  Exactly a quarter of an hour, measured by Gordon Duncan’s large and ancient timepiece, elapsed before the natives on the island announced by a wild burst of shouting that they were ready for Gordon Duncan and Faye to haul away on the line of homespun yarn. Faye found her heart beating wildly as she seized the slender line that spanned the rushing water. Well enough she knew that should this line fail them, a half score of lives must be lost. “And life,” she told herself as her lips moved in silent prayer, “life is such a precious heritage.” Slowly, steadily, they began to haul away. Moment by moment the tug on that slender line grew stronger. Now as the current rising in mad fury redoubled its efforts to defeat them, it seemed that surely the slender line must snap. “It—it’s like landing a great trout,” the girl told herself. And now, just as it seemed the line must break, the rush subsided. Hauling away with a will they at last gave forth an exultant shout. Gordon Duncan’s hand gripped the end of the stout rawhide rope that now spanned the flood. “We have won, child! We have won!” he panted. But had they? There was much work yet to be done. A stout line now connected them with the imperiled ones. How would these work out their salvation? Gordon Duncan dragged the line to a stout tree and fastened it securely there. This done, his work for the time was over. It will not seem strange that his eyes wandered once more to that mysterious cabin that had, beyond doubt, at one time been his home. Hardly had he done this than he leaped to his feet with a wild exclamation on his lips: “He’s leaving! He—he—he’s running away!” This seemed true. Certainly a tall, fur clad man, driving four huge wolfhounds hitched to a long sled, left the cabin and was now racing along a narrow plateau at top speed. And ever as he ran, he appeared to urge his dogs to greater effort. “He’s leaving!” Gordon Duncan said more quietly. “He’s running away, and he has the treasure on his sled. You don’t think—” He turned troubled, questioning eyes on his granddaughter. “You don’t believe Timmie’d run away with the green gold?” “No,” said the girl without knowing why, “No, I don’t think he would. He probably does not know you are Gordon Duncan.” “Unless it is the years. Man’s mind is queer,” said Gordon Duncan. “God knew best when he said, ‘It is not well for man to dwell alone.’” “But see!” the girl exclaimed suddenly. She pointed across the flood. A strange procession was taking off from the distant shore. Three dog teams drawing three loaded sleds, lashed one before the other, went fearlessly into the flood. Clinging to the sleds were ten or more human beings, men, women and children. “Bravo!” exclaimed Gordon Duncan. “They will win yet. They can’t swim. No matter. Their dogs can. They will cling to the sleds. The rawhide line will save them from the terrible flood and land them safely on this shore.” “But come on!” the girl shouted. “We must be downstream to help them.” She sped downstream, closely followed by her sturdy grandfather whose eyes ever and anon looked longingly away to the spot where the team of great gray dogs was fast disappearing. As for Faye, her thoughts were all for the little brown people who had put so boldly out into the racing white waters with only a slender cord to save them from certain destruction. As the teams and sleds with their clinging human freight were caught by the flood, they swung squarely about, facing upstream. It was then that the little brown huskies proved themselves true heroes. Beaten back, carried off their feet, buffeted at, half drowned by the racing torrent, these dogs kept their small feet going at a feverish rate. Had it not been for these many pairs of little brown feet, each doing its bit, there can be no doubt but that the rawhide rope must have snapped. As it was, it held and like a great pendulum, dogs, sleds, men and cord swung slowly, surely across the racing peril. Faye’s heart stood still as, pausing at the point where they must arrive, if indeed they were to arrive at all, she caught the slow sweep that was bearing them on. Would they make it? Could they? Would the little brown beasts give up in despair? Would the rope part? Now they were a quarter way across, and now a half. Here at the very heart of the torrent, they appeared to hang suspended. “They do not move,” she breathed. And yet, yes, yes, they must be moving. A tree on the opposite bank, hidden ten seconds before, was visible now. Of a sudden fresh peril appeared. Beneath the water was winter ice that had not yet thawed. Loosing its grip, a broad cake of this rose suddenly to the surface. Twenty