HELP FROM THE SKY
True to Mark’s prophecy, dawn of the following day found them on the
move. By the light of a candle, hotcakes and coffee had been stowed away
under their belts. Now they were ready to pack up.
As Mary stepped from the tent her eyes fell upon a pair of lifeless eyes
that seemed to stare down upon her. One of the hunters had killed a
moose. All this time, well out of the reach of thieving wild creatures,
its head had hung there in a tree. It seemed now a little strange that
those dead eyes could give her such a start.
“Nonsense!” she whispered, stamping her foot. “Enough to dread without
that.” And indeed there was. Despite the fact that the men agreed on the
solidness of the ice, she dreaded the take-off. What if the ice were
thinner in some places than at others? What if it should give way at just
the wrong time? What of the planes? Were they truly fit for service? And
what of those hand-made skis? All these fears were banished by the
excitement of breaking camp. Tents were taken down, bedding was made into
bundles, and bags were packed. Bill, now quite able to walk, but with
arms still smothered in bandages, was helped down the trail.
Mary thrilled anew as she approached the small blue and gray plane. “A
ticket to adventure,” she whispered for the hundredth time. Then her face
sobered. Was this to be the end of adventure or only its beginning? An
hour’s safe flying would bring them to the cabin where there awaited
dishes to wash, beds to make, paths to shovel, all the daily round.
“Yes,” she told herself with renewed interest, “yes, and Madam Chicaski
to wonder about. Where adventure ends, mystery begins.”
One thing pleased her, she was to travel with Bill and Mark in the
smaller plane. She liked being with her friends. She was very fond of
Speed Samson, the smiling young pilot. She feared and hated Peter Loome.
“I am taking the hunters straight to Anchorage. They seem to be in one
grand rush,” Dave Breen, pilot of the large gray plane, said. Then aside
to Mary he whispered, “They’re paying me well. Hunt me up in Anchorage
and I’ll buy you a hot fudge sundae.” Mary smiled her thanks. They were
fine fellows, these pilots, just how fine she was later to learn.
The take-off was exciting. She shuddered as they glided over the ice. An
ominous crack-crack-crack sent chills up her spine, yet the ice held.
There had been a light snowfall. The snow was sticky, it would not let
them go. Round and round the lake they whirled. Louder and louder the
motors thundered. Then someone shouted “Up!” and up they went whirling
away over the treetops.
Once again the glorious panorama of dark forest, gray crags, winding
streams and blankets of snow lay beneath them.
“We’re going home! Home!” Mary shouted in Mark’s ear. Mark nodded
soberly. He was listening. Listening for what? Mary knew well enough, for
trouble, motor trouble.
“There will be no trouble,” she assured herself. Once again she thought
of home. What a place of joy that once deserted valley of the North had
become for them. She thought of the worried millions in the cities and
scattered over the plain far to the south of them—worried millions
wondering where the next week’s food supply was to come from. She thought
of their well-lined cupboards, of their cellar bursting with good things
to eat, then sighed a sigh of content.
This mood was short-lived. Even she caught and understood the strange
shudders that shook the small plane. A moment of this and they went
circling downward toward the shining white surface of a small lake. Once
again her heart was in her mouth. They had left the higher altitudes
where the nights were bitter cold. They were equipped with skis. Would
this new lake be frozen hard enough for that? Scarcely time for these few
flashing thoughts and bump—they hit the lake. Bump—bump—bump. What
glorious bumps those were. They meant one more happy landing.
Dismounting, the girl stared aloft while the large gray plane circled
over them. Once, twice, three times it circled through the blue, then,
with a sudden burst of speed, like some wild duck that had heard the bang
of a hunter’s gun, it sped straight away.
Florence was walking disconsolately back and forth along the pier at
Anchorage early that same afternoon. She was deep in her own thoughts.
Having gone for a visit to Palmer, she had been invited to come for a
stay at Anchorage. Sending a note back to her cousins, she had taken the
train for Anchorage.
