Riddle of the Storm

by Roy J. Snell

  CHAPTER XXV A POCKETFUL OF GOLD

  In the meantime Lloyd Hill had climbed from his hole beneath the frozencrust of earth to stare at his slender companion, Joyce Mills, in genuinedismay.

  "That is no task for a girl!" he exclaimed. "I was too eager. I--I wantedto share it with you!"

  Truly the girl's appearance would never have done in a parlor setting.She had thrown off her fur parka. Her heavy wool dress was smeared fromwaist to hem with sandy mud. Her moccasins were a wreck. Her hands werered and blistered. She had been turning the windlass and dumping pay-dirtfor three solid hours.

  "No! No!" she protested gamely. "Why, it has been marvelous! I--Iwouldn't have missed it for anything. Truly I wouldn't!"

  "Well, then," replied Lloyd, in a calmer voice, "now that the worst isover, I suggest that you put on your parka and prepare to rock this thingback and forth for an hour while we pan our pay-dirt and see how muchgold we really have."

  "There is some," she replied excitedly as her head disappeared inside herparka. "I saw it gleaming among the pebbles."

  "Oh, yes, there is some."

  * * * * * * * *

  Strange as it may seem, at this moment Scott Ramsey, in that otherprospector's camp seventy miles away, was bursting through the door witha shout:

  "They've found it! Gold!"

  Sandy MacDonald, who had been stirring up a batch of sourdough flapjacks,turned about to stare. "Found gold? Where?"

  "Those fellows who have been using our pictures. They've found gold in anold creek bed."

  "When?"

  "Two, three hours ago."

  "Then the Moccasin Telegraph works?"

  "Sure it works. And now--"

  "Seems a shame to claim a share."

  "It does. But it's only just. We must not let foolish sentiment stop us.We must think of our rights."

  "Scott," said Sandy thoughtfully, "did you ever receive an answer to thatletter you wrote to your friend in Winnipeg asking about those films?"

  "Never did."

  "It should be here by now."

  "Yes. But it hasn't arrived, not yet."

  * * * * * * * *

  Lloyd Hill's method of extracting gold from pay-dirt was simple, buteffective. He had arranged a board trough a foot wide, six inches deepand ten feet long in such a manner that it might be shaken backward andforward. Since the trough was tilted slightly, any substance within itwould move slowly toward the lower end.

  At that end was a pocket half filled with quick-silver.

  He shoveled pay-dirt into the trough. As the girl rocked the troughbackward and forward he poured upon it warm water from his steam thawer.As the mass of soft earth moved downward, heavy particles went to thebottom, then into the mercury pocket. The mercury collected the gold toitself. The lighter rocks were crowded out and passed on.

  "Won't get it all," Lloyd explained as he shoveled. "Not near all. But,if it's any good we'll thaw it out and work it over again in the spring."

  For an hour after that they worked in silence. Only once did the youngman lift his face to the wind, to mutter:

  "Going to storm."

  Already the wind was rising. Joyce felt bits of snow cut her cheeks.

  "No matter," she murmured. "It's not so far back. And you couldn't loseold Dannie. Good old Dannie! He knows the way."

  Then a thought struck her. She seemed to be hearing Johnny Thompson say:"If you make a strike, we'll know it. Moccasin Telegraph."

  "Does he know?" she asked herself. "If he knows, will he come, he and theothers?"

  Once more she felt the sting of snow on her cheek, and shuddered.

  But had they made a strike after all? They would soon know!

  Pausing to rest his weary muscles, the young Canadian allowed thepay-dirt to drift off the rocker until nothing remained save that whichwas in the pocket.

  "Now--" His voice was a trifle unsteady. "Now we shall see!"

  Thrusting in his hand, he stirred the mass in the pocket. And as hestirred the tense muscles of his face relaxed into a smile.

  "Joyce, my child!" he cried, seizing her and sending her whirling roundand round. "We win! There is gold! Gold aplenty!"

  "Four pounds if an ounce!" he exclaimed a little later when the work wasdone. "And this is only the beginning!

  "Night's coming." He looked away toward the west. "Night and storm. Noone will disturb these diggings. Hop into the sled and we will be going."

  Wearily, with every muscle in her body crying for rest, but with a heartpounding with joy, the girl dropped to her place in the toboggan sled andallowed her companion to tuck the soft caribou-skin robe about her.

  "Joyce," he murmured, "you've been a great pal to me this day! Settledown for an hour of rest. You shan't set a foot on the snow until wereach your cabin door."

  "We have won!" he exclaimed, as he gripped the handle bars.

