  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:
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. |
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