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margin-right:auto; max-width:23em; } + hr { max-width:20em; } + +</style> +</head> +<body> + + +<pre> + +The Project Gutenberg EBook of A Ticket to Adventure, by Roy J. Snell + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: A Ticket to Adventure + A Mystery Story for Girls + +Author: Roy J. Snell + +Release Date: December 5, 2013 [EBook #44353] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A TICKET TO ADVENTURE *** + + + + +Produced by Stephen Hutcheson, Rod Crawford, Dave Morgan +and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at +http://www.pgdp.net + + + + + + +</pre> + +<div id="cover" class="img"> +<img id="coverpage" src="images/cover.jpg" alt="A Ticket to Adventure" width="500" height="728" /> +</div> +<div class="box"> +<p class="center"><span class="large"><b><i><span class="u">A Mystery Story for Girls</span></i></b></span></p> +<h1>A TICKET TO +<br />ADVENTURE</h1> +<p class="tbcenter"><b><i>By</i> +<br /><span class="large">ROY J. SNELL</span></b></p> +<div class="img" id="logo"><img src="images/logo.jpg" alt="Author’s Logo" width="200" height="91" /></div> +<p class="tbcenter"><span class="large">The Reilly & Lee Co. +<br />Chicago</span></p> +<p class="tbcenter"><span class="smaller">COPYRIGHT 1937 +<br />BY +<br />THE REILLY & LEE CO. +<br />PRINTED IN THE U. S. A.</span></p> +</div> +<h2>CONTENTS</h2> +<dl class="toc"> +<dt class="jr"><span class="jl"><span class="small">CHAPTER</span></span> <span class="small">PAGE</span></dt> +<dt><a href="#c1">I The Little Man in Black</a> 11</dt> +<dt><a href="#c2">II The Indian Girl’s Warning</a> 19</dt> +<dt><a href="#c3">III Seven Golden Candlesticks</a> 37</dt> +<dt><a href="#c4">IV The Great Stump</a> 59</dt> +<dt><a href="#c5">V Happy Landing</a> 68</dt> +<dt><a href="#c6">VI A Wanderer Returns</a> 76</dt> +<dt><a href="#c7">VII And Then Came Adventure</a> 87</dt> +<dt><a href="#c8">VIII A Secret Is Told</a> 101</dt> +<dt><a href="#c9">IX Help from the Sky</a> 112</dt> +<dt><a href="#c10">X In Search of a Grandfather</a> 121</dt> +<dt><a href="#c11">XI The Fresh-Dough Club</a> 131</dt> +<dt><a href="#c12">XII Her Great Discovery</a> 139</dt> +<dt><a href="#c13">XIII A Bright New Dream</a> 149</dt> +<dt><a href="#c14">XIV “They Are Off”</a> 157</dt> +<dt><a href="#c15">XV The Phantom Leader</a> 165</dt> +<dt><a href="#c16">XVI The Golden Quest</a> 178</dt> +<dt><a href="#c17">XVII The Black Seal’s Tooth</a> 194</dt> +<dt><a href="#c18">XVIII To Be or Not to Be</a> 206</dt> +<dt><a href="#c19">XIX Coasting Up Hill</a> 216</dt> +<dt><a href="#c20">XX Black Waters and Gray Dogs</a> 227</dt> +<dt><a href="#c21">XXI The Secret of the Great Stump</a> 237</dt> +</dl> +<div class="pb" id="Page_11">[11]</div> +<h1 title="">A TICKET TO ADVENTURE</h1> +<h2 id="c1"><span class="small">CHAPTER I</span> +<br />THE LITTLE MAN IN BLACK</h2> +<p>Mary Hughes had walked the entire +length of the long dock at Anchorage, +Alaska. Now, having rounded a great pile of +merchandise, tents, tractors, groceries, hammers, +axes, and boxes of chocolate bars she +came quite suddenly upon the oddest little +man she had ever seen. Even for a girl in her +late teens, Mary was short and slender. This +man was no larger than she.</p> +<p>“A Japanese,” she thought as her surprised +eyes took in his tight-fitting black suit, his +stiff collar and bright tie. “But no, a Jap +wouldn’t look like that.” She was puzzled and +curious. At that particular moment, she had +nothing to do but indulge her curiosity.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_12">[12]</div> +<p>Together with hundreds of other “home-seekers”—she +smiled as she thought of herself +as a home-seeker—she had been dumped into +the bleak Arctic morning. Some of the goods +that were being hoisted by a long steel crane +from the depths of a ship, belonged to Mary, +to Mark her brother, and to Florence Huyler +her cousin. There was, for the time, nothing +they could do about that. So—</p> +<p>“I am Mister Il-ay-ok.”</p> +<p>To her surprise, she heard the little man +addressing her.</p> +<p>“Oh,” she breathed. She was thinking, “Now +perhaps I am to know about this little man.” +She was, but not too much—at least not for +some time.</p> +<p>“Oh! So you are Mr. Il-ay-ok,” she encouraged. +“Is this your home?”</p> +<p>“Oh no, no indeed!” He spoke as if he were +reading from a book. “My home is quite distant. +North,” he pointed away.</p> +<p>“Then you—”</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_13">[13]</div> +<p>Mary did not finish. At that instant a loud, +harsh-sounding voice broke in upon them. +“Mister Il-ay-ok! MISTER! Har! Har! Har! +That’s good!” The man who had made his +appearance, as if by magic, from the great pile +of merchandise, where he had, the girl thought +with an inward shudder, been hiding, burst +into a roar of hoarse laughter. To say that +Mary was surprised and startled would not +express it at all.</p> +<p>She looked at him in silent alarm. He too +was strange. He was a white man with +a back so straight you might have run a +yard stick up it and made it touch at every +point. He had a horse-like nose, very long and +straight. There was something about his +whole bearing that made Mary want to slap +him. She would, too, had she felt that the occasion +warranted it. She was little, was Mary, +but her snapping black eyes could shoot +fire. Those slender brown legs of hers, hidden +for the moment by brown slacks, and her steel-spring-like +arms were made for action.</p> +<p>Mary could, at times, be quite still as well. +A cat is like that. Just now she stood quite +still and waited.</p> +<p>“So you are Mister Il-ay-ok, now, eh, +Tony?” The stranger stopped laughing to +pucker his brow into a scowl that did not improve +his appearance.</p> +<p>“Shouldn’t want to meet him in the dark!” +the girl thought with another shudder.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_14">[14]</div> +<p>“Want to know what he is, Miss?” the white +man turned to Mary. “He’s an Eskimo.”</p> +<p>“Oh, an—” Mary was surprised and pleased. +She was not allowed to go on.</p> +<p>“Yup, Miss, an Es-ki-mo.” The man filled +his voice with suggestions of loathing and utmost +contempt. “Just an oil-guzzling, blubber-eating, +greasy Eskimo that lives in a hole +in the ground. That’s what he is to me. But +to you he’s Mister Il-ay-ok. Bah!” The man +turned and walked away.</p> +<p>For a full moment nothing further was said. +At last, in a steady, school-book voice the little +man in black said, “Do you know what my +people did to the first white man who visit +our village?”</p> +<p>“No. What?” Mary stared.</p> +<p>“Shot him,” the little man’s voice dropped. +“Shot him with a whale gun. Very big gun. +Shoot big shell. Like this!” He held up a +clenched fist. “Very bad man like this one. +He talked too big,” the little man scowled.</p> +<p>“And would you like to shoot that one?” +Mary asked, nodding toward the retreating +figure.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_15">[15]</div> +<p>“Not now. Mebby byum bye. You see,” the +little man smiled, “I go to visit your country. +I am—”</p> +<p>At that moment Florence Huyler, Mary’s +big cousin came booming along from behind +the pile of goods, to cry: “Ah! There you are! +I’ve been looking everywhere for you.”</p> +<p>“Florence,” Mary stopped her, “this is Mr. +Il-ay-ok. He’s from Alaska, and he wants to +kill a white man, but not just now.” She +laughed in spite of herself.</p> +<p>“But this is Alaska.” Florence, who was +big and strong as a man, looked at the little +man and smiled as she asked, “Is this your +home?”</p> +<p>“No—no,” the little man bowed. “Much +more north my home. Cape Nome sometimes +and sometimes Cape Prince Wales.”</p> +<p>“Oh you’ve been in Nome?” Florence’s eyes +shone. “My grandfather went there years and +years ago. He never came back.”</p> +<p>“Name please?” the little man asked.</p> +<p>“Tom Kennedy.”</p> +<p>“Ah yes,” the little man beamed. “I know +him. Big man. Very good man.”</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_16">[16]</div> +<p>“What?” the big girl’s eyes fairly bulged. +“You, you know my grandfather? No! No! +He is dead. He must have died years ago.”</p> +<p>“Not dead please. Tom Kennedy not +dead,” the little man appeared puzzled. “No +not dead. Let me tell you.” He took a step +toward them. “Very big man. Very straight. +Always smile. Let me show you.” To their +vast surprise the girls saw the little man produce +from an inside pocket a small, ivory +paper knife. On its blade had been carved the +likeness of a man’s face. It may not have been +a very accurate picture, there was, however, +one touch that could not be wrong, a scar +above the left eye. “Tom Kennedy my friend,” +the native said simply.</p> +<p>“Tom Kennedy, my long-lost grandfather!” +Florence stared in unbelief. “He is dead. And +yet, he—he must be alive!” She closed her +eyes as she tried to think clearly. Often and +often as a small child she had heard her mother +describe this man, her grandfather. Often too +she had seen his picture. Always there had +been that scar over the left eye.</p> +<p>“Mary!” she exclaimed, her voice rising +high. “My grandfather is alive, somewhere +away up there!” she faced north. “I’m going.”</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_17">[17]</div> +<p>“Oh, but you couldn’t leave us!” Mary’s +tone vibrated with consternation. “You +couldn’t leave us, not just now!”</p> +<p>“That—that’s right. I couldn’t—not just +now.” The big girl’s hands dropped limply to +her side.</p> +<p>From the distance came the long drawn +hoarse hoot of a steamboat whistle.</p> +<p>“Excuse please,” the little man who called +himself Mr. Il-ay-ok bowed low. “My boat +please. I go to visit America. Perhaps please, +we meet again.”</p> +<p>With the swift, sure movement of one who +has followed a dog team over long, long miles +or has hunted on the treacherous ice-floes, he +was gone.</p> +<p>“No,” Florence repeated slowly as if to herself, +“I can’t leave you now.”</p> +<p>For one full moment she stood staring at +the spot from which the little man had vanished. +Here indeed was a strange situation. +All her life she had believed her grandfather +dead. From her mother’s lips she had heard +vague stories of how he had gone into the +north and never returned. Now here was a +little Eskimo saying, “Tom Kennedy my +friend. Yes, I know him. He is alive.”</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_18">[18]</div> +<p>“And he proved it too,” the girl whispered +to herself.</p> +<p>Then, of a sudden, her thoughts came back +to the present and to her immediate surroundings.</p> +<p>“What a jumble!” she said, looking at the +heap of goods that, as moments passed, grew +higher and higher. “How will they ever get +them sorted out?”</p> +<p>Turning to her cousin, bright-eyed, eager +Mary, she said: “‘A ticket to adventure,’ that’s +what the man back there in San Francisco +called it, ‘a ticket to adventure.’ Will it truly +be an adventure? I wonder.”</p> +<p>“I hope so!” Mary’s eyes shone.</p> +<p>Turning, the two girls walked away toward +a distant spot on the long dock where a boy, +who had barely grown into a young man, was +struggling at the task of setting up a small +umbrella tent.</p> +<p>“See!” the big girl cried, “there’s Mark. He’s +setting up our first home in a wilderness.”</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_19">[19]</div> +<h2 id="c2"><span class="small">CHAPTER II</span> +<br />THE INDIAN GIRL’S WARNING</h2> +<p>Hours later Florence stirred uneasily in her +sleep, then half-awake murmured dreamily: +“A ticket to adventure. That’s what he said, +a ticket—”</p> +<p>Conscious now that some disturbing sound +had come to her in her sleep, she shook herself +into further wakefulness.</p> +<p>“Strange,” she murmured. “Everything is +so strange.”</p> +<p>Indeed it was. The bed on which she and +Mary slept was hard, a mattress on the dock. +About her, shielding her from the Arctic wind +was a tent.</p> +<p>“Tomorrow,” she thought, “we start to the +Promised Land.” This land was the Matamuska +Valley in Alaska. “Not far now, only +a short way by rail. And then—” A thrill ran +through her being. They were to be pioneers, +modern pioneers, she and Mary, Mark and +her aunt. What would life in this new land be?</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_20">[20]</div> +<p>She had seen much of life, had Florence, +city life, country life, the wild beauty of Isle +Royale in Lake Superior, and the finished +beauty of France were not new to her. But +Alaska! How she had thrilled at thought of +it! She was thinking of all this when, of a sudden, +she raised herself on one elbow to listen. +“What was that sound?” she whispered. It +was faint, indistinct, disturbing.</p> +<p>Then Mary sleeping at her side, did a +strange thing. Sitting bolt upright she said: +“Don’t you want to kill him?”</p> +<p>For a space of seconds she appeared to listen +for an answer. Then, with a sigh, she murmured, +“Oh! All right. Some other time.” At +that, she sank back in her place to draw the +covers closely about her.</p> +<p>“Talking in her sleep,” the big girl thought. +“Dreaming of the little man in black. She—”</p> +<p>There was that sound again, more distinct +now. “A child crying in the night.” Florence +listened intently.</p> +<p>“It’s such a low cry,” she thought wearily, +creeping back among the blankets. “It can’t +be anything very much. There has been so +much crying.”</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_21">[21]</div> +<p>Ah yes, there had been children’s cries that +day; rough, unkind words had been said at +times to the children. Little wonder, for they +had that day—hundreds of men, women and +children—disembarked from a ship that carried +them far toward their promised land, the +Matamuska Valley in Alaska.</p> +<p>They had been dumped quite unceremoniously, +a whole shipload of people with cows, +horses, dogs, cats, canaries, trucks, tractors, +tents, lumber, hardware, groceries, shoes, hammers, +saws, and clothespins on the dock at +Anchorage. Men dashed about searching for +tents and baggage. Women sought out lost or +strayed pets. Children had cried and above it +all had come the hoarse shout of some enthusiast: +“On! On! to our new home! Three +cheers for Alaska!”</p> +<p>Over all this darkness had fallen. After a +cold supper, having pitched their tents and +spread their blankets, they had stretched out +on the rough surface of the dock to sleep, if +sleep they could. And now Florence was hearing +that distressing moan of a child.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_22">[22]</div> +<p>“Near at hand,” she thought, raising herself +on an elbow to listen once more, this time more +closely. “A strange sort of cry. Can’t be a +child from our party. I’ve heard them all cry.”</p> +<p>Indeed she had. The long journey half way +across America, then along the coast to Alaska +had been hard on the children.</p> +<p>“A ticket to adventure,” she whispered once +again. They had come here, their little party +of four, to begin life anew, to secure for themselves +a home and if possible, a modest fortune. +Would they win? With God’s help, could they? +And was true adventure to be thrown in for +good measure? The girl thrilled at the thought, +for, ambitious as she undoubtedly was, she +was human as well, and who does not feel his +blood race at thought of adventure?</p> +<p>However, at this moment something other +than adventure called, the cry of a child in the +night. Florence dearly loved small children. +She could not bear to have them suffer.</p> +<p>“I—I’ve just got to get out and hunt her up,” +she murmured.</p> +<p>With a shudder she dragged her feet from +the warmth of the blankets, slipped on knickers +and shoes, then crept out into the cheerless +night.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_23">[23]</div> +<p>She did not have far to go. Huddled in a +corner, out of the wind, she discovered two +blanket-wrapped figures. Girls they were, one +small, one large. Indians, she saw as she threw +her light upon their dark faces.</p> +<p>“What’s the matter?” she asked, striving to +keep her teeth from chattering.</p> +<p>“Dog bite her,” the older girl spoke in a +slow, deep tone. “White man dog. Strange +white man dog. Come steamboat this day.”</p> +<p>“Yes,” Florence moved closer. “We all came +by steamboat. There are many dogs. Too +many! Let me see.”</p> +<p>The small child thrust a trembling hand +from a greasy blanket.</p> +<p>“Ah!” Florence breathed. “That’s rather +bad. Not very deep, but dog bites are bad. +It must be dressed. I’ll be back.”</p> +<p>Stepping quickly to the tent she poured +warm water from a thermos bottle into a basin, +snatched up a first-aid kit, then hurried back.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_24">[24]</div> +<p>“Here you are,” she said cheerily. “First we +wash it. Then we dry it. Then—this will hurt +a little, quite a bit, I guess.” She produced a +bottle of iodine. “You tell her. Tell her it will +hurt.” She spoke to the older girl, who said +some words in her own language to the attentive +child. When she had finished, Florence +received her first reward—nor was it to be +the last—for this bit of personal sacrifice, the +child fixed upon her a look that registered perfect +faith and confidence.</p> +<p>Florence applied the severe remedy. Then +she watched the child’s face. A single tear +crept from the corner of her eye and ran down +her cheek.</p> +<p>It hurt, that iodine, hurt terribly for the moment. +Florence knew that. Yet not a muscle +of the child’s face moved.</p> +<p>“This,” Florence thought, with a little tightening +at the throat, “is the spirit of the North. +It is with this spirit that we all must face the +trials and dangers that lie before us in this +world. If we do this, we shall be real pioneers +and we shall win.</p> +<p>“We shall win!” she whispered hoarsely, as +standing erect, hands clenched tight, she stood +for a moment facing the bitter Arctic gale.</p> +<p>“Feel better now?” she asked, dropping +again to the child’s side.</p> +<p>The child nodded.</p> +<p>“All right. Now we’ll bind it up tight and +it will be fine.”</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_25">[25]</div> +<p>Five minutes later Florence saw the child’s +head fall against her older sister’s side. Her +pain gone, her cry stilled, she had fallen asleep. +That was Florence’s second reward, but not +her last.</p> +<p>As she once more crept beneath the warm +covers in her tent, she felt the slender arms +of Mary, her cousin, close about her and heard +her murmur with a shudder: “It is so far and +so cold!”</p> +<p>“She’s talking in her sleep again,” Florence +told herself. Then, out of sympathy for the +frailer girl, she too shuddered.</p> +<p>Yes, it had been a long way and even though +it was early June, it was cold. Yet Florence +thrilled at thought of it all. That journey, how +it had unfolded, first on paper, second in their +minds, then in reality!</p> +<p>Mark and Mary had lived with their mother +in the Copper Country of Michigan. Because +she had few relatives and was in need of a +home, Florence had joined them there.</p> +<p>No copper was being mined, so there was +no work and, struggle as they might, they had +grown poorer and poorer.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_26">[26]</div> +<p>Then had come word of what appeared to +them a wonderful opportunity. The government +was to send two hundred or more families +to the rich Matamuska Valley in Alaska. +They were to be given land and to be loaned +money that they might make a fresh start.</p> +<p>“Pioneers! They will be pioneers in a new +land!” Florence, who was of true pioneer +stock, young, sturdy and strong, had exclaimed. +“Why should we not go?”</p> +<p>Why, indeed? They had applied, had been +accepted, and here they were at the seaport +of the railroad that was to bear them on to +their new world.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_27">[27]</div> +<p>“Tomorrow,” she whispered softly to herself. +“Tomorrow, to—” At that she fell fast +asleep.</p> +<p class="tb">If the scene of confusion on the dock at +Anchorage with the trucks, tractors, tents, +and groceries had seemed strange, the picture +before Florence, Mary and Mark a few days +later might, to a casual observer, have seemed +even more strange. Palmer, dream city of the +future, lay before them. And such a city! A +city of tents. Yet, city of tents as it was, it +did not lack signs of excitement. This was +the great day. On this day the future home +owners of this rich valley, surrounded by its +snow-capped mountains, were to draw lots for +their tracts of land. Some tracts were close to +Palmer, some ten or twelve miles away. A +few settlers there were who wished for solitude +in the far-off spots. Many hoped for tracts +close in, where they might walk into town for +their mail and to join in the latest gossip. +Florence, Mary, and Mark had sensed the +bleak loneliness of distant farms during the +long winter. They too hoped for a spot close +at hand.</p> +<p>“Now,” Florence whispered as, after a long +time of waiting in line, Mark approached the +drawing stand. “Now it is your turn!”</p> +<p>Mark’s hand trembled as it went out. Florence +felt her heart pause, then go leaping. It +meant so much, so very much, that tiny square +of paper with a number on it.</p> +<p>Turning away from the curious throng, +Mark cupped his hand, then together they all +three peered at that magic number.</p> +<p>“One hundred and twelve!” Florence whispered +tensely. “Here—here is our map. Where +is our farm? Here! Here! Let’s look!”</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_28">[28]</div> +<p>One moment of hurried search, then a sigh +of disappointment. “Seven miles from town.” +Mary dropped limply down upon a stump.</p> +<p>“Might have been twelve,” Mark said cheerfully. +“Bet there’s a bear or a moose right in +the middle of it waiting to be made into hamburger. +But then,” he sighed, “we couldn’t +kill him. Can’t get a hunting license for a +year.”</p> +<p>Two hours later Mark and Mary with their +mother and Florence close at hand were listening +to a tempting offer. Ramsey McGregor, +a huge man from the western plains, had +drawn a tract of land only a half mile from +town. He had no cow. The Hughes family +owned a cow, a very good milker. If they +would trade tracts of land and throw in the +cow, they might have his farm close to town.</p> +<p>“Think of it!” Mark cried. “Right in town, +you might say!”</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_29">[29]</div> +<p>“Y-e-s,” Florence agreed. “But then—” Already +she had seen quite enough of the noisy, +quarrelsome camp. And besides, there was +the cow. Precious possession, old Boss. Cows +were dear—milk was hardly to be had at any +price. “And yet—” she sighed. Long tramps +through the deep snow, with a wild Arctic +blizzard beating her back, seemed to haunt +her. “You’ll have to decide,” she said slowly. +“It’s to be your home. I—I’m only a helper.”</p> +<p>Into this crisis there stepped an angel in disguise, +an unimportant appearing, dark-faced +angel, the older of the two Indian girls Florence +had seen and aided back there at the +dock in Anchorage. Now the girl, approaching +timidly, drew Florence’s head down to the +level of her own and whispered, “Don’t trade!”</p> +<p>“Why?” Florence whispered back.</p> +<p>“Don’t trade,” the Indian girl repeated. +“Bye and bye I show you.” She was gone.</p> +<p>“What did she say?” Mark asked. Mark +was slow, steady, thoughtful, dependable. +Florence had no relative she liked so much.</p> +<p>“She says not to trade.” There was a look +of uncertainty on the big girl’s face.</p> +<p>“Greasy little Indian girl,” Ramsey McGregor +growled. “What does she know?”</p> +<p>“Might know a lot,” Mark wrinkled his +brow. “What do you say?” he turned to the +others. “No trade?”</p> +<p>“No trade, I’d say,” was Florence’s quick +response.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_30">[30]</div> +<p>“Al—alright. No trade.” Mary swallowed +hard. She had wanted to be near town.</p> +<p>“Whatever you children want,” agreed the +meek little mother. Life had pushed her about +so long she was quite willing to take the strong +arm of her son and to say, “You lead the way.”</p> +<p>“It’s a lot like playing a hunch,” Mark +laughed uncertainly. “After all, the claim we +got is the claim we drew. Looks like God intended +it that way. Besides there’s old Boss. +We couldn’t—”</p> +<p>“No, we couldn’t do without her,” Mary +exclaimed. And so the matter was settled. +Somewhere out there where the sun set would +be their home.</p> +<p>Two hours later Florence and Mary were +enjoying a strange ride. From some unsuspected +source, the Indian girl had secured five +shaggy dogs. These were hitched, not to a +sled, for there was no snow, but to a narrow +three-wheeled cart equipped with auto wheels. +Whence had come those auto wheels? Florence +did not ask, enough that they eased their +way over the bumps along the narrow, uneven +trail that might, in time, become a road.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_31">[31]</div> +<p>The land they were passing over fascinated +Mary, who had an eye for the beautiful. Now +they passed through groves of sweet-scented, +low-growing fir and spruce, now watched the +pale green and white of quaking asp, and now +went rolling over a low, level, treeless stretch +where the early grass turned all to a luscious +green, and white flowers stood out like stars.</p> +<p>The surprise of their journey came when, +after passing through a wide stretch of timber, +they arrived quite suddenly upon an open +space.</p> +<p>“A clearing! A cabin! A lake!” Mary exclaimed. +“How beautiful!”</p> +<p>It was indeed beautiful. True, the clearing +showed signs of neglect, young trees had +sprouted where a field had been, the door of +the cabin, standing ajar, seemed to say, “Nobody’s +home. Nobody’s been home for many +a day.” For all that, the gray cabin, built of +great, seasoned logs, the clearing sloping down +to a small, deep lake, where a flock of wild +ducks swam all unafraid, made a picture one +would not soon forget.</p> +<p>“Come,” said the Indian girl. A moment +later they stepped in awed silence across the +threshold of the cabin.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_32">[32]</div> +<p>The large room they entered was almost +bare. A rustic table, two home-made chairs, +a great sheet-iron barrel, fashioned into a +stove, a few dishes in the corner, a rusted frying +pan and a kettle, that was about all. Yet, +strangely enough, as Florence tiptoed across +the threshold she found herself listening for +the slow tick-tock, tick-tock, of an old-fashioned +clock. With all its desolation there was +somehow about the place an air of “home.”</p> +<p>“Oh!” Mary breathed deeply. Then again, +“Oh!”</p> +<p>A stout ladder led to a tall loft where a bed +might, for all they could tell, be waiting. At +the back was a door opening into the small +kitchen.</p> +<p>“Home,” Florence breathed again.</p> +<p>“Home,” Mary echoed.</p> +<p>Then together they tiptoed out into the sunlight.</p> +<p>Quite unexpectedly, the Indian girl spoke. +“This,” she said, spreading her arms wide to +take in the cabin, the clearing and the lake beyond, +“this is it.”</p> +<p>“Thi—this is what?” Mary stammered.</p> +<p>“This,” replied the girl, “is your land.”</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_33">[33]</div> +<p>“No!” Florence exclaimed. “It can’t be.”</p> +<p>“But yes, it is your farm.” The girl smiled +a happy smile. “This is the number you drew.”</p> +<p>“Ours!” Florence whispered hoarsely. “An +abandoned cabin, a clearing, a lake! All ours! +And to think, we nearly missed it!” Then, +quite wild with joy, she surprised the shy Indian +girl by catching her up in her arms and +kissing her on the cheek.</p> +<p>At that very moment, as if it were part of +some strange drama, there sounded from the +edge of the clearing a loud: “Get up! Go ’long +there!” and a traveling rig as strange as their +own burst from the edge of the timber.</p> +<p>A moment later, a little man on a high-wheeled, +wobbly cart, shouted, “Whoa, January!” +to his shaggy horse, then sat for a full +moment staring at the three girls.</p> +<p>“You’re some of them new settlers?” he +said at last.</p> +<p>Florence nodded. She was too much surprised +to do more. The man, whose whiskers +had grown for months all untrimmed and +whose hair fell to his shoulders, looked as if +he might have stepped from an illustration of +Rip Van Winkle.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_34">[34]</div> +<p>“This your place?” he asked. Again the girl +nodded.</p> +<p>“Well,” his eyes swept the horizon, “you’re +lucky maybe—and then again maybe not. +There’s the clearin’ an’ the cabin, but maybe +the cabin’s haunted.</p> +<p>“No—no, not by ghosts!” he held up a hand. +“By people who once lived here. It’s a notion +of mine, this business of houses being haunted +by living folks.</p> +<p>“But then,” his voice dropped. “Mebby +they’re dead. Some sort of foreigners they +was, the ones that lived in this cabin. Came +here durin’ the war. Lot of queer ones in the +valley them days. Deserters, some of ’em. +Some dodgin’ the draft. Some foreign spies.</p> +<p>“Big man, that one,” he nodded toward the +cabin. “Big woman. Hard workers. Not much +to say for themselves.</p> +<p>“One day they’d gone. Where? Why? No +one knows. Spies, maybe. Government boat +at Anchorage just at that time. Shot ’em, like +as not, for spies.”</p> +<p>Florence shuddered.</p> +<p>“Maybe not,” the man went on. “Might +come back—Chicaski was the name. Russians.”</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_35">[35]</div> +<p>“If—if they come back, can they claim the +cabin?” Florence was thrown into sudden consternation.</p> +<p>“No-o. I guess not. Didn’t have no legal +claim on it like as not. There’s other deserted +cabins in the valley, lots of ’em. Folks got discouraged +and quit. Raise plenty of things to +eat. Can’t sell a thing. No market. Trap +fox and mink, that’s all you can sell. Folks +want things that don’t grow on land.</p> +<p>“Got to git along,” he exclaimed, clucking +to his horse. “Live back there five miles, I do. +I’ll be seein’ you.</p> +<p>“Git up! Go ’long there!” The strange little +man gave his shaggy horse a light tap with the +rein and the odd outfit went rattling away.</p> +<p>“Peter Piper,” said the Indian girl, nodding +after the man.</p> +<p>“You mean that’s his name?” Florence +asked in surprise.</p> +<p>The girl nodded.</p> +<p>“Oh!” Mary exclaimed. “And did he pick a +peck of prickly pears?”</p> +<p>The Indian girl stared at her until they all +burst into fits of laughter.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_36">[36]</div> +<p>For all that, it was a sober Florence who +journeyed back to Palmer. Strange words +were passing through her mind. “Maybe it’s +haunted. Raise anything. Can’t sell anything. +No market—you want things that don’t grow +on the ground.” Her world seemed to have +taken on a whirling motion that, like clouds +blown by the wind, showed first a bright, then +a darker side. What was to come of it all?</p> +<p>“A ticket to adventure,” she thought at last. +“Perhaps that man was more right than he +knew.”