“This is really going to be a photo finish,” one of the brothers said. He got to his feet and knocked the ash out of his pipe into the fireplace. “We better sack in, men. There’s going to be a mad scramble to get away first in the morning.”
Sandy and Jerry followed them to the big dormitory bedroom, where a dozen army cots were set up around a potbellied stove that glowed a dull cherry-red in the darkness. Charley was already snoring loudly as they slipped into their bedrolls.
“Now how are we supposed to get to sleep with that big lug sawing wood?” Jerry grumbled. “We may as well sit and ... and ... talk ... around ... the ... fire....” His voice trailed off into a pretty good imitation of a buzz saw of its own.
It seemed to Sandy that he had just closed his eyes when he felt rough hands on his shoulders, shaking him. “Time to go,” Charley’s voice whispered.
“What time is it?” he mumbled, raising himself on his elbows.
“Four o’clock,” Charley said. “Other fellers hitching up already.”
Sandy struggled out of his sleeping bag and sat on the edge of the cot, stretching. It was still dark, but when Charley opened the stove door to throw on another log, he could see that the cots that the two brothers had slept on were empty. Yawning, he raised his left foot and kicked the cot where Jerry was still sleeping soundly.
“Rise and shine!” he called to his friend.
They ate a hurried breakfast of hot cereal and scalding coffee, and by four-thirty they were on the trail again. The cold wind in their faces and the stinging spray kicked up by the dogs’ feet brought them fully awake before they had gone far.
When it began to get light, the boys got out of the sled and trotted along with Charley. They kept it up for a mile or so before Jerry developed a bad case of rubber legs and went down on his knees.
“I feel like a dope,” he said, as Sandy helped him back into the sled. “Here we are, a couple of kids, puffing like steam engines, and an old guy like Charley isn’t breathing any harder than if he had run up a flight of stairs.”
“And we’re in pretty good condition from being in school athletics. Can you imagine how some of the other guys in school would make out?” Sandy asked. “The guys who hop in the family car to go down to the corner newsstand and sneak smokes between every class?”
“Yeah,” Jerry agreed ruefully. “The kids in the States are getting soft, there’s no doubt about it.”
“My Uncle Russ always says you should take at least as much pride in your body as you do in your home. Most people wouldn’t live in sloppy, rundown houses, but a lot of them don’t care if they spend their lives in sloppy, rundown bodies.”
Jerry slapped his middle irritably. “Let me tell you, I’m going to work on this flab when I get home. Old Charley here has taught me a lesson. You miss a lot of the fun of life if you’re out of shape.”
Sandy kept up with Charley for another mile, then he got back into the sled. He noticed that the Indian held to a pattern: he would run along for a half hour or so and then hitch a ride on the sled for ten minutes. It seemed as if he could go on like that endlessly and tirelessly.
They stopped at mid-morning to give the dogs a rest and brew some strong Indian tea. Charley wouldn’t drink the coffee in the thermos. “Coffee no good. You ever see huskies drink coffee?” The boys had to admit that they never had. “Indian tea like medicine. Make you strong and healthy. Dogs know.” To demonstrate, he poured a little into a tin plate for Titan, and the big lead dog lapped it up promptly.
“It sure doesn’t look as if we’re ever going to catch those guys ahead of us, Charley,” Sandy commented, dropping a handful of snow into his cup to cool it.
Charley looked down the trail behind them. “They behind us now. Last hill we pass, we go around the long way, maybe mile longer. They go through valley.”
Jerry blinked. “If we came the long way, how come we’re ahead of them?”
The Indian shrugged. “That valley like pocket after big snow. Drifts three, four feet deep. They have plenty trouble getting through.”
Sandy grinned. “What a sly old fox you are, Charley.”
They were traveling high in the coastal mountains of British Columbia now, moving through the Chilkoot Pass. Just before noon, they arrived at a customs check point.
“You’re the first team through,” the mounted policeman who waved them past shouted.
Abruptly, the trail appeared to end at the edge of a cliff. Charley reined the team in and motioned for the boys to step to the rim of the drop-off. Here they saw that, in reality, the trail continued on down a steep incline that resembled the big drop on a roller coaster. For almost 1,200 feet it fell away at a 45-degree angle into the coastal valley below. It was a magnificent spectacle.