  "God has helped us," was her answer.

  "Yes. We trusted God and did our best."

  What a moment for shadows! Yet shadows came unbidden. One floated at thismoment before the girl's eyes. "Those films were stolen," she seemed tohear a voice saying.

  "Oh, please!" she pleaded half aloud. "We will do what is right. All willbe well in the end."

  Too weary for further thought, she closed her eyes and gave herself overto the pure joy that comes with gliding across the snow in a toboggansled behind a swift and eager team, the Arctic's best.

  Three hours later Joyce was seated alone by the fire. The hour was late.There came a sound at the door. Having turned about, expecting herfather, she was a little startled to see instead the mysterious strangershe had, under unusual circumstances, met before.

  Twice this man had, she believed, saved her from the mad buffalo. Now,without a word, he closed the door to make his way to the seat before thehearth. Presently he raised a hand to point to the coffee pot.

  From all this you will be led to believe that this stranger was noneother than the one so well known to many of the inhabitants of the landas "The Voice." And so he was.

  Joyce Mills had been about the world a great deal. She was not easilyfrightened. The man did not disturb her. Understanding his gesture, shereplenished the fire and in due time poured out a cup of black coffee. Hedrank it scalding hot. Once again he sat as in a trance. Once more hedemanded coffee and got it. Then he spoke:

  "You find gold." It was not a question, but a statement. How could shedeny it? And yet, how did he know? They had told no one and the discoverywas only a few hours old. Without a word, she stared at him.

  But more was to come.

  "See. See young man, big, strong, brave. Fly red devil bird, fly, thatone. See that one drop down, down, down!"

  The girl closed her eyes. He was speaking, she knew all too well, of DrewLane.

  "But not dead." The man's voice rose to a high pitch. "Not dead, thatone."

  "Yes, yes! He is dead!" came her quick reply.

  "No!" The man was angry. Half rising from his chair, he fixed her withhis eagle eye.

  "No. He not dead!" He sank back into the chair.

  Sensing somehow that whether he spoke truth or falsehood, this man's wordwas not to be disputed, she held her peace.

  After a time he spoke again. This time his story was long and rambling.It told of two boys made prisoner and kept in the cabin of an airplane.His description of the older of these boys fitted Johnny Thompson so wellthat Joyce could not mistake it.

  "More romance," she told herself, "but let him talk."

  The man rambled on. He spoke of the "Gray Streak," of a hunchbackedIndian, of swift dog teams and of a curious cavern beneath thesnow-covered earth.

  She listened. But all the time she was thinking: "I wish this dreamerwould go away. I wish father were here."

  In time both her wishes were granted.

  With her father came the fortunate young gold hunter, Lloyd Hill.
/>   "Do you know who that is?" Lloyd exclaimed before she had half finishedtelling of her visitor. "He is known as the Voice. Everyone who lives inthis land believes he speaks the truth. I have never known a case inwhich he erred."

  "But he said Drew Lane was not dead."

  "And who will prove he has not spoken the truth?"

  "He said Johnny Thompson was a prisoner in the 'Gray Streak.'"

  "And so he may be."

  Joyce lost her power of speech. If all that the Voice had said were true,this was indeed a strange world.

  "Time will tell." She settled on this conviction. "But if it is all true!If it is!

  "But how could he know all this? Surely he cannot be in many places atthe same time?"

  "Moccasin Telegraph."

  "What _is_ Moccasin Telegraph?" Her tone was eager, commanding.

  "That is a question no one can answer; at least no white man. A questionno red man is willing to answer. We only know that they know. Time andagain in this great white wilderness catastrophes have befallen men. Atrapper has been killed by an enraged bull moose. A hunter has been shotby his own gun. A plane has crashed. Each time, within an hour or two,some Indian hundreds of miles away has described the tragedy in detail.How do we explain it? How could we? We do not try. We say MoccasinTelegraph, and leave it at that."

  "It--why, that is uncanny!"

  Seeing that the whole affair was getting on her nerves, Lloyd wiselychanged the subject.

  Yet, two hours later, before she fell asleep, the girl found herselfpuzzling over these things.

  "Johnny Thompson a prisoner in the cabin of the 'Gray Streak,'" shewhispered to herself. "And the 'Gray Streak,' where is it? The 'Riddle ofthe Storm,' Curlie Carson called it. What a riddle!

  "And Drew Lane? His is a riddle of the clouds.

  "What a world this is! Long ago Johnny Thompson said we could come hereto find peace. Have we found it? Truly this world knows no valley ofcontentment."