</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_37">[37]</div> +<h2 id="c3"><span class="small">CHAPTER III</span> +<br />SEVEN GOLDEN CANDLESTICKS</h2> +<p>Three days later Florence found herself +seated on the shore of the little lake that +lay at the edge of their claim. She was alone. +“How still it is,” she whispered. Not a leaf +moved. The dark surface of the lake lay before +her like black glass.</p> +<p>“The land of great silence,” she thought. +She shuddered and knew not why.</p> +<p>This was to her a strange world. All her +life she had known excitement. The rattle of +elevated trains, the honk of auto horns, the +drum of airplane motors, all these seemed +still to sound in her ears.</p> +<p>“Rivers,” she whispered thoughtfully, “have +eddies. There the water that has been rushing +madly on comes to rest. Do lives have eddies? +Has my life moved into an eddy?”</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_38">[38]</div> +<p>She did not enjoy the thought. Adventure, +thrills, suspense, mystery, these were her favorite +words. How could one find them here? +And yet, there was the cabin that lay just up +the rise. Their cabin now, it had belonged to +others. Russians probably, spies perhaps.</p> +<p>“What if they come back?” Mary had whispered +during their return journey from that +first visit. “What if they demand the cabin?”</p> +<p>“We’ll throw them out,” Florence had said, +making a savage gesture. “I wonder if we +would?” had been Mary’s reply. Florence wondered +about that now. She wondered about +many things. Why had she come to this +place at all? Because of her love for the +little family, her relatives, Mary, Mark, and +their mother. Could love make people do +things? She wondered. Could it make them +do slow, hard, drudging, everyday things? +If it could, how long would that last?</p> +<p>The thoughts that came to her there were +neither sad nor bitter. They were such dreamy +thoughts as come after a long day of toil. They +had worked, all of them; oh! how they had +worked getting settled!</p> +<p>“I—I’d like to go back, back to the city to +the wild romance of many people!” she cried +to the empty air of night.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_39">[39]</div> +<p>Then, of a sudden, she realized that she did +not wish to go back, but rather to go on, on, +on, on into the North. For, as she sat there +she seemed to see again the little man, Mr. +Il-ay-ok, and to hear him say, “Tom Kennedy, +yes, I know him,” and Tom Kennedy was her +long-lost grandfather.</p> +<p>“Yes,” she exclaimed, “and I shall go!” +Springing to her feet, she spread her arms +wide. Seeking out the north star, she faced +the land over which it hung. “Yes, Tom Kennedy, +my grandfather, I am coming.</p> +<p>“But not now—not now,” she murmured. +“One thing at a time. I have given my word. +I am to help these others win a home. Adventure, +thrills, mystery, romance,” she repeated +slowly, “can they be here?”</p> +<p>Then as if in answer to her query, there +came a faint sound. It grew louder, came closer, +the night call of wild geese.</p> +<p>“How—how perfect!” she breathed. “The +lake, the damp night air, the silence, then a +call from the sky.”</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_40">[40]</div> +<p>She waited. She listened. The speeding +flock came closer. At last they were circling. +They would land. She caught the rush of wings +directly over her head, then heard the faintest +of splashes.</p> +<p>“Happy landing!”</p> +<p>But not for long. She was creeping silently +away. They were pioneers. Pioneers lived off +the land. Here was promise of roast goose for +tomorrow dinner. Too bad to spoil romance, +but life must go on.</p> +<p>Slipping up to the cabin, she took Mark’s +gun from its place beside the door. With her +heart beating a tattoo against her ribs, she +crept back.</p> +<p>Closer and closer she crept until at last she +lay, quite still, among the tall grass that skirted +the pond.</p> +<p>“Where are they?” she whispered to herself. +No answer, save the distant flapping of +wings. How was one to shoot a wild goose he +could not see?</p> +<p>“Ah, well,” she thought. “I can wait. There +will be a moon.”</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_41">[41]</div> +<p>Wait she did. Once again the strangely silent +night, like some great, friendly ghost, +seemed to enfold her in its arms. Far away +loomed the mountains, close at hand spread +the plains, and over all silence. Only now and +again this silence was broken by the flapping +of wings, a sudden challenging scream, the +call that told her a rich dinner still awaited her.</p> +<p>At last the moon crept over the white crested +mountains. It turned the lake into a sheet +of silver. Dark spots moved across that sheet. +They came closer and closer. Thirty yards +they were from shore, now twenty yards, and +now ten yards. The girl caught one long sighing +breath. Then, bang! Bang! Both barrels +spoke.</p> +<p>A moment later, waist deep, the girl waded +for the shore. In each hand she carried a dead +bird, two big, fat geese. Tomorrow there +would be a feast. Romance? Adventure? +Well, perhaps, a little. But much more was +to come. She felt sure of that now. Her heart +leaped as she hurried forward to meet Mark +and Mary, who were racing toward her demanding +what all the shooting was about.</p> +<p>“A feast!” Mary cried joyously. “A real pioneer +feast. Thanksgiving in June! The Pilgrim +Fathers have nothing on us.”</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_42">[42]</div> +<p>Such a feast as it was! Roast wild goose +with dressing, great brown baked potatoes, +slashed and filled with sweet home-made butter, +all this topped with cottage pudding +smothered in maple sauce.</p> +<p>“Who says pioneering is a hard life?” Mark +drawled when the meal was over.</p> +<p>“It couldn’t be with such a glorious cook,” +Florence smiled at her aunt.</p> +<p>When, at last, she crept up to her bed in the +loft that night, she was conscious of an unusual +stiffness in her joints. Little wonder this, +for all day long she had wielded a grubbing +hoe, tearing out the roots of stubborn young +trees. They were preparing their land for the +plow. They would raise a crop if no one else +among the new settlers did. What crops? +That had not been fully decided.</p> +<p>As Florence lay staring at the shadowy rafters +she fell to musing about what life might +be like if one remained in this valley year after +year. “A farm of your own,” she thought, +“cows, chickens, pigs, a husband, children.” +Laughing softly, she turned on her side and +fell asleep.</p> +<p>Five days later their first real visitor arrived. +She was Mrs. Swenson, a short, plump farm +mother and old-time settler of the valley. She +had lived here for fifteen years.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_43">[43]</div> +<p>Florence, who was churning while Mary +and her mother were away in the town, gave +her an enthusiastic welcome. The handle of +the old-fashioned dasher churn went swish-swash.</p> +<p>“Just keep right on churnin’,” Mrs. Swenson +insisted. “You don’t dare stop or the butter +won’t come.</p> +<p>“It’s the strangest thing!” her eyes roved +about the large room. “The Chicaskis—that +was the name of the people who built this +cabin—they disappeared, you might say, overnight.”</p> +<p>“Oh! Did you know them?” the swish-swash +stopped for a space of seconds.</p> +<p>“Well, yes and no,” Mrs. Swenson smiled +an odd smile. “No one got to know them very +well. They left on foot,” she leaned forward +in her chair. “They’d had a horse. They sold +that to Tim Huston. So away they went, each +of them with satchels in both hands. That’s +all they took. It’s the strangest thing.”</p> +<p>She paused. The churn went swish-swash. +The little tin clock in the corner went tick-tick-tick. +Florence’s lips parted.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_44">[44]</div> +<p>Then her visitor spoke again: “They had +other things. Wonderful things. A huge copper +kettle and,” her voice dropped to a whisper, +“seven golden candlesticks. Leastwise, I +always thought they was gold. She always +had ’em up there above the fireplace, and how +they did shine! Gold! I’m sure of it.</p> +<p>“They might have took them. Maybe they +did, the candlesticks, I mean. But that huge +copper kettle. They never took that, not in a +satchel.</p> +<p>“I don’t mind admitting,” Mrs. Swenson’s +tone became confidential, “that those of us +who’ve lived around here ever since have done +a lot of snoopin’ about this old place, lookin’ +for that copper kettle and—and other things.</p> +<p>“There are those who say they hid gold, lots +of Russian, or maybe German gold, around +here somewhere. But, of course, you can’t believe +all you hear. And no one has ever +found anything, not even the big copper kettle. +So,” she settled back in her chair, “perhaps +there’s nothing to it after all. Mighty nice +cabin, though,” her tone changed. “Make you +a snug home in winter. Not like these cabins +the other settlers are building out of green +logs. Them logs are goin’ to warp something +terrible when they dry. Then,” she threw +back her head and laughed, “then the children +will be crawlin’ through the cracks, and with +the temperature at thirty below—think what +that will be like!”</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_45">[45]</div> +<p>Florence did think. She shuddered at the +very mention of it, and whispered a silent +prayer of thanksgiving to the good God who +had guided them to their snug cabin at the +edge of the clearing beside that gem of a lake.</p> +<p>At thought of it all, she gave herself an +imaginary hug. From without came the steady +pop-pop-pop of a gasoline motor. Mark was +driving a small tractor, plowing their clearing. +They were to have a crop this first year, for it +was still June. Few settlers would have crops. +They were lucky.</p> +<p>She looked at her torn and blistered hand, +then heaved a sigh of content. Those small +trees had been stubborn, some had been +thorny. It had been a heartbreaking job, but +now all that was over. The tractor chugging +merrily outside was music to her weary soul.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_46">[46]</div> +<p>The tractor? That, too, had been a streak +of luck. Or was it luck? Mark had always +loved fine machinery. Because of this he had +made it his business for years to learn all about +trucks, tractors, mine hoists, motor-boats, and +all else that came within his narrow horizon. +When he had asked down at Palmer about the +use of a tractor the man in charge had said: +“Over yonder they are. Not assembled yet. +Put one up and you can use it.”</p> +<p>“Sure. I’ll do that,” Mark grinned. And he +did.</p> +<p>Then they had wanted him to stay and set +up others. He had turned his back on this +promising position with good pay. He had +come to this land to make a home for his family, +and he was determined not to turn back. +So here was the clearing, ten acres nearly +plowed. A short task the harrowing would be. +And then what should they plant?</p> +<p>“I’ll ask Mrs. Swenson about that after a +while,” Florence promised herself. Mrs. Swenson +had come a long way and was to stay for +dinner. Florence had raised biscuits and a +large salmon baking in the oven of the stove +they had brought up from Palmer. They were +to have one more royal feast. Three other +guests were to arrive soon.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_47">[47]</div> +<p>She smiled as she opened the oven door, releasing +a wave of heat and delightful odors of +cooking things.</p> +<p>“Mr. McQueen’s an old dear,” she thought. +“He’ll be the godfather of our little settlement. +I’m sure of that.”</p> +<p>Yes, the newly arrived settler whose land +joined theirs at the back was an interesting +old man. Gray haired and sixty, he stood +straight as a ramrod, six feet four in his stockings. +Strong, brave, wise with the wisdom +that comes only with years, he would indeed +prove a grand counsellor.</p> +<p>And there was Dave, his son, just turned +twenty. “Slow, silent, steady going, hard +working, dependable,” had been Florence’s +instant snap-shot of his character; nor was she +likely to be wrong.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_48">[48]</div> +<p>Then, there was Bill Vale, whose land joined +them on the west. How different was Bill! A +dreamer, at twenty-two he was more a boy, +less a man, than Dave. And Bill’s mother, who +adored him, agreed with him in every detail. +The girl’s brow wrinkled as she thought of +Bill and his mother. How were such people +to get on in a hard, new land? But then, what +was the good of shouldering the problems of +others? They had problems of their own. +What were they to plant? That was their immediate +problem and a large one.</p> +<p class="tb">The meal was over and they were all seated +before the broad, screened door, looking away +at the lake, blue as the sky, when Florence +asked a question:</p> +<p>“Mrs. Swenson, what shall we plant?”</p> +<p>Mrs. Swenson did not reply at once. The +dinner they had eaten was a rich and jolly +one, just such a dinner as Florence could prepare. +The day was warm. Mrs. Swenson was +fat and chubby. Perhaps she had all but fallen +asleep.</p> +<p>“Mrs. Swenson,” Florence repeated, louder +this time, “what shall we plant?”</p> +<p>“What’s that?” the good lady started. +“Plant? Why, almost anything. Peas, beans, +carrots, beets, some oats and barley for your +cow. May not get ripe, but you cut it for +fodder. Soy beans are good, too. And potatoes! +You should have seen our potatoes last +year, four hundred bushels on an acre!”</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_49">[49]</div> +<p>“Four hundred on an acre!” Florence stared. +“That would be four thousand on our ten +acres if we planted it all to potatoes. Four +thousand at how much a bushel, Mrs. Swenson?”</p> +<p>“Why, dear, at nothing at all!” Mrs. Swenson +exclaimed. “You can’t sell ’em. We +haven’t a market. A few go to Fairbanks. +Those are all sold long ago.”</p> +<p>No market. There it was again. Florence’s +heart sank.</p> +<p>“Potatoes and tomatoes,” Mark gave a sudden +start. His face lighted as the earth lights +when the sun slips from behind a cloud.</p> +<p>“No,” said Mrs. Swenson, quite emphatically. +“Not tomatoes. You’ll get huge vines +and blossoms, beautiful blossoms, that’s all.”</p> +<p>“Tomatoes,” Mark repeated with a slow, +dreamy smile. “Bushels and bushels of tomatoes.”</p> +<p>Mrs. Swenson stared at him in hurt surprise. +“No tomatoes,” she said again.</p> +<p>Florence favored Mark with a sidewise +glance. She had seen that look on his face +before two or three times and always something +had come of it, something worth while. +Like a song at sunrise, it warmed her heart.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_50">[50]</div> +<p>Then, quite suddenly, the subject was +changed. “I don’t see what’s the good of a +market. Not just now,” Bill Vale drawled. +“The government’s willing to provide us everything +we need to eat or wear, and a lot of +things besides. Mother and I are getting a +gasoline motor to run the washing machine +and a buzz-saw. No freezing at twenty below +sawing wood for me.”</p> +<p>“Nor me,” laughed Dave McQueen. “I aim +to work too fast on our old cross-cut saw to +have time to freeze.”</p> +<p>“Fact is, Bill,” Mark put in, “in the end +we’ve got to pay for all these things.”</p> +<p>“Yes,” Bill laughed lightly. “Got thirty +years to pay, start in five years.”</p> +<p>“Well,” the older McQueen drawled. “Five +years have rolled round a dozen times in my +lifetime. They all seemed strangely short. +And when the payments start, they’ll be coming +round with ominous regularity. Mark and +Florence here have the right idea—keep debts +down and get proceeds rolling in at the earliest +possible moment.”</p> +<p>“Tomatoes,” Mark said dreamily. “Bushels +and bush—”</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_51">[51]</div> +<p>At that they all started to their feet. From +somewhere just out of their view had come the +loud heehaw, heehaw of a donkey.</p> +<p>“What?” Florence sprang out the door. +Then her lips parted in a smile, for there before +her stood one more odd character from +this strange new world: the oddest, she +thought, of them all.</p> +<p>Tall, slim, white-haired, an old man sat +astride a burro. And behind him came two +other burros heavily laden with packs. From +one pack protruded the handles of a pick and +a shovel.</p> +<p>“A forty-niner,” Florence thought.</p> +<p>“A real old sourdough Alaskan prospector!” +Bill exclaimed, wild with enthusiasm.</p> +<p>“Whoa! Hello!” the old man shouted in +one breath. “People livin’ here! That’s bad +for me. I’ve been camping here as I came and +went for a long spell.”</p> +<p>“The latch-string is still on the outside,” +Florence laughed a welcome. “We’ve got hot +raised biscuits,” she encouraged. “Hot raised +biscuits, sweet, home-churned butter and +plenty of coffee.”</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_52">[52]</div> +<p>“Hot raised biscuits.” The man passed a +hand before his eyes. “And sweet butter. +Haven’t heard those words in twenty years. +Came to Alaska during the rush in ’97. Just +out of college then. Been prospecting for gold +ever since. Found it twice. It’s all gone now. +But there’s gold in them hills.” His face +lighted as he looked away at the snowy peaks. +“Gold,” he repeated softly. “Sure,” his voice +changed, the light in his eyes faded. “Sure. +Hot biscuits and sweet butter. Sure, I’ll stop +and rest awhile.”</p> +<p>“Well, folks,” Mark stood looking away at +his partly plowed field. “I’ve got to get back +to work. Season’s short. Must get in our +seed.”</p> +<p>“Bill,” he slapped the tall boy on the back, +“you’ve got an acre or two that’s nearly +clear. You get busy and root out the brush. +Then I’ll plow it for you.”</p> +<p>“Yeah, maybe.” Bill scarcely heard. His +eyes were on the prospector’s pack.</p> +<p>“How about offering the same to us?” Dave +asked.</p> +<p>“Sure,” Mark exclaimed. “But you got a +hard forty to clear, all timber, looks like.”</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_53">[53]</div> +<p>“We’ve picked a spot,” Dave drawled. +“We’ve got strong backs and weak minds, +Dad and I have,” he laughed a roaring laugh. +“We’ll have a garden spot ready in two days. +You’ll see.”</p> +<p>Florence flashed Dave an approving smile.</p> +<p>“Mr. McQueen,” she said quietly, turning +to Dave’s father, “we’re having some of the +folks in for a sing Sunday afternoon. Mary will +play our reed organ, you know. Per—perhaps +you’d like to say a few words to the folks.”</p> +<p>“Why, yes, I—” the old man hesitated. “I—I’m +no orator, but I might say a word or +two. Good, old-fashioned time we’ll have.”</p> +<p>“Sure will!” Mark agreed.</p> +<p>While the others returned to their work, +Bill lingered behind to talk with the prospector. +After laying out a generous supply of +food, Florence retired to the kitchen and the +dinner dishes. Through the door there drifted +scraps of Bill’s talk with the old man.</p> +<p>“Ever really find gold?”... “Lots of times.”... +“Boy! That must have been great! I’m +getting me a pick and shovel right now.”... +“Take your time about that, son,” the old man +counselled. “But there’s gold. Plenty of it. +I’ll find it this time. Sure to.” His voice rose.</p> +<p>“Any bears up there?” Bill asked.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_54">[54]</div> +<p>“Plenty of ’em. But I don’t bother ’em and +they don’t bother me.”</p> +<p>“I’d bother them,” Bill cried.</p> +<p>“Yes,” Florence thought. “Bill would +bother them.” She remembered the high-powered +rifle that decorated Bill’s tent.</p> +<p>“Temptation,” she thought, “does not belong +to great cities alone. Here boys are +tempted to go after big game, to search for +gold, to chase rainbows.” Already Bill’s young +brain was on fire.</p> +<p>To her consternation, she suddenly realized +that her blood too was racing. Had she caught +the gleam of gold on the horizon? Would she +listen to the call of wild adventure until it +led her away into those snow-capped mountains?</p> +<p>“No,” she whispered fiercely. She had come +to this valley to help those she loved, Mary, +Mark, and their mother, to assist them in securing +for themselves a home. She would +cling to that purpose. She <i>would</i>! She stamped +her foot so hard the dishes rattled and Bill in +the other room gave a sudden start.</p> +<p>“Probably thought I was a bear,” she +laughed low.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_55">[55]</div> +<p>Then a thought struck her with the force +of a blow. “He said he’d been in Alaska since +’97. That old man said that,” she whispered. +“Perhaps—” She sprang to the door.</p> +<p>“Mister—er,” she hesitated.</p> +<p>“Name’s Dale—Malcomb Dale,” the old +man rose and bowed.</p> +<p>“Oh, Mr. Dale,” Florence caught her breath. +“You said you had been in Alaska a long time. +Did you ever know a man named Tom Kennedy?”</p> +<p>“Tom Kennedy! Sure! A fine man, but like +the rest of us.” He smiled oddly. “A little +touched in the head, you might say, always +looking for gold.”</p> +<p>“And did—did he ever find it?”</p> +<p>“Yes, once, I’m told. Let’s see. That was, +well, never mind what year. They found gold, +he and his partner, found it way back of the +beyond, you might say, and—”</p> +<p>“And—” Florence prompted.</p> +<p>“And they lost it.”</p> +<p>“Lost—lost it?” Florence stared.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_56">[56]</div> +<p>“His partner, Dan Nolan, became ill. Tom +Kennedy dragged him all the way to Nome +on a small sled. No dogs. Stormed all that +time. No trail, nothing. Got lost, nearly +froze, but he came through. Powerful man, +Tom Kennedy. Good man, too, best ever. +True a man as ever lived.”</p> +<p>“Oh, I—I’m glad.” Unbidden the words +slipped out.</p> +<p>The prospector stared at her. “I said they +lost the mine, never found it again. Nolan +died.”</p> +<p>“And Tom Kennedy, he—”</p> +<p>“He’s alive, far as I know. He’s always +hunting that mine. Never found it yet. But +then,” the old man sighed, “there’s plenty of +us like that up here where the sun forgets +to set in summer. Gets in your blood.</p> +<p>“Well,” he put out a hand, “I’ll get my burros +started. I—I’ll be goin’,” his voice was +rich and mellow with years. “I shall not forget +you. And when I strike it rich—” he hesitated, +then smiled a smile that was like the +sunset, “I’ll trade you gold and diamonds for +raised biscuits and sweet butter.” He stared +for a moment, as if seeing a vision of the past, +then bowed himself out. He was gone. Bill +went with him. How far he would go the girl +could only guess.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_57">[57]</div> +<p>Left alone with her thoughts, Florence +found herself wondering about many things. +Was there truly no market for the things they +raised? As the months and years rolled on, +would there still be no market? Fairbanks, a +small city to the north of them, was in need +of many kinds of food. Could they not supply +some of these needs?</p> +<p>Then, of a sudden, she recalled Mark’s +words, “Tomatoes. Bushels and bushels of tomatoes.” +Why had he insisted, why repeated +this word, even after Mrs. Swenson had +said, “no tomatoes”? Mark had something in +mind. What was it? She could not guess, but +dared hope.</p> +<p>She recalled Mrs. Swenson’s words about +the mysterious pair that had, with so much +labor, erected this cabin, cleared this land, +then left it all. “I wonder why they left?”</p> +<p>Then, “Seven golden candlesticks,” she +murmured, “and a great copper kettle. We +could use that kettle.” After that, in spite of +her desire to be practical, she found herself +searching the place from foundation to the +loft. All she found was an ancient Dutch oven, +rusted beyond reclaiming.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_58">[58]</div> +<p>“All the same,” she thought, “it <i>is</i> strange +what became of that copper kettle and—“ She +did not allow the thought to finish itself. +She had been about to think “gold.” She knew +that in this land one must not dream—at least, +not too much.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_59">[59]</div> +<h2 id="c4"><span class="small">CHAPTER IV</span> +<br />THE GREAT STUMP</h2> +<p>There was one thing about their little +farm that, from the first time she saw it, +had seemed strange to Florence. Back of the +house stood the stump of a forest giant. Fully +three feet across it stood there, roots embedded +deep, while all about it were pigmies of the +tree world. There was not a tree on the farm +that measured more than thirty feet tall. +Why? Perhaps a fire had destroyed the primeval +forest. Yet here was this great stump.</p> +<p>She tried to picture the tree towering above +its fellows. She found herself wishing that it +had not been felled by some woodsman’s axe. +Why had they cut it down? That they might +build its logs into the house was a natural +answer, yet the house contained no such logs. +Well, here was a riddle.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_60">[60]</div> +<p>On top of the stump the original dwellers +in the cabin had placed a massive flower-box. +Somehow, they had secured wild morning-glory +seeds and planted them there. These +must, from year to year, have replanted themselves, +for, even in June, the vines were beginning +to droop over the edge of the box. +By autumn the great stump would be a mass +of flowers. However others might regard +wild morning-glories, Florence knew she +would adore them.</p> +<p>She was standing staring at the stump and +thinking of it with renewed wonder when +Mark came in from his plowing.</p> +<p>“There! That’s done,” he exclaimed as he +dropped down upon a bench. “Now for the +planting.” Then, to his cousin’s renewed astonishment, +he said. “Bushels and bushels of +tomatoes.”</p> +<p>“Mark!” exclaimed Florence. “Why do you +keep on insisting that we can raise tomatoes +here when Mrs. Swenson, who has lived here +so long, says we can’t?”</p> +<p>“Because we can,” Mark grinned broadly.</p> +<p>“How?”</p> +<p>“Sit down and stop staring at that stump +as if it hid some strange secret and I’ll tell +you.”</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_61">[61]</div> +<p>Florence sat down.</p> +<p>“You know the way I have of poking about +in all sorts of odd corners wherever I am,” +Mark began. “Well, while we were in Anchorage +I got to prowling round and stumbled +upon a small greenhouse set way back on +a side street where very few people would +see it.</p> +<p>“Well, you know you’ll always find something +interesting in a greenhouse. Some new +vegetable or flower, a strange form of moss or +fungus, or even a new species of plant pest. +So I went in.”</p> +<p>“And you—”</p> +<p>“I found tomato plants all in blossom, dozens +and dozens of them in pots.”</p> +<p>“But why—”</p> +<p>“That’s what I asked the man—why? He +said he’d raised them for some gardener in a +town down south, half way to Seattle. Something +had gone wrong with the man or his +garden. He couldn’t use them so—”</p> +<p>“There they were.”</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_62">[62]</div> +<p>“Yes,” Mark agreed with uncommon enthusiasm. +“There they were, and there, I am +quite sure, they are still. They can be bought +cheap, probably four hundred plants in pots. +Must be tomatoes big as marbles on them by +now.”</p> +<p>“And you know,” he went on excitedly, +“when you set out potted plants the blossoms +and small tomatoes do not drop off, they just +keep on growing. And here, where the sun +will be shining almost twenty-four hours a +day, they should just boom along. Have ripe +tomatoes in six weeks. Then how those well-to-do +people in Anchorage, Seward and Fairbanks +will go after them! Tomatoes!” he exclaimed, +spreading his arms wide. “Bushels +and bushels of tomatoes; ripe, red gold!”</p> +<p>“But if there is a frost?”</p> +<p>“Yes,” Mark said with a drop in his voice. +“A June frost. That happens sometimes. It’s +a chance we’ll have to take. I’m going to Anchorage +for those plants tomorrow.</p> +<p>“You know,” his voice dropped, “I can’t see +all this going in debt for the things you eat +and wear, to say nothing of tools, machinery, +and all that. It’s got to be paid sometime and +it’s going to come hard.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_63">[63]</div> +<p>“It’s all right if you have to do it, better +than getting no start at all. I’m not criticising +anyone else. But, as for the Hughes family, +we’re going to pay as we go if we can, and +who knows but those tomatoes will pay for +our winter’s supply of flour, sugar, and all the +rest?”</p> +<p>“Who knows?” Florence echoed enthusiastically.</p> +<p>Six weeks had passed when once again Florence +sat beside the lake. There was a moon +tonight. It hung like a magic lantern above +the snow-capped mountain. The lake reflected +both mountains and moon so perfectly that +for one who looked too long, it became not +a lake at all, but mountains and moon.</p> +<p>Florence had looked too long. She was +dreaming of wandering among those jagged +peaks in an exciting search. A search for +gold. And why not? Had not the aged prospector +appeared once more at their door? Had +she not feasted him on hot-cakes and wild +honey? Had he not repaid her with fresh +tales of her grandfather’s doings in the very +far north?</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_64">[64]</div> +<p>“I shall go in search of him,” she told herself +now. “A search for a grandfather,” she +laughed. Well, why not? He had lost a rich +gold mine. She was strong as a man, was +Florence. No man, she was sure, could follow +a dog team farther nor faster than she. +She would find Tom Kennedy and together +they would find that mine.</p> +<p>“But first this!” she sighed as on other occasions, +flinging her arms wide to take in the +claim, the lake, and the cabin.</p> +<p>“First what?” a voice close at hand said.</p> +<p>Startled, she sprang to her feet. “Oh! It’s +you, Mark.” She made a place for him beside +her on a broad flat rock.</p> +<p>“First your little farm,” she said soberly. +“Tomatoes and potatoes and all the rest. A +shelter for old Boss, everything that will go +to make this a home for you and Mary and +your mother.”</p> +<p>“And you,” Mark’s voice was low.</p> +<p>“No. Not for me, Mark. For you this is +life. I understand that. I admire you for it. +To have a home, and a small farm, to add to +that year after year, to change the log cabin +for a fine home, to have cattle and sheep and +broad pasture and—” she hesitated, then went +on, “and children, boys and girls, happy in +their home. All this is your life and will be +years on end. But for me, it is only—what +should I say—an episode, one adventure +among many, a grand and glorious experience.”</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_65">[65]</div> +<p>“Yes,” Mark said, and there was kindness +in his voice. “Yes, I suppose that is it. Awfully +good of you to share the hardest year with +us.”</p> +<p>“What do you mean hardest?” Florence demanded. +“It’s been glorious. And we are succeeding +so well. Already the tomatoes are up +to my shoulders. What a crop they will be!”</p> +<p>“Yes,” Mark’s voice was husky. “We’ve +been lucky.”</p> +<p>For a time there was silence. Then Mark +spoke again. “There was a time, and not so +long ago, when I thought to myself, ‘Life’s +stream must grow darker and deeper as we +go along.’ But now—well—” he did not finish.</p> +<p>“Now,” Florence laughed from sheer joy of +living. “Now you must know that it grows +lighter and brighter.”