Jerry gulped hard. “We’re not going down that in a sled, are we?”
Tagish Charley nodded curtly. “Chilkoot Chute. We take dogs off first. They follow us down.” He walked back and began to remove Black Titan’s harness.
Sandy grinned at Jerry. “You ever been on a bobsled?” Jerry shook his head mutely. “Well, after this it’ll be a cinch.”
When the dogs were unhitched, the boys climbed aboard the sled, and Charley pushed it to the edge of the chute. It teetered briefly, then nosed down the incline.
“Alaska next stop!” Sandy yelled as they picked up speed. A rush of air choked the words off in his mouth, and his stomach rose up in his rib cage with a sickening sensation that was ten times worse than he had ever experienced in an elevator.
Faster and faster the sled shot down the slope, swaying from side to side, as Charley, riding the tail, shifted his weight skillfully to steer it. Behind it the dogs skidded and scrambled down the chute, barking and yelping excitedly. The sled reached the bottom and glided down the trail almost half a mile before it came to a halt.
“What a ride!” Jerry exclaimed.
“We must have skidded halfway to Skagway,” Sandy said. He got out of the sled and looked back at the Chilkoot Chute. “Gee, it doesn’t look so bad from here, but when you’re on it, you’d swear it was a perpendicular wall.”
The dogs finally caught up and Charley hitched them to the sled again. “We win now easy,” he said matter-of-factly.
As they approached Skagway, they passed cabins, farms and other signs of civilization. A group of children playing in one yard gave them a lusty cheer and chased after the sled. Farther along, other children tagged on to the caravan along with three dogs.
Then, up ahead on the outskirts of the city, they saw a big crowd of people. “Finish line,” Charley informed them.
When the sled came into view, a tremendous roar went up and continued unabated as they shot past a man waving a flag. The next thing Sandy knew, they were engulfed by a sea of well-wishers, and men were pounding him on the back so enthusiastically that it took his breath away. At last he spied his father and Professor Crowell fighting their way through the throng.
“Dad!” he called out happily. “We made it.”
Dr. Steele reached the boys and threw an arm around each of them. “Congratulations! This was quite a race, I hear.”
“Charley is the guy who rates the congratulations,” Sandy answered.
Professor Crowell pounded Tagish Charley on the back ecstatically. “I’m the proudest and happiest man in the world. I haven’t felt like this since my twin girls were born. Thank you, Charley.”
Charley knelt down and put his arms around Black Titan, who was accepting praise and pats from all quarters with the dignified reserve of a true champion. “Dogs win the race. Charley just come along for ride.”
Later, back at the hotel, after a warm bath and a good supper, the boys recounted the adventures they had had during the race.
“Bless my soul,” Professor Crowell said to Jerry, “now you really have an idea of the rigorous life that the sourdoughs led. Does it still sound appealing to you?”
Jerry forked the last piece of homemade apple pie from his plate. “I’ve come to the conclusion that I’m just a city boy at heart, sir,” he declared emphatically.
“How was your visit to Fairbanks?” Sandy asked his father.
“We had a fine time,” Dr. Steele said. “I gathered some priceless material for the pamphlet I’m preparing on the Pleistocene Era.” He smiled. “But promise you won’t tell Quiz Taylor, Sandy.”
Sandy laughed. “I know what you mean, Dad. My solemn word, I won’t mention it.”
“What’s on the agenda now, Dr. Steele?” Jerry inquired. “Are we going home?”
“Not for another few days, Jerry,” Dr. Steele said. “The professor and I want to fly up to Valdez and look over some old mining sites.”
“Where’s Valdez?” Jerry asked.
“The most northerly ice-free port in Alaska. It used to be the shipping point for copper ore until the Kennecott mines closed down in 1938. We had planned an exciting outing for you fellows—” he hesitated and looked wryly at Jerry—“but inasmuch as Jerry says he’s a city boy at heart, well, maybe we’d better forget it.”
“What kind of an outing, Dad?” Sandy asked.
Dr. Steele lit his pipe and blew a cloud of smoke at the ceiling. “We won’t be using the plane for several days, and we thought you might like to visit Kodiak Island. One of the instructors from the university will be spending a week there, hunting bear, and he said you boys would be welcome to join him.” He winked at Sandy. “But I’m not sure your city friend here would be up to it.”
