  Muffled from head to foot in hooded caribou shirts and bearskin trousers, five persons slowly plodded across a vast tundra within the Arctic Circle. Many days, by land and by boat from the Canadian coast, had brought them to a point where they must go on with dogs only. And now as they drove twelve big huskies to a long sledge filled with supplies, all armed with rifles and two with revolvers, the fur-clad figures presented a grim appearance upon the snowy bosom of that frozen wasteland. A hood rimmed with blue fox fur almost completely hid the face of the athletic figure breaking through the snow at the head of the dog team. But one who knew him would have had little trouble in identifying that graceful, swinging step as belonging to Dick Kent. He it was—again on the adventure trail, his dark, clear eyes shining and eager behind the smoked glasses he wore to protect his sight from the glare of the snow-reflected sun, which, though it was midday, hung low on the southern horizon, a ball of baleful red. Bringing up the rear were Sandy McClaren, Dick’s chum, and the Canadian Indian boy, Toma, an inseparable of the two American lads since they first had entered the north on a visit with Sandy’s Uncle Walter, a Hudson’s Bay Company factor. The remaining two of the travelers were big men, alert and vigorous, whose very appearance showed that they represented the authority of law and justice. They were officers of the Royal Northwest Mounted Police, and under their furs reposed important orders bearing the King’s seal. “Hey, Dick!” Sandy McClaren’s shout sounded startlingly loud and high in the icy air. “Better take a rest while I break trail,” called the young Scotchman. “I’m not tired,” declared Dick, but nevertheless he dropped back behind the dog team, whose lolling, red tongues revealed how difficult was the going. Sandy started forward to take Dick’s place, but before he could pass the huge Eskimo dog in the lead, one of the policemen had overtaken him. “You young fellows have been doing too much of this trail breaking,” sang out Corporal Lake McCarthy. Sandy was only too glad to give way to the big officer, and he quickly dropped back with Dick, where the heavy sledge, loaded with supplies, packed the snow and made snowshoeing comparatively easy. For a time the chums trudged on without speaking, then, while they were passing a ridge of ice, which had been carved by wind and sun into queer patterns, Dick gave voice to a conviction: “Sandy, this looks as if it was going to be a dull trip. Here we’ve been mushing north for a month and we haven’t seen anything more dangerous than caribou, ptarmigans and snowshoe rabbits.” “I wouldn’t be too sure just yet,” said Sandy. “Uncle Walter was half a mind not to let us go on this trip. You know there was something dangerous in the wind or he wouldn’t have felt that way about it. I asked him why the policemen were being sent up here, but he just kind of laughed and said, ‘Oh, nothing,’ like he meant it was a whole lot.” While they talked, the boys were bent over their snowshoes, and did not instantly notice a shirring sound followed by the muffled plunk of an object striking the packs on the sledge with considerable force. The first either knew anything unusual had occurred was when Dick chanced to glance up and caught sight of something protruding from the packs and the rear of the sledge. “Stop the team!” cried Dick excitedly. Corporal McCarthy’s booming command was followed by a brief tangle of snarling dogs, then the sledge came to a dead stop. All the members of the party gathered about Dick Kent, who was pulling something from the packs. What he at last succeeded in extracting was a short, barbed spear, the head made of whalebone lashed to a smooth spruce handle with reindeer sinews. The weapon evidently had been thrown from the top of the ice ridge alongside which they had been sledging, and what was even clearer, the spear arm of the hidden enemy had been exceedingly powerful and well-trained. Instinctively, almost, all eyes were lifted to the brow of the ridge, and the policemen drew their pistols. But nothing was to be seen save the barren crest of the icy hill. “I’ll go up and take a look around,” Corporal McCarthy spoke briskly. “Jim!” he turned to the other officer, “you stay here. It’s possible this fellow was an Eskimo, but again it may be one of the renegade Taku Indians that were reported as far north as this. I’ll be back pretty quick.” With that the big policeman drew a 30.30 rifle from the sledge