A discouraged, dishevelled human figure crossed a narrow woodland to the west of a chain of hills, thence made his way slowly down to a sun-baked valley or depression, many miles in extent. The valley was rough, broken, repellent to the eye. For the most part unverdant, it ran in a northeasterly direction—bleak, uninviting, monotonous—here and there rutted with long gray drifts of silt and sand.
No trail of any sort traversed that sinister, malevolent wild. Except for an occasional poplar or charred, broken stump of spruce or jack-pine, there were few landmarks to relieve the discouraging prospect. However, at one end of the valley, scintillating like a silver coin in the bright rays of the sun, the traveller discerned a small lake, fringed with green.
In the center of the narrow green strip, on one side of the lake, stood the cabin of a prospector. The traveller regarded it impassively for a moment before he went on.
Still hours high, the sun struck its bright rays across the land: a glare of white in the somnolent valley, a sheen of mirrored brilliance where it radiated over the placid, blue waters of the lake. A deep hush had fallen over the earth. Below the wide, azure arch of the sky feathered voyagers of the air coasted silently to unknown haunts, apparently the only living things in the dead gray world around them.
The figure hurried on. The sight of the cabin had acted as a slight spur to his jaded body. He pushed forward steadily until he had made his way over the narrow strip of green and up the path to the house. He knocked listlessly at the door, then stood silently, as might a criminal awaiting the heavy hand of the law.
A half-breed admitted him, white teeth shining in an expansive welcoming grin.
“Come in, Meester Davis. By Gar!—et ees good. You!”
An old man hobbled excitedly across the room, his long white beard flaring out in the sudden breeze from the doorway. His palsied, rheumatic hands crept up slowly to the younger man’s shoulders and remained there for a moment in silence.
“Davis,” he declared simply, “you are welcome back.”
A wan smile parted the other’s lips.
“I’m glad to see you again, Mr. Harbinson.”
The old man motioned to a rough, worn bench. “Sit down, man, sit down. You must be tired.” He turned to the half-breed. “Baptiste, hurry something to eat for Mr. Davis.”
While the preparations for the meal were proceeding, the old man talked steadily. Presently Davis, unable longer to postpone the ordeal, face red with humiliation, blurted out:
“Mr. Harbinson, I did not succeed in my mission. I have failed.”
“Failed!” exclaimed the old man.
“Yes,” Davis rose from his seat, voice quavering, “yes, I can see no hope for us. The doctor was gone. I got nothing. Nothing!”
Gloomily he paced back and forth across the rough floor of the sparsely furnished room. The eyes of the white prospector and the half-breed followed him curiously.
“I was afraid of that,” Harbinson declared presently, “I knew you had a chance of missing him. It is a terrible thing!”
Davis stopped short in the middle of his nervous pacing and raised one arm in a hopeless gesture.
“Even if I’d seen him, it might have done us no good. The entire north country is undermined with the thing, especially among the Indians. It’s working gradually south. The missions are filled to overflowing.” His voice lowered to a husky whisper. “It’s awful, Harbinson. Awful!”
The old man gazed dully at his partner through a long interval of silence. Davis spoke again:
“Since I left here two weeks ago, has there been any new development?” He looked searchingly at the other.
“Yes, it’s reached the village.”
“That’s only ten miles away,” Davis calculated roughly. “How did you find this out? Send Baptiste?”
“No. Pierre La Lond passed here two days ago and told us.”
“You didn’t let him in?”
Harbinson evaded the other’s eyes. Baptiste, advancing to the table with a steaming kettle swinging from one hand, stopped short and shot a questioning gaze at the two.
“Yes, I couldn’t stop him. We were busy at something. He opened the door and walked in. It was too late then.”
“That’s unfortunate,” Davis scowled. “He should have known better.”
“But what am I to do? Sooner or later, we’ll be exposed. We can’t always be isolated. Another thing, we’ll soon need more supplies. Our grubstake’s getting low.”
“There’s the post thirty miles south of here.”
“Closed up,” said Harbinson briefly. “La Lond told us that too. Won’t be able to get any supplies there.”
“We’ll live on a meat diet then,” Davis declared grimly.
“Scurvy!”
“That’s much better than the horror of this other thing.”
Harbinson did not reply. Stillness fell over the room again. Davis resumed his seat on the rough bench and sat with his head in his hands until Baptiste announced that the meal was ready. As he ate, the young prospector could hear Harbinson’s asthmatic breathing and the scraping of the half-breed’s moccasined feet across the floor.
Hungry though he had been, he had little taste for food. His mind was too much upset. The disappointing news he had brought back to his partner, he well knew had been a heavy blow indeed.
Later, the three men walked outside, seeking the warm sunshine that fell aslant across the land. The lake still shimmered under the bright glare. A few birds winged their way across the sky. Desolate at all times, the sleepy valley now held no trace of life anywhere. Off to the westward the hills and rocks formed a dun labyrinth, and from the crest of the nearest slope one looked down over heights and depths, broken ridges, crooked valleys—all pervaded, choked with an awful solitude.
“Well,” croaked the old prospector finally, “what’s to be done? We’ve not only ourselves to think about—but others. It’s late in the fall now. By spring there won’t be a single soul north of the Mackenzie.”
Davis studied the problem, as he had done almost continually since he had left Fort Garrison a week before.
“Only one thing we can do,” he answered quietly.
“What’s that?”
“Notify the police. It’s our only hope.”
“I hadn’t thought about that,” said Harbinson brightening. “You’d go to the Mackenzie River Barracks?”
“Yes, I’ll carry the news there. It will be much quicker than to wait for their regular patrol. I know Inspector Cameron. He’ll act promptly.”
“Hate to see you start out again, Davis, so soon.”
“It can’t be helped. I’ll leave in the morning. But this time, Harbinson, let me warn you. Keep everybody away. Do you hear? Nobody must come here. If necessary, enforce this rule at the point of a gun. But enforce it you must.”
The hands of the old prospector were shaking. He thrust them in his pockets to hide the fact from his partner. But he could not conceal from the other’s inquiring gaze the flush that flooded his cheeks, the unearthly sparkle of his eyes.
“You’re not feeling well,” accused the younger man.
“No! No! I’m all right. Don’t think that,” quavered Harbinson. “It’s not that.”
The young man, apparently, believed him.
“It’s the worry, I suppose. But forget it, Charley. We’ll beat this thing yet. Inspector Cameron will see the necessity of doing something at once. You can always rely on the mounted.”
