[Illustration: The two Dacre boys succeeding in rescuing their chum from
his unfortunate position.]
THE BUNGALOW BOYS
NORTH OF FIFTY-THREE
BY
DEXTER J. FORRESTER
Author of “The Bungalow Boys,” “The Bungalow Boys Marooned
in the Tropics,” “The Bungalow Boys in the Great Northwest,”
“The Bungalow Boys on the Great Lakes,” “The
Bungalow Boys Along the Yukon,” etc., etc.
WITH FOUR ILLUSTRATIONS
BY CHARLES L. WRENN
NEW YORK
HURST & COMPANY
PUBLISHERS
Copyright, 1914,
by
HURST & COMPANY
Table of Contents
I. IN THE WHITE SILENCES.
II. THE RESCUE OF SANDY.
III. THE THIEF IN THE NIGHT.
IV. THE TRACKS IN THE SNOW.
V. THE WILDERNESS TRAIL.
VI. STOPPING TO REST.
VII. IN THE TRAPPER’S HUT.
VIII. THE GHOSTLY CRY.
IX. TOM CALMS JACK’S FEARS.
X. THE MYSTERY SOLVED.
XI. THE NEW-FOUND FRIEND.
XII. THE FRIENDLY INDIAN.
XIII. THE INDIAN’S PREDICTION.
XIV. SWAPPING STORIES.
XV. TOM ON “THE DOGS OF THE NORTH.”
XVI. COMING STORM.
XVII. THE LOUPS GALOUPS.
XVIII. TOM PLAYS DETECTIVE.
XIX. OLD JOE’S THREAT.
XX. THE END OF THE TRAIL.
XXI. THE LITTLE GRAY MAN.
XXII. “THE WOLF’S” TEETH.
XXIII. SANDY ALONE.
XXIV. THE PACK.
XXV. HEMMED IN BY WOLVES.
XXVI. THE BACK TRAIL.
XXVII. FACING DEATH.
XXVIII. THE TRAP.
XXIX. SANDY HAS A NIGHTMARE.
XXX. THE LAW OF THE NORTH.
XXXI. A BOLT FROM THE BLUE.
XXXII. A PROVIDENTIAL MEAL.
XXXIII. OVER THE CREVASSE!
XXXIV. A BATTLE ROYAL.
XXXV. THE DEATH OF “THE WOLF.”
THE BUNGALOW BOYS NORTH OF FIFTY-THREE.
CHAPTER I—IN THE WHITE SILENCES.
The air in the valley was still as death. Not a wandering puff of wind
swept the white, snow-covered slopes that shot up steeply from either
side of its wide, flat floor; nor had any stirred for several days. The
land was chained and fettered in icy bonds, and would be for many long
weeks.
The river—the Porcupine—that, when the Bungalow Boys had first come to
this valley in the Frying Pan Range, had dashed and sometimes raged
along its shoaly course, was ice-fast. Occasionally from an overburdened
birch or hemlock branch the accumulated snow would fall with a dull
crash.
These miniature avalanches alone broke the white silence. In the dead
stillness they sounded quite loud and startling when they occurred.
There was no twittering of birds nor were there traces of any larger
animals than field mice and small rodents. In the snow, as if it had
been a white drawing-board, these tiny animals had etched their tracks
everywhere as they drove their tunnels or skittered over the surface.
But from round a bend in the river’s course a column of blue smoke could
be seen sagging and wavering almost straight up in the windless air
toward the leaden sky.
The smoke came from an odd-looking craft tied up to the bank of the
river. The boat in question was a small steamer with a single black
smokestack. At her stern was a big cylindrical paddle-wheel to drive her
over the shallows and shoals. For the rest she was homely in the
extreme. In fact, she might not inaptly have been compared to a big
floating dry goods box pierced with windows, and with a pilot house,
like a smaller box, say a pill box, perched on top.
The _Yukon Rover_, which was the name she bore painted on her sides in
big black letters, was of a type common enough along the navigable
waters of Alaska, although she was smaller than most such steamers. Red
curtains hung in the windows of this queer-looking specimen of the
shipbuilder’s art, and the smoke, already mentioned, curled from a fat
stovepipe, suggesting warmth and comfort within.
At the bow, lashed fast to a small flagstaff, was a strange-looking
figure. This was Sandy MacTavish’s Mascot of the White North, the famous
totem pole that the Scotch youth had purchased as a good-luck bringer
when the lads, as described in the “Bungalow Boys Along the Yukon,” were
on their way northward from Seattle.