lashing and started up the icy slope of the ridge. The others silently watched him disappear over the summit. At any moment they expected to hear the report of a rifle. But the minutes ticked by and all remained silent. At first they were relieved, then their fears mounted. It was possible that whoever had thrown the spear had other deadly weapons at his disposal. If Corporal McCarthy were ambushed—— “Well, it looks like I might be right about what I said a while ago,” Sandy finally turned and said to Dick. “That spear did take the words out of my mouth,” admitted Dick, “but we can’t be sure yet. Anyway, this is the first bit of excitement we’ve had on this freezing trip.” He shivered a little as he looked at the spear. “Whew! That thing didn’t miss me more than four feet!” he exclaimed. “His aim must have been for you and me, Sandy.” “Looks like him Eskimo spear.” The low, throaty voice was that of Toma, who had so faithfully stood by Dick and Sandy on their previous adventures in the north. The boys turned to find the young Indian examining the weapon carefully. “Eskimos!” The magic word leaped to the lips of Dick and Sandy almost simultaneously. Dick called to the policeman, who was repairing a trace on the dog harness. “Mr. Sloan, when are we going to see some Eskimos?” “Can’t be long, lad, but——” Constable Jim Sloan’s statement was cut off by a loud shout from the top of the ridge. All eyes were turned upward, and Dick and Sandy whistled. Bearing down upon them was Corporal McCarthy accompanied by a strange figure. “It looks like you boys’ll see an Eskimo sooner than I thought,” resumed Constable Sloan, as he watched the Corporal draw nearer with a small man, swathed in furs, walking a little ahead at the point of the officer’s rifle. It was apparent that a captive had been taken. “Got him easy,” called the Corporal as he came up. “He was hiding behind a lump of ice and thought I’d pass him by. He’s an Innuit alright.” “A what?” Sandy turned to Dick. “Innuits is what the Eskimos call themselves,” replied Dick, eyeing the captive curiously. “It means ‘the people.’ I read a lot about the Eskimos in school. Look, he has another spear.” All now gathered about the policeman, listening to his story of how he had captured the Eskimo. Dick and Sandy were principally interested in the appearance of this native of the polar regions. They found him to be about Sandy’s height, with light brown skin, and Chinese-like eyes. The hood of his caribou shirt had been pushed back and a heavy thatch of straight black hair was revealed. The Eskimo’s cheekbones were high like an Indian’s and his skin was very oily looking. Constable Sloan, who had been detailed on the expedition principally because of his special knowledge of the Eskimos in their native haunts, was endeavoring to carry on a conversation with the sullen fellow. “He won’t talk much,” the Constable turned to Corporal McCarthy. “Says his name is Mukwa and that four families of Eskimos are about a day’s march from here, on the shores of a bay somewhere near Cape Richards. Swears he hasn’t seen any white men, and claims he’s an outcast of his tribe. I don’t believe all he says. I believe he could speak English if he wanted to.” “Well, we’ll have to hold him anyway,” declared the Corporal. “The fellow seems to be hostile, and maybe he’ll talk after a while. If everything’s ship-shape we’ll mush on before it gets too late.” Constable Sloan’s thirty-foot dog whip cracked out over the team and the dogs set off, yelping eagerly. Corporal McCarthy took up the rear with the Eskimo captive. There was little talking, since every member of the expedition realized he must save his wind for the gruelling miles that must be covered before they made camp. Though at that time of year there was no darkness at night, Dick and Sandy felt that it was long past evening before Corporal McCarthy called a halt. There was not enough vegetation for a campfire to be built, but the policemen were forearmed with small oil stoves, for heat and cooking. It was not long before the dogs were secured for the night, and the boys were hovering in the doorway of their tent over a bubbling pot of tea. “Tomorrow we ought to see an Eskimo village,” Dick said, trying to keep his teeth from chattering. “It’ll be a great experience,” Sandy rejoined, “but the farther we go the more I wonder just why we are up here. Uncle Walter tried to cover up everything under that sham about him thinking we ought to see the Eskimos, but they don’t send the King’s men up here