For the remainder of the day nothing more was said on the subject. Baptiste and the younger man busied themselves about the place, while Harbinson retired to his bunk and slept for several hours. On the following morning, when Davis rose early, neither the old man nor the half-breed were astir. He prepared a hasty breakfast, deciding not to wake either one of them. In another hour he would be on the trail.
But Harbinson, it appeared, had not slept well. He had rolled and tossed in a high fever. He lay now in his bunk, his glassy eyes furtively watching his partner. When chance took Davis close to the bunk, he closed his eyes, feigning sleep. This simulation continued until the younger man had completed his preparations and had departed. An indescribable look flitted over the old prospector’s unutterably weary and fevered face. His lips trembled a phrase:
“Out in time, thank God!—good luck!”
Then he slid over to the side of his bunk, dressed with trembling haste and, hobbling over, began ransacking a crude pine box, containing articles of apparel. Finally, he found the object of his search: a red flannel shirt, which he tore apart.
He crossed the room with the garment under his arm, picked up a hammer by the door and stole outside. He reappeared less than two minutes later, staggering toward his bunk. His expression was pathetic. He made several futile efforts to remove his clothes. In the hollow of his cheeks, over his forehead, along each side of his neck a raging temperature had left its seal.
Twenty minutes later, when Baptiste rose noiselessly and went outside, he started back in amazement. Again his gaze went back, as if fascinated, to the flannel signal, fluttering just above the door. A groan escaped him.
“Mon Dieu! Mon Dieu!” he choked. “Et ees zee red flag of quarantine!”
The orderly approached Inspector Cameron’s desk and saluted.
“Man here, sir, from up-country. Calls himself Davis. Wants to see you, sir.”
“What about?” snapped the inspector.
“He didn’t say, sir, except that it was something important. Says he knows you.”
“Davis—Davis——” mused Cameron, chewing reflectively on his cigar. “Perhaps I do. Yes—young prospector from up near Garrison. Show him in.”
Inspector Cameron’s brow wrinkled when the man appeared. If he had ever seen this uncouth fellow before, he could not place him. Surely this was not the Davis he knew. Why this man looked old—a heavy black beard, hair unkempt, disreputable, dirty clothing. But the voice—hah!——Davis after all, the Davis he knew. He extended a hand.
“Heavens, man, how you deceived me. You look terrible. What’s happened? Nothing serious, I hope.”
The visitor dropped into a seat with a sigh of weariness.
“Couldn’t be much worse, inspector. I’ve trekked three hundred miles. Tired. Sleepy. About all in. You see——”
“Yes, Davis. What is it?”
“Smallpox!”
Cameron’s face blanched.
“You don’t say. How bad?”
“Terrible. My country’s rotten with it. Whole villages gone. Mostly among the Indians so far. But the whites are getting it too. Fort Garrison has closed its doors. I saw the red flag of quarantine waving from twenty different cabins on my way here.”
Cameron’s jaws clamped over his cigar and his steel eyes flecked.
“Why haven’t I heard about this before?” he demanded. “It’s only two months since we patroled that region.”
“There wasn’t a trace of it then,” Davis informed him. “You know how these things come. Suddenly. No explaining it. Two weeks after I heard about the first case, it had ravaged the whole countryside.”
“Have you been exposed yourself?”
“Not that I know of.”
The inspector leaned back in his chair, his arms folded, his gaze seeming to rest upon the papers in the letter-tray on his desk. He picked up his fountain pen and turned it thoughtfully in his hand.
“This thing couldn’t have come at a more inopportune time. Richardson is off on patrol and won’t be back for three weeks. Three days ago a murder was committed over at Run River, and Pearly has gone to investigate. Corporal Rand is confined to barracks here, suffering from an attack of pneumonia. I haven’t an available man right now.”
“But what’s to be done? How do you propose to combat this thing? Haven’t you a supply of medicine here at barracks?”
“If I had a room full of it, it wouldn’t help us in the least. There’s only one antidote. You inject it in the arm with a hypodermic needle.”
“Where can this stuff be obtained?”
“Big cities outside. The only places. Edmonton is the closest.”
“Hopeless!” gasped Davis. “Half the population of the North will be swept out of existence before you can get help from there.”
Cameron shook his head.
“Not quite as bad as that, I hope. We have the government telegraph and the radio. Within twenty-four hours Edmonton will send out a relief expedition. We’ll meet them.”
As he spoke, the inspector reached forward and touched the buzzer on his desk. The orderly appeared, saluted.
“Get me the swiftest Indian runner you can find. Send him here. I want you to hurry, constable.”
Then Cameron drew a sheet of paper towards him and began to write. When he had finished, Davis inquired:
“I suppose it will be necessary to wait until one of your men returns before you send out someone to meet that relief party?”
“No, not in this emergency. I’ve already decided. There are three young men living over at Fort Good Faith who will be glad to help me. One is a nephew of Factor MacClaren, another a young chap named Dick Kent, while the third boy is a young Indian scout called Toma. Two of them, Kent and Toma, we had planned to send to the mounted police training barracks at Regina last year, but the school was crowded and they have been compelled to remain here awaiting further word from the commissioner.”
“These boys are dependable, you say?”
“Absolutely.”
Davis eyed the other reflectively.
“I can go myself if you wish, inspector.”
“You’re in no condition,” Cameron replied promptly. “What you need is a rest. But don’t worry about this thing, Davis. We’ll be able to check it before many weeks.”
“Weeks!” Davis’ voice was sepulchral.
“Yes, weeks,” Cameron reiterated. “And we can be glad that it isn’t months.”
He turned to the papers lying on his desk with a gesture of dismissal.
“drop in at the barracks and they’ll fix you up. I’d like to thank you for bringing me this information, Mr. Davis.”
Soon after Davis had gone, the orderly entered the room, accompanied by a tall, sinewy young man, the Indian runner. The police official greeted the native with a curt nod, rose and pressed an envelope in his hand.
“Take this to Dick Kent at Fort Good Faith. He’s a young man about your own age. Hurry through as quickly as you can. It is very important. I will pay you well.”
The Indian smiled as he tucked the letter away in an inner pocket, grinned again for no apparent reason and stalked silently out of the room. The orderly still stood, waiting for his own dismissal. Cameron regarded his subordinate for a moment, then turned quickly and hurried over to his desk.
“Constable, we have much to do. Smallpox epidemic in the country north of us. Sweeping down this way. Very serious condition. We must move quickly. I’ll ask you to wait here while I write a message to be sent out by telegraph to Edmonton. Instruct Mr. Cooley, the operator, to repeat his message at least three times.”
