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.
“The mine,” his voice rose, “it’s still there. Bound to be! Joe and me, we hid it, hid it good and plenty.”
“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.
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.
“Good luck charm,” she murmured. “Wonder if it will bring good luck to us.”
Hours later, in a dreamy sort of way she was wondering this all over again. There was need at this moment for luck.
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.
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.
“I’m as good a man as you are, even if I am a girl,” was her laughing challenge.
“Chuckches,” 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!
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—
She started from this reverie, then listened sharply. Had there come an unaccustomed sound, like someone talking low in the distance?
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?
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.
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.
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.
Then of a sudden she saw it—a face. One instant it was there among the spruce boughs. The next it was gone.
“A native?” A prickly sensation raced up her spine. It was night. She was alone, was awake. Should she waken the others?
“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.
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.
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.
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.
“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.”
“And so,” Jodie laughed, “we have one fine reindeer herd on our hands. What shall we do with it?”
“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!’
“On to the gold mine!” he shouted.
“On to the mine! On! On to the mine!” came echoing back.
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.
“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.”
“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.”
“Grandfather,” the girl thought with increased admiration, “surely is a fine old man! If everyone was like him, what a world this would be!”
“We’ll get there all the same!” exclaimed Tom. “You watch and see.”
“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.”
The dog let out a joyous yelp and they were on their way.
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.
“A frozen lake,” said Jodie.
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:
“Yes, girl, that’s the lake. In fact, it’s the lake! And yonder—” his voice broke with emotion, “yonder is the cabin Joe and I put up so long ago.”
Sure enough, as the girl looked closely, she did see a small cabin, half buried in snow, nestling among the trees.
“The cabin!” she exclaimed. “The cabin! And now, where’s the mine?”
“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.
“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.”
“But the gold mine?” The words slipped unbidden from Florence’s lips.
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:
“We hid it. Hid it good.”
“But wh—where is it?” the girl stammered.
“The two middle planks we hewed out of a spruce log,” was the answer. “Lift ’em up and you’ll see.”
Florence and Jodie did lift the planks. They did see. Beneath the cabin floor was a dark cavity.
“Not very deep,” the old man laughed happily. “Not far down to the bed rock. Flash your light down there, son.”
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.
“Gold!” the old man murmured. “It’s gold, son. Gold!”
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?
“There’ll be trouble if they come back,” she thought. “Trouble. Troub—” At that she fell fast asleep.
CHAPTER XVIII
TO BE OR NOT TO BE
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.
“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.
“Speed Samson will take Mr. Il-ay-ok up there,” she whispered. “I could go too and take all those presents. I wonder—”
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.
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:
“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—”
“Yes! Yes! I know!” Mary broke in. “The presents didn’t come. Too late for the boat. They’re in Anchorage now.”
“Is that a fact?” Speed stared at her in surprise.
“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.
“Oh! Ah-ne-ca!” the little man smiled broadly. “Yes. Talking Eskimo.”
“What do they say?” Mary exclaimed.
“Can’t tell now. Bye-and-bye.” The Eskimo waved her away.
“Let him alone,” Mark scolded. “It may be important, a shipwreck, or—or something.”
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.
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.
Of a sudden Mr. Il-ay-ok dragged the head-set from his ears. “Gone!” he smiled broadly. “All over now.”
“Tell us!” Mary’s eyes shone. “What did they say?”
“Long story. Must tell all,” Mr. Il-ay-ok spoke slowly.
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:
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.
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.
“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.
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.
As the story ended, Mary jumped to her feet exclaiming:
“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.
“Why not?” said Speed.
“It’s a long, long way.”
“No way is long any more, with an airplane,” he replied quietly.
“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.”
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.
“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.
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.
“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.”
“And you shall fly,” said Speed Samson. “Here. Shake on it.” They shook hands in silence. Mary’s heart burned with hope.
“Miss Santa Claus in Eskimo land,” she whispered.
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.
“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.
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.
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.
“We’ll kill a fat reindeer and pay Bowman for it when we get back,” said Tom Kennedy.
“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?”
“We can try. Eskimo do.”
“We’re not Eskimo.”
“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.
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.”
“And—and will this be the end?” she asked.
“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.
“An airplane!” the girl’s voice was low and tense.
“They’ve found us,” the old man muttered.
“Who?”
“Who knows?” was his strange answer. “No good ever comes from spying.”
CHAPTER XIX
COASTING UP HILL
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.
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.
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.”
“That is true,” Speed had agreed. “However, I’ve never yet taken off for any destination and failed to arrive.”
“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?”
“What indeed?” the gray-haired postmaster had smiled. Finally he surrendered and gave his consent.
“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.
Yes, they must land. But how? Where? Suddenly, seeming close enough to be touched, a mountain loomed before them.
With a wild whirl that took her breath, the airplane swung about to go speeding along the side of that jagged ridge.
“It—it’s beautiful—and terrible!” she whispered as she sat up to stare out of the window.