yards above the drifting band it appeared about to ram them, to snap their support, to overturn their sleds and send them to the bottom. But again, as if an invisible hand had reached down to shove them forward, the pendulum swung faster. The ice, missing them, raced harmlessly on. A moment later Faye was lifting a laughing brown child from his mother’s arms, and a joyous group of nomad people were clambering up the shelving bank to safety. Faye’s joy knew no bounds. They had been instrumental, with God’s help, in saving a half score of lives. While Gordon Duncan shared quietly in her joy, his heart was in the hills. His eyes followed the trail over which the four great dogs and their white bearded master had vanished. Sensing all this, Faye resolved at once to enlist their new-found friends in a fresh endeavor to come up with her Grandfather’s former companion, and so to solve that which for her had become a great mystery. “But first,” she told herself, with a fresh pang of pain throbbing at her heartstrings, “we must try to find some trace of Johnny Longbow.” The little brown people they had saved proved to be Indians from the land of Little Sticks. In their search for food they had been forced farther and farther north until they came to the upper reaches of the mighty Yukon. Having killed three caribou, they had found their needs supplied for the moment. This was enough. They had pitched their tents on the little island. As they rested before the long journey back to their accustomed hunting grounds, they had been caught unawares by the flood. Always a wandering people, ever grateful for kindness, they were ready for any undertaking or adventure. There was still a supply of caribou meat on their sleds. What next should be done? To the one member of their company who could understand English, Faye explained the curious circumstances that had brought them so far north. She told also of the misadventure that apparently had befallen their traveling companion. No sooner was a simple meal of stewed meat and tea over than the entire company spread out fan-shape in a search for the lost boy. Four o’clock found them returning to camp one by one with reports of failure. Only one clue was brought to light. The three men of the Indian party returned bearing on their shoulders great pieces of bear meat. This bear, they explained, had been slain with a bow and arrow. They produced the arrow as proof. And they explained further with many a strange exclamation that the man who shot the arrow was the most powerful giant that ever lived. No Eskimo, no Indian, no white man they had ever known pulled a bow with such a force and power. They felt quite sure he must be some strange spirit being, not human at all. “It is Johnny’s arrow,” said Faye at once. “But he was possessed of no such strength. Who could have shot the arrow?” She suggested the aged recluse, but Gordon Duncan shook his head. “He was a rather frail man. Now he is old. It is impossible.” Here, then, was fresh mystery. “We can do no more for Johnny Longbow,” said Gordon Duncan. “He is in another’s hands. To-morrow we will follow the trail of my ancient friend. Since this is true it is well that I tell you something of that which befell me on this very mountain many years ago.” Dropping upon one of the Indians’ deerskins, Faye awaited eagerly the strange story which she believed was at last to be unfolded. Gordon Duncan was slow in beginning. The girl’s heart was sore. It is little wonder that her mind should return to thoughts of her brave young companion and his tragic disappearance. “Grandfather,” she said suddenly, “God is cruel.” Knowing full well that she was seeing in her mind’s eye the tumbled heaps of snow, earth and rock piled up by the avalanche, Gordon Duncan spoke quietly. “You are thinking of God as if he were all nature. “God is not nature, and nature is not God. I think there can be no doubt but that God often works through nature to do His will. Perhaps no man living knows precisely God’s relation to nature. Of one thing we may rest assured, whatever God does through nature is sure to be just and kind.” A hush settled over the mountain and something whispered to the girl that all would be well. So, once more in perfect calm, she settled back to await Gordon Duncan’s story. In the meantime, in a far away cabin, still weak from his terrible experience, Johnny Longbow lay upon a bed of skins and watched a creature of prodigious strength and surpassing ugliness boil a pot of broth over a fire in a crude hearth set up in one corner of the cabin. “Where am I?” he asked himself. “What has happened to me? Where are