The orderly saluted, but made no reply. Like a red-coated statue, he stood while Cameron wrote quickly. He received the message with another salute, turned on his heel, his spurs clattering as he strode to the door. The inspector breathed a sigh of relief.
“Well, that’s settled.”
His brow wrinkled with thought. Slowly he turned again to the work before him. He was busy when the door opened and the orderly reappeared. One look at the face of his subordinate told him that something was amiss.
“Yes, Whitehall, what’s the matter now?”
The orderly hesitated, clearing his throat.
“I’m sorry to report, sir, that we won’t be able to establish communication with Edmonton or outside points. The wires are down. Big forest fire raging to the south of us, sir. The operator says it will be days before the damage can be repaired.”
In his agitation, the inspector again rose to his feet. His eyes snapped.
“Tell Mr. O’Malley, our radio expert, I want to see him. Bring him here at once.”
Whitehall saluted and went out.
Sandy MacClaren put down the moccasin he had been attempting to patch and turned to his friend, Dick Kent, who had been listening attentively to Sandy’s absorbing narrative. The story dealt with the exciting experiences of one Clement McTavish, Scotch prospector and trapper, who had returned from the foothills a few days before. McTavish had relinquished his former trap-line, seceding his claims to a more ambitious enemy—a colony of murderous grizzlies.
Dick laughed. “You mean, Sandy, that those grizzlies drove him out?”
Sandy picked up the moccasin again and scowled at the results of his handiwork.
“Exactly. They drove him out. And he was glad to go, too. There wasn’t just one or two to contend with—but a whole regiment. The country was simply infested with ’em. McTavish is so badly frightened that you couldn’t get him to go back with a bodyguard.”
“I think I talk McTavish,” Toma began eagerly. “Where you say he find all these bad grizzlies?”
“Four miles east of Lake Florence.”
“I think I like to go there,” Toma made the assertion as calmly, as unconcernedly, as if he spoke of entering the next room.
“Me too,” said Dick, quite ungrammatically. “I’d like to investigate that story. My personal opinion is that McTavish was spoofing you.”
“Sure,” retorted Sandy. “What I thought myself. But there are a few things rather difficult to explain. McTavish brought back five grizzly pelts and his arm in a sling. Killed five of ’em! Think of that! But in a fight with one of them he got clawed up. Hurt pretty bad.”
“I’m going,” said Dick with quiet determination.
“I go too,” Toma echoed.
“Well, if you fellows are willing to risk it,” declared Sandy, not very enthusiastically, “you’d better include me in your party. Personally, I’m not very keen about going. I’ll have another talk with McTavish and——”
A knock sounded at the door.
“Come in!” Sandy shouted.
Factor MacClaren stood framed in the doorway.
“Thought I’d find you here. Dick,—someone to see you. A runner from Mackenzie River. It’s important. He’s waiting out in the trading room.”
Dick rose excitedly and streaked for the door. He pushed his way past the factor, hurried down the hallway and soon emerged in the spacious storeroom of the company. For a brief interval he paused, gaze darting through the crowd, then made his way unerringly to a tall young Indian, who stood waiting near the counter.
“I’m Dick Kent,” said that young man.
“By Gar, monsieur, I glad I find you here. Et ees veree important thees letter from Inspector Cameron. He told me to geeve et in your own hands.”
With trembling fingers Dick broke the seal. He read:
“Mr. Richard Kent,
“Fort Good Faith,
“Province of Alberta.
“Dear Richard:
“I am compelled to ask you and your two friends, Sandy MacClaren and John Toma, to undertake a very urgent and important journey on behalf of the people in this territory. I received this morning the news of a terrible smallpox epidemic, two hundred miles northwest of here—an epidemic which can only be checked through the media of outside help and assistance.
“You will proceed at once to Peace River Crossing and report there to Inspector Anderson, who will give you further instructions. I have notified Edmonton of our plight and have asked the authorities of that city to send out a relief expedition, which you are to meet and conduct back by the shortest route to Mackenzie River Barracks.
“I need not impress upon you the necessity of haste. Many lives hang in the balance. May good fortune attend you.
“Sincerely, “Jason C. Cameron, “Inspector R. N. W. M. P., “Mackenzie River Barracks.”
His face very sober, Dick thrust the letter in his pocket, thanked the messenger and hurried back through the hallway in time to meet Sandy and Toma, both of whom were laughing and scuffling as they came up.
“Hey! What is it?” Sandy piped out in a tone of voice intended to be jocular. “Invitation to a wedding or a message from the War Department? We’re dying to hear.”
Sandy checked himself, however, as he perceived Dick’s serious look.
“Why—what’s the matter?”
“Smallpox north of the Mackenzie. A terrible epidemic. Inspector Cameron has asked us to go south to meet a relief expedition, which is being sent up from Edmonton. We leave at once.”
“What! Right now?”
“Just as soon as we can get ready. You boys pack your things together while I see Mr. MacClaren and arrange for the supplies—our grubstake. We’ll take our ponies for the first stage of the journey.”
The boys separated hurriedly, each going to his own particular task, nimble fingers and hands making short work of their preparations. Within thirty minutes they had “packed” one of the company’s ponies and had their own saddled and bridled. It was exactly two o’clock by the factor’s watch when they bolted into their seats and waved an enthusiastic farewell. A short time later they cantered across the meadow and swung south on a well-beaten trail.
At Fort Bentley, three days later, they secured fresh mounts and another pack-horse. It was while they were resting for a few hours here that they received their first disappointing news.
“Big fire raging to the south of here,” stated Nesbitt, the factor. “The area affected is wide—hundreds of square miles, lying on the east side of the Peace. Unless you make a wide detour, you’ll never get through. It will be impossible to travel along the direct route to Peace River Crossing.”
The faces of the three messengers fell.
“Gosh!” exclaimed Sandy.
“My advice to you,” Factor Nesbitt hurried on, “is to proceed straight west to Fort Vermilion, thence travel along the west side of the river until you reach the Crossing.”
“Will there be any chance to get a boat at Vermilion?” Dick asked.
“I should think so. Company boats will be running up to Peace until the freeze-up.”
The boys decided to go that way. Both Dick and Sandy had visited Fort Vermilion on a previous occasion. They recalled with a great deal of pleasure their meeting with Sheridan Lawrence, the intrepid pioneer, who had achieved almost world-wide renown for his enterprise and foresight. There in the heart of a wilderness were hundreds of acres of cultivated fields, mills, an electric light plant, and the bustling activity of a progressive modern village.
Lawrence possessed launches and boats of his own and would be eager to help in a worthy cause. With this valuable assistance, the boys would be able to make the trip from Fort Vermilion to Peace River Crossing in a very short time.