“That’s all right,” Sandy said. “Jerry can stay here at the hotel until we come back.”
“Not on your life!” Jerry snorted. “I want to take one of those bearskins back to my mom.”
Tagish Charley looked up from his plate solemnly. “Kodiak bear plenty bad killer. Maybe he take your skin back to his mamma.”
Everyone except Charley laughed.
The next morning they boarded the big Norseman plane and headed northwest up the coast for Valdez. As they flew over the glacier-ribbed mountains, the boys were awed by the wild beauty of the country beneath them.
“It’s so primitive,” Sandy remarked. “I don’t think man will ever tame it.”
“Yes, he will,” Dr. Steele said. “As surely as he tamed the American West. We just didn’t pay much attention to it until after World War Two.”
“A land of untold riches,” Lou Mayer mused. “Gold, copper, silver, coal, lead, tin, mercury, platinum—Lord knows what else.” He looked over meaningfully at Dr. Steele.
“Things are certainly moving fast,” Dr. Steele went on, a little too quickly, Sandy thought. “Oh, yes, Son, in another fifty years Alaska will be as civilized as California.”
“But not nearly so warm,” Lou Mayer added.
Professor Crowell smiled. “I don’t know, I like our northern winters. They make for greater intimacy among families and friends. When the temperature is fifty below zero and the snow is piled up to your window sills, there is literally no place like home. You discover that being together in front of a warm fireplace can be just as enjoyable as running off to the theater, bridge clubs, night clubs, bowling alleys and all your so-called civilized diversions. The trouble with so many young people these days is that they try too hard to have fun.”
Jerry scratched his head thoughtfully. “Professor, you know, you’re right. I can’t think of any time in my life when I’ve had more fun than I did the Christmas Eve we spent at that little weather station.”
Dr. Steele took out a small wallet calendar and consulted it. “Which reminds me that tonight is New Year’s Eve.”
“Isn’t it funny how you keep forgetting about the holidays up here?” Sandy said. “I guess they see the old year out pretty quietly. Not like the States.”
Professor Crowell’s eyes twinkled through his glasses. “Don’t bet on it, son. Some of the New Year’s parties I’ve been to in the North make your Stateside celebrations seem like pink teas. In the old days, I remember some shindigs that went on continuously from Christmas right through New Year’s.” He smiled nostalgically. “I wouldn’t be surprised if a few of them were still going on.”
“But we’ll be spending our New Year’s on Kodiak,” Jerry reminded them. “I was looking at it on the map. It’s just a dinky little island.”
“Not so dinky,” Dr. Steele said. “It’s about a hundred miles long, you know. And I think you’ll find that its citizens have just as much holiday spirit as the people in the States.”
“Do many people live on Kodiak?” Sandy asked.
“It’s not too heavily populated,” Dr. Steele admitted. “Once it was the center of the Alaskan fur trade. The Russians settled in the town of Kodiak in 1784, and it wasn’t until much later that they moved their headquarters to the mainland.
“Nowadays it’s hard to make a living on Kodiak. I think the only major occupation is salmon fishing. There’s rich farming land at the south end of the island, but the natives have always had difficulty raising sheep and cattle. Too many hungry bears around.”
Jerry squinted down the barrel of an imaginary rifle. “Well, there’ll be a few less after we get there, eh, Sandy boy?”
Tagish Charley, who had been staring moodily out of the window, turned his quizzical black eyes on Jerry. “You shoot big as you talk, everything be fine.”
“I think you better go along and take care of these fellows, Charley,” the professor suggested.
“That would be great,” Sandy said. “How about it?”
Charley appeared to consider the proposition for a moment, then looked gravely at Sandy from beneath his black eyebrows. “Charley like to go to Kodiak. But better not. I stay and look out for professor.”
At quarter after twelve the Norseman put down on the outskirts of Cordova, and the three geologists disembarked along with Tagish Charley.
“You’ll be in Kodiak before dark,” Dr. Steele told the boys before he left them. “The pilot will radio ahead so Professor Stern can be on hand to meet you when you land. Be sure and bring us back a bearskin.”
“We will,” Sandy promised. “And we’ll see you back here on the third of January.”
