A BRIGHT NEW DREAM
In the meantime, life was not dull on “Rainbow Farm,” as Mary had
lovingly named their little claim in the happy Matamuska valley. As
winter came blowing in from the north, some settlers, discouraged by the
too frank breezes that swept through their green log cabins, sold out and
sailed for home. From these Mark purchased two fine flocks of chickens.
These called for a snug log cabin chicken house, more work, and added
hopes for the future.
Every one settled down to the routine of winter’s work, all but Madam
Chicaski. She did the most unusual things and obtained the most
astonishing results. Having polished and oiled her large pile of rusty
traps, she one day threw them, a full hundred pounds, over her ample
back, then disappeared over the nearest hill. She remained away until
long after dark. Mary was beginning to worry about her when, all bent
over with fatigue, but smiling as ever, she appeared empty-handed at the
door.
After consuming a prodigious amount of cornmeal mush, she sat dreaming by
the fire.
“Renewing her youth,” Mary whispered.
Mark nodded and smiled.
What was their surprise when three days later she appeared with five
foxes, four minks and a dozen muskrats, all prime furs.
“For you a good long coat,” she held the muskrat skins before Mary’s
eyes. “Bye and bye many more.
“And for you perhaps a cape,” she held up the mink skins as she nodded to
Mrs. Hughes. “Who knows? The minks, they are harder to catch.”
“And the fox skins?” Mark asked.
“To buy more traps, always more traps,” was the big woman’s enthusiastic
response.
“There is money in it,” Mark said to Dave McQueen next day.
“Yes, if she’ll show us the tricks,” Dave agreed.
“She will,” Mark declared. And she did. As Mark followed her about he saw
how she cut snow thin as cardboard for concealing the traps, how she
scattered drops of oil about to supply a scent leading to the traps, how
she discovered a mink’s run at a river’s brink, and many other little
secrets of the trapping world.
Soon both Mark and Dave were full-fledged trappers with trap lines
running away and away into the hills.
Mary too was contributing her bit to the family’s wealth. The number of
Speed Samson’s hunting trips with his airplane increased. He had come to
relish the food served at Rainbow Farm. Knowing that his clients would
enjoy it as well, and at the same time be charmed by the life there, he
made a practice of dropping down upon their small lake. More often than
not he brought his own supply of meat. A hunk of venison, a loin of a
young moose, a leg of wild sheep, even brown bear steak went into pot or
roasting pan to reappear as the delicious _piece de resistance_ of a
bountiful meal. His clients got in the way of leaving a folded bank note
beneath each plate. In this way Mary began to accumulate quite a
considerable little hoard.
At last, in a spending mood, she took the train at Palmer and rode all
the way to Anchorage. There she made a surprising and, to her, rather
disturbing discovery.
Having mailed a letter, she stood looking over the low railing into the
rear of the postoffice when her eye was caught by a pile of second-class
mail. It was in sacks, but the half-open sacks presented a strange
picture. Out of one a beautiful doll appeared to be struggling. From a
second a toy train, apparently at full speed, had been arrested in
midtrack, while from another cautiously peeped a woolly teddybear.
Leaning forward, Mary read the address on one sack. “Wales, Alaska. Where
is that?”
“Cape Prince of Wales, on Bering Straits above Nome,” said the
postmaster.
“Way up there!” Mary was surprised. “Christmas presents. Will they get
there in time?”
“In time for the 4th of July,” was the reply. “Some teacher up there
asked friends to contribute to his tree for Eskimo children. These sacks
arrived too late for the last boat. Cost a small fortune to send them by
air mail, so here they stay.”
“Oh, that—” Mary exclaimed, “that’s too bad. Think what all those
presents would mean to the cute little Eskimo children!”
“Oh, sure, but that’s what you get in the North.” The postmaster
dismissed the matter at that. But for Mary, forgetting the appealing
doll, the rushing train that did not rush, and the peeping bear, was not
so easy.
“If only Florence had known they were here!” she thought as she turned
away. “Perhaps they had not yet arrived. Anyway—”
Anyway what? She did not exactly know. She wished that she might own an
airplane all her own and go where she chose in this great white world of
the North. This, she knew, was only a mad dream, so taking the train for
home, she settled down to the business of feeding chickens, gathering
eggs, and assisting in the preparation of delicious meals.
And then one bright, clear day something very strange happened. In a
cutter drawn by two prancing horses, Mr. Il-ay-ok, the Eskimo, appeared
at their door.
“Excuse, please,” the little man bowed low. “Mr. Speed Samson, he comes
to this place very soon. Is it not so?”
“I—I don’t know,” replied Mary.
“It is so. I am convinced. With your kindness I shall wait. It is
important, so important to my people.” The little man bowed once more.
“You are welcome to stay as long as you like,” was Mary’s welcome.
The driver was dismissed. Mr. Il-ay-ok entered. Mary experienced a cold
shudder as she thought, “Peter Loome may follow on his trail.” But she
introduced the little man to her mother and did all in her power to make
him feel at home.
When, true to Il-ay-ok’s prophecy, Speed came zooming in from the sky,
the little Eskimo, nearly bursting out the door in his haste, went racing
down to the landing.
“Excuse, please,” he exclaimed as Speed stepped from the plane. “You must
take me to Nome. I must go soon, perhaps at once. You shall take me to
Nome.”
“Who says that?” the aviator grinned.
“I say it. I, Mr. Il-ay-ok.”
“Well,” Speed drawled, “can’t do it.”
“You must!” sudden distress and rigid determination shone in the little
man’s eyes.
“I must not,” replied Speed. There was a note of finality in his voice.
“This is the hunting season. I have customers coming. I cannot wire them
not to come then go zooming off on some wild goose chase to Nome. This is
my harvest. How much money you got?” he asked suddenly.
“Unfortunately, no money,” Mr. Il-ay-ok’s face fell. “But you shall be
paid,” he was up and at it again. “My people they have fox skins, very
fine fox skins, red, white, cross fox, silver gray fox. You shall have
many fox skins. You shall sell them for much money.”
“I’m afraid that won’t do.” Speed’s face sobered. In the little man’s
face he had read sincere distress. Speed was a kindly soul. “It is truly
impossible for me to give up my work now. Perhaps in three or four
weeks—”
“Ah, yes!” the little man’s voice rose shrill and eager. “Before January
the first?”
“Yes, I guess so.”
“Oh!” Mary breathed, suddenly enchanted with a bright idea. “Before
Christmas, you must!”
“What? You must go too?” Speed cried, banteringly.
“I—I might,” the girl could scarcely believe her voice, it was the first
time she had ever thought of it. “Anyway,” she added hurriedly to conceal
her embarrassment, “you are to be Santa Claus to a hundred Eskimo
children.”
“If I am Santa Claus,” said Speed, seizing her hand, “you shall be little
Miss Santa Claus. I don’t know what it is all about, but here, shake on
it.” He gave her hand a hearty squeeze.
Il-ay-ok rode back to Anchorage in Speed’s plane and there, for a time,
the matter rested.