“It’s our best plan,” approved Dick. “Do you suppose, Mr. Nesbitt, that the fire has worked very far north?”
“I couldn’t say. All I know is that it’s one of the worst we have had in years. A trapper who arrived here yesterday from that region reported that it had destroyed the government telegraph line and had completely wiped out Jess Haldane’s trading post on Little Brush Creek.”
“Little Brush Creek!” Sandy frowned at the information. “Why, that’s only about twenty miles south of the trail we propose to take now—the one to Fort Vermilion.”
“No,” said Dick, turning to his chum. “It’s farther than that. I’d call it a good fifty miles.”
“Well, have your own way. But what’s fifty miles to a fire like that? By the time we get there, it may be raging not only south but north of the trail as well. You can’t deny it.”
“It’s quite possible,” Dick agreed.
“True enough,” appended Nesbitt. “I’m a little afraid that no matter which way you go, south to Peace River Crossing or west to Fort Vermilion, you stand a good chance of meeting the fire.”
“Tell you what we can do,” proposed Sandy. “We’ll strike out for the Peace, not west, but northwest of here and follow it up to Fort Vermilion.”
Dick and Nesbitt both laughed.
“Take us hundreds of miles out of our way and through a country almost impassable,” Dick objected. “Not a single trail to guide us. No, it would be foolish to attempt it. Our best plan is to follow the Vermilion trail and then, if necessary, circle around the fire.”
With considerable misgiving, they started out. Three days from Fort Bentley they made their way into an enveloping cloud of smoke, so thick and dark that at times it was almost impossible to see the sun. It formed a huge blanket which wrapped the earth. Hourly, it grew denser; breathing more difficult. It soon became apparent that they would be unable to get through. Turning to their right, they entered a densely wooded area, groping and gasping for breath. At times it was almost as dark as night. The smoke which settled around them was of a greenish tinge. It crept up the coulees and hollows in twisting snake-like form, while above the treetops swirled a heavy black cloud.
That night the stars were hid, but off to the southeast the sky was an orange curtain of fire. Its lurid glow lit up the horizon, a ghastly and awesome sight, giving the impression that the earth itself was being devastated, devoured by the ruthless monster of flame.
On and on the boys hurried in an effort to pass safely around the terrible conflagration. Worry and apprehension shadowed the faces of the three as they paused for their evening meal. Little was said. Their eyes were smarting and their throats burned. In spite of their weariness, the ponies grew restless and frightened, pawing and stamping the ground, sometimes raising their heads and, with distended nostrils, neighing plaintively.
Again the boys pushed on. Dick took the lead, wondering how much longer he and his two companions could bear up under the strain. Fortunately the coming of night did not interfere materially with their progress. The forest was illuminated. The ghostly reflection of the fire was cast across their path.
Every hour was taking them closer and closer to the northern end of the great conflagration. Not far ahead they could see the flaming blood-red sheet. Its close proximity struck terror in their hearts. It was a race with death. Their only advantage was the help of the wind, from the northwest, whose chill, unabating blasts contrived to keep the oncoming fury somewhat in check. If the wind fell, their only hope of escape lay in a precipitous retreat to the north.
“We’ll make it,” said Sandy, moistening his parched lips, “if that northwester continues to hold. But it may die down before midnight. Sometimes I think that it doesn’t blow as hard as it did a few hours ago.”
“We must get through, Sandy,” Dick declared grimly. “If necessary, we’ll ride our horses until they drop. Think of the lives that hang in the balance.”
Shortly after midnight they approached so close to the fire that the stillness through which they had been travelling gave place to a rumbling, crackling roar. A withering, scorching heat came out to them. The ponies seemed to stagger under their burdens. Dick, who was in the lead, waved his arm encouragingly.
“A few more miles,” he called.
“No can make!” Toma’s voice suddenly rose above the deafening roar about them. “My pony him no walk any farther.”
Dick and Sandy dismounted quickly and went back to where the young guide’s horse stood quivering and panting. Toma loosened the cinches and drew off the saddle just as the exhausted beast sank to the ground. Each one of the boys knew what was about to happen—what ought to be done—but each waited for the others to move.
“You take ’em what supplies you can from packhorse,” Toma ordered.
“Yes,” said Dick, “the rest we’ll have to leave here. Throw your saddle on the pack-horse, Toma, and lead him up where the other ponies are. Wait there for me.”
Sandy turned a white face in the direction of his chum.
“Are you really going to do it, Dick?” he quavered.
“Hate to,” answered the other, attempting to conceal the tremor in his voice. “But hurry on, Sandy. I’ll join you in just a moment.”
Determinedly he turned, one hand trembling above his holster and walked over to where the doomed pony lay.
A few hours before daybreak they had successfully circled the fire and had reached a sparsely wooded height of land. So tired and worn out were the three messengers, that as soon as they had picketed out their ponies, they crawled into their blankets without troubling to prepare something to eat. Dick had almost fallen asleep when he was startled by a most peculiar sound—a sound so unusual and different from anything that he had ever heard since coming to the northern wilderness, that he sat bolt upright, wondering if his senses had not suddenly deserted him.
The metallic thub, thub, thub grew louder. He sat staring in the darkness, bewildered, a little frightened, and yet very curious to know its cause. More than anything else, it sounded like a high-powered motor boat, such as he had often seen and heard near his own home on the Great Lakes, back in the United States. Yet it was not a motor boat. They were still forty miles from the Peace River, and no body of water of any extent lay between them and the river.
Then, suddenly, he had it. An airplane! His mouth curved in a smile of wonder and admiration. An airplane! What was it doing here? With an unearthly howl, he bounded to his feet and was soon shaking Sandy and Toma.
“Wake up! Wake up!” he shouted. “Listen to that!”
Daubing one hand across his sleep-dimmed eyes, Sandy gave vent to an ejaculation:
“For the love of Pete! Where did that come from?”
Immediately he broke forth in a howl of glee, pointing a finger at Toma. In all his long acquaintance with the young Indian, Dick had never seen the guide display any great amount of fear; yet he was frightened now. He sat huddled in his blankets, frozen with a nameless panic. Here was something beyond his ken and experience—to him an inexplicable, supernatural thing: A noise from the heavens, some horrible monster swooping down upon them from the black vault of the sky.
“What you—you call ’em that?” he finally stammered.
“Airplane,” said Sandy.
“A boat that flies through the air,” Dick elucidated. “What do you suppose it’s doing here?”
The sound grew louder and presently the plane alighted less than two hundred yards away. The boys raced madly along through the darkness, finally coming out in an open space, where they could see a dark blur and hear the sound of voices.
