  In spite of his great hunger and the maddening odors that came to him, filling his heart with a wild desire to break his promise, to wait no longer, but dash into the strange camp, Johnny had fallen into a doze when the girl, silent as a snow bunting, returned. She touched his arm. He jumped, stared blinkingly, then smiled. “You are American,” she said quietly. “Yes.” “Do you know much of Canada?” “Nothing much. Been over the border a month; came in from the northwest.” “I told Grandfather. Come.” She made as if to take up her share of the burden. With a quick move Johnny threw the entire weight of the caribou squarely across his own shoulders. “Lead on,” he said. She led the way in silence. Carefully pushing the branches aside, indicating by a downward glance a spot where the footing was uncertain, testing a half rotted log and rejecting it as treacherous, she played the part of a perfect guide until, with an air of finality, she parted the spruce branches to exclaim: “There!” As Johnny lowered his burden to the earth he found himself astonished at the sight before him. He had expected to see a hunter’s lodge of some proportions, at least a homeseeker’s cabin in fair state of preservation. Instead he found a mere lodge built of poles, bark and boughs. Walled in on three sides, with one side open to the campfire, it formed but a temporary abode. “What can these people be doing in such a place and so far from the haunts of man?” he asked himself. He was destined to ask that question many times in the weeks that were to come. But now his thoughts were broken off. The girl was speaking. “Grandfather, this is the young man,” she said simply as she nodded toward Johnny. “He’s bringing his own venison.” “She had a hand in it,” said Johnny modestly as a great, grizzled six-foot Scotchman, stooping low that he might pass out of the lodge, gave him a smile and offered a hand. “He killed the caribou.” The girl’s laugh was low and pleasing. “After he had killed him I shot him twice just to make sure he was dead.” Then in a few words she narrated the adventure. “Rather strange,” the big Scot rumbled. “But see here, young man, you are an American, are you not?” “Yes, sir.” “Then how is it that you are hunting with bow and arrow?” “It’s a bit of a fad, I suppose,” said Johnny, not wishing to overplay his part. “But even in America we feel that some traditions and arts should be preserved. There’s a lot of sport in really shooting straight and true with one of man’s most ancient weapons. Don’t you think so?” “I do!” the old man’s answer was emphatic. “And, furthermore, I believe the world would be better off if it had never smelled gunpowder. We as a generation—” “But, Grandfather,” the girl broke in, “he has not eaten for three days.” “No? Is that true?” “Well,—nearly,” Johnny admitted. “There’ll be time for talking by the evening campfire. Faye, bring out the broiler. I’ll stir up the fire. We’ll have you a broiled venison steak you’ll not soon forget. “Inside the cabin by the door you’ll find a basin,” the old man went on. “There’s water in the brook and soap in the little box under the eaves. In the north woods one lives the simple life. But you’re welcome to such as we have.” Corn cakes fried in bacon grease, a rich, juicy steak broiled over the coals, made the feast all that Gordon Duncan, the old Scot, had promised it should be. The meal over, pine chips that had been used in lieu of plates were tossed into the fire, aluminum cups, spoons and forks were cleansed at the brook, then for a space of time the three sat silently contemplating the fire. As he had entered the shelter in search of the basin, Johnny had allowed his eyes to rove about the place. In one corner, tightly rolled up and tied with thongs, were two sleeping bags. In another stood a canvas receptacle which, he concluded, must contain bows and arrows. A single bow of powerful proportions stood against the back wall. Not a single firearm of any sort was in sight. “Strange,” he had thought to himself. “Our meeting seems to have been arranged by some great director of destinies. And yet—” He was thinking now of the uncertainty and great secrecy that had attended his entrance to their inner circle. “What can one fear up here?” he thought. At once the answer came back, “The law!” Who has not read of the far reaching arm of the law in this land, the Mounted Police? “Can they be fugitives from justice?” The thing seemed absurd. And yet? As he sat by the fire, now watching its leaping flames and now staring into the mystery haunted darkness that lay all about him, he wondered anew, but most of all he listened, waiting for a word that would bid him join them here in the heart of the wilderness. He realized as never before how lonely life in the Arctic could become, how uncertain life’s span. He had been on the verge of starvation. Now he was fed. His arrow, shot into the heart of the caribou, had not been broken. He had salvaged that. It lay close beside him. Yet this was his only arrow. There had been a little thawing of