</p> +<p>“Lighter and brighter,” Mark laughed softly. +“Those are fine words, mighty fine.”</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_66">[66]</div> +<p>“They’re grand words,” the girl cried. “True +words, too. It—why, life is like a summer +morning! Only day before yesterday I went +out to find old Boss before dawn. It was +more than half dark. Clouds along the horizon +were all black. They looked ominous, +threatening. Soon, some power behind them +began to set them on fire. Redder and redder +they shone, then they began to fade. Salmon +colored, deep pink, pale pink, they faded and +faded until like a ghost’s winding sheet they +vanished. Lighter and brighter. Oh, Mark! +how grand and beautiful life can be!” Leaping +to her feet she did a wild dance, learned +in some gypsy camp with her good friend, +Petite Jeanne; then, dropping to her place beside +the boy, she looked away into the night. +For her, darkness held no terror, for well she +knew there should be a brighter dawn.</p> +<p>Of a sudden, as they sat there, each busy +with thoughts of days that were to come, they +were startled by a sudden loud splash.</p> +<p>“Oh!” Florence jumped.</p> +<p>“Only some big old land-locked salmon,” +Mark chuckled.</p> +<p>“I didn’t know—”</p> +<p>“That they were here? Oh, sure! I’ve heard +them before.”</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_67">[67]</div> +<p>“Mark, I love to fish. Couldn’t we fix up +something?”</p> +<p>“Sure. There’s a line or two in the cabin +and some three gang hooks. I’ll cut the handle +off a silver-plated spoon. It’ll spin all +right without the handle. That’ll fool ’em. +You’ll see!”</p> +<p>She did see. The very next day she saw +what Mark’s inventive skill would do and, +seeing, she found fresh adventure that might +have ended badly had not some good angel +guided one young man to an unusually happy +landing.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_68">[68]</div> +<h2 id="c5"><span class="small">CHAPTER V</span> +<br />HAPPY LANDING</h2> +<p>Dull gray as a slate roof, the lake lay +before Florence next morning. There +was a threat of rain. From time to time, like +scurrying wild things, little ripples ran across +the water.</p> +<p>“Just the time for a try at that big old +salmon trout,” she exulted.</p> +<p>They had a boat, of a sort. A great hollow +log brought down from the hills, with its ends +boarded up. It leaked, and it steered like a +balky mule, but what of that? She would have +a try at trolling.</p> +<p>Dropping on her knees at the back of the +boat, she seized the paddle, then went gliding +out across the gray, rippling water. Quite +deftly she dropped in her silver spoon and +played out her line.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_69">[69]</div> +<p>After that, for a full quarter hour, she paddled +about in ever-widening circles. Once +her heart skipped a beat. A strike! No, only a +weed. She had come too near the shore. Casting +the weed contemptuously away, she struck +out for deeper water.</p> +<p>Round and round she circled. Darker grew +the surface of the lake. Going to rain, all +right. Clouds were closing in, dropping lower +and lower. Well, let it rain. Perhaps—</p> +<p>Zing! What was that? Something very +like a sledge-hammer hit her line.</p> +<p>“Got him!</p> +<p>“No. Oh, gee! No.” He was gone.</p> +<p>Was he, though? One more wild pull. Then +again a slack line. What sort of fish was this?</p> +<p>Line all out. She would take in a little slack. +Her hand gripped the line when again there +came that mighty tug.</p> +<p>“Got you,” she hissed.</p> +<p>And so she had, but for how long? The +line, she knew, was strong enough. But the +rod and reel? They were mere playthings. +Bought for perch and rock bass, not for thirty-pound +salmon. Would they do their part? She +was to see.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_70">[70]</div> +<p>Dropping her paddle, she settled low in her +uncertain craft. A sudden rush of the fish +might at any moment send her plunging into +the lake. Not that she minded a ducking. She +was a powerful swimmer. But could one land +a salmon that way? She doubted this. And +she did want that fish. What a grand feast! +She’d get a picture, too. Send it to her friends—who +believed her lost in a hopeless wilderness.</p> +<p>“Yes, I—I’ve got to get you.” She began +rolling in. The reel was pitifully small. She +had not done a dozen turns when the tiny handle +slipped from her grasp.</p> +<p>Zing! sang the reel. Only by dropping the +rod between her knees and pressing hard +could she halt the salmon’s mad flight.</p> +<p>“Ah,” she breathed, “I got you.”</p> +<p>This time, throwing all the strength of her +capable hands into the task, she reeled in +until, with a sudden rush the fish broke water.</p> +<p>“Oh! Oh!” she stared. “What a beauty! +But look! You’re up, head, tail and all. How’re +you hooked, anyway?”</p> +<p>Before she could discover the answer he was +down and away. Once again the reel sang. +Once more its handle bored a hole in her right +knee.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_71">[71]</div> +<p>“Dum!” she exclaimed as her boat began +to move. “He’s heading for the weeds. He—he’ll +snag himself off.”</p> +<p>The boat gained momentum. Reel as she +might, the fish gained ground. Deep under the +surface were pike-weeds. She knew the spot, +twenty yards away, perhaps. Now fifteen. +Now—</p> +<p>Wrapping the line about her shoe, she seized +the paddle and began paddling frantically.</p> +<p>“Ah! That gets you.” Slowly, reluctantly, +the fish gave ground. Then, driven to madness, +he broke water a full fifty yards from +the boat. This move gave the line a sudden +slack. The boat shot sidewise and all but overturned. +In a desperate effort to right herself, +the girl dropped her paddle. Before the boat +had steadied itself the paddle was just out of +her reach.</p> +<p>“Oh, you! I’ll get you if I have to swim +for it.”</p> +<p>All this time, quite unknown to the girl, +something was happening in the air as well +as the water. There was the sound of heavy +drumming overhead. Now it lost volume, and +now picked up, but never did it quite end.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_72">[72]</div> +<p>Without a paddle, with her reel serving her +badly, the girl was driven to desperation. +Seizing the line, she began pulling it in hand +over hand. This was a desperate measure; the +line might break, the hook might loose its +grip. No matter. It was her only chance.</p> +<p>Yard by yard the line coiled up in the bottom +of the boat. And now, of a sudden, the +thunder of some powerful motor overhead +grew louder. Still, in her wild effort to win +her battle, the girl was deaf to it all.</p> +<p>The line grew shorter and shorter, tighter +and tighter. What a fish! Thirty yards away, +perhaps, now twenty. Now—how should she +land him? She had no gaff.</p> +<p>That question remained unanswered, for at +that instant things began to happen. The fish, +in a last mad effort to escape, leaped full three +feet in air. This was far too much for the +crazy craft. Over it went and with it went +the girl.</p> +<p>That was not all; at the same instant a dark +bulk loomed out of the clouds to come racing +with the speed of thought towards the girl.</p> +<p>“An—an airplane,” she gasped. Closing her +eyes, she executed a sudden dive.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_73">[73]</div> +<p>This action would have proved futile, the +pontoons of the plane sank deep. Fortunately, +they passed some thirty feet from the spot +where the girl disappeared.</p> +<p>When she rose sputtering to the surface, +her first thought was of the fish. No use. The +line was slack, the salmon gone.</p> +<p>She looked up at the plane. At that moment +a young aviator was peering anxiously out +over the fuselage.</p> +<p>“Ah! There you are!” he beamed. “I’m +awfully glad.”</p> +<p>“Why don’t you look where you’re going? +You cut my line. I lost my fish.” Florence +was truly angry.</p> +<p>“Fish? Oh, I see! You were fishing?” The +young aviator stood up. He was handsome +in an exciting sort of way. “But I say!” he exclaimed, +“I’ll fix that. I’ve a whole leg of +venison here in my old bus. What do you say +we share it? Can you bake things?”</p> +<p>“Sure, but my aunt can do it much better.” +Florence climbed upon a pontoon to shake the +water out of her hair.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_74">[74]</div> +<p>Five hours later, with the rain beating a +tattoo on the well weathered roof of the cabin, +they were seated about the hand-hewn table, +the Hughes family, Florence, and the young +aviator. Seven candles winked and blinked on +the broad board. At the head sat Mark, and +before him the first roast of wild venison the +family had ever tasted. How brown and juicy +it was!</p> +<p>“Wonderful!” Florence murmured. “How +did you get it?” the words slipped unbidden +from her lips.</p> +<p>“No secret about that,” Speed Samson, the +aviator, smiled. “I’m a guide. Take people up +into the mountains for fish and game. Just +left a party up there. Going back in a week. +It’s wonderful up there. Snow. Cold. Refreshing. +Great! Want to go along?” He +looked at Florence.</p> +<p>“Why, I—” she hesitated.</p> +<p>“Take you all,” his eyes swept them in a +circle.</p> +<p>“Can’t be done just now. Thanks all the +same.” It was Mark who spoke. “We’re new +here. Lots to do. Adventure will have to +wait.</p> +<p>“Of course,” he hastened to add, “I’m not +talking for Florence.”</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_75">[75]</div> +<p>“Oh, yes, you are!” the big girl flashed back. +“I’m in this game the same as you, at least +until snow flies.”</p> +<p>“O. K.!” the aviator laughed. “When snow +flies I’ll be back. Winter up here is the time +for adventure.” He was looking now at Mary, +whose dark eyes shone like twin stars. “I’ll +take you for a long, long ride.”</p> +<p>At that instant something rattled against +the windowpane. Was it sleet driven by the +rain or was it some spirit tapping a message, +trying to tell Mary how long and eventful +that ride would really be?</p> +<p>Next day the smiling aviator went sailing +away into a clear blue sky. Florence and Mary +went back to their work, but things were not +quite the same. They never are after one has +dreamed a bright dream.</p> +<p>Three days later, Florence got her fish, or +was it his brother? He weighed twenty +pounds. Of course that called for one more +feast. Fortunately, one who works hard may +enjoy a feast every day in the year and never +waste much time. Truth is, only one who <i>does</i> +work hard can truly enjoy any feast to its +full. The Hughes family enjoyed both work +and wonderful food.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_76">[76]</div> +<h2 id="c6"><span class="small">CHAPTER VI</span> +<br />A WANDERER RETURNS</h2> +<p>Florence stirred uneasily beneath the +blankets. Morning was coming. A faint +light was creeping in over the cabin loft where +she and Mary slept in a great, home-made bed.</p> +<p>More often than not it is a sound that disturbs +our late slumbers. Florence had never +become quite accustomed to the morning +sounds about their little farm. All her life she +had lived where boats chug-chugged in the +harbor and auto horns sounded in the streets. +Here more often than not it was the croak of +a raven, the song of some small bird, the wild +laugh of a loon on the lake that awoke her.</p> +<p>Now, as a sharp suggestion of approaching +winter filled the air, on more than one morning +it was the quack-quack of some old gander +of the wild duck tribe, flown to the lake from +the far North, or the honk-honk of geese.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_77">[77]</div> +<p>All this was music to the nature-loving girl’s +ear. And, of late, all of life seemed to her a +great symphony full of beautiful melodies. +The hard battle of summer was over. Bravely +the battle had been fought. The Hughes family +had come to this valley to win themselves +a home. She was one of them, in spirit at +least. The beginning they had made surpassed +their expectations. Now, as she opened her +eyes to find herself fully awake, she thought +of it all.</p> +<p>“A ticket to adventure,” she whispered low +to herself, “that’s what the man said he was +giving me. It’s been a ticket to duty and endless +labor. And yet,” she sighed, “I’m not +complaining.” A great wave of contentment +swept over her. They were secure for the +winter. That surely was something.</p> +<p>“Adventure,” she laughed, silently. “Bill +has had the adventure. He—”</p> +<p>Her thoughts broke off. From somewhere, +all but inaudible, a sound had reached her ear. +More sensation than sound, she knew at once +that it was made by no wild thing. But what +could it be? She listened intently, but, like a +song on their little battery radio, it had faded +away.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_78">[78]</div> +<p>Yes—her thoughts went back to her neighbor—Bill +Vale had sought adventure and had +found it. With his mother still in Palmer, he +had packed up a generous supply of food, +charged to his mother’s account at the government +commissary, and joining up with the +dreamy-eyed prospector, Malcomb Dale, had +gone away into the hills searching for gold.</p> +<p>“Not that Bill’s mother would have objected,” +Florence thought. “She would have said, +‘Bill is incurably romantic. The quest for gold +appeals to him. All our desires in the end +must be satisfied if we are to enjoy the more +abundant life. Besides, what is there to do? +There are six hundred men working in gangs. +They will clear up our land for us and build +cabins before snow flies. We shall be charged +with it all, but then we have thirty years to +pay.’ Yes, that is exactly what Bill’s mother +would have said,” and the thought disgusted +Florence not a little.</p> +<p>So Bill had gone away into the mountains. +The mountains, those glorious, snow-capped +mountains! Florence, as she bent over her +work in their large garden, had watched him +start. And as she saw him disappear, she had, +for the moment, envied him.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_79">[79]</div> +<p>Often and often, in the sweet cool of the +evening, she and Mary had talked about how, +in some breathing spell, they would borrow a +horse and go packing away into those mountains. +The breathing spell had never come. +And now, the brief autumn was here. Winter +was just around the corner. Florence had no +regrets. Never before had she felt so happy +and secure.</p> +<p>Bill had been gone six weeks. The clearing +and building crew had arrived while he was +away. There was dead and down timber at +the back of Bill’s lot that would have made a +fine, secure cabin, had Bill been there to point +it out. He was not there. So the cabin was +built of green logs. Already you could see +daylight through the cracks, and Bill’s mother, +who had moved in with what to Florence +seemed an unnecessary amount of furniture +and equipment, was complaining bitterly about +“the way the government has treated us poor +folks.”</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_80">[80]</div> +<p>Bill had returned at last. Sore-footed and +ragged, his food gone, his high-priced rifle red +with rust, he had returned triumphant. He +had found gold. In the spring he would begin +operations in a big way. Proudly he displayed +six tiny nuggets, none of them bigger than a +pea.</p> +<p>“Seeds,” old John McQueen had called +them. “Golden seeds of discontent.” But to +Bill they were marvelous. For him they hid +the cracks in their cabin, his unplowed field, +his uncut woodpile. And, because she doted +on her son, they hid all these things from his +mother’s eyes as well—at least, for a time.</p> +<p>“Poor Bill!” Florence sighed, as she snuggled +down beneath the blankets. “He’s such a +dreamer. He—”</p> +<p>There was that strange sound again, like a +speedboat motor. She laughed at the thought +of a speedboat on their tiny lake. But now, +as before, it faded away.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_81">[81]</div> +<p>Yes, with her help, the Hughes family had +won. Their summer had been a complete success. +How they had worked, morning to +night. Mosquitoes and flies, tough sod and +weeds, they had battled them all. And how +they had been rewarded! Never had plants +grown and flourished as theirs did. Mark’s tomatoes +were a complete success. Twice, it was +true, the mercury dropped to a point perilously +near freezing and their heads rested on +uneasy pillows. But the Alaskan weather man +had been kind. Their bright red harvest, +“bushels and bushels of tomatoes,” had come +and had been sold at unbelievable prices. All +along the Alaskan railroad, people had gone +wild about their marvelous tomatoes.</p> +<p>“And now,” the girl heaved another happy +sigh. Now their little sodded-in cellar was +packed full of potatoes, beets, turnips, and +carrots; their shelves were lined with home-canned +wild fruit, raspberries, blueberries, +high bush cranberries, and their storeroom +crowded with groceries, all paid for. What +was more, a horse! “Old Nig,” bought from +a discouraged settler, was in their small log +barn. It was marvelous, truly marvelous! And +yet, in this wild land full of possible exciting +events, they had known no adventure.</p> +<p>“Duty first,” John McQueen had said to her +once. “And when duty is done, let adventure +come as it may. And it <i>will</i> come.”</p> +<p>“Good old McQueen,” she sighed. “God +surely knows all our needs. He sends us such +men.”</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_82">[82]</div> +<p>Suddenly her feet hit the floor with a bound. +She had heard that sound once more. It was +the drum of an airplane motor. She judged by +the sound that it was circling for a landing, +perhaps on their little lake. How wonderful! +Was it their friend, the young aviator? Had +he come for them? Her blood raced.</p> +<p>“Mary!” she fairly screamed. “Wake up! +An airplane! And it’s going to land. It’s landing +right now.”</p> +<p>They jumped into their clothes and were +out on the cabin steps just in time to see the +beautiful blue and gray airplane, graceful as +any wild fowl, circle low to a perfect landing.</p> +<p>With mad scurrying, wild ducks and geese +were off the water and away on the wing, +leaving the intruders to the perfect quiet of a +glorious autumn morning.</p> +<p>A short time later they were all at the +water’s edge, Florence, Mary, Mark, Bill, and +Dave. The hydroplane had been anchored. +Three men had just put off in a small boat.</p> +<p>“Hello, there,” one of them shouted. “How’s +the chances for sourdough pancakes and coffee?” +It was Speed Samson.</p> +<p>“Fine!” Florence laughed. “Plate of hots +coming up.”</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_83">[83]</div> +<p>“This is not to be our trip.” There was a +note of disappointment in Florence’s tone as +she murmured these words to Mary. “He’s +got a hunting party. Probably going after +moose or grizzly bears.” Nevertheless, she +was ready enough to offer to the party the true +hospitality of the north. Soon their plates +were piled high with cakes, their cups steaming +with fragrant brown coffee.</p> +<p>As Florence sat talking to them, one of the +men, all rigged out in hunting belt filled with +shells, riding breeches and high boots, seemed +familiar to her. Who was he? For the life of +her, she could not think.</p> +<p>It was Mary who dispelled her doubt. “Florence,” +once they were alone in the kitchen, she +gripped her arm hard, “that man’s the one who +roared at the little Eskimo, Mr. Il-ay-ok, back +there on the dock in Anchorage.”</p> +<p>“That’s right,” Florence’s whisper rose shrill +and high. “I don’t like him and I don’t think I +ever shall.”</p> +<p>“Why did he hate that little man?”</p> +<p>“Who knows?” Florence answered hastily. +“Anyway, his name is Peter Loome.”</p> +<p>“How—how do you know that?”</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_84">[84]</div> +<p>Florence did not catch this, she was already +hurrying away.</p> +<p>“We’re bound for the big-game hunting +ground,” one of the men was explaining to +Mark. “Wonderful sport! Wild sheep and +goats, moose and big brown bear!”</p> +<p>“Man, you’re lucky!” Bill exclaimed.</p> +<p>Mark made no response.</p> +<p>“Your motor don’t sound just right,” Mark +said as the conversation lagged.</p> +<p>“What’s wrong with it?” the young pilot +demanded.</p> +<p>“Can’t quite tell,” Mark puckered his brow.</p> +<p>“Ever fly?” The pilot looked at him sharply.</p> +<p>“No-o. But then your motor’s just like the +ones we had in some speedboats back in the +Copper Country. I tinkered with them. You +get to know by the sound,” Mark replied modestly.</p> +<p>“Want to turn her over once or twice?” the +pilot invited.</p> +<p>“Sure. Be glad to.”</p> +<p>Two hours later grim, greasy, but triumphant, +Mark emerged from the plane. He had +located the trouble and had remedied it.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_85">[85]</div> +<p>“Say-ee, you’re good!” the pilot was enthusiastic. +“Want to go along as my mechanic? +Grand trip! Shoot goats, bears, moose, and—”</p> +<p>“Can’t get away just now,” said Mark quietly. +“Thanks all the same.”</p> +<p>Just the same, there was a look of longing +in his eye that Florence knew all too well. +He had two passions, had Mark. He loved +growing things and wonderful machinery. +Growing was over for this year. Dull, dreary +days of autumn were at hand. For him, to +spend two weeks or even a month watching +over that matchless motor would be bliss.</p> +<p>“No-o,” he repeated slowly, almost mournfully. +“I can’t go. There is still work to be +done before snow flies.”</p> +<p>“Say!” Bill put in. “Take me. I’ll go.”</p> +<p>“Know anything about motors?”</p> +<p>“Sure, a lot,” Bill, never too modest, replied.</p> +<p>“All right. Get your things.” A half hour +later, Bill sailed off to one more adventure.</p> +<p>“Yes,” Florence thought with a grim smile. +“He’s spent two weeks felling green trees to +cut with his new buzz-saw. Be fine wood in +twelve months. But how about next January? +Poor Bill!”</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_86">[86]</div> +<p>Strange to say, the one thought that often +haunted both Florence and Mary was the +realization that their splendid cabin had been +built by someone else. That this someone had +hidden a big copper kettle and, perhaps, seven +golden candlesticks near the cabin, then had +gone away, did not seem to matter. “What +if they should come back?” Florence asked +herself over and over.</p> +<p>Then, one bright autumn day, their dark +dream came true. Busy in the kitchen, Florence +did not notice the approach of a stranger. +Only when she heard heavy footsteps outside +did she hurry into the large front room. Then, +through the open door, she heard a loud sigh, +followed by the creak of a bench as a heavy +person settled upon it. After that, in a voice +she could not mistake, though she had never +heard it before, there came: “Ah! Home at +last!”</p> +<p>“Madam Chicaski, the original owner of the +cabin,” the girl thought in wild consternation. +“She has returned!”</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_87">[87]</div> +<h2 id="c7"><span class="small">CHAPTER VII</span> +<br />AND THEN CAME ADVENTURE</h2> +<p>When you buy a house, or even a cabin +in the wilderness, how much of it do +you really buy? All of it or only part? The +walls, the roof, the floor, surely all these are +yours. But all those other things, the little +cupboard in the corner, all carved out from +logs with crude tools, but done so well for +someone who has been loved—do you buy +this too? And all the other delicate touches +that made a house a home, can you buy these +or do you only try to buy these and fail? It +was thus that Florence thought as she sat +dreaming in the sun outside the cabin.</p> +<p>From within came the sound of voices. Her +aunt and Madam Chicaski were talking. Already +her aunt had come to love the company +of this huge Russian woman who had first +made this cabin into a home.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_88">[88]</div> +<p>A week had passed and still the woman lingered. +How long would she stay? No one +knew nor seemed to care overmuch. She insisted +on working, this stout old woman. And +how she did work! When Mark began going +to the forest cutting dead trees and dragging +them in with the tractor for the winter’s supply +of wood, she shouldered an axe and went +along. Then how the trees came crashing +down! Even Mark was no match for her. In +five days a great pile of wood loomed up beside +the cabin. High time, too, for the first flurry +of snow had arrived.</p> +<p>That Madam Chicaski had a gentler side +they learned as she talked beside the fire in +the long evenings. She told of her own adventure +on this very spot when the valley was +all but unknown and life for her was new. +Many things she told, tales that brought forth +smiles and tears.</p> +<p>One subject she never touched upon, nor +was she asked to tell, what had become of the +great copper kettle, the seven golden candlesticks +and all else that had been left behind. +“If she stays long enough, in time I shall +know,” Florence assured herself.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_89">[89]</div> +<p>There were other things she did not tell. +Why had she left the valley and how? Where +was her husband now? This much was certain, +she was not now in want. Florence had come +upon her one afternoon unobserved. She was +thumbing a large roll of bills. At the slightest +sound she concealed them under her ample +dress.</p> +<p>At times she acted strangely. She would +go to the back of the yard and stand, for a +quarter hour or more, contemplating the great +stump. Over this, during the summer, morning-glories +had bloomed in profusion. At that +moment it was covered only by dry and rustling +vines. At such times as this on the Russian +woman’s face was a look of devotion. +“Like one saying her prayers,” Florence +thought.</p> +<p>There came a day when, for a time at least, +all thoughts of the mysterious Madam Chicaski +were banished from the little family’s +thoughts. Mystery was replaced by thrilling +adventure.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_90">[90]</div> +<p>Once again the air was filled with sound. A +large, gray hydroplane came zooming in from +the west. They were waiting at the water’s +edge, the Hughes family and Madam, when +the pilot taxied his plane close in to shore. +Florence was not there. She was away on a +visit to Palmer.</p> +<p>“How would you like to paddle out and get +me?” the pilot invited as he climbed out upon +the fuselage.</p> +<p>Mark rowed out in their small home-made +skiff.</p> +<p>“I’m on an errand of mercy,” the man explained +at once, “and I’m going to need some +help. Just received a message by short-wave +radio that some men are in trouble up in the +mountains.”</p> +<p>“Hunters?” Mark suggested.</p> +<p>“Yes.”</p> +<p>“In a blue and gray plane?” Mary’s dark +eyes widened. How about Bill, she was thinking. +Despite his shortcomings, Bill held a +large place in slender Mary’s heart.</p> +<p>“Any—any one hurt?” she asked.</p> +<p>“One of the hunters has been badly handled +by a bear,” the man went on. “Something’s +gone wrong with their motor, too. They can’t +bring him out.”</p> +<p>“Bear?” said Mark. “That’s sure to be Bill. +He’d march right up and shoot a bear in the +eye.”</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_91">[91]</div> +<p>“Yes—yes, it must be Bill,” Mary exclaimed, +striving in vain to control her emotions. +“We must do something to help him. +What can we do?” Months shut away from +the outside world had drawn their little company +close together. Bound by bonds of +friendship and mutual understanding, despite +the faults of some, they were very close to one +another.</p> +<p>“You can help a great deal,” said the pilot, +“that is,” he hesitated, “if you’re willing to +take a chance.”</p> +<p>“A—a chance?” Mary stammered.</p> +<p>“Sure,” the man smiled, “you look like a +good nurse. Your brother, here, I am told, is +a fine motor mechanic. Climb in the plane and +come along with me—both of you.”</p> +<p>“A ticket to adventure!” The words so +often repeated now echoed in Mary’s ears.</p> +<p>“What do you say?” Mark turned to her.</p> +<p>“There—there’s still work to be done,” she +stammered.</p> +<p>“The work can wait. This appears a plain +call of duty.” Mark’s voice trembled ever so +slightly.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_92">[92]</div> +<p>“All right. We’ll go.” Mary felt a thrill +course up her spine. At the same instant she +caught the eye of Dave Kennedy. In those fine +eyes she read something quite wonderful, a +look of admiration and yet of concern.</p> +<p>She and Dave had become great friends. +Dave was a wonderful fellow. His Scotch +mother was small, quite frail, yet altogether +lovely. When their logs in their cabin walls +had begun to warp, Dave and his father had +sodded it up, quite to the eaves. Now they +were all set for winter.</p> +<p>“I’ll look after your horse and cow and—and +cut the wood,” Dave said huskily. “I only +wish I might take your place.” He looked +Mary squarely in the eye.</p> +<p>“I’m glad you can’t,” she laughed, looking +away. “I’m sure it will be a wonderful adventure.”</p> +<p>“Cold up there,” suggested the pilot. “We +shall need blankets and food. We may have +to freeze in and fly out on skis.”</p> +<p>The Hughes family was not stingy. A huge +cart-load of supplies was carried to the water’s +edge, then ferried to the airplane.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_93">[93]</div> +<p>“I stay,” said stout Madam Chicaski. “I +stay until you come back. I look after everything.” +Mary’s heart warmed to this powerful +old woman.</p> +<p>“Goodbye,” she screamed as the motor thundered. +“Goodbye, everyone.” A moment later, +for the first time in her life, she was rising +toward the upper spaces where clouds are +made.</p> +<p>The moments that followed will ever remain +like the memory of a dream in the girl’s +mind. Though the motor roared, they appeared +to be standing still in mid-air while +a strangely beautiful world glided beneath +them. Here a ribbon that was a stream wound +on between dark green bands that were +fringes of forest, here a tiny lake mirrored +the blue sky, there a broad stretch of swamp-land +lay brown and drear, while ever before +them, seeming to beckon them on—to what, +to service or to death?—were the snow-capped +mountains.</p> +<p>So an hour passed. Swamps vanished. Jagged +rocks appeared. Hemlock and spruce, +dark as night, stood out between fields of glistening +snow.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_94">[94]</div> +<p>And then, with a quick intake of breath, +Mary sighted a tiny lake. Half hidden among +rocky crags, it seemed the most marvelous +part of this dream that was not a dream. And +yes—clutching at her breast to still her heart’s +wild beating, she shouted to her silent, awe-struck +brother:</p> +<p>“That is the place!”</p> +<p>Nor was she wrong. With a sudden thundering +swoop that set her head spinning, the +powerful ship of the air circled low for a landing.</p> +<p>“Now!” she breathed, and again, “Now!”</p> +<p>One instant it seemed they would graze the +rocks to the left of them, the next the bank +of trees to the right. And then—</p> +<p>“What was that?” Mark shouted suddenly.