Approaching, Dick hailed them:
“Hello there! Who is it?”
“Dominion Government cruising plane, C 94,” came the prompt answer. “Put out from Peace River Crossing to investigate this fire.”
Two men stood beside the plane and when the boys came up plied them with questions. Had they come through the fire? Were there many cabins destroyed in the country north of there? Where were the boys going?
Sandy and Dick gave them what information they could, in turn asking many questions of their own. Then Dick stated their errand:
“We’ve been sent out by Inspector Cameron to meet a relief party, which is bringing help to the people suffering from smallpox in the remote districts north of the Mackenzie. The situation is very serious. Hundreds have already died from the disease and probably hundreds more will before assistance can arrive.”
Horace Alderby, one of the aviators, spoke up quickly:
“Queer we didn’t hear anything about it when we left the Crossing. I should think that if Inspector Cameron had wired to Edmonton the people at Peace River——”
“But look here, Horace,” interrupted the other, “have you forgotten that the wires are down as a result of this fire?”
“Why, yes, Randall, so I have,” laughed Alderby. “The line is clear from Peace River Crossing to Edmonton, but north the service has been disrupted. It is quite likely,” turning to the boys, “that your Inspector Cameron has not been able to get in touch with Edmonton at all.”
“That’s too bad,” said Dick. “It makes it all the more important why we should hurry on and send in the news from Peace River Crossing. Our plan is to go over to Fort Vermilion and from there try to secure a ride up the Peace in a steam or motor boat.”
“That’s a good three days’ trip,” stated Alderby. “It’s fortunate we ran across you.”
“Why?” Sandy asked innocently.
“Because,” the aviator replied, “we can take you over there ourselves just as soon as we look over our motor.”
“Did motor trouble force you to land?” Dick inquired.
“Yes, but it’s nothing serious. We’ll have it ready in a jiffy.”
“Trouble is,” said Randall, “there’s room only for one of you.”
This statement immediately relieved Toma’s mind. He had begun to fear that he would be asked to sail through the sky in the bowels of that awesome monster—an invitation he had firmly decided to decline.
“That’s all right me, Dick. Mebbe you or Sandy go, but I like stay here with the ponies.”
“Dick will have to go, of course,” Sandy stated, experiencing a moment or two of regret as he looked at the plane and thought of the thrilling ride through the clouds. “As Toma just said, he and I can remain here with the ponies. We’ll make camp and wait for your return.”
“Good heavens, you can’t do that!” Dick expostulated. “You’ll be in danger here with the fire so close. You never can tell when the wind may change and blow it this way.”
“But we no stay here,” Toma enlightened him. “We go on to Fort Vermilion. You come back that way.”
It seemed a good arrangement and soon afterward Dick climbed aboard, crouching down in the limited space assigned to him. He felt a little nervous now that they were about to start. At the first crackling roar of the powerful motor, his heart leaped up in his throat. He called out something unintelligible to Sandy and Toma, grabbed for his hat as the plane commenced bounding along the uneven ground, then stole one frightened look over the side just as the earth commenced to drop away from him in a manner that was both sickening and disconcerting. Nearly ten minutes had passed before he had recovered sufficiently from the shock to realize that he had actually started out on his first journey through the air.
“How do you like it?” asked Randall.
“Do-o-n’t kn-n-ow yet,” he managed to articulate. “How long are we going to be up here?”
“Just a few hours,”—reassuringly.
Just a few hours! Saints and martyrs! Could he stand it that long? When minutes were terrible, what would hours be like? Instantly he dismissed what remained of a once overpowering ambition to become an aviator. It wasn’t exactly in his line anyway. He lacked the necessary physical qualifications. He hadn’t realized it before, not until now, but his stomach was weak. It felt as if there was a big hole there, through which a current of cold air passed every few seconds at a terrific rate of speed. It made him almost ill.
In an effort to keep his thoughts in more comfortable channels, he addressed himself to Randall:
“You said this was a government plane?”
“Yes,” came the ready answer, “one of five sent out to this north country to assist in the prevention and control of forest fires. The country will need all this valuable timber some day. Millions of dollars going up in smoke. Time we put a stop to it.”
Randall’s voice trailed off and became lost in the roar of the motor and the screeching of the wind. Dick tried to stretch his legs. He tried to sleep. He endeavored to accustom himself to the queer, unpleasant motion of the plane. He was unutterably glad when he heard Alderby trumpeting in Randall’s ear:
“Crossing lights!”
Dick steeled himself and looked down. Ahead and far below he perceived a faint effulgence—like glow-worms shining feebly across a vale of darkness.
Not long afterward they began to descend. Hills took shape. The wide ribbon of the Peace and the Hart, cascading down through the hills to join it. The shape of trees, the rugged contours of the land and, finally, straight below them, a level field, which seemed to come up, up, up to meet them, and upon which, a short time later, they landed in safety.
“Here!” exclaimed the jovial voice of Alderby.
In the chill, gray light of dawn, Dick followed Randall past the hangar and into the town. His heart was beating jubilantly.
His companion led the way through the streets of the little town, pausing at length in front of a small brick building, which served as an office for the government telegraph. The door was locked, but following a short rattling at the knob, they were admitted by a sleepy operator, who demanded to know their business.
In a few words, Randall explained the reason for their early call.
“We would like to know,” he continued, “if you have any information concerning a smallpox epidemic in the north, or of a relief party which has been sent out from Edmonton?”
“Yes, I know something about it.”
The operator invited them inside and switched on the lights. He in turn asked a question of Randall:
“Is this one of the young men Cameron instructed to come here to meet the relief party?”
Before Randall could answer, Dick produced the letter he had received from the Indian messenger and handed it over.
“That will serve as my introduction. Read it.”
“Fine!” exclaimed the operator, glancing over the missive. “Yes, Cameron got his message through. The relief expedition is already on its way.”
“But I thought the government line was out of order, had been destroyed by the fire north of here.”
“So it was. Inspector Cameron’s s.o.s. was broadcast by radio from Mackenzie River and someone in Edmonton picked it up. The message was repeated again early this morning. It’s common property now all over the province. Every available airplane in Edmonton and Calgary is being sent up. A few of the planes ought to arrive any time. Also a special passenger train is scheduled to arrive tonight.”
“Can the airplanes go as far north as the Mackenzie?” Dick asked.
Randall replied in the affirmative. “The only difficulty is to carry enough gasoline.”
“In that case,” said Dick, a little crestfallen, “our services will no longer be required.”
