“We’ll do everything possible to have the owner traced,” the Mountie promised.
Next, Caribou accompanied the boys to the Wood Buffalo Park office. A bald man of about thirty, dressed in a khaki shirt and pants, greeted them as they entered the small wooden building. “Caribou, I thought you were going to stay in the city and be a dude!” He grinned at the bearded trapper, who laughed loudly.
Caribou introduced the man as Curly Pike, assistant superintendent of the buffalo preserve. As the boys smiled over the humorous misnomer, Caribou said that Curly, as well as his boss, Superintendent Breen Connor, could fly anything with wings.
Frank asked Curly Pike if any strangers had entered the buffalo park recently. He explained about Jesse Keating and his cargo of fuel drums.
“We haven’t issued any permits to a stranger for the past two weeks,” Curly replied, looking at the duplicates of the pass applications.
“Could a man have entered the park illegally?” Joe queried.
Curly Pike rubbed the top of his bald head thoughtfully. “It’s possible. That’s mighty rugged country and difficult to patrol. Somebody could sneak in without being seen.”
Disappointed, the boys thanked Curly, who wished them luck in their search. “Sorry not to be of any help,” he called, as they went out the door.
“We can still go on a search downriver,” Joe urged.
“It sounds funny to say ‘down’ a river which runs north,” Chet said. “The current will help us, too!”
“We’ll need a canoe,” Caribou said, heading down the main street of Fort Smith. “Come!”
When they reached the small docks at the edge of the river landing, Caribou made arrangements to rent a canoe with an outboard motor. He told the boatyard owner that they would be back for the craft in about two hours.
“What about food?” Chet pleaded. “We can’t go without that.”
Frank and Joe laughed at their chubby friend. “That’s a good suggestion,” Joe added.
“We’ll go for supplies while our canoe’s being fueled,” Frank said. “I’ve ordered some extra tanks of gas put aboard.”
The group trudged back up the hill to the Hudson’s Bay store to buy canned meats, dried fruits and vegetables, and some new lines for their fishing rods.
After a snack the group went back to the supply store and picked up their provisions. Mr. Stone offered to keep their suitcases for the duration of the river trip and to accept messages for them. They took what clothing they would need from their bags, and went down to the dock. The boys stowed the rucksacks of food and clothes in the canoe, a large aluminum one with three paddles. Then they started down the Slave River, with Caribou in the stern handling the rudder and motor controls.
Skillfully he guided the craft past the dangerous upjutting rocks and swirling currents. Soon they were out of sight of Fort Smith.
“This looks like pioneer country, all right,” Joe observed presently.
When they rounded a bend, Caribou pointed out white water in the broad river. “Arctic wind is kicking up trouble,” he commented. Even as he spoke, the canoe began to pitch on the choppy surface.
The stream grew suddenly rougher, and the lightweight craft rocked from side to side.
“Tonnerre!” Caribou boomed over the sound of the wind. “Hang on!”
The boys gripped the edges of the canoe to steady themselves as it heaved up and down in the growing swell. Chet, who was seated in the bow, gasped and exclaimed, “We’ve sprung a leak!”
CHAPTER VIII
Missing Campers
“WE are sinking!” shouted Caribou. “To shore!” Just then there was a sputter as the outboard motor conked out. “Sacrebleu!” the French-Canadian yelled.
Frank and Joe grabbed paddles while Chet tore off his shirt and used it to plug the hole in the canoe. The Hardys paddled furiously while Garibou pulled at the motor’s starting rope. The outboard coughed once, but did not turn over.
“Motor’s probably flooded from spray,” Joe panted. “What luck!”
Caribou also seized a paddle and his strong back muscles flexed as he strained to help turn the rocking boat toward shore.
Frank felt as though his aching arms would break. Perspiration glistened on his and Joe’s foreheads. In spite of Chet’s efforts to plug the leak, the water poured in.
“Paddle!” shouted Caribou. “Faster, boys, faster!”
Frank and Joe put greater effort into their strokes. The heavily laden canoe pushed and plowed its way through the waves, and as the bow neared shore, suddenly touched bottom. Chet leaped out into knee-deep water. Frank, Joe, and Caribou followed. Grabbing the sides of the boat, they hauled it up over the rocks onto a small beach.
Exhausted, the foursome dropped to the sand to rest. As soon as Joe had caught his breath he said disgustedly, “We’ll have a hard time finding the thieves now!”
“Bon tonnerre!” Caribou shouted, leaping to his feet. “We must unload gear before she gets wet!”
“And how!” Chet cried as the boys jumped up. “Rescue the food!”
With the four working quickly, the canoe was emptied and turned over. The Hardys then examined the bottom of the metal craft.
“Hey!” Frank cried out. “Look! This leak was caused deliberately!”
Everyone crowded around to look. Very cleverly five of the rivets that held the aluminum sides to the keel had been taken out and replaced with bits of putty.
“Pretty foxy—whoever did it,” said Joe, sitting back on his heels. “The putty would be waterproof and hold tight until strain was put on the hull.”
“If we hadn’t moved fast,” Chet put in, “we’d be swimming right now.”
“Tonnerre!” Caribou shouted. “That rascal nearly succeed this time. But no more!”
“You mean your friend Dulac?” Frank asked. “Or one of the thieves?”
The trapper shrugged, and Joe said, “It’s anybody’s guess. But whoever did it must have sneaked into the boatyard and tampered with the canoe while we were gone.”
“I think I can make repairs,” Caribou said, and went to work quickly, using bits of bent wire. Finally the craft was placed back in the water and proved seaworthy.
After cleaning and refueling the outboard motor, the boys and their guide set out again down the river. It was growing dusky.
“We’ll have to stop for the night soon,” Caribou advised.