for sight seeing.” Dick studied a moment, then replied: “I haven’t wanted to say anything until I was sure, but I believe now that I have it figured out right. You know Corporal Thalman was sent up here a year ago to bring in a murderer. The fellow was reported to be part Eskimo. Fred Mistak by name. I think the two officers with us are looking for Corporal Thalman and Mistak. They intend to leave us in some winter camp with plenty of meat and fuel, while they do the dangerous business.” Sandy sniffed. “I’d like to see them keep me out of the fun.” “I feel that way too,” agreed Dick, blowing on a cup of hot tea, “but we mustn’t be stubborn about it. It’s best that we mind our own business.” Constable Sloan had finished preparing the evening meal of beans, pemmican and biscuit, and the boys joined the rest of the party, conversation giving way, for the time, to other exercises of the jaws. Immediately after the meal was over everyone retired in their sleeping bags, except Toma, who was left to guard Mukwa, the Eskimo captive, for the first part of the night. The wind had been steadily rising and now was howling at terrific speed across the frail tents, carrying a burden of fine snow along with it. Dick Kent dozed to the droning rattle of the icy particles upon the tent walls. Sandy already was fast asleep. It was frightfully cold, and Dick dared not peep out of his sleeping bag without something over his ears. Uncovered, they would have been frozen in a few seconds. As he lay thinking over the events of the day, he could hear faintly the voice of Toma as he endeavored to quiet some whimpering dogs. Finally those sounds, too, died away and nothing remained except the whistle of the driving gale, which soon lulled Dick to sleep. It seemed to Dick he had been asleep only a moment when he awakened suddenly, all senses alert, an unmistakable scream of anguish echoing in his ears. Holding his breath, he listened, but the sound was not repeated. He tried to recollect if he had been dreaming and was sure he had not. No, from a sound slumber something had awakened him—something whose peril he sensed subconsciously, and which set his heart pounding faster. An instant longer he listened, then, drawing his hood about his head, he wriggled part way out of his sleeping bag. The wind was blowing almost as hard as before he had gone to sleep, but now and again it died down. During one of these lulls, Dick heard a groan. With a start, he jumped up. He must find out that it was not merely his imagination before he awakened the others. They needed sleep. Cautiously, he grasped his rifle and crawled to the opening of the tent. He drew back the tent flap and looked out. Toma’s tent was the point that attracted his attention first. Everything plainly visible under the midnight sun, Dick could see that the tent’s flap was closed. Then, out of the corner of one eye he detected a movement. A dark blotch appeared on the snow in front of Toma’s tent where the Eskimo captive had been left, well tied with thongs. The dark blotch moved again. With a cry of consternation, Dick suddenly galvanized into action and sprang forward. He found Toma lying in the snow, a spear protruding from one of his thighs, and a red stain in the snow under the young Indian’s head. “What’s wrong?” came Corporal McCarthy’s call, as he awakened and hurried out upon hearing the sound of Dick’s voice. “Toma has been wounded!” cried Dick. “Is the Eskimo gone—the captive?” McCarthy answered his own question by snatching back the flap of Toma’s tupik. Yes, Mukwa was gone! A little later, a cup of tea having completely revived him, Toma told his anxious listeners what had happened. “I can hear nothing but wind,” he said in his quaint throaty dialect. “I am sit in tent—Eskimo back inside. I think about my home, my mother. I dream. Think no harm come out of storm. Then I jump to see face looking at me. That fella throw spear. Hit me in leg. Somebody hit me on head same time. All get black like night. Me think Mukwa’s friends come git him.” A careful examination showed that the spear wound in Toma’s leg was slight, the bearskin trousers having protected him, and aside from a lump on his head, the hardy young aborigine would soon be well again. But there was no sleep after that. Dick and Sandy sat up with Toma, drinking hot tea and listening to the mutter of voices from the policemen’s tent. Evidently, action could not be long off, since a council of war was underway. |
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