“Don’t worry. You’ll have plenty to do,” laughed the operator.
“Your troubles have only commenced,” smiled Randall. “I’ll take you back and pick up your friends at Fort Vermilion, then we’ll pilot the other planes through to the Mackenzie. You’ll be a regular air-hawk before long.”
He turned to the operator. “Thank you very much for your kindness. I think I’ll take Dick over to one of the hotels and then slip back to the flying field.”
“I can’t go to a hotel just yet,” Dick interposed. “I was told to report to Inspector Anderson at the police barracks here.”
Hardly were they in the street again, when the aviator clutched Dick’s shoulder with one hand, while with the other he pointed aloft. Through the still air there came to them the distant strum, strum, strum of a motor.
“Look!” he shouted. “The first plane from Edmonton!”
Convalescing after a serious illness, Corporal Rand found it expedient on this bright autumnal morning to rise, don his uniform and go for a stroll along the banks of the mighty Mackenzie River. He was still very weak and shaky as a result of his long confinement at barracks hospital, yet the crisp, still air was tonic in its effect and something of his old cheerfulness and buoyancy returned as he proceeded along the narrow footpath leading away from the post.
The corporal’s thoughts touched upon many subjects. Above all, was he glad to know that he would soon be able to return to duty. The tedium and monotony of what amounted almost to imprisonment would soon be at an end. Accustomed to a life of ceaseless activity, he yearned to be on the trail again. The old restlessness was in his blood. Before starting out he had paid a visit to Inspector Cameron. With a smile he recalled the interview with his chief and in retrospect, he saw himself again, standing at attention before the grizzled and stern director of police activities in that part of the North.
“Well, how are you feeling, corporal?”
The words had been snapped out at him in the usual brisk, nervous manner, the man’s steel-gray eyes carrying no hint of the real feeling behind them.
“I’m ready to report for duty, sir,” he made the statement carelessly.
“Humph! Duty! You’re pale as a ghost, man. Shaky! Wonder how you dare to come here with your deceptions. Back to the barracks with you and don’t let me see you again until you’re a well man.”
Rand smiled, saluted, and half-turned to leave the room when a thought came to him.
“No objections to my taking a stroll, sir? Think the fresh air will do me good.”
“Certainly,” said the inspector a little crisply, then turned to his work, only to raise his eyes again as Rand walked over in the direction of the door.
“Hold. Have you heard the latest news, corporal?”—more kindly.
Rand hesitated, one hand on the knob of the door.
“No, sir, I haven’t.”
“Good news. Wonderful news.” Cameron’s eyes were sparkling now. “Most astonishing too. The relief expedition left Peace River Crossing yesterday and will be here before night. Marvelous!”
Rand wondered if he had heard aright. There was a faint trace of incredulity in his voice as he answered:
“Marvelous, indeed, sir. Last year Sergeant Richardson made the trip in a little less than ten days. Who’s leading this expedition?”
“Dick Kent,” answered the other.
Corporal Rand was smiling broadly now.
“He must have sprouted a pair of wings, sir.”
“That’s it exactly. They’re coming by airplane.”
Rand recalled his astonishment at this unexpected bit of information. Amazement widened his eyes. He turned swiftly.
“Airplanes!”
“Yes. I don’t understand it myself. If they make it, it will be the first time in history. The petrol supply will be their chief trouble.”
“Great experience for Dick and Sandy,” mused the corporal.
“I wasn’t thinking about them. I was thinking about the hundreds of poor devils up north, whose lives will be spared if that flight should prove successful.”
“Certainly, sir, that’s true. A sort of race against death, isn’t it? By the way, inspector, how is the smallpox situation now?”
“Appalling! The reports I have received stagger me. The ratio of persons who die after incurring the disease is about four out of every six. The epidemic has spread out over a very wide area. It has already reached the Eskimo tribes on the eastern side of the barren lands. They’re dying like flies.”
“Do you think you’ll have sufficient medicine and men for the whole of the territory affected?”
“I doubt it. Nevertheless, we’ll do the best we can. If Kent and his two friends get through safely, I’m sending them up to the barrens with one physician and as much of the remedy as we can possibly spare.”
* * * * * * * *
Corporal Rand looked out across the valley. The opposite bank of the river flamed with the gold and bronze of autumn’s foliage. Though the season was getting late, the weather was glorious. Not a breath of wind. The sun shone from an unclouded, deep-azure sky. Large flocks of wild geese went honking overhead.
A little regretfully, Rand turned and retraced his steps. It would soon be time for the midday meal, and he was hungry. Tomorrow, he decided, he would see the inspector again and repeat his request. Perhaps he might be ordered out for duty. Perhaps he might be permitted to do his part in a worthy cause. In any event, once on the trail, he would soon forget his weakness, probably gain new strength, be more like his former self.
He spent the afternoon reading and loitering about, but just before sundown went outside in the hope that he might catch sight of the planes of the relief expedition. In this, however, he was disappointed, although he scanned the southern skies until long after twilight. He returned to the barracks troubled by a strange premonition. He tried to read, but threw down the book before he could become interested. He paced the rough floor of his room, puffing nervously at his pipe, his mind filled with a hundred vague alarms.
Reason, finally, came to his rescue. How foolish he was. The party would probably arrive during the night. His senseless worrying, no doubt, was caused by his recent illness and the nervous tension of being confined to the barracks. Shortly after midnight, when Constable Whitehall, the orderly, entered his room to wish him good-night, he had regained a great deal of his previous cheerfulness.
“Well, how are things?” he inquired of his visitor.
“All right, I guess, but the old man’s worrying about that expedition. Says it should have been here before this.”
“I’ve been worrying, too,” Rand admitted. “Do you suppose anything has gone wrong, Whitehall?”
The constable wagged his head.
“Couldn’t say. Personally, I think they’ll be in before morning.”
“Rather difficult to make a landing in the dark, wouldn’t it?”
“Don’t know about that.”
“I’m afraid it would,” the corporal answered his own question. “Beastly dark night. Like the inside of a pocket. You don’t suppose they’ve been driven off their course or have lost their way?”
“Pshaw!” exclaimed Whitehall. “You’re as fidgety as the chief himself. Everything will be all right, I’m sure. My advice to you is to hop into bed. This sort of thing isn’t good for you.”
For a long time after the two friends separated, Rand rolled and tossed in his bed, obsessed by that queer and unexplainable premonition. He fell into a sleep which was fitful and broken. Through his dreams ran a thread of horror. He woke repeatedly. Finally, he threw back the covers, rose and lit the oil lamp which stood on a table near the head of his bed, and once more essayed to read. Impatiently, he threw the book from him, darted to his feet and commenced pacing back and forth, now and again pausing to pull aside the curtain and look out.