</p> +<p>As the pontoons of the plane touched the +surface of the lake, there had come a strange +ripping sound.</p> +<p>They had not long to wait for the answer. +Hardly had the airplane taxied to a spot +twenty feet from a shelving bank, when the +plane began settling on one side.</p> +<p>“Tough luck!” exclaimed the pilot. “A little +ice formed on the lake. Must have punctured +a pontoon. No real danger, I guess. +Those fellows should be here any—”</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_95">[95]</div> +<p>“Yes! Yes! There they are now!” Mary +exclaimed, pointing to a spot where two men +were putting off in a small boat.</p> +<p>The boat, she saw at once, was one used on +their own small lake not so many days before. +In a narrow cove she sighted the blue and +gray airplane.</p> +<p>“Well!” laughed their pilot. “Here we are.”</p> +<p>“Yes,” the girl thought soberly. “Here we +are. Two hundred miles from anywhere in a +frozen wilderness. Two disabled airplanes. +Food for a month. One injured boy. Fine outlook.”</p> +<p>The instant her eyes fell upon the men in +the boat she experienced one more shock. +Peter Loome, the man with a hard face, who +hated all Eskimos, was there. She barely suppressed +a shudder. Just why she feared and +all but hated this man she was not able at that +moment to say.</p> +<p>She was not one to see the dull gray side +of life’s little cloud for long. The instant they +reached the improvised camp she asked after +the injured person and was not surprised to +find that it was Bill.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_96">[96]</div> +<p>“That bear,” Bill drawled as she dressed the +rather deep wounds on his arms and chest, +“took an unfair advantage of me. He could +run a lot faster’n any man. And he ran the +wrong way. Funny part was, when he got up +with me, he wanted to hug me. If he hadn’t +been badly hurt, he’d have killed me.”</p> +<p>“If you’d left him alone in the first place, +probably he wouldn’t have bothered you,” +Mary said soberly.</p> +<p>“No-o, probably not,” Bill replied ruefully.</p> +<p>“Oh, well,” one of the hunters consoled him, +“you’ll have his skin for a rug back there in +your cabin this winter.”</p> +<p>“Not for me,” Bill exploded. “I’ve been cold +long enough. That cabin leaks air. Soon’s I +get back I’ll be startin’ for old Alabam’, or at +least some place that’s warm.”</p> +<p>Mary frowned but said nothing. Already she +had come to love that valley where their cabin +stood by the little lake. If it was her good +fortune to return there in safety she would +not ask for more. As for Bill, he had, she +thought, brought all his troubles upon himself. +But Bill was wounded and ill. What he +needed, at the moment, was kindness and gentle +care, not advice.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_97">[97]</div> +<p>That night Mary and Mark sat down for +some time beside a glowing campfire. Bill was +resting well, would sleep, they thought, +quietly. The others, too, had retired.</p> +<p>“Mark,” the girl’s tone was sober, “I’ve always +wanted adventure. Most young people +want adventure in one form or another, I +guess. But when it comes—”</p> +<p>“It doesn’t seem so wonderful after all,” +Mark laughed low.</p> +<p>“Well, no,” his sister agreed.</p> +<p>“May not be so bad after all,” Mark said +cheerfully. “While you were taking care of +Bill, we floated three large dry logs out to our +damaged ship. We lashed them to the pontoon +support. That means she won’t sink any +more. And when we are frozen in, we—”</p> +<p>“Frozen in!” Mary was startled. She had +realized in a vague sort of way that at this +very moment the thin ice on the lake was +hardening, that they could not hope to get +away on pontoons, yet the thought of a forced +wait was disturbing.</p> +<p>“How—how long?” she managed to ask.</p> +<p>“Perhaps ten days, perhaps a month. Depends +on the weather.”</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_98">[98]</div> +<p>“Ten days, a month!” The girl’s head swam. +Adventure! Surely this was it!</p> +<p>“But, Mark,” her voice was low with emotion, +“so many things might happen. A storm +may come roaring up the mountainside and—”</p> +<p>“And wreck the planes beyond repair. Yes, +but we’ll do our best and we must trust God +for the rest.”</p> +<p>“Yes,” the girl thought. “We must trust +Him and do our best.”</p> +<p>Then, because she did not wish longer to +dwell upon their own position, she forced her +thoughts into other channels. She tried to +picture the folks at home—mother, quietly +knitting by the fire, Florence, if she were back +from Palmer, poring over a book, and silent, +occupied only with her thoughts, the strange +Madam Chicaski.</p> +<p>How often she had wished she might read +that woman’s thoughts. Did she sometimes +think of the missing copper kettle and the +seven golden candlesticks? If so, what did she +think? What was in her mind as she stood +for a long time staring at the great stump?</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_99">[99]</div> +<p>“We’ll get away from here,” the girl thought +at last. “We’ll go back to our snug cabin and +the joys of winter. How peaceful and secure +we shall be. Let the wind roar. We shall be +snug and warm.</p> +<p>“And Sunday! What a day that will be! +The Petersons with the twins will come over +in a bobsled, and the Dawsons in their home-made +cutter. The Sabins have a dog team. +What sings we shall have!</p> +<p>“Mark!” she exclaimed. “It’s too bad you +had to give up training your dogs.” Mark had +befriended five shaggy dogs deserted by settlers +gone back to the States.</p> +<p>“Be back to the dogs before you know it. +Besides,” Mark laughed a low, merry laugh, +“there’s the cat. What the dogs can’t do, the +cat can.” (He was speaking of his caterpillar +tractor. They called these “cats” for short.)</p> +<p>“Yes,” Mary joined in the laugh. “But it +will be truly thrilling to have a dog team. +Wish we had it right now. Then if everything +went wrong we could drive out.”</p> +<p>“Yes, but everything won’t go wrong.” +Mark rose and yawned sleepily. “You’ll see.”</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_100">[100]</div> +<p>“Will we see?” the girl asked herself as, a +quarter of an hour later, she crept beneath +heavy blankets to lie down upon a bed of +sweet-scented boughs. She knew their plans +in a general sort of way. The gray plane carried +skis. The blue and gray one had none. +Mark and the pilots would work on the disabled +motor of the blue and gray. If they got +it working they would make skis for it. The +two planes would take off on skis as soon as +the ice was safe.</p> +<p>“A ticket to adventure,” she whispered. +“When and how will our adventure end? Ah, +well, Mr. McQueen says that so long as our +adventure comes in the line of duty, Providence +will see us through, so surely there is +nothing to fear.” With this comforting +thought, she fell asleep.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_101">[101]</div> +<h2 id="c8"><span class="small">CHAPTER VIII</span> +<br />A SECRET IS TOLD</h2> +<p>To Mary the days that followed were +strange beyond belief. The beauty of +mountain sunshine on glistening snow, gray +rocks, and black forests was entrancing. The +sudden up-rushing of a storm, threatening as +it did to destroy their only means of escape, +was terrifying beyond words.</p> +<p>Many and many were the times that she +wished that it might have been Florence who +had been whirled off on this wild adventure +instead of herself. “She is so much stronger +than I,” she said to Mark. “She has seen so +much more of life and seems so much older.”</p> +<p>“You had your first-aid lessons in school,” +Mark said, a note of encouragement in his +tone. “This is one grand opportunity for putting +them into practice.”</p> +<p>“Sure,” Bill agreed, overhearing the conversation. +“I’m so tough you couldn’t kill me +off any way you try.”</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_102">[102]</div> +<p>“I won’t try to kill you off, Bill.” Mary’s +tone was all too sober.</p> +<p>“I know, Mary,” Bill’s voice suddenly went +husky. “You’re one grand gal. I don’t deserve +half I get, big bum that I am.</p> +<p>“But say,” his voice dropped to a mere +whisper, “perhaps I shouldn’t say it, but I +wouldn’t have got it so bad if that fellow Peter +Loome had done his part.”</p> +<p>“Done his part?” Mary stared.</p> +<p>“Sure. Don’t you know? He was with me. +Had a powerful 30-40 rifle in his hands. Saw +the bear come after me when I fired and what +did he do but stand right still and laugh! +Roared good and plenty as if it was all being +done in the movies. When I yelled at him he +did limber up and get in a shot or two. I +never did make him out. Something loose in +his make-up, I guess.”</p> +<p>“Something sure,” Mark agreed solemnly. +Right then and there he wished Loome had +not chanced to be one of the party.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_103">[103]</div> +<p>“Not a bit of help, that fellow,” he added +after a moment’s silence. “Grumbles about +everything, always demanding that we get +going at once, insists he is losing a chance at +big money by the delay. Then, when we give +him an opportunity to help he bungles everything. +I never saw such a fellow.”</p> +<p>“Big money,” Mary thought to herself. +“Wonder if that has anything to do with Mr. +Il-ay-ok, the Eskimo, and that far north country?” +She was to know.</p> +<p>Daily, under her nursing, Bill improved. +Nightly, but oh, so slowly, the ice on the lake +thickened.</p> +<p>Each day the men labored at the task of +making the planes fit for travel. Mark’s genius +for fixing things at last won over the sulky +motor. Once again it purred sweetly or thundered +wildly at man’s will.</p> +<p>Slowly, painstakingly, the men hewed from +solid logs, skis for the smaller plane. Would +these, cut from green wood, as they must be, +stand the strain of taking off? They must wait +and see.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_104">[104]</div> +<p>To escape haunting, unnamed fears, Mary +began exploring the mountain ledges. First +she sought out a wild animal trail leading +down, down, down, over tumbled rocks, +through aisles of trees, over the frozen bed +of a narrow stream to a spot where the land +appeared to drop from beneath her. Creeping +out on a flat rock, she gazed in awed silence +down a sheer four hundred feet or more to the +treetops of one more forest. Was the trail she +found, made by wild sheep and goats, safe for +men? She doubted it, yet the time might come +when they must follow that trail or starve. +She returned silent and thoughtful.</p> +<p>That night a storm swept up from the valley. +All night her small tent bulged, flapped +and cracked. All night she shuddered beneath +her blankets, as she listened to the men shouting +to one another down there on the frozen +lake. They were, she knew, battling the storm, +straining at guy ropes to save the planes.</p> +<p>At dawn the wind died away. The temperature +dropped. As she drew her feet from +the blankets she found the air unbelievably +cold.</p> +<p>“Freezing fast,” she thought. “Just what +we want if only—”</p> +<p>She did not finish. Instead, she hurried into +her clothes and then, after racing to a rocky +ledge, found to her consternation that, for a +space of seconds, she did not have the courage +to look down at the lake. That one look would +be the answer to a question that meant great +hope or near despair.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_105">[105]</div> +<p>One look at last, then a drop to her knees +as she murmured:</p> +<p>“Thank God.” The planes were safe.</p> +<p>Next instant she was on her feet and racing +to camp ready to serve hot coffee and sourdough +pancakes to the battlers of the night.</p> +<p>“Boo! How gloriously cold!” exclaimed the +older of the two pilots. “A day and a night +of this and we shall be away.”</p> +<p>There was still some work to be done on the +plane. The storm had strained at every strut +and guy. It was necessary to test all these and +to tighten some. That night, after a hasty +supper, the men made their way back to the +frozen surface of the lake.</p> +<p>With Bill snugly tucked away in the tent +at her back, Mary sat before a glowing fire of +spruce logs. How grand was the night, after +that storm! Not a cloud was in the sky. Not +soon would she forget it, dark spruce trees +towering toward the sky, gray walls of rocks +like grim fortresses of some mythical giant, +the cold, still white of snow and above it all, +a great, golden moon.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_106">[106]</div> +<p>“The North!” she murmured. “Ah, the +North!”</p> +<p>And yet, as she thought of it now, they +were not so very far north. She looked up +and away at the north star and wondered +vaguely about Florence’s grandfather, Tom +Kennedy, way up there almost beneath that +star. Tom Kennedy was not her grandfather, +he was on the other side of Florence’s family, +yet, so intimate had the relations between +herself and her big cousin become, she felt a +sudden, burning desire to accompany her on +her quest for her grandfather, if indeed the +quest was ever begun.</p> +<p>Had she but known it, Florence was at that +very moment in Anchorage making inquiries +regarding transportation to Nome. Only a +few days before, Mark, having received his last +payment for the summer’s crop, had pressed +a crisp new fifty-dollar bill into her reluctant +hand.</p> +<p>“You earned it and much more,” had been +his husky reply to her protest. “You’ve been +a regular farm hand and—and a brick.”</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_107">[107]</div> +<p>Fifty dollars! What could one not do with +that? It seemed now that nothing much could +be done. Had there been a boat, it might have +been possible to secure steerage passage. +There was no boat, ice had closed sea transportation +for nine long months.</p> +<p>“Your only chance is the air-mail plane,” +a kindly storekeeper assured her, “and air +travel costs money in the north. Nothing like +what it was in the days of dog-team travel, +but plenty. Fifty dollars? Why, Miss, that +wouldn’t buy oil for the trip. Better wait for +spring. Then you can go by boat.”</p> +<p>Wait until spring? Nine months? Spring? +That was time for work on the little valley +farm. “Winter is the time for adventure,” she +recalled the young aviator’s words.</p> +<p>“I’ll manage it some way. I—I’ve got to,” +she turned suddenly away.</p> +<p>Meantime, in her mountain fastness, Mary +was thinking of the long-lost grandfather and +wondering vaguely about Mr. Il-ay-ok, the +Eskimo, when, catching a slight sound, she +looked up to see Peter Loome sitting beside +her.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_108">[108]</div> +<p>This sudden discovery was startling. By the +light of the fire this man’s face was more repulsive +than by day. She wondered, with a +touch of panic, why he was here. Then, reassured +by the nearness of Bill in the tent and +of her friends below on the lake, she settled +back in her place.</p> +<p>For a long time they sat there in silence +with the eyes of night, the stars, looking down +upon them. Then, because she could endure +the silence no longer, and because she truly +wanted to know, Mary said, “Mr. Loome, why +do you hate that little Eskimo who calls himself +Mr. Il-ay-ok?”</p> +<p>“Why, I,” the man started, “I—well, you +see, he’s in my way, er—that is, he wants to +be. He won’t be long. I—” the man’s voice +rose, “I’ll smash him!” His foot crashed down +upon the rocks. “Like that!”</p> +<p>“Why?” Mary’s voice was low.</p> +<p>For some time there came no answer. In +the sky a star began sliding. It cut a circle +and disappeared in the dark blue of night. A +streak of light reached for the milky way. +Northern lights, the girl thought.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_109">[109]</div> +<p>Suddenly the man spoke. “I don’t mind tellin’ +you. You’ll never be up there,” he pointed +toward the north. “None of you dirt-diggers +down here will ever be up there where the +north begins, where men and dogs fight fer +what they git an’ ask neither odds ner quarters.”</p> +<p>Mary caught her breath as he paused. He is +sort of a rough poet she thought. At that +moment she almost admired him. But not for +long.</p> +<p>“It’s the reindeer,” he burst out. “Eskimo’s +got ’em. Too many of ’em. What does an +Eskimo know about makin’ money? Nothin’! +Then what’s the good of him havin’ all them +reindeer? No good!” He spat on the snow.</p> +<p>“Well, at last the Government is seein’ reason,” +he went on after a time. “The Government’s +told the Eskimo they gotta take their +reindeer back—back—back, way back to the +mountains where there’s plenty of feed.</p> +<p>“Think the Eskimos’ll do it?” He squinted +his eyes at her. “Narry a one. They’ll stick +to the shore. They’ll hunt seal an’ walrus, or +starve. That’s where their homes is, on the +coast, allus has been, allus will be.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_110">[110]</div> +<p>“So,” his voice dropped. “So they’ll sell +their reindeer, sell ’em cheap. And who’ll buy? +Me! Me and my company. We got money. +We’ll get rich on reindeer. Reindeer!” Leaping +to his feet, he started pacing like some +wild beast before the fire.</p> +<p>“This Il-ay-ok,” he went on after a time. +“He thinks he can stop us. He’s educated. +Think of it! Educated! An Eskimo educated!” +he laughed hoarsely.</p> +<p>“He seemed such a nice, polite little man,” +Mary ventured.</p> +<p>“Well, maybe he is. Polite!” one more burst +of laughter. “But he won’t get nowhere with +politeness. He’s outside now, down in Washington. +The last boat’s come from up yonder. +No more for nine months. Reindeer got to get +into the mountains before this old year dies. +What can this polite Il-ay-ok do about that?”</p> +<p>“There are airplanes,” Mary suggested.</p> +<p>“Yes. Like them down there!” the man exploded. +“I wish to—they’d get the things +going. He might escape me, your polite, +greasy little Es-ki-mo.</p> +<p>“‘Dear little Es-ki-mo,’” he chanted hoarsely, +“‘Leave all your ice and snow. Come play +with me.’ I used to sing that in school. Can +you e-mag-ine!” His laugh rose louder than +before. Then, of a sudden, it faded. Footsteps +were heard approaching.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_111">[111]</div> +<p>“Well,” Mark said cheerfully. “Everything +is O. K. We’ll be out of here in twenty-four +hours.”</p> +<p>“Good! That-a-boy!” Peter Loome patted +him on the back.</p> +<p>As for Mary, she suddenly found herself +wishing that their stay here might be prolonged, +she was thinking of the polite little +man who called himself “Mr. Il-ay-ok.”</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_112">[112]</div> +<h2 id="c9"><span class="small">CHAPTER IX</span> +<br />HELP FROM THE SKY</h2> +<p>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.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_113">[113]</div> +<p>“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.</p> +<p>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.”</p> +<p>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.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_114">[114]</div> +<p>“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.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>Once again the glorious panorama of dark +forest, gray crags, winding streams and blankets +of snow lay beneath them.</p> +<p>“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.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_115">[115]</div> +<p>“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.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_116">[116]</div> +<p>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.</p> +<p class="tb">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.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>“No chance!” she murmured low. “Not a +chance in the world.” And yet, she dared hope.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>“Oh!” she breathed. “If only—” she did +not finish, but marched soberly on her way.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_117">[117]</div> +<p>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.</p> +<p>Of a sudden, as she walked along, she heard +someone call: “Florence! Florence Huyler!” +Turning about, she found herself facing a total +stranger.</p> +<p>“You are Florence Huyler,” the man smiled.</p> +<p>“How—how did you know?” she gasped.</p> +<p>“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.</p> +<p>“But that—” his voice changed, “that’s not +the point. Suppose you heard of the accident?”</p> +<p>“Accident? No! I—” her face paled.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_118">[118]</div> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>“Al—all right.”</p> +<p>Three minutes later, their feet dangling +from stools, they were drinking coffee, munching +doughnuts, and talking.</p> +<p>“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.</p> +<p>“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.</p> +<p>“But say!” he exclaimed. “What’s the matter?” +The girl’s face had turned purple.</p> +<p>“Choked! Well, I’ll be! Here, let me—” +He began pounding her on the back.</p> +<p>“Just—just a—a—piece of dough—doughnut,” +she managed to sputter at last. “Went—dow—down +the wrong way.”</p> +<p>“Do you get that way often?” he grinned.</p> +<p>“Only when people tell me they’re going to +Nome.”</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_119">[119]</div> +<p>“What’s so awful about that?”</p> +<p>“Awful? It’s glorious. If only—”</p> +<p>“If only what?”</p> +<p>“If only I were going!”</p> +<p>“And why not?”</p> +<p>Fishing in her pocket, she displayed her +only banknote.</p> +<p>“That’s good money,” the pilot felt of it +with thumb and finger.</p> +<p>“But not enough,” she shook her head sadly.</p> +<p>“For what?”</p> +<p>“A trip to Nome.”</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>“Tha—” Florence could not finish. She had +choked again, but not on a doughnut. Mutely +she held out the crumpled bill.</p> +<p>“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?”</p> +<p>“Got a grandfather up there.”</p> +<p>“And haven’t seen him for a long time,” he +added for her.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_120">[120]</div> +<p>“Never saw him!”</p> +<p>“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?”</p> +<p>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.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_121">[121]</div> +<h2 id="c10"><span class="small">CHAPTER X</span> +<br />IN SEARCH OF A GRANDFATHER</h2> +<p>Nothing very serious had happened to +the blue and gray plane that was carrying +Mary and her friends toward their home.</p> +<p>“A loose wire connection, that’s all,” the +pilot explained as he read the worry wrinkles +on the girl’s brow. “Have it fixed before you +know it. And then—”</p> +<p>“Home,” Mary breathed. How she loved +that word. Would she ever want to leave that +home again?</p> +<p>A half hour later they were once again in +the air. One more half hour and their skis +touched the frozen surface of their own small +lake.</p> +<p>“Welcome home,” Dave shouted as he came +racing toward them. “Just in time for a feast. +Tim Barber got a deer yesterday. We’re having +a roast of it for dinner, your mother and—”</p> +<p>“And Madam Chicaski?”</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_122">[122]</div> +<p>“Oh, sure!” Dave laughed. “You couldn’t +drive her away. And who’d want to? She’s +been a splendid help to your mother, milked +the cow, fed the horse, hauled wood, everything. +And now,” he laughed, “I think she’s +fixing to run a trap-line. From somewhere +she’s dug out a lot of rusty traps and is shining +them up.”</p> +<p>“Has she—” Mary hesitated.</p> +<p>“Revealed her secrets—copper kettle, golden +candlesticks, all that? Not a word.</p> +<p>“But Mary,” Dave took both her hands. +“How good it is to see you back.”</p> +<p>“I—I’m glad to be back, David,” Mary +blushed in spite of herself.</p> +<p>“And how about me?” Bill demanded in a +bantering tone. “You should be glad I’m +back.”</p> +<p>“We are, Bill,” Mrs. Hughes said with a +friendly smile. “Awfully glad to have you +back.”</p> +<p>“But you’ll not have me long. Boo!” Bill +shuddered. “I’m off with the wild birds for a +warmer climate.”</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_123">[123]</div> +<p>“You’ll be back, Bill,” the elder McQueen +rumbled. “You’ve been a pioneer for a summer. +After that you may not want to be a +pioneer, but you’ll be one all the same. The +snow-peaked mountains, the timber that turns +to green in spring and gold in autumn, the +lure of gold, the call of the wild will bring +you back.”</p> +<p>“I don’t know about that.” For once Bill’s +face took on a sober look.</p> +<p>Turning about, Mrs. Hughes led them all, +like a brood of chicks, to the cabin where the +delicious odor of roast venison greeted their +nostrils. Over that venison, now turning it, +now testing, and now turning again, large, +silent, mysterious, hovered Madam Chicaski.</p> +<p class="tb">“So you’re going to Nome by plane?” the +eyes of Mrs. Maver, Florence’s gray-haired +hostess at Anchorage, shone. “Going with the +Bowmans? Why, that’s splendid. They are old +friends of ours. We knew them before they +went to Nome. I must have them over to +dinner.” And she did.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_124">[124]</div> +<p>“So you’re going north with us?” Mrs. +Bowman, a round, jolly person, beamed on +Florence as they entered the small parlor to +await the announcement of dinner. “Never +been there before, have you?”</p> +<p>“No, I—”</p> +<p>“You’ll enjoy it. Why, you’re just the sort +of girl for that country. Healthy! Look at her +cheeks, John,” Mrs. Bowman turned to her +husband.</p> +<p>“You’d make a grand prospector,” Mr. Bowman, +a large, ruddy-faced man, laughed. “Going +after gold, I suppose.”</p> +<p>“I—I might,” Florence admitted timidly. +“But first I must find my grandfather.”</p> +<p>“Your grandfather?” Mrs. Bowman stared +at her. “Is he in Nome?”</p> +<p>“Yes, I—”</p> +<p>“Look, John!” Mrs. Bowman broke in excitedly. +“This is Tom Kennedy’s granddaughter. +She, why, she’s the living image of him!”</p> +<p>“You are right, my dear,” the husband admitted.</p> +<p>“Oh! And do I truly look like him?” Florence’s +mind went into a wild whirl. “I am his +granddaughter, but who’d have thought—”</p> +<p>“That we could tell it? That is strange. But +such things do happen. Shall we be seated?” +Mrs. Bowman took a chair.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_125">[125]</div> +<p>“Let me tell you,” she leaned forward, “your +grandfather is a wonderful man, truly remarkable.”</p> +<p>“He—he is?” Florence stared. “I thought—”</p> +<p>“That he was just an old sourdough prospector,” +Mr. Bowman put in. “Not a bit of it. +He is a prospector, has been for thirty-five +years. Found gold once and lost it again to +save his partner’s life. Yes, a prospector, but +a long beard, hair to the shoulders, beer guzzler +always dreaming about the past? Not a +bit of it! Tom Kennedy is young, young as a +boy. Keen as any youngster, too.”</p> +<p>“And clean,” Mrs. Bowman put in. “Never +drinks a drop. I don’t think he even smokes.</p> +<p>“Just now,” her voice dropped to conversational +tone, “he’s doing a truly wonderful +thing. He’s got the notion that our young +people are growing soft.”</p> +<p>“They are, too,” Mr. Bowman grumbled.</p> +<p>“Tom Kennedy’s trying to bring back some +of our glorious past, dog-teams, long, moonlit +trails, the search for gold. He’s trying to interest +the young people in all that,” added +Mrs. Bowman.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_126">[126]</div> +<p>“He’s doing it, too,” Bowman nodded his +head. “Look at the dog race. They really +think they’ll win,” he laughed good-naturedly. +“Of course they won’t. Smitty Valentine’s +going to beat ’em, by an hour or two. Good +thing to have them try, though.”</p> +<p>“You see,” Mrs. Bowman explained, “we +have an annual dog race. It ends with a big +feast in honor of the winner. Your grandfather +has gotten the young people interested +in that race, made them think they can win. +They’ve put their best dogs together into a +team. A boy named Jodie Joleson is going to +drive it. I surely wish they could win. But +this man, Smitty Valentine, who is backed by +all the pool halls and men’s clubs in town, has +won so many years hand running, that we’ve +lost track.”</p> +<p>“Belongs to the Sourdough Club,” Bowman +explained. “Sort of old timers’ club.”</p> +<p>“And now these young people have what +they call the ‘Fresh Dough Club’ of young +timers,” Mrs. Bowman laughed.</p> +<p>“And now I think you may all come in and +sit down at the table.” It was their hostess +who brought to an end this—to Florence—amazing +revelation.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_127">[127]</div> +<p>“So that is what he’s like,” she whispered +to herself. “How strange! How wonderful! +And yet—”</p> +<p>It was a sober Florence who, after sending +word to her cousins regarding this, her proposed +journey, climbed aboard the large gray +monoplane. “This,” she was thinking, “is to +be my most exciting adventure. I wonder how +it will end?” How indeed? Seldom does a +girl go in search of her grandfather. And how +her ideas of that grandfather had changed! +She had always known, in a sketchy manner, +the story of her grandfather’s life. A big, +boisterous, fun-loving youth, little more than +a boy, he had loved and married a beautiful, +frail girl from a proud well-to-do family. That +girl became Florence’s grandmother.</p> +<p>Tom Kennedy was not loved by his wife’s +parents. They made life hard for him. When +at last life under his own roof became unbearable, +he had found escape by joining the gold +rush to Alaska.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_128">[128]</div> +<p>Alaska brought more hardships, cold, hunger, +and disappointment. And after that, +months on the way, a letter reached him, saying +that his wife was dead and that, without +his consent, her parents had adopted his only +child, a girl. That girl had been Florence’s +mother.</p> +<p>From that day, Tom Kennedy was lost to +the outside world. “But Alaska,” Florence +thought, with a tightening at the throat, +“Alaska, it would seem, came to know and +love him. And now—”</p> +<p>Ah, yes—and now. She had always thought +of Tom Kennedy as a typical prospector, like +Malcomb Dale, who had lured Bill from his +ranch. And now here he was, not rich, but +loved and respected. She was going to him. +The large gray plane, drumming steadily onward, +carried her over broad stretches of +timber, frozen lakes, arms of the sea, on and +on and on, toward Tom Kennedy, her grandfather. +And how would he receive her?</p> +<p>The answer to this question came when, +four days later, a little breathless, but quite +determined, she stood at the door of a weather-beaten +cabin, on the outskirts of Nome.</p> +<p>“Come in!” a large, hearty voice roared.</p> +<p>It was with uncertain movements that she +lifted the iron latch, pushed the door open +and stepped inside.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_129">[129]</div> +<p>“I—I beg your pardon, Miss.” A tall man, +with keen gray eyes that matched his well-trimmed +beard, rose hastily to his feet. “I +thought it was one of the boys. And it’s you, +a stranger and a girl.”