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.
“The snow is falling faster. Where can we land? And if we can’t land?” Terror gripped the girl’s heart.
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.
Directly beneath them there appeared a broad stretch of white.
“A valley!” The girl heaved a sigh of relief.
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—
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.
But now she sighed with relief, for the plane was coming to a standstill. Slow—slow, slower, stop.
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!
“What—what is it?” cried Mr. Il-ay-ok.
“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.
“Dear God—”
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.
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.
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.
“Good!” said the Eskimo. “Now we eat.”
“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?”
“No Eskimo,” said Mr. Il-ay-ok, “Too far, this place.”
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.
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.
“Here we are, and here we stay.” Speed’s tone had a sad finality about it.
“But, Speed, can’t we pry it out?” Mary asked hopefully.
“Impossible,” the pilot shook his head. “Ten or twenty men might do it, but not you and I.”
“Then it shall be ten or twenty men!” Mary exclaimed. “Christmas bells must ring.”
“Wha—what do you mean?” the pilot stared at her.
“We saw smoke, didn’t we?” she turned to the Eskimo.
“Yes,” he nodded. “Three columns smoke.”
“Whites or Indians?”
“Who knows?” said Mary. “And who cares? We must find them. They must help us.” She was ready for the trail.
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.
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:
“How!”
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.
“How!” said Speed.
“Airplane come?” the Indian said.
“Yes, and we are in trouble. You must help us.”
“Where you go?”
“Eskimo-land.”
“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.”
“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.”
“Oh! Christmas?” The Indian’s face lighted.
“We have twenty pounds of candy for your children,” Mary encouraged.
“Oh, candy?” The Indian’s face grew radiant. “Indian like candy, like much. I bring help, bring everyone. Come quick!” He trotted away.
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.
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.
Supper over, they tucked their blankets about them.
“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.”
“Seven—seven hundred!” Mary exclaimed. “Can we make it?”
“If the sun and moon smile on us,” Speed replied cheerfully.
Little wonder that Mary whispered a prayer for clear skies before she fell asleep.
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?
“It’s grand!” exclaimed Margaret.
“Not half bad,” Tom agreed.
“But just think what it might have been!” Nellie struggled to hold back a tear.
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.
“Oh, good!” Kud-lucy danced up and down. “It’s the Christmas tree after all! And it’s almost as bright as the sun!”
“But where are the little people who walk, talk, and go to sleep?” asked No-wad-luk.
“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.”
Would they? Would the moon look down and smile?
CHAPTER XX
BLACK WATERS AND GRAY DOGS
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.
“Who can they be?” Florence asked in sudden alarm.
“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.
“Of course,” he added, “there may be other pockets. They’re welcome to them, too. One strike’s enough for us.
“Just think, girl,” his voice grew mellow, “thirty-five years in the North and now, success at last. Ah, girl, it’s good.”
“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.
Just then four men appeared at the foot of the ridge. “One white man, three natives,” was Tom Kennedy’s instant announcement.
“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.
“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?”
“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.”
“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.”
Over coffee and mulligan, with her grandfather’s permission, Florence told the whole story.
“So your work here’ll be done in a few hours?” said Dave Breen. “Know what day tomorrow is?”
“No, I—”
“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.
“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!”
“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.
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.
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.
As Mary stepped from the plane she felt her nose pucker. It seemed too that someone with sharp tweezers had pinched her cheek.
“Cold! Boo!” she exclaimed.
“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.
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.
Across this expanse, like fairy fleets, ice floes drifted. Once she was sure she saw a group of moving objects.
“Walrus!” Mr. Il-ay-ok shouted. “How you like landing among them?”
“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.
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.
“There—there it is again!” she breathed.
She studied the look on Speed’s face, then shuddered anew.
A glance before her showed a white line. Was it a shore line? And could they make it? She dared not think further.
She settled back a moment later with relief. “Motor’s working better.” But this relief was not for long.
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.
“We’ll make it!” she shouted bravely.
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.
Circle low now. No chance for climbing. Take the landing that offers.
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.
“Well,” she said, gathering herself up, “we’re here!”
They were. But where were they?
“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.”
“Three—three days!” Mary cried in dismay. “Why, then we—”
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.
“Could anything be more terrible!” Mary wailed. “We must be nearly there, and now—”
“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.”
“Came from the hole in that snow-bank,” said Il-ay-ok. “House there!”
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.
“A perfect giant of a man!” Mary was all aquiver with excitement. “It’s like a fairy story.”
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.
“Hello! Who are you?” said Speed, popping his head out of the cabin door.
“I’m Bill Sparks, a gold miner,” said the stranger.
“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.”
“What’s your business, stranger?” Bill Sparks looked at Speed.
“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—”
“Sure, I’ve heard about that,” Bill Sparks broke in. “Hope he wins.”
“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.”
“There’s one more thing,” Speed managed to break in. “Lot of Christmas presents and little Miss Santa Claus here. I brought them along.”
“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.”