snow on sunny slopes, but winter was still here. The low swish and sigh of the pines suggested a cold wind from the north with a possible blizzard. To be alone in such a storm, with but a single arrow— As if reading the boy’s thought, the old man spoke. “We can offer you little protection and no bed, but you are welcome to a place before our fire.” “I—I’ve got blankets.” Johnny’s tone was eager as he sprang to his feet. The smile he had seen on the girl’s face returned. He believed that she too was pleased. “Be a great pal,” he told himself. “Strong as a man. And how she can shoot!” To Gordon Duncan he said, “I’ll go for my blankets.” “Are you sure you know the way?” “It’s by a bend in the river where three great pines shade the stream.” “I know the place,” said the girl, springing up. “I—I’ll take you as far as the river. You’ll have no trouble after that. There’s something of a trail.” Together they left the narrow circle of golden light cast by the campfire and plunged into black shadows. As her eyes became accustomed to the darkness, the girl appeared to experience no difficulty in following the mere suggestion of a trail that led down the hillside. Johnny noted the habit she had acquired of leaping from rock to rock and avoiding snowbanks. Hardly knowing why, he followed her example. As they came to the bank of the rushing stream that even the winter’s cold could not conquer, they paused for a moment to watch the moonlight play across its surface. The girl moved quite close to him. Their shoulders nearly touched. He seemed to feel the splendid strength, the abounding life that was in her. She somehow seemed a part of it all, of the forest, the night and the rushing river. “Do you know,” she said quietly, “I’m glad you’ve come. I—I hope you’ll like us. Grandfather is a little queer, and he has bad spells with his heart. And—and we can’t go back, not—not just yet. “There’s your trail.” Her voice changed suddenly. “You won’t get lost. But if you do, just cup your hands and shout like this: ‘Whoo Hoo.’” Her voice rose clear and penetrating above the rush of the river. An owl rose from a nearby tree and went flapping away. There was a scratching of feet on the hard packed snow. From above came the answering boom of the old man’s voice. She was gone. Johnny turned to hurry on his way. Still his mind was not all on the uncertain trail. She had said they could not go back, not just yet. “Go back to what?” he asked himself. “And why not?” Surely it was strange. Yet he was very sure he was going to like them. He’d go where they went. Why not? He was adventuring, living in the wilderness with bow and arrow. Curious they should be doing the same thing. Yes, he’d go with them. An hour of difficult tracking and he was at his camp of the night before. Feeling not the least desire to loiter here, he slung his pack across his back and went trudging away toward that other camp. As he neared a certain spot on the river trail, the moonlight seeping down through the overhanging boughs showed him footprints leading up the slope. It took but a single glance to enable him to recognize them. They had been made by the girl’s moccasins. Curiosity led him to follow this fresh trail. In a space of three minutes he was at the door of the substantial cabin, deserted but the day before by the girl and the old man. “They were living here. They left this for a temporary shelter. I wonder why?” He read the answer. They had discovered that some person besides themselves was in the country. How had they made the discovery? Why were they afraid? “Time unravels all mysteries,” he told himself. “Enough for to-night that I have found human companions and a place beside a campfire.” He returned down the slope. A half hour later, he was lying propped by one elbow against his blanket roll, staring at the campfire of his newfound friends. A little way from him sat the girl. On his return she had greeted him with one of those rare smiles. That was about all. Ten minutes passed into eternity as they sat there in silence, encircled by the dark mysteries of night and brooded over by the hush of a wilderness. Johnny’s mind was never idle. It was busy now. He was asking himself questions. Who was this girl, so ruddy and strong? And who was her grandfather? Had they always lived thus in the wilds, supporting themselves with bow and arrow alone? His fancy pictured them so; yet reason told him it could not be true. Why were they afraid? Afraid of being discovered? Whom did they fear? “Oh well,” he said to himself, “it is evident that they no longer fear me. I am from the United States and have not been long in Canada. That is enough.” A half formed resolve entered his mind, a resolve that was to gain in strength as the days passed. He would not leave the company of this strange pair until he had solved the mystery that hung over them like a ghostly fog in the night. The fire burned low. The north wind swept in sharp and chilling. Rising, he took a small axe that lay close by and went into the outer darkness. The girl