Strangely enough, Mary had met high adventure, while she was meeting with
bitter disappointment. She had so hoped that her lone fifty-dollar bill
would somehow carry her to that charmed city of her grandfather, Nome,
Alaska.
“No chance!” she murmured low. “Not a chance in the world.” And yet, she
dared hope.
Now catching the drone of an airplane motor, she shaded her eyes to look
away toward the east. Standing where she was, she watched the large gray
plane come driving in, then circling low, make a perfect landing.
“Oh!” she breathed. “If only—” she did not finish, but marched soberly on
her way.
Having made a round of the city’s stores, she was headed back to the home
of her hostess. “Tomorrow,” she thought, “I shall go back to our happy
valley.” But would it be so happy for her? When one longs to be in one
place, can he be truly happy in another? Who knows? As it turned out,
Florence would not be obliged to test her ability to be happy.
Of a sudden, as she walked along, she heard someone call: “Florence!
Florence Huyler!” Turning about, she found herself facing a total
stranger.
“You are Florence Huyler,” the man smiled.
“How—how did you know?” she gasped.
“If you hadn’t been, you wouldn’t have turned about so quickly,” he
laughed. “Ever try calling out quite loudly, ‘John!’ at the edge of a
large crowd? No, of course not. Just try it sometime. You’ll be surprised
at the number of Johns that turn to answer.
“But that—” his voice changed, “that’s not the point. Suppose you heard
of the accident?”
“Accident? No! I—” her face paled.
“Now, now! nothing to be excited about,” he warned. “You’ve been away
from home so you haven’t heard. Your friend Bill got clawed up a bit by a
bear. Say!” his voice rose. “Want to come in here and sit on a stool
while I tell you? I’m dying for a cup of coffee.”
“Al—all right.”
Three minutes later, their feet dangling from stools, they were drinking
coffee, munching doughnuts, and talking.
“So you see,” the aviator ended his story, “your cousin did me a mighty
fine turn. I got a good fee for bringing those hunters out and so if you
or he ever need a lift, just signal me by Morse code or any other way and
I’ll turn my motor over P.D.Q.
“Of course,” he added, “I’m off to Nome tomorrow, but I’ll be back. Back
before you know it. Not such a long trip that.
“But say!” he exclaimed. “What’s the matter?” The girl’s face had turned
purple.
“Choked! Well, I’ll be! Here, let me—” He began pounding her on the back.
“Just—just a—a—piece of dough—doughnut,” she managed to sputter at last.
“Went—dow—down the wrong way.”
“Do you get that way often?” he grinned.
“Only when people tell me they’re going to Nome.”
“What’s so awful about that?”
“Awful? It’s glorious. If only—”
“If only what?”
“If only I were going!”
“And why not?”
Fishing in her pocket, she displayed her only banknote.
“That’s good money,” the pilot felt of it with thumb and finger.
“But not enough,” she shook her head sadly.
“For what?”
“A trip to Nome.”
“To Nome! You want to go to Nome? You’re off, child! You’re off right
now. There’s just room for one more. Got the Bowmans to take up, three of
’em. Big reindeer people. Grand folks! Just room for you.”
“Tha—” Florence could not finish. She had choked again, but not on a
doughnut. Mutely she held out the crumpled bill.
“Put it in your pocket, child,” his tone was gruff but kind, “you’ll need
it. But say! Why do you want to go to Nome?”
“Got a grandfather up there.”
“And haven’t seen him for a long time,” he added for her.
“Never saw him!”
“What? Never saw your grandfather? Say! That’s terrible. I had two of
’em. Grand old sports. Both gone now. Say! That’s great! And you’re going
with me to hunt up your grandfather. That, why that’s like moving
pictures. Going? Of course you’re going! Due to take off at nine a. m.”
He slid off the stool, then held out a hand. “Glad to have met you. Meet
you again right here at 8:30 tomorrow morning. Will you be here?”
Would she? If necessary she would form a one-man line and stand right
here in the snow and cold until the sun rose and the clock said a half
hour after eight.