my friends? What is to become of me?” To none of these questions did he find a satisfactory answer, so once more he gave himself over to thoughts of his strange host. “This,” he told himself, “is the being we have called the great banshee.” A thrill coursed up his spine at the thought. Had other evidence been lacking, the size and shape of the man’s feet would be proof enough. “They’d fit those tracks we have been seeing to perfection,” he told himself. Truth was, the creature’s feet were so deformed and long as to suggest that a second foreleg which bent forward had taken the place of a foot. Long and anxiously Johnny studied this strange being. That he was human there could be no question. Was he Eskimo, Indian or white man? There was something of all these in him. His skin was the brownish copper of an Indian. He dressed like an Eskimo. Yet he was a giant of a man in spite of his deformity. “Were he able to stand erect as other men do, he would measure six feet six,” Johnny said to himself. “Who ever heard of an Eskimo that size?” Once more he took to studying the man, his face, his actions. “He seems bright enough and that stuff he’s boiling smells good,” he mused. “Hope he gives me some. Wonder how he lives? Hunting, I suppose. But what weapons?” As if reading his thoughts, the hunchback stepped to a dark corner and brought forth two bows. One Johnny recognized at once as his own. “That’s fine,” he told himself. “When I am strong enough to leave this place I won’t starve at once. Shows some intelligence, his saving my bow for me.” His joy in this matter was destined to be short lived. But now his eyes fell on the other bow. “A back breaker,” he told himself. “Never saw such a bow. Must take a pull of eighty-five, perhaps a hundred pounds to shoot it. Man, Oh, man!” His knowledge of the hunchback’s powers was growing. Nor was it lessened when this strange man nocked an arrow fully thirty-six inches in length and, with the greatest ease, drew his bow to send the arrow crashing into the opposite wall. The next move sent consternation into the boy’s heart. Seizing Johnny’s fifty pound yew bow, the hunchback picked up a second arrow of the same length and nocked it for a shot. Now Johnny used twenty-eight inch arrows. To bend his bow for a thirty-six inch arrow was to court disaster. His mouth opened in a cry of alarm. But too late. The iron arm of his curious host drew back. For the fraction of a second the bow stood the strain, then, just as the arrow sped, there came a rending crash, and the bow broke. Standing there, dazed, with the two fragments of the bow still in his hand, the giant hunchback, as if expecting an explanation to this startling affair, stared stupidly about him. Of a sudden, dropping the shattered bow, he seized his own bow and, pointing at it, began jabbering in a tongue which Johnny understood not at all. What he did understand was that the hunchback considered his own bow a very superior affair, and Johnny’s little more than a toy. “Well, that puts a long question mark after the probability of my getting out of this land,” Johnny told himself. “In the meantime,” he thought a moment later, “how about a little stew?” He made some motions as of eating. The hunchback understood. Soon, like friends of long standing, they were eating out of a single huge wooden bowl. There was little enough ceremony about this meal. With their fingers they took dripping morsels from the stew and ate them so. Ptarmigan and rabbit meat with some dried roots and seeds of native growth had gone into the stew. Yet Johnny thought he had not tasted a better one. When only the thick broth was left, they took turns at tipping up the bowl and drinking from its rim. “It’s a curious world,” Johnny told himself, “a very strange and startling world. I wonder what is to become of me now?” As he looked about the rude shelter he saw no signs of a food store. “My bow is broken,” he told himself. “Without this queer creature’s aid I shall starve.” At that he forgot his troubles in watching the hunchback. He was beating his breast and repeating over and over, “Omnakok! Omnakok! Omnakok!” “Perhaps he’s trying to tell me his name,” the boy thought. At this he pointed at the hunchback and said: “Omnakok.” The face of this queer being expanded in a crooked grimace which Johnny took to be a smile. Then, turning about, he took down a heavy slab of wood. Having grasped a sharp instrument similar to a carpenter’s drawshave, he began making the shavings fly. “What now?” thought Johnny, as he dropped back to his place among the skins in the corner. |
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