A door in the forward part of the box-like superstructure suddenly
opened, and out into the frozen, keen air there burst three laughing,
jolly lads. All were bundled up and carried skates. However depressing
the Alaskan winter might have been to many of our readers, it was plain
that these healthy, happy lads were enjoying themselves to the full.
They slipped and slid across the frozen decks, and then made their way
down a steeply inclined sort of gangway leading to the frozen surface of
the river.
Their passage down this runway was not without incident. Sandy MacTavish
was behind his two chums, Tom and Jack Dacre. All were laughing and
talking at a great rate, their spirits bubbling over under the stimulus
of the keen air and the thought of the fun they were going to have, when
a sudden yell from Sandy came as the forerunner to calamity.
“Whoop! Ow-wow! Hoot, mon!” shrilly cried the Scotch youth, as he felt
his feet slide from under him on the slippery, inclined plane leading to
the ice.
“What in the world——!” began Jack Dacre, the younger of the Dacre
brothers, when he felt himself cannonaded from behind by the yelling
Sandy.
His exclamation was echoed an instant later by Tom Dacre, who was in
advance. He had half turned at the almost simultaneous outcries of his
brother and Sandy.
“Gracious!” he had just time to exclaim, when it was his turn to give a
shout.
As Jack had been bumped into by Sandy, so he in turn shot helplessly
against his brother.
In a flash all three Bungalow Boys were shooting down the slippery
gangway. They fetched up in a snow pile at the bottom, a fact which
saved them a hard bump on the frozen surface of the river.
“Whoopee! Talk about shooting the chutes!” puffed Tom, scrambling to his
feet and shaking the powdery snow from his garments.
“Beats the time Sandy went sky-hooting down that old glacier on the
Yukon!” chimed in Jack, half angrily. “What’s the matter with you,
anyhow, you red-headed son of Scotland?”
“I’m thinking I’m loocky to be alive,” muttered Sandy, feeling himself
all over as if to ascertain if he had sustained any mortal injuries.
“I guess we’re the lucky ones,” laughed Tom.
“Yes, we formed a human cushion for your freckled countenance to land
on,” pursued Jack, as Sandy rubbed his nose affectionately. The organ in
question was of the snub variety and decorated with freckles like spots
on the sun.
“Aweel, mon, dinna ye ken that you saved my beauty?” chuckled Sandy
gleefully. “You ought to be glad of that.”
“I’ll fix your fatal beauty, all right!” cried Jack, and he rushed at
Sandy with a whoop.
But the Scotch lad was too swift for him. He dashed off, and at a safe
distance proceeded to adjust his skates.
“I’ll get you yet!” cried Jack, shaking his fist, and then he and Tom
Dacre sat down at the foot of the disastrous gangway and put on their
ice-skimmers.
Jack looked up from his task to perceive Sandy making derisive gestures
at him.
“Hoot, mon, gie me a bit chase!” yelled Sandy, hopping about nimbly and
executing some gliding figures with a taunting air.
“If it’s a chase you’re looking for, that is my middle name!” exclaimed
Jack, and with a shout and a whoop he was off after the other lad. The
steel rang merrily on the smooth ice as Tom swung off after the other
two.
The blood of all three boys tingled pleasantly in the sharp air. Their
faces glowed and their eyes shone.
“You look out when I get hold of you!” exclaimed Jack, as Sandy, for the
'steenth time, eluded his grasp and swung dashingly off, skimming the
ice as gracefully as the swallows soared above the river in the summer
months.
“Yah-h-h-h-h-h!” called Sandy tauntingly, “want a tow-line?”
Sandy gave a loud laugh as, elated at his easy escape from his irritated
chum, he gave a fancy exhibition of figure-making, and at its conclusion
skimmed off again just as Jack’s fingers seemed about to close on his
tormentor’s shoulder.
“I’ll wash your face in the snow when I catch you! Just you see if I
don’t!” shrilly threatened Jack.
A laugh from Sandy was the only answer as he shot off under full steam.
He turned his head to show his perfect command of the fine points of
skating. A broad grin was on his freckled countenance.
“Catch me first, Jack! I’ll bet you——”
“Hi! Look out!” roared Tom.
But his warning came just about the same instant that Sandy, skimming at
full speed over the ice near the _Yukon Rover’s_ hull, gave a howl of
dismay as he felt the ice give way under him.
The next instant he vanished from view as the thin ice—merely a
skimming over the hole chopped early that day to get drinking water out
of the river—broke under his weight.
Jack, close on his heels, had just enough warning to swing aside. The
last they saw of Sandy MacTavish was two hands upheld above the water as
he vanished from view.
Then he disappeared totally.
“Tom! Quick! Help! He’ll be drowned,” yelled Jack at the top of his
voice.