“Goodbye, Doctor,” Jerry said. “And Happy New Year.”
“Thank you, Jerry, and the same to you.” Dr. Steele winked. “Don’t eat too much muk-tuk.”
As soon as the plane was refueled, they took off again. When Jerry began to nod drowsily, Sandy went up front and sat down in the copilot’s seat.
Russell Parker, the pilot, was a chunky, gray-haired man in his late forties, a veteran of the World War II Air Corps. “I was stationed in the Aleutians for four years,” he told Sandy. “The place sort of grew on me. There was this girl in Anchorage, too. Well, as soon as the war was over we were married, and I decided to settle here permanently. I had no family ties back in the States, so the transition was easy.” He smiled. “You might say I found a home here.”
“And you’ve been a bush pilot ever since?” Sandy said. “Boy, that must be an exciting life.”
“Well, I wouldn’t call it exciting exactly. A little romantic maybe—everything about Alashka is romantic.”
“Alashka?” Sandy looked puzzled. “I notice you always say it that way.”
“It’s an ancient Aleutian term. Means the ‘big land.’”
“It’s big all right,” Sandy said, glancing out of the cockpit window. Below the plane, twin mountain peaks reached up through the wispy clouds. Cupped in the valley between them lay a gigantic glacier whose front was a solid wall of ice ten miles across and as high as a fifteen-story building.
“That’s why there are plenty of jobs for bush pilots,” Parker explained. “We’re like taxi drivers back in the States. To get around in the big land you have to take giant steps. A quick trip to the city may mean a hop of a hundred miles or more. You should see Lake Hood on a Saturday morning in the summer—that’s in Anchorage, my home town. Hundreds of little planes.”
“It looks like a supermarket parking lot,” Sandy finished the thought for him. “Professor Crowell told us.”
“It’s worse. More like Times Square in New York.”
“But since so many people up here have their own planes, doesn’t it cut down on your jobs?” Sandy wanted to know.
“Not really. Most of the amateurs are pretty cautious, as they should be. They’ll only fly in perfect weather, and stick to the safe air routes. When there’s a tough job to be done in a hurry, they call on a bush pilot. I’ve carried everything from heavy machinery to medical supplies. I’ve been a flying ambulance, too; I don’t know how many lives I’ve helped to save in the back country.”
“Do you often get assignments like this one?” Sandy asked.
“I’ve flown my share of VIPs, but mostly it’s a job for military pilots.”
“You consider my dad and Professor Crowell VIPs?”
“I got that impression,” Parker said guardedly. He was about to add something else when a burst of static from the radio diverted his attention. “Tower at Anchorage calling us,” he told Sandy, adjusting his earphones. He listened, then flipped the switch over to transmit. “N-140 to Anchorage ... Read you clear ... Climbing to 12,000 feet ... Over and out.” He flipped the switch and reported to Sandy. “We’re climbing another 4,000 feet. We’re heading into a snow squall off Kodiak, moving northeast.”
Jerry awoke from his nap and came up front to join them. “You guys hungry? I’m going to break out the sandwiches.”
Sandy laughed. “Is eating all you ever think about?”
Jerry flicked Sandy’s cowlick with one finger. “Especially when I ride in airplanes. I have to keep my stomach weighted down so it won’t do flip-flops.”
“Okay, I’ll join you,” Sandy agreed. “How about you, Mr. Parker?”
“I’ll wait awhile,” the pilot declined. “Soon as we level off at 12,000, I’ll set her on automatic pilot.”
The boys walked back to their seats and opened the lunchbox the hotel had prepared for them that morning.
“I was just thinking,” Jerry said, chewing on a chicken leg, “we haven’t seen anything of those characters who took pot shots at us for a few days now. Think they’ve given up?”
Sandy’s brow furrowed in anxiety. “I don’t know, Jerry. From what we know of them, they don’t seem to be the kind who give up so easily. They’ve been after the professor for months now. Maybe we should have stayed with them back at Cordova.”
“Aw, what could happen to them in Cordova? Those birds wouldn’t try anything in the middle of a big town like that.”
Sandy nibbled at his sandwich without relish. “I suppose not. But Dad and the professor are going to be out poking around some old abandoned mine sites.”
The discussion ended when Parker called back, “I’m ready for that sandwich now. And a cup of coffee if you don’t mind. Black, no sugar.”
