Part 18 (2/2)
O'Brien finished, and Waseche turned to Connie:
”What do yo' say, son?” he asked. ”Shall we try it? It ain't a goin' to be no snap, out theah on the white bench with the snow an' th' roahin'
wind. It's a funny thing--this heah takin' a long chanst jes' to keep a gang of Injuns from hahmin' us so we won't hahm them.”
”They divoided their grub,” repeated O'Brien, with an appealing glance at the boy.
”And, for _that_, we'll take a chance!” answered Connie. ”We're game.”
Breakfast over, the following morning, the three busied themselves in cutting firewood and carrying it into the tunnel. Indians appeared here and there among the rim-rocks and, after watching for a time, departed in the direction of the village. By noon, the weather had thickened perceptibly. A thin grey haze filled the atmosphere through which the weak rays of the Arctic sun filtered feebly. There was no wind, and the air lost its invigorating crispness and clung heavily about them like a wet garment. No more Indians appeared upon the edges of the cliffs and Waseche Bill ventured upon a scouting expedition up the narrow ravine, while Connie and O'Brien remained behind to pack the sleds and carry an occasional armful of firewood for the benefit of any lingering observer.
The boy insisted upon loading Carlson's sled, carefully fitting the collars to the necks of his own three dogs, which had been hardly a half-dozen times in the harness since their memorable dash through the hills when Connie beat out the Ten Bow stampede.
Waseche returned reporting a clear trail, and all fell to harnessing the dogs.
”Whateveh yo' doin' with _that_ sled?” asked Waseche, in surprise.
”I'm going to take it along,” answered Connie. ”You can't ever tell what will happen, and old Boris and Mutt and Slasher may as well be working as running loose.”
Waseche grinned:
”Go ahead if yo' want to. Them ol' dawgs mout get somewhehs with it, an' if they don't, yo' c'n cut yo' trace-lines an' tu'n 'em loose.”
”_Is that so!_” flared the boy. ”If there's any cutting loose to be done, you can do it yourself! _This_ sled goes to Ten Bow! And, what's more, there isn't a lead dog in the world that can touch old Boris--and you know it! And if big Mutt couldn't out-pull any two of your dogs, he'd be ashamed to waggle his tail! And Slasher could lick your whole team--and Mac's, too! And I wouldn't trade a flea off any one of my dogs for your whole string of mangy _malamutes_--_so there!_”
Waseche chuckled with delight as he winked at O'Brien:
”If yo' eveh want to staht somethin' right quick,” he laughed, ”jest yo'
go ahead an' belittle th' kid's dawgs.” And then he dodged swiftly as one of the boy's heavy mittens sailed past his head and slapped smartly against the wall.
O'Brien's two cans of gold were removed from the ”safe” and placed, together with the sleeping-bags, robes and blankets, upon Connie's sled. The stone was adroitly wedged into place and arranged so naturally that no marauding visitor could possibly have guessed that the innocent-appearing rock concealed a treasure of upwards of one hundred thousand dollars' worth of pure gold. The caribou venison and fish, together with what remained of the outfit, had already been securely lashed to the larger sleds and, with a last look of farewell, the little cavalcade moved from the tunnel-mouth and headed for the ravine.
All trace of the sun was obliterated, and for the first time since the big blizzard, the Arctic sky was overcast with clouds.
Waseche Bill took the lead with McDougall's big ten-team, Connie followed with his own three dogs, while O'Brien, with Waseche's team, brought up the rear. The sleds slipped smoothly over the dry frost spicules, and the eyes of the three adventurers eagerly sought the edges of the high cliffs for signs of the White Indians. But no living, moving thing was visible, and, save for the occasional creak of runners, the white, frozen world was a world of silence.
A half-hour later the _malamutes_ headed up the ravine and humped to the pull of the long ascent. Rapidly, the weather thickened, and when, at last, they gained the bench, it was to gaze out upon an eerie, flat, white world of fore-shortened horizon. The sleds were halted while the three took their bearings. O'Brien pointed unhesitatingly toward the opaque west, and Waseche swung McDougall's leaders.
”Mush yo'! Mush yo'!” he yelled. ”Hooray fo' Alaska!”
”An' Flor-ridy, too!” yelled O'Brien, and then a puff of wind--chill wind, that felt strangely clammy and damp in the intense cold, came out of the North. The long, serpentine bank of frozen fog that marked the course of the Ignatook, shuddered and writhed and eddied, while ragged patches of frozen rack detached themselves and flew swiftly southward.
The air was filled with a dull roar, and a scattering of steel-like pellets hissed earthward. A loud cry pierced the roar of the approaching storm, and before them stood a solitary White Indian, immovable as a statue, with one arm pointing into the North. For a long moment he stood and then, in a whirl of flying spume, disappeared in the direction of the village.
”Come on, boys!” cried Connie, and his voice sounded far and thin. ”Dig in! 'Cause we're right now _fighting the North_!”
CHAPTER XVII
THE SNOW TRAIL
The situation faced by Connie Morgan, Waseche Bill, and O'Brien when they headed westward across the snow-ridden bench of the Lillimuit, was anything but encouraging. Before them, they knew, lay Alaska. But how many unmapped miles, and what barriers of frozen desert and insurmountable mountains interposed, they did not know; nor did they know the location of the Kandik, the river by which Carlson had returned to the land of men. For Carlson's trail map lay hidden in the pocket of O'Brien's discarded trousers in an _igloo_ in the village of the White Indians, and upon their own worth must the three win--or die.
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