to pity and desire to aid.
She recalled the moose-trapper’s words: “We think they are
underfed—perhaps starving.” Here was one who had failed to find food. How
could she help him?
For a moment she could not think. Then it came to her that the food in
the moose-trap was branches of white birch, mountain-ash and balsam.
Close to the moose, who still struggled vainly to rise, was a clump of
birch trees.
“They are small, but the branches are too high for him,” she told
herself. “If I cut down the one that leans toward him, it will almost
touch him. If I do—”
She hesitated. At her belt hung a small axe in a sheath. Dared she use
it? Could she take the dozen steps toward that moose and wield her axe
upon that tree with a steady hand? Her heart pounded painfully. Then, as
if whispered in her ear, there came to her, “He notes the sparrow’s
fall.”
There was no further hesitation. Gripping her axe, she advanced boldly.
As she did so, the moose gave vent to one more terrifying roar. But
Jeanne scarcely heard. She had formed a purpose. It should be carried
out.
Thwack! Thwack! Thwack! Her axe sounded out in the silent night. Came a
cracking sound. The small tree swayed, then went down. The top branches
switched the great beast’s nose. He did not appear to mind, but, reaching
out, began eating greedily.
“There!” Jeanne breathed. “Now we’ll do one more for good measure.”
A second tree tottered to a fall; then, still gripping her axe, Jeanne
sped on the wings of the wind toward the cabin where the lamp still sent
out its inviting gleam.
One sound gave speed to her swift feet. The blood-curdling howl of a bush
wolf was answered by another and yet another.
“I’ll fix those wolves!” Mr. Carlson exclaimed as Jeanne, five minutes
later, in excited words told her story. Taking down his rifle, he
disappeared into the dark outside. Shortly after there came the short
quick crack-crack-crack of a rifle. After that the night was silent.
“That moose,” said Violet, the quiet, studious sister of Vivian, who took
an especial pleasure in watching all manner of wild creatures, “must have
been Old Black Joe. We called him that,” she laughed, “because he was
almost black, and because he was so old.
“How he does love apples!” She laughed again.
“Yes, and you fed him almost half a bushel!” said Vivian reprovingly. “As
if there were apple trees on Isle Royale.
“We had to buy them,” she explained to Jeanne. “Brought them all the way
from Houghton.”
“But think what I got out of it in the end!” Violet reminded her sister.
“Yes,” Vivian agreed.
“You see,” Violet explained enthusiastically, “Old Black Joe got so tame
after I had fed him a peck of apples, one at a time, that he’d follow me
about like a pet lamb. And oh, the noises he’d make way down in his
throat asking for more apples!
“Then one day a man came here to get pictures of wild life. Old Black Joe
and I put on a real show for him. I didn’t quite ride the old fellow’s
back, but I did almost. The picture came out fine. When the man left he
gave me a whole twenty dollar bill for our boat. Wasn’t that grand?”
“Depends on how good a boat it was,” said Jeanne.
“We haven’t the boat yet. We’re saving for it,” said Violet.
Jeanne looked puzzled. “I thought you sold him a boat for twenty
dollars.”
“Oh, no!” Violet laughed merrily. “He gave that money to us so we could
apply it on the boat we are going to buy. But of course,” Violet paused.
“You wouldn’t understand. For quite a long time Vivian and I have been
saving up to buy a boat, a smart little motor boat we can use for taking
people on picnics, fishing trips and cruising parties. You saw the cabins
at the foot of the hill. Tourists come to the island and rent them in
summer. Vivian and I could help father out with the family expenses if we
had a boat.”
“And next year we want to go to high school on the mainland,” Vivian put
in.
“We’ve got nearly sixty dollars,” Violet concluded, “but of course that’s
not nearly enough.”
For a moment there was silence in the room. Then Violet said, “If that
really is Old Black Joe, we must manage to get him into the corral. There
are a few apples left. I’ll just lead him right in.”
“Y-yes,” drawled the moose-trapper, “and after he’s in, you’ll have to
feed him. He’s so old he’s almost sure to die on our hands. What we’re
after is good live young moose that will stand shipping.”
“All right! All right, sir! We’ll feed him!” the girls agreed as with one
voice. “And you’ll see. He’ll be the prize picture of the big show in the
spring.”
Jeanne did not go over Greenstone Ridge and down to her Lost Lake next
morning. It was a day of wild storm. The wind whistled and sang about the
cabin. The spruce trees swayed and sighed. The wind, like a white sheet,
rose and fell as it swept across the frozen surface of the harbor.
Despite all this, the three girls hunted up Old Black Joe. He had fallen
asleep beneath a cluster of cedars. Had the girls not found him, this
sleep might well have been his last. As it was, only by eager coaxing and
reluctant flogging were they able at last to usher him into the trap that
was in truth a haven.