“I’ll take it up to him,” Jerry said.
It was still bright daylight in the air when they sighted Kodiak, but the island and the sea around it were shrouded in purple dusk. Lights began to twinkle on below as they circled the city of Kodiak, losing altitude. Towering prominently over the other low buildings were a pair of onion-shaped domes.
“What’s that?” Sandy asked Parker. “They look almost Turkish.”
“The Russian Orthodox church,” the pilot said. “Remember, the Russians founded Kodiak.”
“How did those Russians ever get way over here?” Jerry wanted to know.
“Boy, are you dumb!” Sandy said. “On the west side only a thin strip of water separates Alaska from Russia. The Bering Strait is only about forty miles wide.”
Parker nodded. “In the winter you can cross it on a sled.”
That thought seemed to sober Jerry.
Parker touched the Norseman down gently on its skis and reversed the propeller to brake their slide. As they climbed out of the plane, the figure of a man emerged out of the glare of the landing lights. Clad in fur trousers, fur hood and fur parka, he looked like an Eskimo. But as he approached, Sandy could make out a small clipped mustache and rimless eyeglasses.
“Welcome to Kodiak,” he greeted them. “You must be Dr. Steele’s son.” He held out his hand.
“Yes, sir.” Sandy smiled. “I’m Sandy.”
“I’m Kenneth Stern.”
Sandy performed introductions all around. It turned out that Parker and the young university teacher were friends. “My wife took some courses with Professor Stern,” the pilot explained.
Stern clapped his fur mittens together. “I have my jeep parked over at the edge of the field. Let’s get back to the lodge. Dora—that’s my wife—has a big bear roast in the oven. I imagine you fellows are pretty hungry.”
“You go ahead,” Parker said. “I want to make sure they put my baby safely to bed. I’ll hitch a ride to your camp.”
“All right, Russ,” Stern said. “We’ll hold supper for you.”
“What’s he got to do?” Jerry inquired as they walked through the crunchy snow to the jeep, which was almost hidden by the great cloud of smoke that was pouring out of the exhaust.
“He wants to make sure the crankcase gets drained,” Stern said. “You really do have to treat machinery as if it were a baby in cold like this. That’s why I left the jeep running. It could freeze up in a few minutes.”
As they drove through the town of Kodiak, the boys were fascinated by the atmosphere. The cultures of three centuries and varied races were blended startlingly but not offensively.
“It’s like being on a Hollywood sound stage where the sets are all mixed up,” Sandy said breathlessly.
“Mostly, it reminds me of the Old West,” Jerry said. “Dodge City. I almost expect to see Wyatt Earp come striding down the middle of the street with his hands on his six-guns.”
Professor Stern laughed. “That’s an apt description, Jerry. This is the twentieth-century American frontier in a sense. It’s only fitting that the characteristics of the frontier should predominate.”
The hunting lodge was a sprawling two-story log building about a mile outside of Kodiak, with a wide porch running around it on three sides. Lights blazed warmly from its windows as they pulled in the drive and bumped along to a big barn at the back of the house.
“Four other teachers and myself own it jointly,” Stern explained. “We bought it about ten years ago as a summer place. The fact is, we’ve been using it just as much in the winter as a hunting lodge.”
“Did I understand you to say we were having bear roast for supper, Professor?” Jerry inquired politely.
“Yes. You’re not squeamish about eating it, are you?”
“Uh, no!” Jerry assured him. “After some of the things I’ve been eating since I came to Alaska, bear sounds like steak to me.”
“It’s better,” Stern told him. “You wait and see.”
“Did you shoot the bear, sir?” Sandy asked.
“No, we haven’t been out yet. This is a piece of meat we’ve had in the freezer since last year.”
Jerry laughed. “You’re kidding. What do you need a freezer for up here?”
“That’s where you’re wrong, young fellow. It so happens that the old joke about selling ice-boxes to Eskimos isn’t such a joke any more. During the war, the Army discovered it was a lot more practical to keep food in freezers than it was to stow it in a shed outside. You see, the temperature drops to sixty and seventy below zero some nights in this country. That’s about forty to fifty degrees lower than the coldest deep freeze. At that temperature food takes hours to thaw out. In the freezer, it keeps just right.”