</p> +<p>“Not a stranger,” the girl’s voice was low +with emotion. “I—I am Florence Huyler, your +granddaughter.”</p> +<p>The effect on the old man was strange. +Taking a step backward, he drew a hand +across his face, then spoke as in a dream:</p> +<p>“My granddaughter? No! It cannot be. +And yet, it could be so. I had a wife. She was +beautiful.... I loved her.... She died.... +All this was long ago. I could not go back. +The call of gold got me, and—</p> +<p>“So you are my granddaughter,” his voice +changed. The notion seemed unreal but pleasing +to him. “My granddaughter! How +strange!”</p> +<p>“They say,” Florence tried to smile, “that +we look alike.”</p> +<p>“That so?” Tom Kennedy looked at her +long and earnestly. “Big for a girl,” he murmured. +“You look strong as a man.”</p> +<p>“I am,” Florence admitted frankly.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_130">[130]</div> +<p>At that, Tom Kennedy looked at himself in +a glass by the window. “Yes,” his eyes brightened, +“yes, we do look alike. Welcome, child! +Welcome to your grandfather’s cabin.” Seizing +her hand, he held it for a moment with a +grip that hurt.</p> +<p>“One more member for that gang of young +pirates that haunt this cabin of mine,” he +laughed. “You must meet them all, meet them +and get to know them. They’re a fine lot, my +gang. First thing I know you’ll be their +leader, I’m bound. You’re a Kennedy and +that means a lot.”</p> +<p>“Yes,” Florence replied with a smile, “I +am sure it means a very great deal.”</p> +<p>And so it was that Florence found her +grandfather, and at once a whole new wonderful +life opened up for her.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_131">[131]</div> +<h2 id="c11"><span class="small">CHAPTER XI</span> +<br />THE FRESH-DOUGH CLUB</h2> +<p>“Such a delicious odor!” Florence exclaimed. +With the prompt reactions of +buoyant youth, she made herself at home in +her grandfather’s cabin. Now, being hungry, +she began sniffing the air.</p> +<p>“Mulligan stew,” the old man explained. +“It’s done to a turn. Never a better one made. +Prime young reindeer meat, bacon, evaporated +potatoes, fresh onions, a spoonful of dried +eggs, a pound of red beans, pepper, salt, fresh +seal oil. Guess that’s about all there is in it. +Hungry?” he smiled down at her.</p> +<p>“I’m always hungry,” Florence smiled.</p> +<p>Taking a huge bowl from the cupboard in +the corner, Tom Kennedy filled it to the brim. +Into an equally huge cup was poured steaming +black coffee. “We’re healthy up here,” he +explained. “We can take it straight.”</p> +<p>“So can I,” Florence gulped down a burning +draught.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_132">[132]</div> +<p>“Um—um,” she breathed a moment later +as she tasted the stew. “I can cook a little, but +not like that.”</p> +<p>“It comes,” said the old man, his words +slow and melodious, “comes with time. I’ve +been in the North thirty-five years.” The expression +on his face changed. His thoughts, +Florence told herself, must be far away.</p> +<p>She tried to read those thoughts, to discover +whether they had to do with his boyhood +days and his frail, child-wife who had +died long ago, or with gray mountains, +long trails, whirling snow and the lost mine.</p> +<p>Her thoughts were suddenly broken in upon +by a breezy figure who appeared to have been +blown through the door by a gust of wind.</p> +<p>A ruddy-faced youth, he was, garbed in a +blue drill parka that looked like a slip-over +dress, corduroy trousers and sealskin boots.</p> +<p>“Hi, Pop!” he exclaimed, not seeing the +girl. “Great stuff today. Did fifty miles an’ +cut twenty minutes off the time. I—</p> +<p>“Hey, you! Stay out!” he shouted suddenly +as a half dozen great gray-brown beasts came +tumbling into the room. They struck the +young man with such force that he was suddenly +thrown into the corner where Florence +sat.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_133">[133]</div> +<p>“I—I beg pardon,” he stammered. “I didn’t +know—”</p> +<p>“Jodie, meet my granddaughter, Florence +Huyler.” Wrinkles of amusement appeared +about Tom Kennedy’s eyes.</p> +<p>“Your—your granddaughter!” the young +man’s eyes opened wide. “Why, Pop, we +didn’t know you had a living relative!”</p> +<p>“Neither did I, son. Not until just now. +She dropped down from the sky.</p> +<p>“Jodie, here,” Tom Kennedy turned to Florence, +“is the uncrowned king of Alaskan dog-mushers.”</p> +<p>“Yeah,” Jodie drawled, “crown’s likely to +get a trifle tarnished before I get to wear it.”</p> +<p>“Jodie Joleson,” there was a ring of enthusiasm +in the girl’s voice. “I’ve heard of +you.”</p> +<p>“Where?” he stared.</p> +<p>“Anchorage.”</p> +<p>“Way down there! How fame does travel,” +he replied in mock seriousness.</p> +<p>“Tell me, Grandfather,” Florence faced +about. “Did a girl ever win your dog race?”</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_134">[134]</div> +<p>“What? A girl?” the old man stared.</p> +<p>“Of course not,” Jodie answered for him.</p> +<p>“Why so certain?” Florence gave the young +man a look.</p> +<p>“Well, you see—see,” he hesitated, “it’s a +long race, hundred miles and back. How could +she?”</p> +<p>“I—I was just wondering. You see, I’m +new to the country,” Florence half apologized. +There remained in her eyes, quite unobserved +by her companions, a peculiar gleam that +might mean almost anything.</p> +<p>The days that followed were the strangest, +most thrilling of Florence Huyler’s young life. +Because she was Tom Kennedy’s granddaughter, +she was taken at once into the very heart +of the young set of Nome. A bright, jolly, +carefree, healthy crowd she found them to be. +She might, had she so chosen, have risen at +once to a place of leadership among them. She +did not choose. A natural, friendly girl, she +loved being a member of some jolly gang, but +being their leader, ah! that was quite another +matter. She was not ambitious in this way.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_135">[135]</div> +<p>She might, had she wished it, have been +wined and dined from morning to night, for, +of all the sociable, good-time-loving people, +the dwellers of Alaska belong at the top. This +she did not choose. From time to time she +joined in some quiet evening affair. For the +most part, two subjects held the center of her +every waking thought, her grandfather and +the coming annual dog race.</p> +<p>On stormy days she enjoyed lying stretched +out on a couch before the glowing fire, while +Tom Kennedy in his low, musical voice that +rumbled like a drum, told of his days on +Arctic trails. Always and always she listened +for the story that would, she knew, hold her +spellbound, the story of his lost mine. Day +after day passed and he made no mention of +it. More than once she bit her lips to keep +from suggesting it. Always her question remained +unasked. She could wait.</p> +<p>On bright days she might have been seen +trotting along after Jodie Joleson’s dog sled. +At first the boy appeared to resent that. She +could almost hear him say, “A girl! Sooner +or later she’ll go too far, play out, then I’ll +have to haul her home.”</p> +<p>To his vast astonishment and final utter admiration, +he found that she did not tire.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_136">[136]</div> +<p>Florence, as you will know if you have read +about her, was far from a weakling. From a +small child she had gloried in strength and +health. No slender waist line acquired on a +diet of pickles and nut sundaes for her. She +gloried in all of life, good things to eat, long +nights of sleep, and now, most of all, long, +long trails.</p> +<p>One day, when a storm was coming in from +the northwest, Jodie deliberately took the trail +that leads up the coast, then over the bitter +wind-blown flats of Tissue River.</p> +<p>By the time they reached those flats, the +whole narrow valley was a mad whirl of snow. +Without a word to the girl, Jodie headed his +dogs straight into the storm and shouted one +word:</p> +<p>“Mush!”</p> +<p>Magnificent beasts that they were, they +sprang into the harness. Their speed redoubled, +they leaped forward.</p> +<p>Plop-plop-plop, went Jodie’s skin boots on +the hard-packed snow. Fainter, yet unmistakable, +came the girl’s trotting footsteps behind +him.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_137">[137]</div> +<p>The storm grew wilder. The team, striking +a stretch of glare-ice, was blown straight +across it to pile up in a heap on the other side. +Without a word Jodie disentangled them. +Then, turning to the girl, he said, “Cheek’s +froze. Take off your mitten and thaw it out +with your hand.”</p> +<p>“Thanks,” Florence smiled as best she +could. “Yours too are frozen. If you don’t +mind, I’ll do yours first.”</p> +<p>His hand went hastily to his cheek, then +he chuckled, “O. K. You win.”</p> +<p>Five minutes more and they were again battling +the storm.</p> +<p>For two full hours, with the wind tearing +at their parkas and the frost biting their +cheeks, they battled onward. Then, of a sudden, +the dogs took a sharp turn, climbed a +ridge, dropped down into a valley, and they +were out of the storm.</p> +<p>“You—you’re a better man than I am, Gungadin!” +Jodie panted.</p> +<p>“Do you really think I’m good?” there was +a note of suppressed eagerness in the girl’s +voice.</p> +<p>“Sure you are!” the boy exclaimed. “Of +course you are. Why?”</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_138">[138]</div> +<p>“Oh! I was just thinking,” she evaded. “You—you +know, everybody wants to be good at +things,” she added rather lamely. “But look!” +she exclaimed, “your face is frozen again!”</p> +<p>“So is yours. My turn for thawing out.” +His mitten was off, his warm hand on her +cheek.</p> +<p>And thus Florence won Jodie’s complete +approval.</p> +<p>That night the girl learned the joyous comfort +of a long-haired deer skin sleeping-bag +in a road house bunk. She slept the sleep of +the just while the storm roared on.</p> +<p>Next day, with the wind down and the sun +creeping low above the jagged outline of +snow-topped mountains, they journeyed slowly +homeward, Florence, Jodie, and the racing +team.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_139">[139]</div> +<h2 id="c12"><span class="small">CHAPTER XII</span> +<br />HER GREAT DISCOVERY</h2> +<p>Of all the girls in the Fresh-Dough Club, +Florence liked Alene Bowman best. +Alene was quiet and, for a girl of the North, +very modest. She was greatly interested in +the social events of the season and especially +in the annual dog race.</p> +<p>“There’s one thing I’d like to ask you,” +Florence said to her, the day after her return +from that trip up the coast. “What do you +think would happen if a girl entered the race?”</p> +<p>“What?” Alene stared for a space of ten +seconds. “Why, nothing, I guess. This is the +North, you know. You thinking of going in?”</p> +<p>“No-o,” Florence spoke slowly. “Of course, +I wouldn’t go in against Jodie, unless—”</p> +<p>“Unless you felt sure he couldn’t win and +that perhaps you could,” Alene suggested.</p> +<p>“Yes—yes, that’s just it!” the large girl exclaimed. +“It means a great deal to you young +folks, that race.”</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_140">[140]</div> +<p>“A terrible lot.”</p> +<p>“And if I should go in and win—”</p> +<p>“You’d be the girl of the hour. Then, why, +we’d ride you in triumph on our shoulders.”</p> +<p>“Good, broad shoulders,” Florence smiled. +“And you don’t think of me as an outsider?”</p> +<p>“Certainly not. Anyone related to Pop Kennedy +just couldn’t be an outsider. Besides, +you’re a member of the club, aren’t you?”</p> +<p>“Thanks—I—I just sort of wanted to know. +I’ll be going.” Florence turned away.</p> +<p>“No. Wait. There’s something father told +me last night. You pass it on to Jodie if I +don’t see him first. Tell him to keep a good +watch on his dogs. There are things they do, +you know, dope them or something, that slows +them up.”</p> +<p>“But that old-timer rival of his, Smitty, +wouldn’t do that?” Florence was shocked.</p> +<p>“No. Not Smitty. He’s a real sport. Win +fair or not at all. So are the others going in, +Scot Jordan and Sinrock Charlie. They’ll play +fair.”</p> +<p>“Then what—?”</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_141">[141]</div> +<p>“There are some foreigners, quite a lot of +them, all through the North, Syrians, Russians, +and Japs. They are gamblers by trade. +They’re getting up books on the race. They’re +gambling heavily on Smitty to win. And +father says there’s nothing they won’t do.”</p> +<p>“All right, I’ll tell Jodie.”</p> +<p>“That,” Florence thought, as she made her +way home, “is all the more reason why we +should have another team in the field. But +where is it to come from?” Where indeed? +In these days when both passengers and +freight are carried by airplanes, really fine dog +teams are becoming all too rare in the North. +This Florence had learned from Tom Kennedy’s +own lips.</p> +<p>Strangely enough, as if an answer to a +prayer, in the van of a storm, the very team +blew into town that same afternoon. Florence +first saw them as they came tumbling over a +high snow bank at the outskirts of the city. +The sled as well as its driver piled up with the +dogs. When Florence had helped them to +right themselves, she found herself staring in +admiration at a beautiful Eskimo girl, garbed +in a handsome fawn skin parka, and at the +grandest team of gray Siberian wolfhounds +she had ever seen.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_142">[142]</div> +<p>“Your dogs?” she managed to ask.</p> +<p>“No—me,” the girl showed all her fine teeth +in a smile. “My brother’s dogs. Il-ay-ok my +brother.”</p> +<p>“You mean Mr. Il-ay-ok is your brother?” +Like a flash Florence saw the little man +dressed in white man’s clothes on the dock +at Anchorage.</p> +<p>“Il-ay-ok my brother,” the girl nodded.</p> +<p>“And these are his dogs?”</p> +<p>“Yes! Sure! Sure! His dogs. You wan-to +ride?”</p> +<p>“Yes—yes, I’d love to.”</p> +<p>When Florence had found what she wanted +she was a fast worker. This girl At-a-tak, she +learned, had driven in from Cape Prince of +Wales. She would stay in Nome with friends +until her brother returned by airplane from +his journey. Yes, she would be pleased to loan +her brother’s dog team to the big white girl +until they were needed. How long would that +be? She did not know.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_143">[143]</div> +<p>Florence had learned from her friends at +Nome that Il-ay-ok had gone on an important +commission in the interest of his people. She +knew, too, that it had to do with reindeer. The +Bowmans had told her this much. They had +assured her also that, though they were large +herders of reindeer, they were entirely in sympathy +with Il-ay-ok and his purposes.</p> +<p>“Those men who are trying to edge in on +the reindeer business,” Mr. Bowman had said +with a gesture of disgust, “are rank outsiders. +They know nothing of native problems and +care less. They will rob the people of their +last reindeer if they can.”</p> +<p>Knowing all this, Florence, whose sympathy +went out freely to all simple, kindly people, +wished Mr. Il-ay-ok a successful conclusion +of his mission and a speedy journey home. +For all that, she could not help hoping that +he might not arrive until after the race was +over, for now, with this wonderful team at +her command, she was resolved to spend many +hours each day on the trail and, if occasion +seemed to warrant it, to venture in where no +girl had dared venture before.</p> +<p>Two hours later she was again at Alene +Bowman’s door. “Don’t tell a soul!” she implored, +after she had told how she had come +into possession of the gray team. “Not a single +soul.”</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_144">[144]</div> +<p>“Not a single soul,” Alene echoed. “Cross +my heart and hope to die.” And Alene could +keep a secret.</p> +<p>Every day after that Florence, behind her +superb team, went for a “ride.” Each time she +purposely drove through a well-populated section +of the city. Always she wore a heavy +deer skin parka and remained as far as eyes +could see her seated on her sled with her team +trotting along at a leisurely pace.</p> +<p>All was changed when at last a hill had +hidden her from view. Leaping from her sled, +she threw off the heavy parka, drew on a thin +calico one and a squirrel skin cap and, seizing +the handles of the sled, screamed:</p> +<p>“Mush! You mush!” This shout acted on +the dog team like an electric shock. They +shot away with the speed of the wind.</p> +<p>They were wise, were these dogs. Not four +days had passed when her shout was no longer +needed. Once the last house had disappeared +from sight, Gray Chief, her dog leader, began +cocking his ears. The instant her costume +change was complete, without a word from +the young driver, he was away.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_145">[145]</div> +<p>“We’ll win,” she hissed more than once +through tight-shut teeth. “Win it we must.”</p> +<p>At times she found Jodie looking at her in +a strange way. Did he suspect her purpose? +Did he imagine she would enter the race +against him if his chances were good? She +was very fond of Jodie. Not for all the world +would she offend him. But she would not tell +him of her plans, at least not for the present.</p> +<p>“Grandfather,” she said once when the two +were alone, “is there a time limit for entering +the race?”</p> +<p>“Entries must be in at noon of the day before +the race,” he replied.</p> +<p>“Good!” the word escaped unbidden from +her lips. He gave her a strange look, but said +never a word.</p> +<p>That same day he told her the story of his +lost mine, told how he and his partner had +worked their way back, back, back into the +mountains, how, having found traces of gold, +they had built a cabin and how they had +worked day after day until the strike came, +when they found nuggets as large as marbles, +a very few nuggets but promise of many more.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_146">[146]</div> +<p>“That very night,” his voice dropped, “Joe +was taken sick. It was serious. I made a sled +and hauled him out. That was a battle. I +froze, starved, and fought my way and,” his +voice dropped, “and lost. Partner died. Never +found the mine again.”</p> +<p>“Perhaps someone else found it,” she suggested.</p> +<p>“Nope,” there was a suggestion of mystery +in his voice. “We hid it. Joe and I hid that +mine.”</p> +<p>After that day, more than ever before, the +girl wanted to go in search of that mine. Go +where? Ah! that was the question.</p> +<p>The answer came two days later and in a +rather strange manner. A young scientist, a +member of the Geological Survey, showed her +a series of enlarged photographs taken from +the air.</p> +<p>“They cover hundreds of square miles back +there in the great unknown,” he explained. +“See! Rivers, lakes, tundra, mountains, everything.”</p> +<p>“Everything!” the girl had been struck with +an idea. “Loan them to me for an hour.”</p> +<p>“Right,” the young man agreed. “Two +hours if you like.”</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_147">[147]</div> +<p>Fifteen minutes later she tore into Tom +Kennedy’s cabin acting like a mad person. +Pushing a table into the kitchen, throwing +chairs on the bed in the small back room, she +at last cleared the living room floor. Then, +while her grandfather stared she thumb-tacked +sheet after sheet of paper to the floor until +there was no longer room to stand.</p> +<p>“There,” she panted. “There it all is, mountains, +lakes, rivers, tundra, everything. Here +is Nome,” she pointed. “There is Sawtooth +Mountain. Now, where was your mine?”</p> +<p>For a full quarter hour, as the tin clock in +the corner ticked the minutes away, the gray-haired +prospector’s eyes moved back and forth +across that map, then, with a sudden gasp, +he exclaimed:</p> +<p>“There it is! Right there. Well up on the +middle fork of that river. I’d swear to it if +it was the last word I ever said. Girl, you’re a +wonder!” Suddenly he threw his long arms +about her and kissed her on the cheek.</p> +<p>“Soon as that race is over we’re off,” he +shouted, fairly beside himself with joy.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_148">[148]</div> +<p>“Yes,” she agreed, “the race and then the +long, long trail. Mountains, rivers, sunshine, +storms, camp beneath a rocky ledge or in the +midst of dark spruce trees. On and on, and +then—”</p> +<p>“The mine,” he murmured. There was new +fire in his fine old eyes.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_149">[149]</div> +<h2 id="c13"><span class="small">CHAPTER XIII</span> +<br />A BRIGHT NEW DREAM</h2> +<p>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.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_150">[150]</div> +<p>After consuming a prodigious amount of +cornmeal mush, she sat dreaming by the fire.</p> +<p>“Renewing her youth,” Mary whispered.</p> +<p>Mark nodded and smiled.</p> +<p>What was their surprise when three days +later she appeared with five foxes, four minks +and a dozen muskrats, all prime furs.</p> +<p>“For you a good long coat,” she held the +muskrat skins before Mary’s eyes. “Bye and +bye many more.</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>“And the fox skins?” Mark asked.</p> +<p>“To buy more traps, always more traps,” +was the big woman’s enthusiastic response.</p> +<p>“There is money in it,” Mark said to Dave +McQueen next day.</p> +<p>“Yes, if she’ll show us the tricks,” Dave +agreed.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_151">[151]</div> +<p>“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.</p> +<p>Soon both Mark and Dave were full-fledged +trappers with trap lines running away and +away into the hills.</p> +<p>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 <i>piece de resistance</i> 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.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_152">[152]</div> +<p>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.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>Leaning forward, Mary read the address on +one sack. “Wales, Alaska. Where is that?”</p> +<p>“Cape Prince of Wales, on Bering Straits +above Nome,” said the postmaster.</p> +<p>“Way up there!” Mary was surprised. +“Christmas presents. Will they get there in +time?”</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_153">[153]</div> +<p>“Oh, that—” Mary exclaimed, “that’s too +bad. Think what all those presents would +mean to the cute little Eskimo children!”</p> +<p>“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.</p> +<p>“If only Florence had known they were +here!” she thought as she turned away. “Perhaps +they had not yet arrived. Anyway—”</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>“Excuse, please,” the little man bowed low. +“Mr. Speed Samson, he comes to this place +very soon. Is it not so?”</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_154">[154]</div> +<p>“I—I don’t know,” replied Mary.</p> +<p>“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.</p> +<p>“You are welcome to stay as long as you +like,” was Mary’s welcome.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>“Who says that?” the aviator grinned.</p> +<p>“I say it. I, Mr. Il-ay-ok.”</p> +<p>“Well,” Speed drawled, “can’t do it.”</p> +<p>“You must!” sudden distress and rigid determination +shone in the little man’s eyes.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_155">[155]</div> +<p>“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.</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>“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—”</p> +<p>“Ah, yes!” the little man’s voice rose shrill +and eager. “Before January the first?”</p> +<p>“Yes, I guess so.”</p> +<p>“Oh!” Mary breathed, suddenly enchanted +with a bright idea. “Before Christmas, you +must!”</p> +<p>“What? You must go too?” Speed cried, +banteringly.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_156">[156]</div> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>“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.</p> +<p>Il-ay-ok rode back to Anchorage in Speed’s +plane and there, for a time, the matter rested.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_157">[157]</div> +<h2 id="c14"><span class="small">CHAPTER XIV</span> +<br />“THEY ARE OFF”</h2> +<p>In Nome each twenty-four hours that passed +saw the great race just one day nearer. +Each day the excitement over this event increased. +The prize this year was large. Men +of means had contributed generously. Though +thought of winning for the honor of the +“Fresh-Dough Club” was ever uppermost in +Jodie’s mind, and in Florence’s when she indulged +in strange day-dreams, the prize was +not entirely forgotten. Jodie had been let in +on the secret of the lost mine. Once the race +was won, or lost, it was planned that they +should be away at once on their search for +that mine. And the prize money would go far +toward providing them with the very necessary +grub-stake.</p> +<p>Little wonder then that, while keeping one +eye on her own gray team—just in case something +happened—Florence always had the +other turned upon Jodie’s fine dogs.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_158">[158]</div> +<p>The crack of the starter’s gun was only +three days away when, as Jodie came in from +his daily practice run, Florence met him on +the street. “What’s the matter with old +Sparks?” she asked, nodding at the right hand +wheel dog. “He doesn’t seem quite up to himself.”</p> +<p>“Been lagging all day,” Jodie’s brow wrinkled. +“Off his feed a little, I guess. I’ll cut +him out tomorrow. He’ll be O. K. after that.”</p> +<p>“Jodie,” the girl’s tone was low, serious, “do +you watch your dogs?”</p> +<p>“Sure thing I do.” He stared at her.</p> +<p>“Jodie, there’s talk of gambling going on +among those foreigners, you know. They +might—”</p> +<p>“I know,” Jodie replied wearily. “They’ll +not get to my dogs. The kennel is right +against my bunk. Besides, from now on, Az-az-ruk, +a half-breed, is going to watch them +at night.”</p> +<p>“I’m glad. Good-bye, Jodie.” The girl was +away.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_159">[159]</div> +<p>That night Florence sat a long time by the +fire. She was thinking hard. What Jodie had +told her had not entirely reassured her. One +of his dogs did not appear to be right for the +race. What if another and perhaps another +began to wear down under the strain.</p> +<p>“We’d lose,” she whispered.</p> +<p>“But suppose I enter the race with the +grays?” A thrill ran up her spine. How she’d +love it. Always her sturdy body had cried out +for action. She had swum a swift flowing +mile-wide river on a dare. She had climbed +mountains alone. She had done all manner of +wild things on trapeze and ropes, just for the +thrill of it. And now this race! All else seemed +to pale into insignificance.</p> +<p>“And yet,” she thought, “would it be fair +to Jodie?”</p> +<p>One more day passed, then another. It was +the forenoon of the day before the coming of +the great event. Only a few hours were left +for entering the race. Yesterday she had +driven her gray streaks over fifty miles of +tough trails. How magnificently they had performed! +With such a team, who could stay +out? And yet—</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_160">[160]</div> +<p>Fifteen minutes later her mind was made +up. Jodie passed her. He was off for a short +spin. Short as had been her experience at +driving and judging dogs, she knew at a glance +that all was not well. Four of his dogs were +now imitating the actions of a very weary rag +doll. Their heads hung low. Their tails +drooped. Each forward sprint called for a +great effort.</p> +<p>“That half-breed must have slept on his +watch,” her eyes narrowed.</p> +<p>When Jodie came trotting back two hours +later, she met him in the street.</p> +<p>“Whoa! Whoa, there!” he shouted at his +dogs. “What’s on your mind?” The smile +that he gave the girl was an uncertain one.</p> +<p>Florence’s heart was in her throat. Would +he hate her now? “Jodie,” she replied soberly, +“I’m in the race with the grays. I—I just +had to do it!”</p> +<p>“Good!” seizing her hand, he gripped it until +it hurt. “I hoped you’d enter. It’s a tough +grind all that way and back, so I didn’t want +to urge you. But you—you’ll make it, and +you’ll win.”</p> +<p>“No, Jodie,” her voice was deep and low, +“I’ll only win if I see you can’t.”</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_161">[161]</div> +<p>“That,” he swallowed hard, “that’s sporting +of you, but you—you can’t do that. You +go in to win. Forget me. Forget everything. +Go after those gray wolves and make them +do their best, start to finish. And here—here’s +luck to the best man!</p> +<p>“All right, Ginger,” his voice dropped. +“Mush along you!” He trotted away behind +his team.</p> +<p>“And this,” Florence murmured, “this is the +North. No wonder they call it ‘God’s country.’”</p> +<p class="tb">“You go to sleep, girl,” Tom Kennedy said +to her at nine that night. “I’ll stay up till +morning. You never can tell what’s going to +happen in the wee small hours.</p> +<p>“God made a mistake,” his keen gray eyes +took her in—squirrel skin cap, bright orange +mackinaw, corduroy knickers and all, “you +should have been a boy.”</p> +<p>“A girl can do what any boy can, if she’s +strong and keeps herself fit,” she flashed back +at him.</p> +<p>“No girl’s ever run in the great race before,” +he reminded her.</p> +<p>“That’s what makes it so fascinating. Who +wants to be forever doing what others do?”</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_162">[162]</div> +<p>“You’ll be an honor to your old granddad. +I—I’m glad you came,” his voice was husky.</p> +<p>“I hoped you would be,” she replied simply.</p> +<p>All that night, with lights out and with the +inner door ajar, Tom Kennedy sat by the window +that overlooked the distant, moonlit hills +and the dog kennels close at hand. Once +Florence stirred in her sleep, then suddenly +sat up. What was it? Had she heard a shot? +She did hear the door softly closed, she was +sure of that.</p> +<p>“What was it, grandfather?” she asked +sleepily.</p> +<p>“Thought I saw a skunk. Can’t be sure. +He’s gone now, went mighty fast.”</p> +<p>“Skunks,” she thought dreamily, “do they +have skunks in Alaska?” What did it matter? +Once more she was asleep.</p> +<p>And then the great day dawned.</p> +<p>All the little city’s population was out to +see them start. A picturesque throng it was. +Indians, Eskimos, trappers, traders, gold hunters, +shop keepers, adventurers, they were all +there.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_163">[163]</div> +<p>The five contestants drew for places. The +teams would start one hour apart. Many hours +would pass before their return. When they +began straggling back, the throng would be +there again. Meanwhile, snug and warm in +their cabins, they would with shouts of joy +or howls of disappointment listen to shortwave +radio accounts of the race.</p> +<p>Jodie drew first place. Smitty Valentine, +hero of many another race and favorite of +old-timers, drew second, Florence was third, +and the two other sourdough contenders drew +up the rear.</p> +<p>With a wild round of applause, Jodie was +away in a cloud of fine driving snow.