  The Corporal was up and away before dawn. Having assisted him with his dogs, Johnny returned to the cabin. In his sleeping bag on a rude bunk in the corner Gordon Duncan still slept. Before the fire sat Faye Duncan. She had thrown fresh fuel on the fire. The flames were leaping up the chimney. “I suppose you know,” she said as he took a seat beside her, “that Grandfather will accept this new mission.” “I had supposed he would.” “He doesn’t want to. The finding of his long lost partner and the green gold has obsessed him for years. It is natural that he should want to go on. But he is deeply religious and, what is better, has a great heart. There are those who suffer. It is possible for him to give them aid. Duty calls. He must go.” “But only three of us!” said Johnny. “How can we help? We may starve, ourselves. In their ignorance, superstition and great need they may attack us.” “We have eight bows between us,” the girl said quietly. “A bow weighs very little. We always carried a good supply. Never as many as now. Providence must have directed us. We have many arrow points. Thongs, feathers, material for shafts may be had in the wilderness. A bow is a precious thing. Its wood must be of the best and seasoned many months. We are fortunate in having so many.” “After all, we can use but three bows at a time,” Johnny said. “Grandfather believes that there are old men among the Eskimos who have been archers and have not forgot. If he can arm these with our extra bows, if we can somehow ambush the caribou when they come, we may save those starving ones yet.” Johnny looked at her in silence. His mind was in a whirl. Here was an old man and a girl who but a few days before, as if guilty of some crime, were hiding in the brush. Yet, at this moment they were planning a long and dangerous journey far out on the tundra in the hope of saving the lives of a few half savage people. “Queer folks,” he told himself. “So here we are,” the girl went on after a moment’s silence. “In an hour we shall be on our way. Before us is the wilderness, after that a river, the land of little sticks and the silent, white tundra. We carry only our precious bows and arrows. It seems a foolhardy and futile undertaking. “But think!” Her voice became vibrant with emotion. “Unless someone comes to them, men, women and cute little brown babies will starve—starve!” She cupped her chin in her hands to stare at the fire. “I don’t fear for myself,” her tone was deep and solemn. “I only fear for him. He is old, though he has the heart of a boy. “I hear him stirring,” she said softly, springing to her feet. “I must prepare breakfast. He is always impatient of delays.” “Listen,” said Johnny. “I promised to go with you. I’ll not turn back now. Count me in.” The girl did not speak. She put out a hand. It was a good, strong, capable hand. Johnny gripped it heartily. And there in the dawn was sealed a compact that was to live through many a long day of wild adventure. Noon of that day found the little party looking down upon a scene of surpassing beauty. This was one of those days of crystal-like clearness. From the promontory on which they now stood, the crest of the range, their vision stretched mile on mile, seeming never to end. Spreading out a roughly drawn map, Gordon Duncan traced for Johnny the course they were to take. He had gotten it from Faye, who in turn had it from the Corporal. Here, down the ridge, they followed the blazed trail. There, where a huge black tamarack tree stood, they bent to the right. A short way farther, and they came to the boiling and tumultuous stream again. Following this as best they might over rock pile and ledge, through dense forest and thicket, they would come at last to a broad, tree covered valley. “At the entrance to that valley,” the old man ended, carefully refolding his map, “unless we have gone wrong, we will find a rude shelter and close beside it an Indian dugout canoe. The canoe was left there six months ago, but the Corporal thinks it is still in condition.” “Here’s hoping,” said Johnny. “For if it is not, our journey ends there.” “And with its ending the fate of many human lives is sealed,” said Gordon Duncan solemnly. “It is strange that so much should depend upon so little. But we must do our part. We are enlisted in a great cause, the welfare of a vanishing race.” As Johnny stood there looking away to the north, where even now it seemed he caught the gleam of a snow blanket, strange thoughts passed through his mind. In a spirit almost of bravado, he had one morning slung his quiver of arrows over his back, bound his pack together, seized his bow and walked away into the wilderness. “I meant to be away a month,” he told himself. “I would remain in the wilderness a month and receive no support save that which came from my bow and arrow. Well,” his face twisted into a doubtful smile, “it will be a month right enough, probably two, perhaps three. And the bow and arrow must support us, not one but three. There is no other way.” “Two months! Perhaps three!” He said the words out loud. “Why, they’ll think me dead! I must go back. It isn’t treating them right. I must go back!” He was thinking of his own people. “And yet—” As he closed his eyes to think he saw a group of little brown people, many groups, seated round the fast vanishing lights of crude tallow lamps. He saw the wan faces of mothers, the eyes of children that gleamed the bright gleam of death by starvation. “One must always think of the highest good of the greatest number.” He quoted the words of a great teacher. “Are we ready?” said Gordon Duncan. “We are ready,” said Johnny. “Lead on.” Once more they marched on. Two days later the girl and boy stood upon the crest of a high hill. Gordon Duncan was back some distance on the trail. Johnny would have gone back for his pack. But the aged Scotchman was still proud of his strength. This was the last climb for the day. Their camping place for the night was at the foot of the hill just before them. Here there were no trees, only rocks. Their view was not obstructed. Far away behind hills that had turned to pure gold and mountains that appeared to smoke with the snow driven far and wide by the wind of their summits, the sun was setting. Far below was the river, a golden ribbon winding across a field of white satin. So they stood there, the boy and the girl. Life, beautiful, glorious life, surged through their beings. It was inconceivable that anyone in all the world could be starving at this moment. Spring was in the making. They did not see it. The willows by the river were not budding. The snow of the trail was hard as the rocks on which they now stood; yet spring was coming. They could feel it in their blood. Youth, spring, life. The night before they had stood for a moment beneath the starry heavens wondering what life could exist in those great distances beyond. “Whatever it may be,” Johnny told himself, “it could not be more wonderful than life here and now.” Life! The great cities with their noise and dirt, with their artificiality, their fraud and sham, were far away. The girl that stood at his side was real. From toes to fingertips, she was genuine. Her mackinaw was faded, her knickers frayed in spots, but the color in her cheeks, the smile on her lips, the glint of pure joy in her eye, were real. “Real!” He said the word aloud. She heard and understood. It was well for them that they enjoyed this perfect moment together, for the days that were to come were such as require strong and beautiful memories to lessen their pain. Gordon Duncan came toiling up the hill. Seeing the halo of sunset glory that had been cast about them, he said; “It is truly wonderful. Who could believe that less than two hundred miles from this spot men, women and little children may be starving? There are men who will tell you that nature is God. A cruel God indeed who could furnish us such beauty and offer to them only death.” The sun sank from sight. Darkness and a sudden chill overtook them. Turning, they marched down the hill in silence. Several nights later, with only a shelter of poles covered by boughs, Johnny slept again in his blankets before the fire. His was the sleep of one whose burdens are heavy, whose trails have been long, but whose heart is light. “The canoe is fit,” was the last word of Gordon Duncan before they went to rest. “Fit as a fiddle. To-morrow the river takes us on the way.” “But remember,” said his granddaughter, “that there are rapids in the river.” “There are never rapids in any life till we reach them,” said the rugged old Scot. “And when we do reach them we can but do our part. God will see that all is for the best.” |
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