Jerry shook his head. “Can you beat that! Next thing you know, the Arabs on the Sahara desert will be turning to steam heat.”
They followed Stern along a path to the back door of the lodge. Mrs. Stern, a young woman in ski pants and sweater, was in the kitchen basting the roast when they came in. “Supper will be another hour yet,” she apologized. “I hope you boys can hold out.”
“That’s good,” Stern said. “Russ Parker will be along later.” He turned to the boys. “Come on inside and meet Chris Hanson and his wife. They’ll be spending a few days with us too.”
“Chris Hanson?” Sandy repeated it thoughtfully. “There used to be an All-American tackle by that name.”
Stern grinned. “That’s our boy. He’s an athletic coach at the university.”
“Say, that’s great!” Jerry exclaimed. “Chris was the best.” Self-importantly, he added, “As a matter of fact we have a lot in common. I expect to make All-American tackle myself some day.”
Sandy smirked and dug his fist playfully into Jerry’s midsection. “You get any fatter, you won’t be able to bend down to flip the ball.”
Chris Hanson was a brawny man who made even a six-footer like Sandy Steele feel like a little boy. He reminded Sandy of the paintings of fierce Vikings he had seen in grade-school history books, though his blond hair was a bit thin on top. His wife was a small, thin woman who sat as close to the fire as possible, despite the fact that she was bundled up in sweaters. The Hansons were just finishing a game of Scrabble when the boys arrived.
“I’m a Georgia girl, you know,” Mrs. Hanson said in a marked Southern accent. “And I don’t believe I’ll ever get used to this climate.”
“We have a friend who would sympathize with you,” Sandy told her. “Lou Mayer, my father’s assistant.”
Chris grinned devilishly. “Oh sure, we met Lou when your dad came up to Fairbanks. Took him skiing once. I don’t think he likes me very much.”
While they waited for supper to be served, the boys coaxed Chris to reminisce about some of his big gridiron games. Hungry as they were, it was an unwelcome interruption when Mrs. Stern announced: “Chow’s on the table.”
There were seven people at the table—including Russ Parker, who arrived just as they were sitting down—and among them they picked an eight-pound sirloin bear steak clean.
Jerry swabbed his plate clean with a crust of bread. “That was delicious, Mrs. Stern.”
“That’s an understatement,” Sandy said, “considering that you had three portions.”
“I know I made a hog of myself,” Jerry admitted. “But when I bag one of those big Kodiaks tomorrow, you can fill up your freezer with steaks.”
Mrs. Stern smiled. “That’s very thoughtful of you, Jerry.”
Chris Hanson looked amused. “You ever done any hunting before, Jerry?”
“No, but I’m on the high-school rifle team back home.”
Sandy winked at Chris. “He’s the guy they’re talking about when they say, ‘He couldn’t hit the side of a barn.’”
Jerry reddened as everyone laughed, and glared at Sandy. “I suppose you think you’re Davy Crockett?”
“Seriously, though,” Professor Stern interjected, “a bear hunt can be very dangerous. Some of these brutes on Kodiak are virtually indestructible. And when they’re wounded—well, just watch out. There’s an old saying among hunters that you’ve got to kill a Kodiak with your first shot, or you never will kill him. I’ve heard men who have stalked lions, tigers—all kinds of big game—concede that a Kodiak is the most fearsome of all beasts.”
“On second thought,” Jerry said gravely, “maybe I’ll just stay back here and play Scrabble with the ladies.”
After supper the boys cornered Chris Hanson again and discussed football and other sports. At ten o’clock, Professor Stern drove Russ Parker into town.
“Some of the boys invited me to a party at the airport,” Russ explained. “I hate to run away like this, but my brother-in-law is going to be there. I haven’t seen him in a while. He’s in the service, stationed in the Aleutians.”
“That’s perfectly all right,” Mrs. Stern said.
“You don’t fool us, Russ,” Chris Hanson kidded him. “You just want to sneak out of that bear hunt tomorrow.”
Parker snorted. “You aren’t going to drag me off after any bears. Not unless I can hunt them from the air.”
“When are we going back to Cordova, Mr. Parker?” Sandy asked him.
“I figure you can have a couple of days of hunting. The professor expects us back on the third of January.”