</p> +<p>For an hour the crowd lingered. Then, at +the crack of a pistol, with a shout and a flourish +of the whip, Smitty was away. Then such +a shout! “Smitty! Smitty! Go, Smitty! Go!”</p> +<p>Florence swallowed hard. The popularity +of this man had been honestly won. Tom Kennedy +had said he was a real old-timer, and +Tom knew. And yet, “Time marches on. +Youth must be served. Unless youth is given +a place in the sun, there can be no progress.” +These words of a truly great man rang in her +ears. They must win. It was Jodie or she. +Which should it be?</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_164">[164]</div> +<p>The crowd did not linger to see her off. Oh, +yes, the younger crowd, her gang, the tried +and true, would stick. As for the others, who +could blame them? There was a bitter cold +wind from the west. And who was she? Only +a girl from somewhere or other. What place +had a girl in such a race? Hundred miles! +What, indeed! Probably lose her team in some +wild storm, they may have been thinking. At +thought of this, she set her teeth and clenched +her fists. She would show them. Girl or no +girl, they should see.</p> +<p>A thin cheer arose from the faithful few +when at last the pistol sounded out the hour +and with a quiet “All right,” to her leader, +she headed straight out over the long, long +trail.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_165">[165]</div> +<h2 id="c15"><span class="small">CHAPTER XV</span> +<br />THE PHANTOM LEADER</h2> +<p>For nine long hours, save for three brief +pauses to rest her dogs and catch some +light refreshments for herself, Florence followed +the long, winding trail that led away +and away one hundred miles into the great beyond. +Now and then a thrill coursed through +her being. Other than this there was no sign +that this was a race, and not just one more +joy ride. True, as she mounted the crest of a +steep ridge, she did catch a fleeting glimpse +of a speeding dog team. Was it her nearest +opponent, Smitty Valentine? There was no +way to tell. He had left an hour before her. +Should she reach the finish just fifty-nine minutes +behind him, the race was hers. If not—well, +Jodie was still further ahead, perhaps the +race was to be his. Who could tell?</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_166">[166]</div> +<p>Plop-plop-plop went her feet on the snow. +Her light basket sled was empty, yet she never +rode—her fleet gray hounds must have every +advantage. Plop-plop-plop on the hard-packed +snow. Here a covey of white ptarmigan rose +fluttering from the trail, there a sly white wolf +mounted a ridge to stare after her, here a +column of smoke rose above the tree tops and +there two little brown men, their dog-team +drawn off the trail, watched in silence as she +passed. What a weird, wild world was this!</p> +<p>Strangely enough, as she reached the last +trail-house prepared for the required twenty +minute rest before starting back over the trail, +she learned that three racers—Jodie, Smitty, +and herself—were running neck and neck.</p> +<p>“Not a half mile between them,” the radio +announcer droned. “The two last teams driven +by Scot Jordan and Sinrock Charlie now lag +behind.</p> +<p>“Surprise has been expressed in many quarters,” +he droned on. “Surprise at the endurance +of the girl racer, Florence Huyler.”</p> +<p>So she had them surprised? Florence smiled +grimly as she gulped down a large mug of +steaming coffee. “Surprised! Huh!” she said +aloud. Then to the trail-house keeper’s wife, +“Call me, please, when the time is up. I’m going +to sleep.” She threw herself down upon +a couch and was at once fast asleep.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_167">[167]</div> +<p>In her sleep she dreamed—odd dream it +was, too. In it she saw the huge Madam Chicaski +placing seven candlesticks on the mantel +at Rainbow Farm. Gold they must have been, +for they shone like the sun. Then she saw the +woman pouring something out of a huge copper +kettle.</p> +<p>“Gold,” she whispered in her dream. “Gold +coins, hundreds and hundreds of them.”</p> +<p>These were all poured on the table, some +rolling on the floor. Then a little, dark man, +Mr. Il-ay-ok, approached the table and began +gathering them up. “I need them for my +people,” was all he said.</p> +<p>Florence awoke with a start. The dream +was at an end. The trail-house matron was +shaking her.</p> +<p>“Time is up.”</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_168">[168]</div> +<p>One minute more and the girl was on her +way back. But that dream, it lingered in the +back of her mind. What did it mean? Probably +nothing. Perhaps this, that life’s adventures +are never at an end, that if she won +this race, it was to be not an end but a beginning +of other things. There was Madam Chicaski +and her supposed treasure, Mr. Il-ay-ok +and his people, and her grandfather’s mine. +“Life,” she thought, “goes on and on and, like +one’s shadow, adventure goes before it.”</p> +<p>But now once again she thought only of the +race. Once again, as in a dream, the long, +white trail glided on beneath her weary feet.</p> +<p>The next stop, twenty miles along the homeward +trek, brought bad news—Jodie was falling +behind, already he had lost twenty minutes.</p> +<p>“It’s his dogs,” Florence explained to the +sympathizing trail-house keeper. “They’re not +right.”</p> +<p>“Anything happens in dis race,” encouraged +her host, “yust anyting at all. You yust +keep pushin’ dem sled handles.”</p> +<p>“I’ll keep pushing,” she smiled. She was +thinking not of herself but of Jodie. How was +it all to end?</p> +<p>Hours later she found herself approaching +“Twenty-Mile House,” the last stop before +the home stretch. Jodie was now quite definitely +out of the race. But—she squared her +shoulders at the thought—Smitty Valentine, +her closest opponent, was twenty minutes behind +her. A slim lead this, but if only she +could hold it. If—</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_169">[169]</div> +<p>Of a sudden, Gray Chief, her leader, gave a +yelp of pain, then began hopping along on +three feet. Time after time the brave fellow +put that foot to the snow, only to lift it again.</p> +<p>In consternation she stopped the dogs to +race ahead and examine that foot.</p> +<p>“Not a scratch,” she murmured. “Just one +of those things that happen to a dog in a race.” +Drawing her sheath knife, she cut the leader’s +draw rope, then, lifting him in her arms, carried +him back to deposit him on the sled. He +whined piteously, but, with almost human wisdom, +appeared to know that for the time at +least, he was through.</p> +<p>“Must bring you all in,” the girl spoke to +the dogs, there were tears in her voice. “Who +could be cruel enough to leave you behind on +the frozen trail?”</p> +<p>At Twenty-Mile House, with sinking heart, +she learned that already her slim lead was lost.</p> +<p>“Smitty Valentine and Florence Huyler running +neck and neck,” the announcer droned. +“Betting is four to one on Smitty.”</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_170">[170]</div> +<p>“Oh, it is!” the girl’s face flushed. Gladly +she would have plunged at once into the race, +but rules forbade—twenty minutes for every +racer at every rest spot, those were the orders. +Refusing an offer of refreshments, she +threw herself on a cot in the corner and was +at once lost to the world.</p> +<p>This time she did not dream. And yet, when +she was awakened, she imagined she was +dreaming, for there above her was a familiar +face, At-a-tak, the Eskimo girl.</p> +<p>“I go with you last mile. Say I could, those +men. I not touch you, not touch sled, not +touch dog, just go, say that, those men.”</p> +<p>Florence found herself strangely cheered by +this news. If this last long mile were to be +run in misery, she would at least have company.</p> +<p>Scarcely were they on their way than the +Eskimo girl began shouting strange guttural +commands to the team. This appeared to help. +Florence was cheered. The next thing At-a-tak +did was strange. Dragging Gray Chief +from the sled, she said, “All right, you go. +I come. I bring him.” Reluctantly Florence +drove on.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_171">[171]</div> +<p>But now new trouble appeared on the horizon. +A storm was coming. Sifting fine snow +at her feet, it rose to her knees, her waist, her +shoulders, then began cutting at her cheeks.</p> +<p>To her vast surprise, out of this murk of +snow-fog from behind her came a girl and a +dog—At-a-tak and Gray Chief. And, wonder +of wonders, Gray Chief was trotting on all +fours. What had the native girl done to him? +No time to ask. Some native trick of magic. +She saw the leader take his place at the front, +then felt the sled lurch forward.</p> +<p>The grim battle went on. The storm increased. +Eyes half blinded by snow, the brave +dogs forged forward into a day that was all +but night.</p> +<p>Would they win? Could they? No more +reports now. The end of the trail lay straight +ahead. The advantage was all with Smitty. +He would be through when she was still an +hour from the goal. How dared she hope? +And yet she did dare.</p> +<p>“Much depends on this race,” she murmured.</p> +<p>“Much,” At-a-tak echoed hoarsely at her +side.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_172">[172]</div> +<p>And then came one more surprising burst +of speed. “Good old Gray Chief!” she murmured. +“Go! Go! Go! Go, Gray Chief!”</p> +<p>“Look!” In spite of rules, At-a-tak gripped +her arm as they ran. “Look! It is the Phantom +Leader. Now you win! It is good! Nagoo-va-ruk-tuk.”</p> +<p>Straining her eyes, Florence caught a +glimpse of something white before her on the +trail. Was it wolf, dog, or phantom? She +could not tell, nor did she care, enough that, +for the moment at least, her speed had been +increased.</p> +<p>“It can’t last,” she murmured to herself. “It +will disappear, that beast, or phantom of the +storm. Or, perhaps he will lead us astray.”</p> +<p>To her surprise and great joy, it did last. +Ever and anon, as the wild drive of the snow +faded, she caught sight of that drifting spot +of white. Now it was there and now gone, but +for Gray Chief and his band it was always +there and always, in some superhuman way, +it inspired them to fresh endeavor.</p> +<p>Only at the crest of the last ridge did the +“phantom” vanish. And then it was but a +short mile, all down hill, to the last stake, to +defeat or victory.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_173">[173]</div> +<p>“Than—thank God for the Phantom Leader,” +she exclaimed as, leaping on her sled and +using one foot for a brake, she went gliding +down, down, down—to what? She would soon +know.</p> +<p>As she came into view, she heard their wild +scream from half a mile away. “Our gang,” +her throat tightened. They would be loyal. +Win or lose, she would receive a round of +cheers. Good old Arctic gang! How good +they had been to take her in!</p> +<p>Three minutes more and she caught the +refrain of their wild chant:</p> +<p>“You win! You win! We win! We win! +Sourdough? No! No! No! Fresh-Dough! +Fresh-Dough! We win! We win!”</p> +<p>There could be no doubting the truth of +this chant. She read it in their faces when, as +she shot across the line, they seized her, tossed +her upon a broad expanse of dry walrus skin, +then lifting her high, began bearing her away +in triumph.</p> +<p>At the clubroom door they paused. Then, +in a spirit of fun, they allowed the skin to sag. +Two score hands gave a quick yank and the +heroine of the hour rose in air.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_174">[174]</div> +<p>This was not new to Florence. “Yea!” she +shouted. “Come on! Let’s go!” Balancing +herself in the center of this strange blanket, +she stood erect and, with the next lusty pull, +shot skyward like a rocket.</p> +<p>Three times she sought the stars. Three +times she scanned that throng for a face. She +was looking for Jodie. He was not there.</p> +<p>“Come on in,” they shouted in a chorus. +“We’ll celebrate!”</p> +<p>“No,” she shook her head. “Please. Not +tonight. I’m dead. Tomorrow night we’ll +whoop it up.”</p> +<p>“All right! All right!” they screamed. “Big +brass band and all. Tomorrow night.”</p> +<p>At that, seizing proud Tom Kennedy’s arm, +she marched away.</p> +<p>“Grandfather,” she whispered, “where’s Jodie? +Didn’t he get in?”</p> +<p>“Sure! Oh, sure!” the old man replied. “Of +course, he lost. Three dogs went wrong, but +he came in, all the way.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_175">[175]</div> +<p>“When he got to the cabin,” he laughed, “he +just tumbled on the cot and fell asleep. Before +that, though, he said, ‘Be sure to wake +me up when she comes in,’ meaning you. But, +you know, I didn’t have the heart to wake +him. He’s still fast asleep.”</p> +<p>This last was not quite true, at least they +found Jodie standing just inside the door when +they arrived.</p> +<p>“Congratulations!” he held out a hand.</p> +<p>“Jodie, I’m sorry you couldn’t win,” the +girl’s voice was low.</p> +<p>“I know,” he stood silent for an instant, +then a mischievous look stole into his eyes.</p> +<p>“Well, anyway,” he said, “<i>we</i> won the race. +Just the way a man and his wife killed the +bear. Ever hear of that?”</p> +<p>“No.”</p> +<p>“Sit down and I’ll tell you.” Florence sat +down. “You see,” said Jodie, “there was a +man, his wife and two children in a shack +when a great big bear entered. The man went +to the rafters. The woman, being hampered +by children clinging to her skirts, stayed on +the floor. Seizing an axe, she killed the bear. +Whereupon the man climbed down shouting, +‘Mary! Mary! We killed the bear!’</p> +<p>“And now,” he added soberly, “now we’ve +won the race, what are we to do about it?”</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_176">[176]</div> +<p>“Put half the prize money in the bank for +Mr. Il-ay-ok, spend the rest for grub, a new +rifle or two and some ammunition, then go in +search of Grandfather’s lost mine,” she panted +all in one breath.</p> +<p>“Sounds great!” the boy exclaimed. “Do I +go along?”</p> +<p>“Certainly. We’ll be generous,” the girl +laughed. “We’ll let you do nearly all the +digging.”</p> +<p>“Mulligan’s on,” said Tom Kennedy, dragging +up a chair. “What do you say?”</p> +<p>“Grand!” Florence was ready for just that. +Never before had she been so hungry and so +sleepy all in one.</p> +<p>“Jodie,” she said with the sudden start of +one who had recalled something very unusual. +“What about this Phantom Leader?”</p> +<p>“Why, have you seen him?” Jodie grinned.</p> +<p>“Sure—sure I’ve seen him, at least that’s +what At-a-tak called him. ‘The Phantom +Leader.’ And Jodie,” her tone was serious, +“that’s why I won the race. He ran before us, +miles and miles.”</p> +<p>“Never heard of such a thing,” Jodie stared. +“Probably a white wolf daring your dogs to +get him, or perhaps a wandering dog.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_177">[177]</div> +<p>“But the Phantom Leader, h-m-m—that’s +a grand little Eskimo legend. This Phantom +is a real ghost hound who appears to help +people out of trouble. An Eskimo woman is +lost in a storm, he appears to lead her home. +A hunter lost in the drifting floes, starving +and freezing, sees the Phantom Leader, follows +him and finds land. You know, regular +thing, stuff dreams are made of.”</p> +<p>“All the same,” said Florence, resuming her +meal, “I hope to meet the Phantom again. +He brought us rare good luck.”</p> +<p>Giving herself over to the business of eating, +she consumed a vast amount of mulligan +stew and a great heap of hot biscuits. After +that she dragged her reluctant feet to her +cubby-hole of a bedroom and, creeping between +blankets, slept the clock around.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_178">[178]</div> +<h2 id="c16"><span class="small">CHAPTER XVI</span> +<br />THE GOLDEN QUEST</h2> +<p>Florence was seated at the table the +next day doing justice to a late afternoon +breakfast of hot cakes and coffee when Jodie +arrived.</p> +<p>“Plans have been changed,” he gave her a +rare smile. “No whoopee, but a grand ball. +That’s what it’s going to be. Full dress affair.”</p> +<p>“Full dress?” the girl’s lips parted in a gasp +of surprise. Then with a sigh, “Oh, well,” +she opened the draft in the small cook stove +and set the flatirons on.</p> +<p>A half hour later she stood before Jodie +garbed in the only silk dress she had with her, +a full-length affair of midnight blue, trimmed +in ermine.</p> +<p>“Keen!” was the boy’s comment. “Needs +just one northern touch. You wait,” he burst +through the door and was gone.</p> +<p>Fifteen minutes later he reappeared with a +soft, bulky package under his arm.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_179">[179]</div> +<p>“Here you are.” With one swift movement +he cast away the paper wrapping and threw +a gorgeous white fox fur about her neck. “And +there you are,” he stood back admiringly. +“Queen of the ball!”</p> +<p>“Jodie! Is it mine?” her eyes shone.</p> +<p>“Sure ’nuff. Present from the gang. Great +stuff, I’d say—dog-musher one day, queen of +the ball the next. Nothing like contrast in +this jolly old world of ours.”</p> +<p>Jodie was not wrong. The winter nights +are long in Alaska, but not too long for a +jolly good time. A waxed floor, a peppy ten-piece +orchestra, including two Eskimo drummers, +a joyous company and sixteen hours of +darkness, who could ask for more? Florence +did not ask. She made the most of every +fleeting hour. For, she thought in one sober +moment, before another forty-eight hours +have flown, we’ll be on the trail once more.</p> +<p>And so they were, off on the long trek that, +they hoped, would bring them to the lost gold +mine and to the end of good old Tom Kennedy’s +lifelong dream.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_180">[180]</div> +<p>They trailed away into the cold, gray dawn, +two teams and four people—Tom Kennedy, +Florence, Jodie, and At-a-tak. Not only had +the Eskimo girl gladly loaned the gray team +for the occasion, but she had offered to accompany +them as seamstress for their native +clothing.</p> +<p>Not a word was said as the city faded into +the distance and blue-gray hills loomed ahead. +They were off on the great quest, man’s age-long +search for gold.</p> +<p>They had been trotting along behind their +sleds for some ten miles when, as it will on +Arctic trails, the wind began pelting them +with hard particles of snow. This time, however, +that wind was with them.</p> +<p>“Ah,” Jodie breathed joyously, “twenty below +zero and the wind at our backs! What +time we shall make!”</p> +<p>“But look at the whirl of that snow!” Florence +was alarmed. “We’ll lose the trail.”</p> +<p>“No fear,” Tom Kennedy assured her. “The +first few days of trail are like a paved road +to an oldtimer. It’s the end that counts. We—”</p> +<p>“Look!” Florence broke in, pointing away +before them. “The Phantom Leader.”</p> +<p>“Yes! Yes!” At-a-tak echoed. “The Phantom +Leader.”</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_181">[181]</div> +<p>“There <i>is</i> something,” Jodie agreed. “Something +white. It moves. Now it is gone.”</p> +<p>“No! No! There it is,” Florence’s voice was +eager. “Jodie! Grandfather! The Phantom +Leader! That means good luck.”</p> +<p>“I hope so,” Jodie was straining his eyes for +a better look. “There! See! He has stopped.”</p> +<p>“Or—or fallen,” Florence was ready to go +racing on ahead of the team. Jodie held her +back.</p> +<p>“You never can tell,” he counselled.</p> +<p>“There! There! He <i>is</i> gone!” the girl cried +a moment later.</p> +<p>“Over a ridge. We’ll see him again,” Tom +Kennedy explained.</p> +<p>Indeed they did see him again and so close +that Florence imagined herself looking at a +pair of eyes burning their way out of a field +of white.</p> +<p>“Oh! Ah!” she breathed.</p> +<p>“If that’s a dog,” Jodie exclaimed in a +hoarse whisper, “he’s the whitest one I’ve ever +seen.”</p> +<p>“There! He’s down!” Florence’s voice was +tense with emotion. “Poor fellow! He must +be hurt!”</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_182">[182]</div> +<p>“Who ever heard of a ghost being hurt?” +Jodie laughed.</p> +<p>“There—there he goes!”</p> +<p>“This can’t last forever,” Jodie cracked a +whip. His team sped on.</p> +<p>For a full half mile they burned up the trail, +then with a suddenness that was startling, +they all piled up in a heap at the back side of +a snow bank. And there lying at Florence’s +feet was one of the most piteous sights the +girl’s eyes had rested upon: a collie dog, white +as snow and so emaciated with hunger that +every bone could be counted. He was whining +piteously.</p> +<p>“Poor thing,” she murmured as she dug into +her pack for cooked reindeer meat. “Poor old +Phantom Leader!”</p> +<p>“Well, I’m dumbed!” was all Jodie could +say. Tom Kennedy said nothing at all. At-a-tak +stared as one must stare when, for the first +time, he sees a ghost within his reach.</p> +<p>“Where did he come from?” Florence asked +as the dog voiced thanks for the food offered +him.</p> +<p>“Not from Nome,” said Kennedy. “No such +dog there.”</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_183">[183]</div> +<p>“Some reindeer herder’s dog, or a miner’s, +like Jack London’s Buck in the <i>Call of the +Wild</i>,” said Jodie. “Find his story and you +may learn of tragedy.”</p> +<p>No time now for such musings. The long +trail lay ahead.</p> +<p>“We’ll take him along for luck,” said Florence. +What luck? How could she know now?</p> +<p>“We’ll have to, of course,” they all agreed. +“No true Alaskan ever leaves a starving dog +on the trail.”</p> +<p>So the “Phantom Leader” was stowed away +on top of the canvas packing on Jodie’s sled, +and the little caravan once more moved on +into the great unknown.</p> +<p class="tb">Long days followed, days of pushing forward +along untracked rivers and over low +mountains where no man lived, and no living +creature moved save the fox, the wolf, and +the snowshoe rabbit. Nights there were when +the sky was like a blue sea filled with the lights +of a thousand ships. An Arctic gale came +sweeping down upon them. Blotting out the +landscape, it drove them into camp. For two +days and nights with their little sheet-iron +stove beating back the frost, they lay on their +sleeping bags listening to the beat of snow +against their tent.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_184">[184]</div> +<p>Their food supply dwindled. No wild caribou +had been seen, but joy suddenly filled +their hearts when at last they came to the spot +where the river they followed forked.</p> +<p>“That,” Tom Kennedy exulted, “is the fork. +Up this stream we must go.”</p> +<p>Did they have faith in his judgment? How +could they doubt it? Yet Florence thought of +their meager food supply and shuddered.</p> +<p>“Jodie and I will go out to look for game,” +said Tom Kennedy.</p> +<p>“Sure. We’ll have some great luck,” Jodie +agreed.</p> +<p>“I’ll set up camp and cut some wood.” Florence +was no weakling. She could play a man’s +part.</p> +<p>As for At-a-tak, she wandered away in +search of snowshoe rabbits’ tracks. More than +once her cunningly set snares had provided +their pot with a delicious stew.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_185">[185]</div> +<p>It was after Florence had set up camp and +while the others were still away that she began +hearing puzzling sounds. Coming from +the distance, they sounded like the crackle of +a wood fire. But there was no fire.</p> +<p>“What is it?” she asked of the white collie, +the “Phantom Leader,” who lay on the snow +close beside her. Well fed and cared for now, +the dog had regained his strength. He had +become a prime favorite with all. But oh! how +he could eat! And in the harness he was just +no good at all. Neither his nature nor his +training fitted him for this.</p> +<p>“Come on, Phantom,” the girl murmured. +“Earn your dinner. Tell me what those sounds +are.”</p> +<p>For answer the dog rose to his haunches +and growled. His sharp nose pointed straight +down the trail over which they had come. +Each moment the faint clatter increased in +volume. At the same time a burst of wind +swept up the valley and a swirl of fine particles +cut at the girl’s cheek.</p> +<p>“Oh, dear! Another storm!” Still she waited +and listened.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_186">[186]</div> +<p>“Phantom! What is it, you—” Suddenly +she broke short off. As her whisper ceased, +her lips parted, her eyes bulged in astonishment, +for at that instant from behind a clump +of low spruce trees a head appeared. The +head, long and white with small mottled +brown spots, carried a pair of massive antlers. +The creature stood staring at them, apparently +quite unafraid.</p> +<p>“A—a caribou!” she whispered. “Food, +plenty of food for dogs and men. All the rifles +gone, too. And yet—”</p> +<p>The creature was beautiful. If a rifle were +in her hands could she have killed it? She +did not know.</p> +<p>Then like a flash the truth came to her, this +was not a caribou but a reindeer, a domestic +reindeer. Caribou are brown. Only reindeer +are white.</p> +<p>“And there are others,” she said to the dog, +“many more. Listen!” As she stood there in +silence there came again that confused crack-cracking. +That, she realized, was many reindeer +crack-cracking their hoofs as they trotted +over the snow.</p> +<p>“Reindeer,” she whispered in awed excitement, +“many reindeer here, two hundred miles +from the nearest range. Something wrong +somewhere, that’s sure!”</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_187">[187]</div> +<p>Truly here was a situation. Her companions +were gone. Here was a problem to be solved.</p> +<p>“They might be back any time,” she told +herself, “but they may not come before the +storm breaks.” Something seemed to tell her +that here was a matter that needed looking +into. Had this herd wandered away, been +stampeded by wolves, or—her heart skipped a +beat—had some northern outlaws driven the +reindeer into the wilds that they might live +upon them and perhaps later sell the unmarked +yearlings?</p> +<p>“It might be Eskimo,” she thought. Her +grandfather had told how the deer had at one +time belonged to the Government and to the +Eskimo, and how white men had gained control +of great herds, how some of the Eskimo, +feeling themselves defeated, had turned bitter +and at one time or another killed deer that +did not belong to them.</p> +<p>“It might be dangerous to go and see what +it’s all about,” she told herself. “Might—”</p> +<p>A flash of light had caught her eye, a gleam +from the white reindeer’s ear. “A marker,” +she exclaimed. “John Bowman’s marker! Ah, +that’s different!” She had seen Bowman’s +deer at Nome. “Come on, Phantom!” she +called to the dog. “We’ll have to look into +this.”</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_188">[188]</div> +<p>Inspired by this call to service, Florence +climbed up the slope. Then, crouching low +that she might not startle the reindeer, she +followed back along the trail.</p> +<p>Behind her, sticking close to her heels, was +the “Phantom Leader.”</p> +<p>“Good old Phantom,” she murmured. The +dog let out an all but inaudible yap-yap.</p> +<p>A biting breath of air struck her cheek. +Snow rattled against her parka. The storm +was on its way.</p> +<p>Creeping down the slope, she peered through +the branches. “Reindeer,” she muttered, “still +more reindeer. There must be hundreds! +Must be—”</p> +<p>Suddenly she drew back among the dark +boughs. Had she caught a glimpse of a skulking +figure? She could not be sure. The dog +crowded close to her, trembling. Why did +he tremble? Could he sense danger?</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_189">[189]</div> +<p>Creeping back up the ridge, she once more +turned her back upon her camp. She must +make some fresh discoveries. But the storm +was beginning in earnest now. All about her +were swirls of blinding snow. Now she could +see for a distance of forty yards, and now but +a few feet.</p> +<p>“Wild spot this,” she said to the dog. “Reindeer +will be stampeded by the storm. They +may rush over the ridge and perish.”</p> +<p>Slowly a plan was forming in her mind. +She would get behind the herd, then drive it +forward to the narrow sheltered valley at the +edge of which their camp was made.</p> +<p>“They’ll be safe there,” she told herself. But +if there were outlaws, marauders behind this +herd? She shuddered. Ah, well, she must risk +it. She owed that to her friend and her grandfather’s +friend, John Bowman.</p> +<p>For a quarter of an hour she battled her way +against the storm. Then, seized with sudden +fear lest she lose contact with the herd, she +hurried down the slope.</p> +<p>She had just reached the bed of the frozen +stream when, for a space of seconds, the air +cleared. Through that half-light she saw two +dark figures. They were moving up the slope. +Were they a man and a sled, or two men? +She could not be sure. A second more and all +was blotted out in one wild whirl of snow.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_190">[190]</div> +<p>Looking down, she saw what appeared to +be an answer to her question—a sled track in +the snow. Bending down, she examined it +carefully. “Eskimo sled,” was her verdict. The +tracks were too close together for a white +man’s sled, and the runners too broad. They +were wooden runners, made of driftwood.</p> +<p>Already she was out of touch with the herd. +Whatever happened, she must hasten on.</p> +<p>“Phantom, where are you?” she exclaimed +in sudden consternation. Where indeed was +the collie? He was gone, had vanished into +the ever-increasing storm. A feeling of loneliness, +almost of despair, swept over her. Why +had she taken such chances? In a strange land +one must exercise caution.</p> +<p>“Got to get going.” As she hurled herself +forward before the storm, she was fairly lifted +from her feet by the violence of the wind. +Now spinning like a top and now sailing along +like a kite over the snow, she missed a spruce +tree by inches, went hurtling over some young +firs, then tripped over tangled branches to at +last land sprawling on all fours over a snow +bank.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_191">[191]</div> +<p>“Whew! What a—” she broke short off to +listen. What was that? A dog barking?</p> +<p>“Yes! Yes!” She was on her feet. “It’s +Phantom and I know the meaning of that +bark. He hasn’t started a rabbit, nor is he +afraid. He’s driving cattle, reindeer! And why +not? He’s a collie.”</p> +<p>Once again, more cautiously, she took up +the trail. Her course was clear enough now. +All she had to do was to follow on, perhaps +give the dog a word of encouragement now +and then. She would herd the reindeer up the +ravine. Soon they would be at camp. From +that point the deer could spread out in the +narrow protected valley.</p> +<p>“Yes, that’s it,” she said aloud. “There’s +Phantom now.”</p> +<p>She caught fleeting glimpses of the dog. +Now he was here, now there, and there. What +a fast worker he was! The moment a deer +lagged, he was at its heels.</p> +<p>And the reindeer? She saw them indistinctly, +like a picture out of focus. But there must +be hundreds of them. How had they been +driven all this way? And why?</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_192">[192]</div> +<p>She cast apprehensive glances to right, left, +then back. There had been something secretive +about the way that man back there on +the trail had acted. She saw no one now. The +snow fog was closing in.