“We’re rich,” laughed Joe. “Twenty thousand dollars worth of cut stones and fifty thousand worth of reindeer.”
“Rich for a day,” Curlie laughed back. “The stones we must turn in to the customs department and the reindeer herd must be restored to its rightful owners. I must get McGregor, the deputy, on the air at once and find out about that.”
Three weeks later the two boys were once more on the Valdez Glacier, just one day’s journey from the port where they might catch a boat for Seattle and the great “Outside.” Their adventures on the Yukon Trail were about at an end.
One question remained unsolved: Who was the Whisperer and where was she? It had been established as a fact that the outlaw was the leader of the band of smugglers. Since he had been deprived of his illegal gains by the loyal action of Munson, the explorer, in breaking up his band, he had planned a cruel revenge—that of destroying his supply station and leaving him with his faithful companions to starve.
Curlie’s prompt action had averted the catastrophe, but where was the driver of that powerful dog team that had left the supply cabin, and where now could she be?
Curlie was seated in the tent, nodding over his radiophone instruments and thinking of this problem and many other things. He remembered the gratitude of the Eskimo upon the return of the stolen reindeer herd, thought too of the frank praise of the explorer, Munson, when he had parted with him on the trail to Dawson. The jewels had gone with Munson to Dawson. So all matters were cleared up and Curlie was ready for some new undertaking.
In the corner of the tent Joe Marion was having a last romp with his “faithful four,” Ginger, Pete, Major and Bones. To-morrow he would return them to the owner from whom they had been hired in Valdez.
“Do you know,” he said, a suspicious huskiness creeping into his voice, “I once heard an old sourdough musher say that of all the things he had in the Arctic, he hated most to part with his dogs. I laughed at him then, but now I know it’s true.”
“Yes, sir,” answered Curlie. “It’s queer, but you—”
He broke off suddenly. His nose began wiggling like that of a rabbit eating clover. He was getting something from the air. That something was a whisper, the whisper of the Whisperer. It said:
“Hello - Curlie - are - you - there? You - didn’t - see - me - there - up - at - the - top - of - the - world - on the shore - of - the Arctic - did you? I thought - you - had - better - not.
“But - Curlie - they - want - you - on the - trail - that - leads - over - the - Great - American - Desert. Big - things - Curlie - I heard - them - calling - you. You may - see - me - there - for - that - is - my - home - and I - am - going - back.”
The whisper ended. Curlie sat staring into space, thinking: “Is the Whisperer a real person or only a ghostly spirit of the air?”
Almost as if in answer to the question came a call from the station at Valdez, a relayed message telling him to report for duty on the American Desert at once.
“Whew!” he breathed as he mopped his brow, “I may solve that mystery yet.”
How he struggled toward its solution and how he continued to be of service to his country and his fellow men by the aid of his radiophone and his wonderful ears, will be told in the next book, entitled: “The Desert Patrol.”
Transcriber’s Notes
- Copyright notice provided as in the original printed text—this e-text is public domain in the country of publication.
- Silently corrected palpable typos; left non-standard spellings and dialect unchanged.
- In the text versions, delimited italics text in _underscores_ (the HTML version reproduces the font form of the printed book.)