Professor Stern asked the boys whether they wanted to ride into town with him and see how the Kodiakans celebrated the New Year, but they declined.
“We heard they had some pretty wild times up here,” Jerry said. “But the way I feel, the only thing that would look good to me is a soft, warm bed.”
And by twelve o’clock they were in bed. “I wonder what the gang is doing back in Valley View,” Jerry sighed as they lay in the dark listening to the sound of foghorns in St. Paul’s harbor blending with church bells and firecrackers in distant Kodiak.
“You can bet they’re not planning to go bear hunting at six in the morning,” Sandy answered sleepily.
Professor Stern roused the boys at eight o’clock on New Year’s morning. “Put on two suits of long woolen underwear and two pairs of socks,” he instructed them. “We’ll probably be out until dark.”
They dressed quickly and went downstairs to the big kitchen, where Chris Hanson was cooking breakfast. “How’ll you have your eggs, fellows?” he asked.
“Sunny side up,” Sandy answered. “Can we help?”
“Sure. You can start the toast.”
Sandy took a handful of sliced bread out of the bread box and began searching through the cupboards. “Where’s the toaster?” he asked finally.
Chris smiled and pointed to the stove. “Right here. Just butter the bread lightly and spread the slices out between the lids.”
For the first time, Sandy became aware that the cooking stove was the old-fashioned, cast iron, wood-burning type; the kind you saw only in Western movies in the United States. A long tongue of flame and a shower of sparks shot up into the air as Chris lifted one of the front lids and set the teakettle over the opening.
“When we first bought the place,” Chris said, “we planned to install one of those newfangled electric stoves in a year or two. But we got attached to this old girl. We’ve never regretted it either. I don’t know how many times the electric power has conked out for days at a time. Anyway, this cooks better than any gas or electric stove I’ve ever seen.”
After they had eaten, they stacked the dishes in the sink and went out to the garage. Chris Hanson and Professor Stern were armed with .30-.30 Winchester rifles. Stern said their neighbor down the road had promised to provide weapons for the boys. They piled into the jeep, which had been warming up for a half hour, and drove about two miles into the foothills to the ranch of Vladimir Thorsen, the son of a Russian-Swedish sourdough who had struck it rich in the gold rush. Thorsen was a short, rugged-looking man of fifty, with jet-black hair and a Vandyke beard. His English was precise, with just a trace of an accent. He welcomed the boys heartily and insisted that the men join him in a last cup of strong black coffee mixed with brandy.
“I don’t think we will have to look far for our bear,” he announced grimly. “Two nights ago, a big brute came right into the barnyard and carried off one of my lambs.”
Chris Hanson whistled shrilly between his teeth. “He had his nerve, didn’t he?”
“A cunning old monster,” Thorsen said. “From the size of his footprints, I would estimate he weighs about 1,400 pounds. He has toes missing on his two forefeet.”
“He’s evidently been in some battles,” Stern said. “And won them.”
When the men had finished their coffee, Thorsen escorted them into his den. The walls were covered with pistols and rifles and the mounted heads of every kind of big game imaginable. The rancher took down two big, unwieldy, ancient-looking rifles and handed them to the boys. “Here are your weapons.”
Sandy and Jerry couldn’t help but show their disappointment. “They’re very nice guns, sir.” Sandy made an effort to sound appreciative. “But—what are they?”
“They look as if they were left over from the Revolutionary War,” Professor Stern said tartly. “What are you trying to pull on these kids, Thorsen?”
Thorsen stroked his pointed beard and cast a reproving eye on the instructor. “You are an American teacher and you don’t recognize this magnificent rifle! It is a Sharpe’s buffalo gun, the same kind that your Buffalo Bill killed 1,800 buffalo with. I’m ashamed of you, Kenneth.”
“It’s only single-shot, too,” Jerry observed critically.
“With a gun like that you only need one shot,” Thorsen said. “You could drop an elephant with one shot.” He opened a drawer of his desk and took out a handful of enormous cartridges. “See?”
Chris Hanson picked one up and hefted it in his palm. “It’s a small artillery shell.” He grinned at the boys. “You want to trade? I’d feel plenty safe facing Mr. Bear with this cannon.”