</p> +<p>“Go, Phantom! Go after them!” she cried. +“Good old Phantom!” How glad she was that +they had responded to the Phantom’s appeal +and had saved him.</p> +<p>Just then she caught the gleam of a light, +and heard a shout. It was her grandfather’s +voice. She was nearing the camp. It was all +right now. The deer were safe from the storm +and from—from what else? She could not be +sure. Only one thing she knew, they were +John Bowman’s reindeer and John Bowman +was her friend.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_193">[193]</div> +<p>An hour later, with the wind tearing and +cracking about their tent, the four of them, +grandfather, Jodie, Florence, and At-a-tak, +sat on their sleeping bags in awed silence listening +to the rush and roar of the storm. At +their feet, dreaming day-dreams, lay the collie +who on that day had covered himself with +glory. That splendid herd was safe from the +storm. Tomorrow when the storm had gone +roaring on towards the north, they would begin +unraveling the mystery that had to do +with the presence of these reindeer in this +wild, uninhabited region.</p> +<p>“Wandered away,” said grandfather.</p> +<p>“Somebody stole,” said At-a-tak.</p> +<p>“Perhaps the regular herders are taking +them somewhere,” said Jodie.</p> +<p>But who could surely know? They must +wait and see.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_194">[194]</div> +<h2 id="c17"><span class="small">CHAPTER XVII</span> +<br />THE BLACK SEAL’S TOOTH</h2> +<p>Florence stopped short in her tracks. +It was early next morning. She had wandered +some distance from camp. Bending over, +she picked something from the snow. That +something was brightly colored orange and +green. It had shone out of the solid white of +snow at her feet.</p> +<p>“Tracks,” she thought, “Eskimo tracks, and +now this.” The thing she held in her hand was +strange. A small leather packet, it was decorated +with masses of bright beads. As she +examined it she saw that it had been sewn up +tight, but she could feel some small hard objects +within.</p> +<p>“Gold nuggets, perhaps,” her imagination +soared. Two bits of leather thong led out +from the bag. That they had been one piece +she knew at once. “Worn about the neck,” +she concluded, “and the thong broke.”</p> +<p>Next instant she was calling, “At-a-tak!”</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_195">[195]</div> +<p>“Let’s see.” The Eskimo girl burst through +a clump of evergreens. “Ah-ne-ca!” she exclaimed +at sight of the little sack. “Came from +Russia, this one. Not Eskimo, no! no! +<i>Chuckches</i> from Russia. What you call it? +Charm! Keep bad spirits away, think that, +this <i>Chuckche</i> man.”</p> +<p>“Well,” said Florence, “it might keep bad +spirits away, but it didn’t keep bad ideas out +of his mind. He and his friends tried to steal +five hundred of John Bowman’s reindeer, that’s +plain.</p> +<p>“Now—” her tone changed, “looks as if +these natives had become frightened, leaving +us with the reindeer on our hands. Two hundred +miles from anywhere. What are we going +to do about it?”</p> +<p>“Yes,” said At-a-tak. What she meant was, +‘Yes, here’s a situation for you!’ And Florence +agreed with her. Here they were on a +golden quest, marching with dog teams and +supplies into the uncharted North in search +of a lost and hidden mine, and now of a sudden +they found themselves encamped with a +whole herd of reindeer belonging to a friend.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_196">[196]</div> +<p>“Anyway, we won’t starve,” the girl +laughed. “Plenty of reindeer steak.”</p> +<p>“Yes,” said At-a-tak.</p> +<p>“We won’t go back,” Florence decided suddenly.</p> +<p>“No,” agreed the Eskimo girl.</p> +<p>“We’ll go on north,” said Florence. “We’ll +take the deer with us. We’ve just got to!”</p> +<p>“Yes,” said At-a-tak.</p> +<p>It was the day after the storm. All was +white and quiet now. Florence and the Eskimo +girl had gone in search of a clue that +would give them a reason for the presence of +this valuable herd of reindeer in such a place. +Apparently they had found the answer. Here +and there were snow-blown tracks of dogs, +sleds and natives. These led away from the +narrow valley. Without question, these natives, +overcome by a desire to live easily off +that which belonged to another, had driven +these deer into the hills. At sight of white +men they had fled. Would they return? Florence +shuddered. “Have to be on the watch,” +she told herself. To At-a-tak she said:</p> +<p>“Come! Let’s go back to camp.”</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_197">[197]</div> +<p>When their report had been made, Tom +Kennedy agreed that they should take the +deer with them. “We’ll camp here until tomorrow +morning, give the deer a chance to +feed, then we’ll press on up the fork to the +mine.</p> +<p>“The mine,” his voice rose, “it’s still there. +Bound to be! Joe and me, we hid it, hid it +good and plenty.”</p> +<p>“Hid it?” Florence wanted to ask. “How +can you hide a gold mine?” She did not ask. +She would wait and see for herself. Long ago +she had learned the uselessness of asking +questions when a little patient waiting would +permit one to answer them for oneself.</p> +<p>A short time later, in the shadow of a fir +tree, she cut the threads that closed that small +beaded bag, then shook into her hand three +bits of ivory. Two were white, the long, sharp +teeth of a fox, and one was black as night, the +tooth of a seal. This black one had been +buried perhaps for hundreds of years beneath +the sands of the sea.</p> +<p>“Good luck charm,” she murmured. “Wonder +if it will bring good luck to us.”</p> +<p>Hours later, in a dreamy sort of way she +was wondering this all over again. There was +need at this moment for luck.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_198">[198]</div> +<p>She was seated beside the coals of a campfire. +The moon in all its glory hung above her. +Stretching across the sky the Milky Way +seemed a scarf of finest lace.</p> +<p>Her eyes, however, were not much upon the +sky. They roved the snowy slopes. They took +in every clump of fir and spruce. They rested +with pleasure upon the brown spots that were, +she knew, sleeping reindeer. She was guarding +camp. They had decided that it was best +to keep a watch. Jodie had all but insisted +upon keeping her watch, but to this she would +not listen.</p> +<p>“I’m as good a man as you are, even if I am +a girl,” was her laughing challenge.</p> +<p>“<i>Chuckches</i>,” she was thinking, “how would +natives of Siberia come so far?” And yet, the +charm in her pocket had come from Russia—Siberia—the +Arctic coast of Asia. At-a-tak +had assured her of that. How strange!</p> +<p>Then she thought of the hidden mine. They +would be there tomorrow. A feeling of pleased +excitement, like the day before Christmas, ran +through her being. Be there tomorrow. Would +they? Perhaps there was no mine worthy of +the name—only an old man’s dream. Well, +even this had to be proved tomorrow. Tomorrow—</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_199">[199]</div> +<p>She started from this reverie, then listened +sharply. Had there come an unaccustomed +sound, like someone talking low in the distance?</p> +<p>A sound did reach her ears, a short, sharp +barking. White foxes barking in the night. +But this other sound—could it be some wild +creature, perhaps a wolf, grumbling to his +mate?</p> +<p>After that the night was still. She thought +there had never before been such silence—the +great white silence of the North. She imagined +one might hear the rush of stars in their +orbits.</p> +<p>Then again that silence was broken. The +sound this time was very near, like the low +mush-mush of footsteps on the snow, it seemed +to come from the ridge above. Three clumps +of spruce trees were there. Anyone passing +from one to the other would be hidden. The +nearest was not twenty yards from the camp. +Her hands moved nervously as she sat watching +those low spruce trees.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_200">[200]</div> +<p>A moment passed, another, and yet another. +The silence appeared to deepen. Blue-gray +shadows of trees seemed to creep toward her. +Absurd! She shook herself free of the illusion.</p> +<p>Then of a sudden she saw it—a face. One +instant it was there among the spruce boughs. +The next it was gone.</p> +<p>“A native?” A prickly sensation raced up +her spine. It was night. She was alone, was +awake. Should she waken the others?</p> +<p>“It’s my watch,” she told herself resolutely. +“The face is gone. The reindeer are safe. +So-o—” with a sigh she settled back in her +place.</p> +<p>When she awoke next morning she was +tempted to believe that her seeming to see that +face among the trees was the result of an overworked +imagination.</p> +<p>It was At-a-tak who soon changed her mind +about this. The native girl had stood a short +watch in the early morning. The face among +the trees had reappeared. The man had spoken +to her in his native tongue. The story she had +to tell was strange.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_201">[201]</div> +<p>This man she said was indeed a native of +Russia. He and his people had visited America +in a big skin boat. When they started on +the homeward journey, ice drove them back. +In America, they had no food. They must +hunt. Finding this herd, and knowing little +of American laws, they had driven it into the +hills.</p> +<p>“But now,” At-a-tak concluded, “no more +drive reindeer, those Russian natives. I say, +‘Go away quick. White man will catch you, +put in jail, maybe shoot you.’ He say, ‘Go +away quick.’ That one go away far. So,” she +sighed, “not bother reindeer more.”</p> +<p>“And so,” Jodie laughed, “we have one fine +reindeer herd on our hands. What shall we +do with it?”</p> +<p>“Take them along; eat them one by one if +we must,” was Tom Kennedy’s reply. “But +now the cry is ‘On to the mine!’</p> +<p>“On to the gold mine!” he shouted.</p> +<p>“On to the mine! On! On to the mine!” +came echoing back.</p> +<p>Not so fast. There was the herd of reindeer, +they must be driven on before. In spite of the +fact that this herd in an emergency would +save them from starvation, Florence felt inclined +to bewail the fact that this extra responsibility +had been thrust upon them.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_202">[202]</div> +<p>“Friends,” she said to her grandfather as +they ate a hurriedly prepared breakfast of +sourdough pancakes, “friends are fine, but +sometimes they are a lot of trouble. If John +Bowman hadn’t been our friend, we might +have left those deer to shift for themselves.”</p> +<p>“N-no,” the old man spoke slowly, “no, girl, +that’s where you’re wrong. It does give us an +added responsibility, our friendship with John. +But reindeer are property, valuable property. +Many a man in this cold white world would +have starved had it not been for the reindeer. +So we’ll have to look after ’em the best we +can.”</p> +<p>“Grandfather,” the girl thought with increased +admiration, “surely is a fine old man! +If everyone was like him, what a world this +would be!”</p> +<p>“We’ll get there all the same!” exclaimed +Tom. “You watch and see.”</p> +<p>“Come on, Phantom, old boy!” Florence +shouted to the collie dog a few moments later. +“We’ve got to get this Arctic caravan on the +move.”</p> +<p>The dog let out a joyous yelp and they were +on their way.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_203">[203]</div> +<p>It was growing dusk on that short day of +the Northland when, on crossing a low ridge, +they sighted a large oval spot that seemed jet +black against the surrounding white.</p> +<p>“A frozen lake,” said Jodie.</p> +<p>For one full moment they stood there in +silence. The scene that lay before them was +beautiful beyond compare. The sun setting +behind white and purple mountains, the frozen +oval of water that in summer must seem a +mirror, the graceful reindeer wandering down +over the sloping field of white—all this beauty +would remain with Florence as long as she +lived. Yet the words of her grandfather would +linger longer. What he said was:</p> +<p>“Yes, girl, that’s the lake. In fact, it’s <i>the</i> +lake! And yonder—” his voice broke with +emotion, “yonder is the cabin Joe and I put +up so long ago.”</p> +<p>Sure enough, as the girl looked closely, she +did see a small cabin, half buried in snow, +nestling among the trees.</p> +<p>“The cabin!” she exclaimed. “The cabin! +And now, where’s the mine?”</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_204">[204]</div> +<p>“Time enough for that, girl.” With eager +stride the old man started down the hill. +“Time enough. The cabin comes first.” At +that they all went racing away.</p> +<p>“It’s strange,” the old man murmured a +half hour later, “fifteen years have gone. And +yet here is our cabin, just as we left it. Even +the flour in that big can is good. No one has +been here since we left. Surely this is a +strange, mysterious, empty land.”</p> +<p>“But the gold mine?” The words slipped +unbidden from Florence’s lips.</p> +<p>At that her grandfather did a curious thing. +With one long bony finger that trembled +slightly, he pointed straight down at the center +of the floor:</p> +<p>“We hid it. Hid it good.”</p> +<p>“But wh—where is it?” the girl stammered.</p> +<p>“The two middle planks we hewed out of a +spruce log,” was the answer. “Lift ’em up +and you’ll see.”</p> +<p>Florence and Jodie did lift the planks. They +did see. Beneath the cabin floor was a dark +cavity.</p> +<p>“Not very deep,” the old man laughed happily. +“Not far down to the bed rock. Flash +your light down there, son.”</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_205">[205]</div> +<p>Jodie threw the gleam of his electric torch +to the bottom of the cavity. Then an exclamation +escaped his lips. Casting back the +gleam of his torch, some tiny objects appeared +to turn the place into an inverted sky, +all full of stars.</p> +<p>“Gold!” the old man murmured. “It’s gold, +son. Gold!”</p> +<p>After Florence had crept into her sleeping +bag that night, she found her mind filled with +many questions. Would they truly find gold, +much gold, down there in that dark hole? +For her grandfather’s sake, she hoped so. +What of the reindeer? They were feeding and +sleeping now in that narrow valley. Would +they be able to drive these all the way to +Nome? Would those Russian natives truly +remain away, or would hunger drive them +back?</p> +<p>“There’ll be trouble if they come back,” she +thought. “Trouble. Troub—” At that she +fell fast asleep.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_206">[206]</div> +<h2 id="c18"><span class="small">CHAPTER XVIII</span> +<br />TO BE OR NOT TO BE</h2> +<p>In the meantime life did not lack for excitement +back in the Matamuska valley. +Strange tales had come to Mary both by mail +and by air. Brought by air-mail, two letters +from Florence had reached her. They told of +the lost mine, of the dog race that was to be +run and of the all too exciting life the big +girl was living in the far North.</p> +<p>“Miss Santa Claus,” Mary whispered when +she had read those letters twice. “Speed Samson +said I should be little Miss Santa Claus.” +She was thinking of those delayed Christmas +presents to the Eskimo children still lying +there in the postoffice in Anchorage. As she +closed her eyes she tried to picture the miles +and miles of timber, tundra, and endless snow +she must fly over to reach that strange land.</p> +<p>“Speed Samson will take Mr. Il-ay-ok up +there,” she whispered. “I could go too and +take all those presents. I wonder—”</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_207">[207]</div> +<p>Yes, it did seem probable that when the +hunting season was over, Speed would, taking +a chance of being paid in fox skins, fly the little +Eskimo to his home. Truth is, he was growing +very fond of the little man. Having taken +him along on a hunting trip he discovered that +he was a capital cook and that he could prepare +meat in a manner that delighted his +guest-hunters. After that he took him often.</p> +<p>It was on one of these occasions that something +happened which made Mary’s dreams +of becoming “little Miss Santa Claus” lighter +and brighter. Speed carried a short-wave radio +in his plane. It was on this evening, after +he had landed on the little lake at Rainbow +Farm, planning to stay all night, that the +thing happened. Mary, Mark, and Mr. Il-ay-ok +were in the cabin of the plane taking turns +at listening to the radio. Speed himself had +the head-set clamped over his head when suddenly +he exclaimed:</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_208">[208]</div> +<p>“It’s some cute kids way up at Cape Prince +of Wales. School teacher’s children or something. +Big brother’s rigged up a short-wave +outfit. They think they’re talking only to +some people on a small island seventy miles +away, but it’s going out over the air. Something +about a Christmas tree made of willow +branches and a driftwood log. Seems there +was to have been quite a Christmas up there, +dolls, toys, candy, everything. The presents—”</p> +<p>“Yes! Yes! I know!” Mary broke in. “The +presents didn’t come. Too late for the boat. +They’re in Anchorage now.”</p> +<p>“Is that a fact?” Speed stared at her in surprise.</p> +<p>“Say-ee!” he exclaimed suddenly. “Guess +they got on to my listening in on the air. +They’re talking in some new lingo. Guess it’s +Eskimo. Here, Mr. Il-ay-ok, give me your +ears.” He clamped the head-set over the Eskimo’s +head.</p> +<p>“Oh! Ah-ne-ca!” the little man smiled +broadly. “Yes. Talking Eskimo.”</p> +<p>“What do they say?” Mary exclaimed.</p> +<p>“Can’t tell now. Bye-and-bye.” The Eskimo +waved her away.</p> +<p>“Let him alone,” Mark scolded. “It may be +important, a shipwreck, or—or something.”</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_209">[209]</div> +<p>It was important, very important to at least +three young people quite far away. It was not +a shipwreck. An Eskimo girl was talking. Eskimo +people are born story tellers, and Kud-lucy +was telling a story to No-wad-luk, her +little friend at Shishmaref Island. The story +was long, but in her excitement she forgot all +else.</p> +<p>As Mr. Il-ay-ok listened to the tiny Eskimo’s +story, Mary waited in breathless silence. +What will this story mean to me, she was +asking herself. Perhaps much. Perhaps nothing +at all.</p> +<p>Of a sudden Mr. Il-ay-ok dragged the head-set +from his ears. “Gone!” he smiled broadly. +“All over now.”</p> +<p>“Tell us!” Mary’s eyes shone. “What did +they say?”</p> +<p>“Long story. Must tell all,” Mr. Il-ay-ok +spoke slowly.</p> +<p>He did tell all and a most interesting narrative +it proved to be. The little Eskimo girl’s +story as he told it was this:</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_210">[210]</div> +<p>There was to have been a Christmas tree at +the Cape. What was a Christmas tree? Oh, +something quite wonderful! So bright it was +that it shone like the sun. And on this bright +tree there grew all manner of strange things. +Little people? Yes, little people, no longer +than a man’s foot, but all dressed in bright +clothes. Could they talk? To be sure. Yes, +and cry and close their eyes, and go for a +walk. Someone apparently had done her best +to give Kud-lucy a real notion of what a +Christmas tree was like. Had she succeeded? +You be the judge.</p> +<p>Yes, and there were to have been more +things, Kud-lucy hurried on. Small seals that +were not truly seals, and walrus and polar +bears. Yes, and many things no Eskimo had +ever seen before.</p> +<p>“But now—” little Kud-lucy’s voice had faltered, +“now there is to be no Christmas tree, +not any at all!” Why? Because the big boat +had come too soon. All the wonderful things +apparently were left behind.</p> +<p>At this instant apparently little Kud-lucy +suddenly realized that she was talking in some +strange, mysterious manner to her friend far +away. The discovery frightened her and she +had gone off the air.</p> +<p>As the story ended, Mary jumped to her +feet exclaiming:</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_211">[211]</div> +<p>“Just think! To be Miss Santa Claus to a +hundred Eskimo children! But then—” She +sat down quite suddenly to stare out into the +dark, cold night.</p> +<p>“Why not?” said Speed.</p> +<p>“It’s a long, long way.”</p> +<p>“No way is long any more, with an airplane,” +he replied quietly.</p> +<p>“Well, perhaps. Who knows?” Mary looked +at Mark. He said never a word. There was no +need. She could read his thoughts. He was +thinking, “I love those Eskimo children, but +I love Mary more. I want her always to be +safe. And yet—I wonder.”</p> +<p>That night beside the huge, barrel stove +in the Hughes’ cabin, Mr. Il-ay-ok talked long +of his people who lived on the rim of a frozen +sea. He spoke of the children, of their play +and their simple toys, of their cheerful natures +and happy smiles. With every word Mary’s +interest grew. Her cheeks burned as she +dreamed on of that suggested flight into the +North.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_212">[212]</div> +<p>“Christmas in Eskimo-land, dog-teams, +reindeer and everything,” she whispered to +herself. “Then perhaps Florence will be ready +to return and we shall fly home together.” +How she missed Florence! Then and there +something like a resolve was formed in her +mind. Would she go? There would be solemn +family conferences, but in the end, would +she go? To this question, for the moment, +there came no answer.</p> +<p>Now Mr. Il-ay-ok was talking of other +things, he was telling why that man Loome +hated him. Somehow government officials had +been persuaded that the Eskimo should drive +their reindeer into the hills where feed was +more plentiful. This they would never do; +first they would sell their deer for very little. +Loome and his companions were planning to +profit by their misfortune.</p> +<p>“Now,” the little man’s eyes shone, “now, +I have the papers. Here,” he patted his pocket. +“Reindeer may stay as they are. The so wonderful +government has said that. My people, +they will be happy. But first I must show them +the paper. First day of next year it will be +too late. So-o, I must go. I must fly.”</p> +<p>“And you shall fly,” said Speed Samson. +“Here. Shake on it.” They shook hands in +silence. Mary’s heart burned with hope.</p> +<p>“Miss Santa Claus in Eskimo land,” she +whispered.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_213">[213]</div> +<p>Next day Madam Chicaski, who had of late +been acting rather strangely, did the oddest +thing of all. When in the summer Bill had +returned from his fruitless search for gold, he +had left his pick and shovel in the Hughes +woodshed. They were still there. On this +morning Mary saw the large Russian woman +take the pick from the shed and march resolutely +toward the giant stump that stood in +the back yard. It was an innocent appearing +thing, that stump. All weather-beaten and +festooned with rustling morning-glory vines, +it seemed a thing destined to stand there for +years. And yet, as Mary watched, she felt +sure that this woman meant to attack its roots, +if possible to tear it from the earth.</p> +<p>“I wonder why?” she asked herself. At that +moment her mind was filled with mingled +emotion, surprise, consternation and something +of alarm. This last she could not even +have explained to herself.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_214">[214]</div> +<p>There was, it seemed, no immediate cause +for anxiety. The big woman did not swing +the pick, at least, not that day. Instead as she +came near to the stump, using the pick for a +cane, she stood there leaning on it looking for +all the world like a picture called “The Man +with the Hoe.” On her face at that moment +was a look Mary had seen there before, it was +the gaze of one who worships at a shrine.</p> +<p class="tb">In the far away valley, work on the lost +mine progressed famously. Since the greater +part of the digging had been done long ago +by Tom Kennedy and his partner, there remained +little to be done save to pick away at +the gold-laden gravel, to hoist it through the +floor, then to wash it out in water brought up +from the lake. Even with so much of the work +done, it was a slow process. Days passed. +Each day saw Tom Kennedy’s moose-hide +sack a little heavier, but each day brought +their small supply of flour, sugar, bacon and +beans dwindling lower and lower.</p> +<p>“We’ll kill a fat reindeer and pay Bowman +for it when we get back,” said Tom Kennedy.</p> +<p>“Grandfather, if we are to drive those reindeer +all the way back it will take days and +days,” Florence was worried. “There will be +nothing left to eat but reindeer meat. Can we +live on that?”</p> +<p>“We can try. Eskimo do.”</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_215">[215]</div> +<p>“We’re not Eskimo.”</p> +<p>“No-o. But something will turn up. We’ll +manage.” The old man was too absorbed in +his golden quest to think overmuch of things +to eat.</p> +<p>Then came the great day. “The mother-lode.” +Tom Kennedy spoke to Florence. She +was at his side in the mine. “See!” The light +of his torch was cast back by a yellow gleam. +“See! Nuggets big as bird’s eggs.”</p> +<p>“And—and will this be the end?” she asked.</p> +<p>“The end, yes,” his tone was impressive. +“But enough. Who could ask for more? Only +look there’ll be—” He broke short off to listen +intently.</p> +<p>“An airplane!” the girl’s voice was low and +tense.</p> +<p>“They’ve found us,” the old man muttered.</p> +<p>“Who?”</p> +<p>“Who knows?” was his strange answer. +“No good ever comes from spying.”</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_216">[216]</div> +<h2 id="c19"><span class="small">CHAPTER XIX</span> +<br />COASTING UP HILL</h2> +<p>At very nearly that same hour a blue and +gray airplane rose from the frozen sea +near Anchorage. Its passengers were only +two, a dark-eyed, animated girl, and a stolid +little Eskimo man. At the controls was Speed +Samson. You will not need a second guess as +to who the passengers were, nor the nature of +the cargo they carried. Little Miss Santa +Claus, who in real life was Mary Hughes, had +her pack securely stowed away in the baggage +compartment of the plane. She was on her +way.</p> +<p>Two hours later she found herself drawing +her mackinaw closely about her. It was cold +in the small cabin of their airplane, stinging +cold. How high were they in air? She did +not know. How far north were they? She did +not know. She was not thinking of that so +much, but of the whole strange adventure.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_217">[217]</div> +<p>It had taken courage to say “yes” at last. +The postmaster in Anchorage had listened to +their story with interest, but he hesitated to +give his consent to their airplane delivery of +the packages of Christmas presents to Cape +Prince of Wales. “It is quite irregular,” he +had said, “and you might never get there. It’s +a great white world you are going into. There +are few landing fields.”</p> +<p>“That is true,” Speed had agreed. “However, +I’ve never yet taken off for any destination +and failed to arrive.”</p> +<p>“And besides,” Mary had put in, “if we +don’t take their presents, they won’t arrive +until Fourth of July, when the boats come. +And what’s the good of Christmas presents on +the Fourth of July?”</p> +<p>“What indeed?” the gray-haired postmaster +had smiled. Finally he surrendered and gave +his consent.</p> +<p>“And now—” Mary’s brow wrinkled as her +eyes took in the gathering gray around them. +“Now it is going to snow and we—” She did +not finish.</p> +<p>Yes, they must land. But how? Where? +Suddenly, seeming close enough to be touched, +a mountain loomed before them.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_218">[218]</div> +<p>With a wild whirl that took her breath, the +airplane swung about to go speeding along the +side of that jagged ridge.</p> +<p>“It—it’s beautiful—and terrible!” she whispered +as she sat up to stare out of the window.</p> +<p>Ah, yes, it was all of that. Here was a wall +towering and smooth like the side of a sky-scraper, +and there a black shaft of rock rising +like a church spire, and here a shining river +that, as their eyes became accustomed to it, +turned into a broad glacier.</p> +<p>“The snow is falling faster. Where can we +land? And if we can’t land?” Terror gripped +the girl’s heart.</p> +<p>Of a sudden the plane once again swooped +downward. She caught her breath. What had +happened? Was their supply of gas running +low? Were they to make a forced landing? +Or had Speed’s keen eye discovered some hidden +valley offering a safe landing? She was +soon enough to know.</p> +<p>Directly beneath them there appeared a +broad stretch of white.</p> +<p>“A valley!” The girl heaved a sigh of relief.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_219">[219]</div> +<p>The plane circled. She was glad they were +to land now, for in the last two hours they had +made good progress. She was hungry. Soon +they would be brewing hot cocoa on the little +gas stove, heating canned meat and searching +out big round crackers. They—</p> +<p>Once again her thoughts broke off. The +plane had bumped. There was something +strange about that bump, too solid or something. +Bump-bump-bump, each bump was +stranger than the last.</p> +<p>But now she sighed with relief, for the plane +was coming to a standstill. Slow—slow, slower, +stop.</p> +<p>She was preparing to open the door, when +with a little cry of dismay she fell back among +the blankets. A terrible thing was happening, +the plane was gliding backward!</p> +<p>“What—what is it?” cried Mr. Il-ay-ok.</p> +<p>“We—we’re on a sloping ledge. We’re gliding +down—down! We—” Mary’s voice ended +in a gasp. Her heart stood still, then went +racing on. The plane was gliding faster, faster, +ever faster, and back of them, not thirty +seconds’ glide, was a deep, dark abyss! They +had landed half way up the sloping mountainside.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_220">[220]</div> +<p>“Dear God—”</p> +<p>Her prayer was answered before it was said. +The motor thundered. Their backward gliding +slowed. Slow, slower, stop. Then the reverse, +the motor picked up speed, and they +glided forward faster, faster, faster. Then, +with a startling lurch the plane swung to the +right. Next instant they were once more floating +on God’s good free air.</p> +<p>Then, perhaps because they had seen perils +enough, the sun quite suddenly broke from +behind the clouds, the snowfall ceased, and +they found themselves sailing high over a +long, winding valley.</p> +<p>Two hours later, having sailed on through +a clear sky for many miles, and feeling the +need for rest and food, they circled low over +the frozen surface of a broad stream.</p> +<p>“Good!” said the Eskimo. “Now we eat.”</p> +<p>“See!” Mary exclaimed, pointing off to the +left, “there are three columns of smoke rising +up from the edge of the forest. People living +around here. Wonder what they are? White +men, Eskimo, or Indians?”</p> +<p>“No Eskimo,” said Mr. Il-ay-ok, “Too far, +this place.”