“There!” Vivian exclaimed. “Now we have let ourselves in for a winter’s
work. That moose-trapper does not like bringing in boughs any too well.
He’ll surely hold us to our bargain.”
“But I’m sure poor Old Black Joe needs a friend,” said Jeanne.
“And he’ll pay us back, you’ll see!” said the sentimental Violet. “Don’t
forget that line about casting your bread on the waters.”
“We’ll cast our brush on the snow,” Vivian laughed, “but it’s really all
the same.”
When they were back at the cabin and well thawed out, Jeanne found
herself thinking once more of the mysterious airplane, D.X.123, that had
vanished, and the strange coincidence of her seeing those signs at the
bottom of Lost Lake. Soon she found herself brooding over the possible
discoveries she might make in the very near future.
“This won’t do!” she told herself stoutly. “Surely dread has spoiled many
a fine life, and more often than not there is really nothing to be
feared.”
To clear her mind of this dark shadow, she began searching about for some
bright dream when, with a mental “I have it!” she sprang to her feet. She
had thought of the ancient churn. “Another mystery,” she told herself,
“and this will be a joyous one, I feel sure.”
She went in search of Vivian and, to her vast astonishment, found her
cooped up in a tiny room heated by an oil stove. Over the girl’s head a
pair of ear-phones were tightly clamped. By the expression on her face,
Jeanne knew her to be so absorbed as to be completely lost to the world.
For a full five minutes Jeanne stood patiently waiting. Then, with a
start, Vivian looked her way. “Oh!” she exclaimed, “I didn’t know you
were there.”
“But what are you doing?” Jeanne asked. “There is a radio in the living
room. Surely you don’t have to—”
“Coop myself up in here to listen?” Vivian put in. “No. But this is not
just a receiving radio. It is a radio station; short wave. We are
licensed to send messages free of charge. And we _do_ send them.” Her
eyes shone with pride. “We are the only station on the island. We saved a
boy’s life by calling a doctor from the mainland. We called for the coast
guard when a hydroplane crashed on Rock Harbor. Oh, yes, and we’ve done
much more. But now, I was about to get off a message telling of the moose
trap. You see, we’re the radio news reporter for this corner of the
world.”
“I’m sorry I disturbed you,” Jeanne apologized. “It must be fascinating.”
“But Vivian,” she changed the subject, “do you mind if I look at the
things in your museum?”
“No. Here’s the key.”
“And Vivian—I—” Jeanne hesitated, “I’d like to try opening that old
churn.”
“Whatever for?” Vivian exclaimed.
“Just a feeling about it.”
“All right. But you won’t break anything?”
“Not a thing.” Jeanne took the key and hurried away, little dreaming that
the short wave station she had just seen was to have a large part in the
mystery drama that was to be played by the inhabitants of Chippewa Harbor
on Isle Royale, in the days that were to come.
Armed with a bottle of kerosene and a small knife, Jeanne slipped into
the “museum” and closed the door. It was a wintry spot, that small room,
but warmed by her enthusiasm, she began her task without one shiver. Soon
she was scraping away at the corroded metal clasps, applying kerosene,
scraping again.
For a long time there was not the least sign of success. She was all but
ready to give up when, as her stout young hands turned at one screw it
gave forth the faintest sort of squeak.
“Oh, you will!” she breathed exultantly. Then she redoubled her efforts.
At the end of another half hour that one clamp was entirely loose. Three
others remained. Another half hour and, quite suddenly, as if resistance
were no longer possible, two clamps loosened at once. “Oh!” she breathed.
“Now I have you!”
This was true, for once three clamps were loosed, the cover could be
removed. Here she paused. Though an only child, Jeanne had never been
selfish. She had always shared her joys, whenever possible. She was about
to open a thing that had been closed for half a century or more. What
would she find? “A whiff of sour buttermilk,” as Vivian had prophesied?
If more than this, what then?
“A laugh or a secret is always better when shared,” she told herself.
Opening the door, she called softly, “Girls! Come here!”
When Vivian and Violet had entered she closed the door. “See!” she said
in the most mysterious of tones. “It’s done like this. You turn this
screw, then that one. Now this one, now that one, and, presto! It’s
open.”
It was true the churn smelled of sour buttermilk, and such a sourness as
it was! This was not all, however. Wedged into the churn so it could not
possibly be shaken about was some heavy object.
“It’s copper!” Vivian exclaimed. “A lump of pure native copper taken from
the rocks here on the island. How strange!”
“Look!” Jeanne whispered. “Here, tucked away in a crevice of the copper,
is a bit of paper.”
“A note! It’s written on!” Violet cried.
As Jeanne’s trembling fingers unfolded it, at the very center of a small
page filled with writing, her eyes caught three words that stood out like
mountain peaks. The words were: Some considerable treasure.