“No,” Jerry answered quickly. “If it was good enough for Buffalo Bill, it’s good enough for me.” He picked up one of the long rifles and balanced it on his shoulder. “Hup-two-three-four....” He staggered around the room. “Hey, doesn’t a weapons carrier come with this thing?”
The rancher smiled, showing two rows of strong, white teeth. “You are a very funny fellow,” he said. “Maybe the bear will die laughing.... Come, the horses are already saddled and waiting.”
Jerry’s face clouded over. “Horses?” he said.
“Yes, we may have to go ten or fifteen miles into the hills.” He led them out of the den, through the kitchen and out the back door.
The boys fell behind as they approached the stables. “Have you ever ridden a horse before?” Jerry whispered to Sandy.
“Sure, I’m a fair rider.” Realization suddenly dawned in his eyes. “You’ve ridden before—haven’t you?”
“Only on the merry-go-round,” Jerry said miserably. “But don’t say anything. I don’t want to spoil the party.”
“Well ...” Sandy was uncertain. “I suppose we’ll be walking the horses mostly, so you can’t get into too much trouble.”
“Sure, we can hang back and you can instruct me in the fine points of horsemanship.”
An Indian groom brought the horses out of the stable. They were much sturdier animals than the ones Sandy had rented at any riding academy—more like cowboy ponies. They wore Western saddles, too.
“They’re all mares,” Thorsen explained. “Not too high-spirited and very manageable. Good mounts for tracking.”
Jerry’s eyes were round as he and his horse confronted each other. “This is the closest I’ve ever been to one,” he confided to Sandy. “I never realized they were so big.”
“You won’t have any trouble,” Sandy assured him. “She’s a gentle girl.” He stroked the smooth flanks and the muscles rippled beneath the glossy black coat. “Come on, I’ll give you a lift.”
Jerry mounted without difficulty and settled himself comfortably in the big saddle with his feet planted in the stirrups. “Nothing to it,” he said.
Sandy grinned. “Nothing to a jet plane either, while it’s sitting in the hangar. Here.” He handed Jerry’s rifle up to him.
“What do I do with it?” Jerry demanded.
Sandy indicated a large leather sheath that was fastened to the right side of the saddle. “Stick it in the saddle boot.”
They rode out single file, with Thorsen’s horse breaking trail through knee-deep snow across a broad meadow behind the ranch house. A long split-rail fence ran along the back of the property. Thorsen pointed out a break in the fence, where the heavy logs lay scattered around like jackstraws and a six-inch post was snapped off at the base.
“That’s where he came through.”
From the break in the fence a wide path, which looked as if it had been plowed by a small bulldozer, led up a slope into a grove of spruce trees.
“It won’t be much of a problem tracking him, will it?” Chris Hanson said.
Thorsen shrugged. “It depends. We’re protected from the wind in the valley. Farther up in the mountains, the trail may be covered over by now. It’s been two days.”
Professor Stern swung down off his horse and knelt to examine the bear’s footprints, which had been almost obliterated by blowing snow. He brushed away some of the fine, white powder with his mitten. Abruptly, he looked up at the rancher. “Did any one of your hands take a shot at this fellow?”
Thorsen frowned. “Certainly not. Why?”
Stern pointed to faint, rust-colored streaks in the snow between the imprints of the bear’s foot pads. “Looks like blood to me. Probably a wound, high on the leg, and the blood trickled down between the toes.”
“Maybe he hurt himself when he broke through the fence,” Sandy suggested.
“That’s possible,” Stern conceded. He walked back and inspected the broken logs carefully. Finally, he shook his head. “No sign of blood here. I’m afraid our bear has been the victim of a careless hunter.”
Thorsen scowled fiercely and muttered something in a guttural foreign tongue. Then he exploded in English. “I would like to get my hands on that filthy pig!”
“I don’t get it,” Jerry said to Sandy. “What’s he so excited about? That’s the whole idea, isn’t it, to shoot the bear?”
“Sure, but once you wound an animal, it’s your obligation to finish him off. That’s the first commandment of hunting. First of all, it’s cruel to let an animal suffer. And when you’re dealing with big game, it’s downright dangerous. A pain-crazed bear, for instance, can be a menace to anything that comes anywhere near him.”
“That’s right,” Chris Hanson agreed. “We’re going to have to stay on our toes from here on.”