A TERRIBLE ENEMY
Never as long as they lived would the boys forget that all-day trip. The
intense cold nipped at their faces, trying to reach its icy fingers
through the fur that covered them.
Their outfit consisted of two canoes, one of which was managed by Kapje
and the other by his son. They were amply provided with spears in case
they should meet with any seals or walrus on the journey. There were
also a couple of old-fashioned rifles, which had roused intense interest
in the boys.
In response to Bobby’s question as to why the firearms were necessary,
Kapje had given his characteristic shrug.
“Meet bear, maybe,” he had said, as if such an event was of everyday
occurrence and not necessary to worry about. “Gun healthy have along.”
“Whoopee!” Fred had shouted irrepressibly. “Had a notion all along we
were going to have a polar bear fight. Here’s hoping we have another
bear stew before long.”
At that, Kapje, the Eskimo, had looked at Fred with the nearest to a
twinkle that the boys had seen in his eye and said, slowly:
“White boy make stew for bear, mebbe. How that be, eh?”
“Not so good, not so good,” Fred had returned uncomfortably, while his
companions roared with glee. “That isn’t in my program at all, now let
me tell you.”
The boys had chuckled about it all the way down to the water’s edge. But
after the boat had pushed off from shore and Kapje was guiding it
skillfully among the crowding ice floes Bobby’s expression became more
sober.
“Are polar bears thick around here? Do they find many of them?” he asked
of the Eskimo. He and Fred were in Kapje’s boat while Billy and Mouser
were with the younger Eskimo.
Kapje shook his head.
“No so much,” he replied in his funny English. “White bear—most never
see him. Yellow bear—once a while. He fierce—fight bad—shoot.”
“What do you mean, yellow bear?” Fred asked curiously. “Aren’t all polar
bears white?”
The Eskimo grunted as though in scorn of this lack of knowledge.
“White bear,” he proceeded to explain laboriously, “he not so fierce. He
run. Yellow white bear or yellow bear—he dangerous. He no run; he fight.
Shoot.”
“Well,” sighed Fred, resignedly, “yellow bear or white, I only hope we
get a squint at him before we finish the trip.”
They made good time that morning, although toward noon the boys noticed
that the water was becoming more and more thickly blocked with ice so
that in some places it seemed nothing short of a miracle that they were
able to get through at all.
Again and again they thanked the lucky stars that had given them the
experienced and friendly old Eskimo as their guide.
When they finally stopped to rest and eat from the generous lunch
Kapje’s wife had put up for them, they could see by the Eskimo’s placid
expression that he was well-pleased with the progress they were making.
As Kapje and his son talked together in their own language, the boys
wandered off a little by themselves, in order to talk over what was
uppermost in their minds—the treasure.
“We ought to find it pretty soon, now,” Billy said in low, excited
tones.
“If we find this Mooloo, we may,” said Mouser. “But by the time we reach
his igloo he may have gone. You know what Kapje said, when an Eskimo
gets tired of one place, he trots on a bit and makes a new snow palace.”
“Down with the gloom hound!” cried Fred, indignantly. “What’s the use of
looking for trouble?”
“Kapje’s been mighty white to us,” said Bobby thoughtfully. “If we ever
do find the treasure you can bet he and his family are going to be
mighty glad of it.”
At the mention of the Eskimo they realized that they had wandered away
further than they had intended and turned to go back. They hastened
their steps, thinking they might have kept their guides waiting.
As they reached the clearing where they had left the two men, some
instinct, some feeling, warned them of danger, cautioning them to
proceed quietly.
Although they were hardly aware of this warning, they obeyed it
instantly, their careful footsteps entirely muffled in the thick carpet
of snow as they approached the clearing.
Perhaps one thing that had warned them was the fact that they could no
longer hear the voices of Kapje and his son. Their low, guttural
jabbering had ceased, and in its place reigned an uncanny silence.
Bobby, his hair fairly rising on his head, was the first to reach the
clearing and, still keeping himself partially concealed, he peered forth
cautiously toward the spot where he had last seen the Eskimos.
At the sight that met his eyes it is small wonder that the blood
congealed in his veins. It seemed as though his whole body had turned to
ice.
With a slight motion of his hand he warned his comrades to be quiet. But
in spite of the warning they crept close to him, peering over his
shoulder at the tableau that held him spellbound.
Then slowly they also seemed turned to ice, frozen to the spot,
horror-stricken, unable to move.
For there, a few feet from the water’s edge where they had left them,
lay the two Eskimos motionless, apparently dead. And above them,
sniffing at them curiously, patting them tentatively now and then with a
great clumsy paw, stood a sinister, yellowish shape.
“A bear,” thought Bobby, in horror.
The bear was a lean, half-grown brute, half-starved by the look of him,
his coat a dirty yellow white—by Kapje’s own admission the most vicious
and formidable of his kind.
Bobby heard a gasp behind him and knew that Fred was about to rush into
the open, with nobody knew what mad hope of rescuing the two men from
their horrible fate.
Bobby grasped his friend’s arm, holding on fiercely.
“Keep still,” he uttered in a strangled whisper. “I have a plan.”
Bobby measured the distance between him and that rifle that lay so
useless in the snow. If the bear withdrew only a little way, he would
seize his chance, make a dash for the rifle, and shoot the ugly brute
before it could reach him.
It was a mad chance—an almost impossible chance. Bobby knew that, but he
also knew that it was the only chance they had.
Still holding fast to Fred’s arm, which the latter strove to wrench
free, he centered his attention upon the great bear that still loomed
uncertainly above the prostrate men.
If he should attack—then Bobby knew what he would do. Trusting to
surprise he would make a dash for that rifle in the mad hope that he
might reach it before the brute reached him.
Ah, what was the beast doing? Puzzled, was he? Undecided whether to
begin his feast then or wait to make sure that his victims were dead.
For a moment it seemed as though he would fall upon the two men lying so
helpless there, and with one sweep of his powerful, sharp-clawed paw
rend the life from them.
Bobby’s muscles grew tense; he was ready to spring. Then, with a sharp
intake of breath that was almost audible, he relaxed again.
The bear had changed its mind. There was plenty of time. He would sit
down and think it over for a while. With a slow, leisurely movement the
animal moved off a few paces, then turned and sat down, yellow eyes
fixed watchfully on its victims. The slightest movement, the slightest
change in the position of those two men—
Bobby shuddered and wondered how they could lie so quiet under the
watchfulness of that sinister glare.
He felt Fred’s arm jerk from his grasp and knew he could no longer be
restrained. Bobby knew that the moment for action had come and he
gathered himself to meet it.
Shouting wildly, waving his arms above his head, he dashed out into the
open, seeing one thing, and one thing only—that rifle lying in the snow.
The bear, bewildered, shrank back, staring. Only a moment, but that
moment was enough for Bobby. As, with a roar, the beast sprang forward,
Bobby straightened himself, rifle in hand.
A charging roar—a shot—the beast towering above him, staggering—another
shot—another—and a dirty yellow beast writhing in the snow! Then quiet
and a stain upon the snow that spread and spread, turning it to red.