Daylight found him shaved, fully dressed, waiting for the stir of life about the barracks. The rattle of a granite plate in the kitchen at the back came as a signal for his release from the trying ordeal of the night. He pulled on his short fur coat and walked outside, wandering listlessly away in the direction of the stables and dog compound. To his surprise, he perceived that another person was already abroad. Approaching closer, his astonishment increased. Inspector Cameron!—a somewhat ludicrous figure that morning: Head bent, jaws clamped over a cigar, arms behind his back. He shambled to within a few feet of Rand before he looked up.
“Well?”
“Yes, sir.”
“What are you doing here?”—fiercely.
“I couldn’t sleep, sir.”
“Neither could I. Rotten luck! What do you suppose became of them?”
“You mean the planes, sir?”
“Certainly.”
“They—they ought to be in this morning,” Rand stammered.
“They should have been in last night.”
For a time they lapsed into silence, each regarding the other intently. Finally the corporal plucked up enough courage to make his request:
“If you’ve no objections, inspector, I’d like to return to duty.”
Cameron glared at him.
“I’m really all right,” Rand hastened to inform him.
“I told you——” began the inspector, throwing away his cigar and staring fiercely at his subordinate. “I told you——”
“Yes; yes, I know,” said Rand softly. “But it’s this way, sir. There is much that I can do to help out at this critical time. A few days in the open air and I’ll be perfectly well again.”
“I’ll think about it. Lord knows we need you. I may possibly be compelled to go out myself. Report to me this afternoon at two o’clock.”
They separated, each going his own way. After breakfast, Rand secured his gun and went out in the vicinity of the post to hunt geese. When he returned, it was well past the lunch hour and when he had eaten it was almost time for his interview with Cameron.
When he had arrived there, the inspector’s office was a scene of unusual activity. Four stalwart half-breeds stood in front of Cameron’s desk, and the orderly directly behind them. The room was sticky and hot. Cameron’s hair was rumpled and he was issuing orders in crisp, choppy tones.
“You have your instructions,” Rand heard him state. “Now take your ponies and go out and see what you can do. Search the country carefully and make inquiries wherever you can. I’ll expect you back in two days.”
The natives went out of the room, followed by the orderly, then Rand, seeing his chance, walked up in front of the inspector’s desk. Cameron did not even look up as he made a notation on a pad in front of him.
“All right, corporal, I have a job for you. Proceed at once to Keechewan with your horse and full equipment. Know where that is, don’t you?”
“Yes, sir,” the corporal saluted. “Just south of the barren lands. What’s the trouble up there?”
“I’m coming to that. Natives causing no end of trouble at the Keechewan mission. It’s an outgrowth of this smallpox trouble. The Indians seem to think that the plague has been sent among them by the gods of the white man. The missionaries have warded off two attacks by the infuriated inhabitants of the Indian village, just south of Keechewan. Your duty, corporal, will be to straighten this thing up. Endeavor to instil a friendly feeling among the Indians. If any lives have been taken, bring in the murderers.”
If Corporal Rand manifested any sign of the fear that was in his heart, it was not noticeable to his chief. He merely saluted and inquired:
“Any further instructions, sir?”
Cameron rose to his feet, strode around his desk, and, to the corporal’s surprise, placed a trembling hand upon his arm.
“You don’t know how I hate to do this, Rand. I don’t want to send you up there without first having you inoculated. You may be going to your death—I’ll be perfectly frank with you. I wish there was some other way. I’ve thought long and carefully over this matter and I’ve come to the conclusion that unless we send help to the mission at once, it may be too late. All of them may be murdered.”
“It’s all right, sir. I’ll go.”
Cameron seized the other’s hand and held it during an interval of oppressive silence. There was no thought now of the inequality of rank. Man to man, brothers in a common cause—each understood and appreciated the other’s attitude and feelings.
“Thank you, sir,” said Rand, “for letting me go, permitting me to do this thing.”
He walked out of the post with a queer smile on his lips. He hurried away in the direction of the stables, his heart beating exultantly. His hand still tingled from Cameron’s steel-like yet affectionate clasp. Dazedly, he groomed and saddled his horse and was in the very act of leading it outside, when Whitehall appeared at the stable door.
“drop everything at once and come back to the office. Cameron wants to see you.”
Rand threw the reins over his horse’s head, and followed the orderly back to barracks. Again he stood in front of his chief.
“You wish to see me?”
“Rand, I’ve changed my mind. I’ve decided not to send you after all.”
Rand gulped.
“Don’t change your mind on my account. I’m willing to go.”
“Tut! Tut! I’m in command here. You’ll do as I say. I want you to take charge during my absence. I’ve already written a few instructions for you.”
“Will you be away long, sir?” Rand asked tremblingly, a vague suspicion in his mind.
“Several weeks, I expect. I’m going to Keechewan in your place.”
“In my place!” A sudden blinding weakness overcame the corporal. “In—in my place!” he stammered.
For a period of at least five minutes the room was as quiet as death. Then, suddenly, Rand’s voice rang out clearly:
“Inspector Cameron, you’re a man! But I am too. My horse is saddled and waiting for me. I hate to disobey you, sir, but I’m leaving at once. When I return from the Barrens—if I ever do—I’ll report here and you can place me under arrest. Good-bye, sir!”
He saluted briskly and turned away. Inspector Cameron was still gaping when the door closed softly after the retreating figure.
A wonderful huntsman was Kantisepa, the very greatest among his people. In his aimless journeying he had passed over a large part of the vast, immutable north, proceeding far from known haunts into lands which seldom had heard the footfalls of the hunter. He had viewed wild scenes, the glory and grandeur of which few other eyes had seen. Unnamed rivers and lakes, lofty mountains, interminable swamps, places so barren and devoid of all vegetation, so breathless, weird and forlorn that life passed on in horror, fearful of the madness that lurked there—all these he had looked upon during his ceaseless pilgrimages.
He had hunted moose and caribou and the ferocious black bears of the mountains. Once he had fought off a wolf with no better weapon than a club. His long association with the wild and its denizens had bred in him a certain uncanny wisdom. Insects and beasts and birds—he knew them all with the unerring certainty of a trained naturalist. Yet now, standing in the bright glare of the sun, gaze focused on certain huge dark specks in the distant horizon, it was evident from his expression that at last he had seen something he could not classify.