rose and followed silently. Soon they returned, dragging heavy pine logs after them. He had noted with admiration that she chose a log as large and heavy as his own. Three times they retreated into the darkness; three times returned heavily laden. Then, each working at the end of a log, they replenished the fire. Logs were piled high. Small branches were thrown on. As the fire leaped up the girl spoke. “Where were you going?” she asked. “Why, nowhere in particular. Just bumming, you might say.” She looked at him in a peculiar way. “Well,” he said half apologetically, “it wasn’t exactly that. Been in the North before, but not with bow and arrow; not Canada either. Alaska. The North called me back.” “I know.” Her voice was low and deep. “It always does.” “As for the bow,” he spoke again, “I’m a mere novice. But there’s a charm to such hunting that does not come with firearms. And these primeval forests always have seemed to call to me. The wilderness has voices, a thousand voices.” The girl nodded. “I took the dare that nature threw down to me,” he said abruptly, “and here I am.” “But your arrows? You had only one.” “Lost the others yesterday in the river. It was deeper and swifter than I thought.” Rising, she went into the birchbark cabin. She returned at once with an arrow. She held it out to him. “This,” she said, “I believe is yours.” “Yes,” said Johnny in great surprise. “You found it.” “It came bobbing along to me on the surface of the river. It’s a fine arrow. I’ve asked the fairies of this northwood to bless it. Take it back; it may bring you good luck.” “So that—” Johnny broke off abruptly. He was about to say, “So that is how you knew I was near?” He would make no attempt to surprise these new friends into divulging their strange secret. No. He would try to prove himself worthy of their friendship and confidence. As if conscious of that which went on within his mind, the girl lapsed again into silence. When at last she spoke again her tones were deep and mellow like the low notes of a cello. “Grandfather and I,” she said, “have gone into the woods every year since I was ten. The bow and arrow are his hobby. They have become mine. He never uses firearms. He has dreadfully sensitive ears. The explosion of a shotgun drives him frantic. “Always before,” she went on after a pause, “we have come to the wilderness for pure pleasure, the joy of the out-of-doors. But this year—” She paused again as if for reflection. “This year we have gone farther than before.” Johnny caught his breath. He had thought she was about to reveal a secret, and didn’t more than half want to hear it. A mystery half ripened is no mystery at all. He need not have feared. “To-morrow,” she said, “we will go farther north.” “Why?” The word slipped out unguarded. She looked at him in silence, then said quite calmly, “I don’t know why, not quite all together. This year Grandfather acts quite strangely. He tells me he sees signs.” “Of what?” “He—he doesn’t tell me that. Perhaps he doesn’t quite know. He is very old; yet his mind is bright, clear as a bell. He—” Suddenly the girl put out a hand to touch Johnny’s lips. She had caught a sound that had escaped him. The old man was returning. Ten seconds later he came tramping in through the brush. “Everything is splendid,” he beamed. “Been five miles downstream. The trail is good. Country is opening up. To-morrow we will go on. “Ah!” he sighed as he dropped on a bed of pine needles. “You know how to make a fire, you two. It feels good!” He rubbed his hands together with great satisfaction. That night, ere he made up his bed of pine needles before the fire and rolled up in his blanket for a few hours of perfect repose, Johnny witnessed a curious and impressive ceremony. As they sat there before the fire, the three of them, Gordon Duncan took from his pocket a small, well worn volume. After thumbing its pages for a moment, he found a place and began to read. The words of a very ancient poet, who had learned centuries ago to place his trust in a power that was higher and greater than all earthly things, came from the lips of the venerable Scot like a benediction. When at last he closed the book and lifted his voice in petition, it was as if they were savages, children of nature, an old man, a girl and a boy, as if the earth were new again and they were asking the All Seeing One to send caribou, rabbit and ptarmigan, to withhold the cunning of the wolf and the power of the bear, to hold the bitter north wind in check and send the gentle south wind to fan their cheeks. When it was over, when the old man and the girl had retired to their frail shelter for the night, and Johnny had wrapped himself in blankets before the fire of pine logs, he felt within him a glow of warmth and a sense of security such as he had not experienced before in all his wanderings. The next day a strange discovery was made. A fresh mystery pressed itself upon them. In the unraveling of this mystery, Faye Duncan was to take a fair part. |
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