</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_221">[221]</div> +<p>So they came down. Three times, like some +lone wild duck searching a water hole, the +plane circled low. The third time it dropped +a little lower. Bump-bump-bump, glide-glide-glide +on their broad skis, and—a perfect landing? +Almost. But what was this? The ship +tilted sharply to one side. Mary, whose hand +was on the door, was thrown out to fall flat +on the snow-encrusted ice. For ten long seconds +it seemed the airplane would roll on +over and crush her. But no, still tilted to a +rakish angle, it came at last to rest.</p> +<p>What had happened? They were not long +in finding the answer. Early in the winter the +river had frozen over, perhaps two feet thick. +This ice had cracked. Water had flowed +through and flooded the ice. Once again it +froze over, but not thick enough. One ski of +the plane had broken through to settle down +on the solid ice a foot below.</p> +<p>“Here we are, and here we stay.” Speed’s +tone had a sad finality about it.</p> +<p>“But, Speed, can’t we pry it out?” Mary +asked hopefully.</p> +<p>“Impossible,” the pilot shook his head. “Ten +or twenty men might do it, but not you and I.”</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_222">[222]</div> +<p>“Then it shall be ten or twenty men!” Mary +exclaimed. “Christmas bells must ring.”</p> +<p>“Wha—what do you mean?” the pilot stared +at her.</p> +<p>“We saw smoke, didn’t we?” she turned to +the Eskimo.</p> +<p>“Yes,” he nodded. “Three columns smoke.”</p> +<p>“Whites or Indians?”</p> +<p>“Who knows?” said Mary. “And who +cares? We must find them. They must help +us.” She was ready for the trail.</p> +<p>And indeed there was need for haste, the +airplane was freezing in. So, forgetting their +hunger and their need for rest, they hurried +away in the direction of the three columns of +smoke.</p> +<p>Soon they came upon a trail leading into +the forest. In silence they followed that trail. +How still it was there in the forest! As a +snow-bunting flew from twig to twig, Mary +caught the flutter of his tiny wings. A snowshoe +rabbit, leaping from the trail, brought an +unuttered cry to her lips. Then of a sudden +a deep voice shattered that silence. It said:</p> +<p>“How!”</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_223">[223]</div> +<p>Seeming to appear from nowhere, a six-foot +Indian stood before them. He was not +dressed in skins and feathers, but his dark +face, straight black hair, and large hawk-like +nose told the story.</p> +<p>“How!” said Speed.</p> +<p>“Airplane come?” the Indian said.</p> +<p>“Yes, and we are in trouble. You must help +us.”</p> +<p>“Where you go?”</p> +<p>“Eskimo-land.”</p> +<p>“Eskimo bad.” The Indian’s voice dropped, +his dark face formed itself into a scowl. “Very +bad, Eskimo. Long time ’go kill Indians—much +Indians.”</p> +<p>“Yes, a long time ago,” Speed agreed quietly. +“Then came good white men. They told +the Eskimo no kill. Now all the Eskimos are +good. Tomorrow night is Christmas Eve. We +are bringing them presents, these good Eskimos. +We are in trouble. You must help us.”</p> +<p>“Oh! Christmas?” The Indian’s face lighted.</p> +<p>“We have twenty pounds of candy for your +children,” Mary encouraged.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_224">[224]</div> +<p>“Oh, candy?” The Indian’s face grew radiant. +“Indian like candy, like much. I bring +help, bring everyone. Come quick!” He trotted +away.</p> +<p>Scarcely had they returned to the plane than +the edge of the forest swarmed with Indians, +little Indians, big Indians, men, women, and +children, and all eager to help.</p> +<p>It was no time at all until that airplane ski +was back on the top surface of the ice. Then, +after presenting the gifts of candy and receiving +a friendly farewell, the little party began +taxiing down the river two miles to a spot +where there was a supply of gasoline, and +where they might pile into their cabin for a +few winks of sleep.</p> +<p>Supper over, they tucked their blankets +about them.</p> +<p>“In four hours,” said Speed, “if the moon +is out, we shall sail away. Tomorrow evening +will be Christmas Eve, and we still have seven +hundred miles to go.”</p> +<p>“Seven—seven hundred!” Mary exclaimed. +“Can we make it?”</p> +<p>“If the sun and moon smile on us,” Speed +replied cheerfully.</p> +<p>Little wonder that Mary whispered a prayer +for clear skies before she fell asleep.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_225">[225]</div> +<p>Meanwhile three cute children, Margaret, +Nellie, and Tom, the only white children at +far-off Cape Prince of Wales, were doing their +best to make up for the loss of their presents. +The Christmas tree of willow branches and a +driftwood log had been set up. Behind closely +drawn blinds, they had done their best to decorate +it. Rustling willow leaves had been +brightened by many feet of colored popcorn +strings. Here and there a red, green or orange +box hung. Safely shielded from dry leaves, +twenty candles shone. Common white candles +they were, but who cared for that?</p> +<p>“It’s grand!” exclaimed Margaret.</p> +<p>“Not half bad,” Tom agreed.</p> +<p>“But just think what it might have been!” +Nellie struggled to hold back a tear.</p> +<p>Outside in the frosty night, little Kud-lucy +and No-wad-luk, two little Eskimo children, +were peeking through a crack not quite covered +by a shade.</p> +<p>“Oh, good!” Kud-lucy danced up and down. +“It’s the Christmas tree after all! And it’s +almost as bright as the sun!”</p> +<p>“But where are the little people who walk, +talk, and go to sleep?” asked No-wad-luk.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_226">[226]</div> +<p>“Oh, they—” said Kud-lucy with a superior +air, “they are walking. They are coming a +long, long way. They will be here tomorrow +night. You’ll see.”</p> +<p>Would they? Would the moon look down +and smile?</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_227">[227]</div> +<h2 id="c20"><span class="small">CHAPTER XX</span> +<br />BLACK WATERS AND GRAY DOGS</h2> +<p>When the airplane came roaring in from +nowhere to circle for a landing close +to the lost mine, Jodie and At-a-tak were away +bringing in the reindeer herd lest it stray too +far. Before Florence and her grandfather +could make their way up from the mine, the +plane had landed on the ice of the lake and +had taxied to a spot quite hidden from view.</p> +<p>“Who can they be?” Florence asked in sudden +alarm.</p> +<p>“Some smart fellows who’ve heard about +our lost mine. Come to help us dig gold, jump +our claim, perhaps,” was her grandfather’s +reply. “Little good it’ll do ’em. Three hours +more and we’ll have the place about cleaned +out. They’ll be welcome to the rest.</p> +<p>“Of course,” he added, “there may be other +pockets. They’re welcome to them, too. One +strike’s enough for us.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_228">[228]</div> +<p>“Just think, girl,” his voice grew mellow, +“thirty-five years in the North and now, success +at last. Ah, girl, it’s good.”</p> +<p>“Yes, grandfather, it is,” Florence was +scarcely listening. She was thinking, “Suppose +those men are looking for that reindeer +herd? What if they think we stole the deer?” +She was having a bad moment.</p> +<p>Just then four men appeared at the foot of +the ridge. “One white man, three natives,” +was Tom Kennedy’s instant announcement.</p> +<p>“That white man,” Florence was startled. +“There’s something familiar about him, the +way he walks. Grandfather!” her voice rose. +“He’s my pilot, Dave Breen, the man who +brought me to Nome!” She dashed madly +down the hill.</p> +<p>“Well! Well! Think of finding you here!” +Dave Breen exclaimed at sight of her. “And +you a reindeer rustler! Know what they do to +’em? Shoot ’em at sunrise,” he laughed a roaring +laugh. “But tell me, how come you’ve got +the herd of deer we’ve been looking for?”</p> +<p>“There’s mulligan, reindeer mulligan on the +stove,” said Florence. “And coffee’s steaming. +Come on up and I’ll feed you and tell you +our story, or at least part of it.”</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_229">[229]</div> +<p>“You’d better come clean,” laughed Dave. +“I’m sworn in as a deputy and I’ve been instructed +to arrest any persons in possession +of that herd.”</p> +<p>Over coffee and mulligan, with her grandfather’s +permission, Florence told the whole +story.</p> +<p>“So your work here’ll be done in a few +hours?” said Dave Breen. “Know what day +tomorrow is?”</p> +<p>“No, I—”</p> +<p>“So you forgot. Well, I’ll be jiggered!” Dave +exclaimed. “It’s the day before Christmas. +And do you know what?” he paused for proper +emphasis. “Know what? We’re going to leave +these Eskimos in charge of the reindeer; they +can bring them in O. K. We’ll leave them +At-a-tak to mend their boots and her gray +team to haul their supplies. They’ll be more +than all right.</p> +<p>“And as for you and Jodie and that grandfather +of yours, I’m going to pack you up in +my plane and fly you back to Nome for the +grandest Christmas you have ever known. +And you can’t say no!”</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_230">[230]</div> +<p>“Who would want to say no?” Florence was +fairly overcome with joy. But there’s many a +slip between a happy girl and a glorious +Christmas of a particular sort, as you shall see.</p> +<p class="tb">Some hours later, in another corner of this +Arctic world, the day before Christmas +dawned bright and clear. A blue and gray +plane rose gracefully up from a frozen river +to go sailing away toward the north. And little +Miss Santa Claus was still on board. Mr. +Il-ay-ok was still her traveling companion and +Speed Samson was at the controls.</p> +<p>Three hours they flew due north. Then they +came down upon a white floor of shore-ice to +rest and drink cups of steaming tea.</p> +<p>As Mary stepped from the plane she felt +her nose pucker. It seemed too that someone +with sharp tweezers had pinched her cheek.</p> +<p>“Cold! Boo!” she exclaimed.</p> +<p>“This is the North,” Speed laughed. “Just +over yonder is the Arctic Circle. Should be +able to see it in an hour or two.” He laughed +again, and Mary laughed with him. But that +they were at last quite far north they knew +all too well.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_231">[231]</div> +<p>Two hours later found them flying high over +a vast black expanse, Bering Sea. As the girl +looked down she shuddered. It seemed that +this sea must be bottomless, for not a touch +of light broke its deep, purple blackness.</p> +<p>Across this expanse, like fairy fleets, ice +floes drifted. Once she was sure she saw a +group of moving objects.</p> +<p>“Walrus!” Mr. Il-ay-ok shouted. “How you +like landing among them?”</p> +<p>“We would not land among them,” was her +answer. “Our plane can land on ice—not on +water. We won’t land unless—” her heart +skipped a beat.</p> +<p>A half hour later her heart stopped altogether +for a second, then went racing. Their +single motor was missing and they were still +over the dark sea.</p> +<p>“There—there it is again!” she breathed.</p> +<p>She studied the look on Speed’s face, then +shuddered anew.</p> +<p>A glance before her showed a white line. +Was it a shore line? And could they make it? +She dared not think further.</p> +<p>She settled back a moment later with relief. +“Motor’s working better.” But this relief was +not for long.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_232">[232]</div> +<p>Ten minutes passed. The white line grew +wider. At one end was a high spot, perhaps +a mountain. Then again that chilling sput-sput-sput +of a missing motor.</p> +<p>“We’ll make it!” she shouted bravely.</p> +<p>And in the end they did. Just as the motor +stopped dead, due to a clogged fuel pipe, they +found themselves over a blanket of white.</p> +<p>Circle low now. No chance for climbing. +Take the landing that offers.</p> +<p>They took it with many a shuddering bump. +Mary was thrown down upon a pile of Christmas +toys. A talking doll cried, “Ma-ma!” and +a croaking frog went “Herouk!” Then all was +still.</p> +<p>“Well,” she said, gathering herself up, +“we’re here!”</p> +<p>They were. But where were they?</p> +<p>“We’re lucky to be here at all,” was Speed’s +comment. “And we’re here for some time! +Require three days to smooth down these snow +ridges for a take-off.”</p> +<p>“Three—three days!” Mary cried in dismay. +“Why, then we—”</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_233">[233]</div> +<p>At that moment there arose a prodigious +noise. Dogs, dozens of them, were making the +air hideous with their barking. A moment +more, and their plane was surrounded by great +gray roaring beasts—Siberian wolfhounds, the +fiercest, strangest, bravest dogs in all dog-land.</p> +<p>“Could anything be more terrible!” Mary +wailed. “We must be nearly there, and now—”</p> +<p>“We can’t leave our plane, just now, that’s +certain,” said Speed. “But wait! Luck may +still be with us. Those dogs belong to someone. +They came from somewhere.”</p> +<p>“Came from the hole in that snow-bank,” +said Il-ay-ok. “House there!”</p> +<p>That “hole in a snow-bank” was indeed the +entrance to a small low cabin quite buried in +snow. Then from that hole came a huge man.</p> +<p>“A perfect giant of a man!” Mary was all +aquiver with excitement. “It’s like a fairy +story.”</p> +<p>The giant let out a great roar. The pack of +wolfhounds stopped their barking, dropped +their tails and one by one disappeared into +the hole in the snow-bank. Then the giant +approached the plane.</p> +<p>“Hello! Who are you?” said Speed, popping +his head out of the cabin door.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_234">[234]</div> +<p>“I’m Bill Sparks, a gold miner,” said the +stranger.</p> +<p>“Oh! Oh! Yes, of course!” exclaimed Mr. +Il-ay-ok. “Excuse, please. I do not know at +first where we are. Now I know. Yes. Yes. +Very good man, Mr. Bill Sparks.”</p> +<p>“What’s your business, stranger?” Bill +Sparks looked at Speed.</p> +<p>“Well, you see,” Speed explained. “This little +man—” he nodded at Mr. Il-ay-ok, “claimed +he needed to get back to Cape Prince of Wales +to save the Eskimos’ reindeer. So—”</p> +<p>“Sure, I’ve heard about that,” Bill Sparks +broke in. “Hope he wins.”</p> +<p>“Yes! Yes! We win!” Mr. Il-ay-ok waved +a paper excitedly. “Here is the paper. All my +people shall know. They shall be told, keep +reindeer O. K. Grand Christmas, mine.”</p> +<p>“There’s one more thing,” Speed managed +to break in. “Lot of Christmas presents and +little Miss Santa Claus here. I brought them +along.”</p> +<p>“Why?” Bill Sparks stared. “I been hearin’ +about them presents. Every Eskimo that +drives by has been askin’ me if I thought +they’d come.”</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_235">[235]</div> +<p>“They—they what?” Mary hopped out of +the plane in her excitement.</p> +<p>“It’s a fact,” Bill Sparks insisted. “You see, +Miss, this here’s Cape York. Cape Prince of +Wales is only fifteen miles away. With them +big dogs of mine, ’tain’t no drive at all!”</p> +<p>“Then you—” Mary began hopping up and +down. “You—”</p> +<p>“Of course I’ll take you all over, Miss, and +all them presents. Be glad to, Miss. Nothin’ +I won’t do for the Eskimos. One of ’em +brought me in when I’d went snow-blind once. +I’d have died if it hadn’t a’ been for him! +Wait—”</p> +<p>Putting two fingers to his lips, he blew a +shrill blast and, to Mary’s terror, out from +the dark hole piled the great gray pack of +hounds.</p> +<p>“No need fer fear,” Bill Sparks laughed, as +she started to climb back into the plane, “my +friends are their friends.”</p> +<p>And so it happened that, just after the short +day had faded and the Eskimos had gone to +their little log and sod homes,—with sleighbells +muffled—the happy flyers with Bill Sparks in +the lead, his sled piled high with Christmas +joy, stole round Cape Prince of Wales and +right up to the schoolhouse door.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_236">[236]</div> +<p>They managed to get there without being +seen by a single Eskimo child.</p> +<p>It was Margaret, child of the schoolmaster, +who opened the door in response to their +knock.</p> +<p>“Merry Christmas!” Mary cried as the light +came flooding out. “We’re here, and so’s +Christmas!”</p> +<p>At the first sound of her voice, Nellie and +Tom came racing from the big room where +they were still stringing colored popcorn. Then +such low exclamations of joy! Such a rush as +there was as they bundled all the packages +inside, then paused to hug their benefactors, +Mary, Speed, and even the startled Bill Sparks.</p> +<p>“How did you get here?” Nellie cried at last. +“All those presents! How could they?”</p> +<p>“Santa never fails,” laughed Speed at last. +“At least hardly ever, and surely he could not +fail in Eskimo-land.”</p> +<p>It was no time at all until Mary and the +three children were busy trimming a more +gorgeous tree than the children of Eskimo-land +had ever known.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_237">[237]</div> +<h2 id="c21"><span class="small">CHAPTER XXI</span> +<br />THE SECRET OF THE GREAT STUMP</h2> +<p>It was two hours before the beginning of +Christmas festivities, when the tree trimming +came to an end.</p> +<p>“Let’s take a walk,” Speed suggested to +Mary. “This is enchanted land. Think of it, +Christmas Eve in Eskimo-land.”</p> +<p>“Yes, let’s walk,” Mary agreed.</p> +<p>“Boo! Such a coldness!” she exclaimed as +they stepped outside.</p> +<p>“Snow fog’s drifted in too,” Speed surveyed +the landscape. “Two hundred foot ceiling and +growing less. Good thing we’re in.”</p> +<p>They had walked over the half mile of ice-covered +beach to the foot of the mountain +and had turned back when Speed, stopping +dead in his tracks, exclaimed:</p> +<p>“Listen!”</p> +<p>Mary, listening with all her ears, at last +caught a faint drumming sound.</p> +<p>“An airplane!” she looked at Speed.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_238">[238]</div> +<p>“Sure is! In such a place and such a time! +Mountain there. Sea over there! All I can +say is, I wish them a happy landing.”</p> +<p>For a full quarter hour, all unmindful of +the cold, of the dinner that awaited, and of +the glowing Christmas tree, they stood there +listening to the drone of the motor that now +rose in volume and now faded away.</p> +<p>“They’re lost,” was Speed’s decision. “Looking +for a landing.” Once, when the echo of +the motor’s roar was thrown back as from the +mountain, he gripped the girl’s arm hard. +What was he waiting for? A crash? It did not +come. Instead, the motor sounded out a mad +burst of speed, then began again that slow +droning.</p> +<p>“Well,” Speed shuddered, “they know +where the mountain is now.”</p> +<p>“Listen!” a moment later he gripped her +arm once more. “They—they’re going to try +for a landing. Who knows where? We’d +better—”</p> +<p>If he had any notion of flight, it was futile, +for at that instant, far down the line, not +twenty yards from the schoolhouse, a gray +mass emerged from the snow-fog.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_239">[239]</div> +<p>“Good boy! He’ll make it!” Speed exclaimed.</p> +<p>Calmly they awaited the coming of the +plane as it bumped, bumped again, then taxied +slowly forward.</p> +<p>“Mary! Look at that plane!” Speed became +greatly excited. “Did you ever see it before?”</p> +<p>Mary made no answer. Perhaps she was +too excited to hear. One thing was sure, her +heart gave a great leap when, as the plane +came to a standstill, a large girl dressed in a +fur parka jumped from the plane.</p> +<p>“Florence!” she cried. “What are you doing +here?”</p> +<p>“Mary!” Florence stood staring at her as +if she were a ghost.</p> +<p>“To tell the truth,” Dave Breen, the pilot, +who now climbed from his place, said, “we +don’t quite know why we’re here. We don’t +know where we are, but we’re mighty glad +we have arrived.” At this they all laughed.</p> +<p>The story of Florence and her party was +soon told. After completing their work at +the mine, they had packed their belongings, +including three moose-hide sacks of gold, in +the plane and had sailed away.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_240">[240]</div> +<p>“We got caught in a snow-fog,” Dave Breen +concluded. “We flew for hours looking for a +landing. At last, in desperation, we took a +chance and here we are. But tell me, where +are we?”</p> +<p>“Cape Prince of Wales, the very heart of +Eskimo-land,” was Mary’s happy reply. “And +this is Christmas Eve. What could be finer?”</p> +<p>At that moment Florence caught the sound +of many Eskimo voices. Then the chorus +ceased and she heard the familiar voice of +Mr. Il-ay-ok. He continued alone. He was +speaking slowly, earnestly. Florence saw a +sober look come over each face. In the end, +when Mr. Il-ay-ok had finished, they exclaimed +in a low chorus: “Ke-ke! (go ahead) +All right. All right. We bring ’em.”</p> +<p>“What was he saying?” Florence asked the +teacher, who arrived at that moment.</p> +<p>“Il-ay-ok is telling of his airplane ride and +how much it was going to cost,” he explained. +“They are really quite business-like, these +Eskimos. Il-ay-ok told them, since their +reindeer had been saved, they must contribute +one silver fox, three cross foxes or four white +foxes each.”</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_241">[241]</div> +<p>“And will they?” Florence was interested.</p> +<p>“Sure. Didn’t you hear them say, ‘All +right’?”</p> +<p>“But truly there is no need.” Florence was +struck with a sudden thought. “There is +money in the bank at Nome, enough I am sure. +It’s the part earned by Il-ay-ok’s team when I +won the dog race. Tell them about it, will +you?”</p> +<p>There was little need of telling them in Eskimo, +not a man of them but understood about +money, even when told in English. But, like +every other people, Eskimo love to be told in +their own language. So the teacher told them.</p> +<p>If Florence needed any reward for her honesty +and fair dealing, it came to her from the +change of looks and the sudden exclamations +of the natives as they heard the rare news.</p> +<p>“Mat-na! Ah-ne-ca!” they exulted. Then, +“Na-goo-va-ruk Along-meet!” (Good for the +white one) rose like a grandstand cheer.</p> +<p>“It’s all right,” Florence laughed. “I had +my share and a lot of fun besides. And Merry +Christmas to you all.”</p> +<p>“Il-a-can-a-muck! Il-a-can-a-muck!” (Thank +you! Thank you!) they shouted in a chorus.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_242">[242]</div> +<p>It goes without saying that the entire party +attended the Christmas tree festival and all +enjoyed it to the full. Surely nothing could +have been more delightful than the privilege +of watching the eyes of a hundred Eskimo +children as they saw the tree for the first +time.</p> +<p>“See!” Mary heard little No-wad-luk exclaim +to her small friend. “See! There are +all the little people who can walk and talk +and go to sleep.”</p> +<p>“Didn’t I tell you?” was Kud-lucy’s proud +reply. “They <i>did</i> come. They <i>did</i> walk all the +way miles and miles. And they <i>did</i> get here +just in time.”</p> +<p>Florence and Mary were scarcely expecting +presents. They got them all the same. +They were long, slim socks made of fur taken +from the legs of a spotted reindeer fawn and +they were filled with gold nuggets. On Florence’s +was a tag saying “From a long-lost +grandfather,” and on Mary’s “To little Miss +Santa Claus.” Never, I am sure, had there +been a merrier Christmas Eve than this.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_243">[243]</div> +<p>Christmas morning broke bright and clear. +After bidding their new-found friends good-bye +and listening to the Eskimos’ “A-lin-a-muck” +(Good-bye) and “Il-a-can-a-muck” +(We thank you) the happy party sailed away +for Nome, where they enjoyed a late evening +feast of roast venison, wild cranberry sauce, +plum pudding and all the trimmings.</p> +<p>Three days later Mary and Florence were +back in the rustic cabin on Rainbow Farm. +Florence had urged her grandfather to accompany +her to the valley. He had refused, +one airplane ride had been quite enough, and +then, when one has lived in the far north +thirty-five years—ah, well, perhaps next spring +he would come down on the boat and they +would buy a claim in her happy valley, who +could tell? So she had left him, happy in the +realization that his dream of a lifetime had at +last come true.</p> +<p>And now since they had used up their tickets +to adventure, a long winter in a peaceful valley +lay before them.</p> +<p>But there was still Madam Chicaski to wonder +about.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_244">[244]</div> +<p>On a wintry morning, three days after her +last happy landing, chancing to look out of +the kitchen window, Florence, to her unbounded +surprise, saw the powerful Madam +Chicaski wielding Bill’s pick in a most surprising +manner. What was more surprising +still, she was executing a vigorous attack upon +the great stump over which bright flowers had +cascaded all summer long.</p> +<p>“Stop! Stop! Don’t do that!” These words +were on her lips. She did not say them. Something +appeared to hold her back.</p> +<p>A moment more and she was glad they had +not been spoken, for after one powerful swing +of the pick, a dark spot had appeared beneath +the stump.</p> +<p>“A cavity!” she whispered breathlessly. “A +hollow place beneath the stump.”</p> +<p>Then, like a flash it came to her. This tree +had not grown there. The stump had been +hauled there, probably on a stone-boat, for +the purpose of concealing something. But +what did it conceal?</p> +<p>Fascinated, the girl continued to stare as +the woman picked untiringly at the base of the +great stump. When at last the Russian woman +seized a stout pole, and using it as a pry, +tipped the stump on its side to uncover a +broad, deep cavity, the girl’s curiosity got the +better of her and she ran into the yard to exclaim:</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_245">[245]</div> +<p>“Madam! Madam! What <i>are</i> you doing?”</p> +<p>“See!” On the woman’s face was a glorious +smile. “See! All my beautiful things! +All safe after these long years.”</p> +<p>Florence did see and her astonishment grew. +The great copper kettle was there and the +seven golden—well, perhaps they were only +gold plated—candlesticks, and many other +things as well. A curious old copper teakettle, +a set of beautiful blue dishes which, by instinct, +the girl knew were very old and valuable, +and many other things were there.</p> +<p>Slowly, carefully, they removed each piece. +Then, quite overcome with emotion, the aged +woman sat down upon the ground.</p> +<p>“This,” she said after a long silence, pointing +a thumb at the hole in the ground, “was +our cellar. The ground is always frozen there. +It keeps everything cool, everything. Ivan, +my husband, hauled down the stump to make +a place for my flowers. When we left we said, +‘We will hide everything in the cellar,’ it was +a secret cellar, no one knew. ‘Then we will +put on the stump. No one will guess.’”</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_246">[246]</div> +<p>“And no one ever did.” Florence laughed +gaily, happy for the other’s sake.</p> +<p>The final chapter to this little mystery was, +if anything, stranger, more happy than all the +rest. Both Mary and her mother had always +loved fine and truly rare china. Massive copper +pots and pans had always fascinated them +as well.</p> +<p>That night, as supper time approached, +Madam Chicaski insisted that candles should +be put in the golden candlesticks and that they +should be set, all flickering and alight, three +upon the mantel and four upon the table.</p> +<p>“Just as Ivan and I used to do,” she added +with a happy sigh.</p> +<p>Supper was to be cooked in her copper pots +and pans and served upon the beautiful blue +dishes that made Florence tremble every time +she touched one of them, lest she drop it.</p> +<p>It was a memorable meal. A little Indian +girl had, that very afternoon, brought in a +great salmon and had received for it a sack +of potatoes. The baked salmon rested on a +blue platter. It was surrounded by golden-brown +potatoes, sweet butter and tall heaps +of biscuits fresh from the oven.</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_247">[247]</div> +<p>When this repast was over, the Russian +woman sat for a long time staring at the +flickering candles and the marvelous blue +dishes.</p> +<p>“No,” she murmured at last, “they shall not +go. They have been here long. They shall remain +forever, all these beautiful things. You +all are good. You have been kind to an old +woman whom you did not know. I am not a +fairy godmother,” she laughed. “I am not +God. I am only an old woman, Madam Chicaski. +And this was my home. Yes, you shall +have all these. They belong here. Even dishes +and copper pots may be happy. They will be +happy with you.”</p> +<p>Mary heard her every word. Yet she could +not believe in their great good fortune. All +these beautiful dishes, those rare pieces of +copper, the seven golden candlesticks to remain +in their humble cabin? Impossible.</p> +<p>Then came another wave of emotion that +brought her to her feet.</p> +<p>“But, Madam!” she protested. “You will +need them!”</p> +<div class="pb" id="Page_248">[248]</div> +<p>“I need them?” Madam laughed again. “Did +I not tell you? But no. I have not told. We +are rich, Ivan and I. Ivan’s uncle died. He +left all to Ivan. That is why we went away +so fast. That is why we never came back.</p> +<p>“Tomorrow,” her tone changed, “I shall go +back to Ivan. He is not strong, Ivan. He +could not come. But I—” she sighed. “It was +necessary that I come to see once more. Now +I have come. I have seen. And I am, oh, so +very happy!” She heaved a great sigh of joy, +then moving to her place beside the fire, took +up, perhaps for the last time, her peaceful +dreams of those days that had passed, never +to return. Next day, after bidding them farewell, +she was to go trudging away toward the +railway station.</p> +<p>“Well,” Florence whispered to herself as +she crept beneath the covers in her loft-bed +that night, “life can be strange and beautiful. +It can be peaceful as well. Here in this happy +valley one might find peace. But do I want +peace? Mystery, adventure, the, long, long +trail.” At that she fell asleep.</p> +<p>Did she accept peace or did she again take +up the long, long trail? You will find the answer +to that in the book called <i>Third Warning</i>.</p> +<h2><span class="small">Transcriber’s Notes</span></h2> +<ul><li>Copyright notice provided as in the original printed text—this e-text is public domain in the country of publication.</li> +<li>Silently corrected palpable typos; left non-standard spellings and dialect unchanged.</li> +<li>In the text versions, italic text is delimited by _underscores_.</li></ul> + + + + + + + +<pre> + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of A Ticket to Adventure, by Roy J. Snell + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A TICKET TO ADVENTURE *** + +***** This file should be named 44353-h.htm or 44353-h.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/4/4/3/5/44353/ + +Produced by Stephen Hutcheson, Rod Crawford, Dave Morgan +and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at +http://www.pgdp.net + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. Special rules, +set forth in the General Terms of Use part of this license, apply to +copying and distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works to +protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm concept and trademark. 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