Two birds of mammoth, gigantic size were flying straight towards him. Larger than a moose or bear, of greater size even than the largest tepee, they sailed through the air, drumming as they went. Their speed and size and the horrible noise they made so frightened poor Kantisepa, that he crouched low in a thicket, resolving under no circumstances to show himself to the invaders.
Two of the huge birds flew close together—evidently for companionship. The third one, probably much younger—for it was smaller—brought up the rear, at a considerable distance behind its mates. As this bird drew close to the clearing, an incredible thing happened. It fluttered suddenly and began to fall. It came down, spinning, righted itself, coasted along for quite a distance, as if planning to alight, then lost control of its equilibrium entirely and crashed to the ground with such a sickening thud that Kantisepa was quite sure that it was destroyed utterly.
The two other birds were almost out of sight when the catastrophe occurred. These, Kantisepa considered, must be the parent birds, and in their eagerness to reach their destination, had probably forgotten their offspring, which was probably just learning to fly. At any rate, though the Indian stood a long time waiting, the others did not return and, finally, overcome by the natural curiosity of his race, he set out in the direction of the luckless victim.
When he had approached to within a few hundred yards of his objective, he was startled almost out of his senses. Crawling out of the mass of broken wings and fragments of the bird’s body, came a curious animal, which in many respects resembled a man. A very marked difference between the creature and a man was the enormous size of the creature’s eyes—three or four times larger than the eyes of his own people—composed of some peculiar substance which glinted and sparkled under the bright reflection of the sun. Then Kantisepa noted another peculiarity: Although possessing legs almost identical to his own, this strange being did not stand upon them in the ordinary manner, but chose instead to walk on both arms and legs, as a bear sometimes walks. Of a very ready and open mind, Kantisepa could explain the creature’s presence in only one way: a parasite of some kind, possessing the same relationship to the bird as a flea would to a dog.
Coming still closer, he was forced to readjust his first impressions. He knew wood and iron when he saw it. He gasped in wonderment. No bird at all! Instead a magic ship, a marvelous creation, invested with the strange power of sailing through the air. It, together with the two others, had come from some remote land beyond the stars. Trembling in every limb, he approached the strange being, who had crawled away from the wreckage of the ship. The creature was grievously hurt. Blood trickled on the ground beneath him. He had abandoned his efforts to crawl away and now lay perfectly still, his shoulders heaving in distress and pain.
Not without pity, Kantisepa shuddered at the sorry sight. With a slight grimace, he turned and walked over to examine the magic ship. Peering down within the center of the wreckage, he saw the form of another creature, identical to the first except that this one was hopelessly crushed and apparently quite dead. He withdrew his gaze quickly and turned back again to the first being, who still retained some signs of life.
Kantisepa quickly decided upon a course of action. He walked forward, stooped down and picked up the man from beyond the stars and started off in the direction of the village. He would take him to the chief medicine man, who, if he could not actually save the creature’s life, could at least place him on exhibition for the benefit of his curious kinsmen.
The village was a good six miles away, but the stalwart Indian on previous occasions had carried heavier burdens. He would proceed half way to his destination that night and the remainder on the following morning. He was forced to move slowly and to rest often. The hours passed. Finally the sun slid down to a far corner of the world until only a dazzling sector of light remained. Kantisepa made camp just as night dropped its curtain of dusk over the earth. Near at hand, he could hear the murmur of a tiny stream, above which a mist arose, spreading out gradually like a gray protecting shroud above the natural willow hedges fringing the stream. Presently, the dew wet the grass. With a mournful, unearthly cry, a night bird swooped down to the place where Kantisepa stood, rising again on whirring wings to the dark vault of the sky.
“It is an ill omen,” he thought, a sudden fear gripping his heart.
And so through the brooding, interminable hours he had remained awake. First he had bathed and dressed the wounds of the strange being, then, wrapping him in his own blanket to shut out the damp cool air, he had kept silent vigil. Time crept on, its movements so slow and wearied that it seemed to him that day would never come. The tense silence oppressed him. It throbbed in his ears until the reaction of any slight sound smote sharply upon him.
Morning came at last, heralded by flaming colors in the east, preceded by a fitful breeze that stirred the dry grass uneasily at his feet. Kantisepa was very tired. His body was stiff and sore. When he picked up the strange being again to resume his journey, his legs trembled, scarcely supporting him.
Late that morning he stumbled into the Indian encampment. Like many brown inverted cones were the dwellings that stood row on row within a narrow, peaceful valley. Through the center of the village trickled a brook, which was fed from numerous small springs bubbling up between broken rocks.
The place slept in a glare of brilliant sunlight. Dogs lay curled up in the shade of the tepees. Children played listlessly in the dead grass or waded knee-deep in the riffles of the brook. Here and there Kantisepa discerned the squat indolent forms of women and, farther on, standing at the extreme end of a willow copse, a single solitary hunter.
Suddenly the village came out of its picturesque somnolence. A dog barked unexpectedly near at hand. Magically, the plain became dotted with a scurrying throng. Men, women and children tumbled forth from drab tepees. Sharp cries arose. Led by the most nimble of foot, the entire populace raced forward to meet the returning hunter. Soon he was completely surrounded. Inquisitive eyes peered down at the strange being. Kantisepa was forced to put down his burden and immediately a babble of voices arose, continuing until a tall, gaudily-apparelled warrior pushed his way through to the spot and waved one arm peremptorily.
“Who is this you have brought among us?” he demanded.
“A strange god from the skies,” Kantisepa answered proudly. “He came on a ship which sailed through the clouds, but which met with disaster.”
“Are you sure he will not bring a curse upon us?” inquired the old warrior.
Kantisepa wiped the perspiration from his face.
“He is without friends and without people,” he asserted. “A number of his comrades in other magic ships of the air saw him fall but did not come to his rescue.”
The chief stooped down and examined the partially conscious figure.
“He is a young man—a mere stripling youth. Did he travel alone?”
Kantisepa shook his head.
“No, there was one other with him, who now is dead.”
With a wave of his arm, the chief dismissed the jostling crowd and turned again to the hunter.
“You have done well,” he complimented him. “Raise him up and bring him to my tepee.”
Morning had passed. South the sun swept through blue unclouded skies. Together Kantisepa and the chief went forward through a lane of curious natives.
“This being is hurt and cannot return to his people,” said Kantisepa. “His wonder ship of the air became demolished when it fell from the clouds.”
They entered the tepee where Kantisepa deposited his burden gently on a soft rabbit-robe, then rose with a weary gesture and turned again to the headman of his tribe.
“It is a strange story,” he declared. “Yet it is true. If you will summon the chief men of the village, this afternoon I will lead you and them to the magic ship.”