They cruised along smoothly and after a time spotted a canoe coming upstream. In the craft sat two men in khakis.
“Hunters,” said Caribou.
“Let’s ask them if they’ve seen a raft with gasoline drums aboard,” Frank suggested, and hailed the men.
The wind had died down, so the two canoes now lay quietly side by side. Caribou questioned the hunters, since they spoke only French.
There was a rapid-fire discussion among the three. After a few minutes Caribou pushed the other boat and waved as the strangers continued their trip upstream.
“They have come right from the mouth of the river,” he reported. “They saw no boat towing a raft.”
Frank frowned. “The thief may have reached the float plane already or pulled into hiding along the shore if he spotted those men.”
“That is right,” Caribou agreed. “But now it is too dark to look for him. Ahead I see good camping place for us.”
A few minutes later the searchers entered a small cove with a smooth beach. The boys hopped out, and slid the canoe carefully up a gently shelving rock. After unloading the supplies, they carried the craft onto the beach and placed it on props.
Frank took a three-quarter ax from the pack and began gathering firewood. Joe went down to the bank to catch fish for supper, while Chet spread reindeer moss, which he covered with balsam tips for a sleeping area. He rolled out the boys’ sleeping bags onto this cushioning.
Caribou sat down on a rock and watched as the three boys worked rapidly and efficiently. “You are good campers,” he said, obviously impresse
d.
The fire was hot when Joe returned with a half dozen grayling. The fish were quickly fried, and the hungry travelers ate them with canned stewed tomatoes and brown bread. After they had finished the meal and cleaned the cooking utensils, Joe put another log on the fire and the four sat back, relaxed.
“Why are you called Caribou?” Frank asked the trapper.
Caribou said that when he was a small boy, he had come to this territory from the Ungava district near Labrador. “No caribou there. I was very smart.” He grinned widely. “The first time I see one, I think it is cow!” He spoke in his old patois.
“Trapper tell me to pet the cow, so I walk up to the big caribou. I get a surprise. She turn quick and rush at me. I run fast, just make it to tree, but her horns tear my pants.”
The three boys laughed heartily and Chet said, “Moo! Some cow!”
“After that,” said Caribou, “all the trappers in the north country call me Caribou Caron.”
The burly man regaled his young companions with several hair-raising stories of his life in the north. Then they all crawled into their sleeping bags and were soon in deep slumber.
Joe did not know how long he had been asleep when he heard a crack loud enough to make him sit up and listen intently.
The fire had died down and the air was still. He glanced around the campfire. Caribou and Chet were not there!
Joe, alarmed, shook his brother awake. Frank rolled over drowsily and asked, “Wh-a-at’s wrong?”
“Caribou and Chet are gone,” Joe told him.
Frank became fully awake now. “Gone?” he echoed. “Where?”
“I don’t know. Something must have awakened them,” Joe answered, “and they went to investigate.”
The Hardys threw more wood on the fire to light up the area. As the chips flared up brightly, they began a search of the campsite. Suddenly, from the far side of the fire, came a “Sh!”
The Hardys swung around. Out of the shadows stepped a medium-sized, roughly dressed man. He was wiry and tough looking.
“Who are you?” Frank demanded. “What are you doing here?”
The man attempted a weak smile, then said, “My name is Soleau, and I’ve come to warn you about your guide, Caribou Caron.”
“What about Caribou?” Joe asked. He instinc tively did not like the man.
“Caron is dangerous—mentally unbalanced,” the stranger said. “And he’s leading you on a wild-goose chase.”
“Where is Caribou now?” Frank asked warily.
“He has taken your friend as a hostage,” Soleau said with a sneer.
“A hostage!” Joe repeated. “I don’t believe you!”
“It’s true,” the stranger insisted, edging his way closer to Frank. “You fellows had better go back to Fort Smith or you’ll be next.”
“Look out!” Joe yelled suddenly. But he was too late. Bam! Soleau swung a powerful right punch at Frank. The boy had no time to duck as the rocklike fist cracked against his jaw.
As Frank dropped unconscious by the fire, Joe leaped across the flames at Soleau. With a shocking tackle Joe brought him down. The stranger’s feet came up in a vicious kick and knocked the wind out of the boy. Shaking his head and gasping for breath, Joe reached around the man’s neck and hung on. The two rolled on the ground, coming dangerously close to the red-hot coals of the campfire. The top of Joe’s head grew hot as Soleau forced him nearer and nearer the flames.
Suddenly from the darkness came a great roar. “Bon tonnerre!” Caribou crashed through the brush, slashing at branches with his mighty arms. Behind him was Chet.
Caribou crossed the fire in a leap. Grasping the stranger by the shoulders, he pulled him off Joe and flung him away. Soleau flew through the air, arms and legs waving wildly.
But the wiry man knew how to fall. As his weight hit the ground, he rolled quickly to his feet and disappeared in the darkness.
“After him!” Chet cried.
“No!” boomed Caribou. “We never find him in the dark. Help Frank!”
Chet came back to his friend, and Joe scrambled up to assist.
Frank roused when the boys put cold water on his head, and he sat up groggily. “Wow, did he pack a punch!” he said.
“That was Abner Dulac,” Caron snorted in disgust. “A dangerous fox!”
“What’s he got against us?” Frank asked, touching his jaw gingerly.
“Anybody who is a friend of mine is an enemy of Dulac,” Caribou answered. “It was that low-down weasel all the time!”
The Hardys looked puzzled and Chet explained. “I heard a noise like a bear prowling and woke up Caribou. We followed the sound. Dulac must have circled back to steal our gear.”
“Why?” asked Joe in surprise.
Caribou smiled wryly. “One reason, Dulac will take anything. He is thief. Up here in the north, you die if you have no gear!”
Joe grimaced. “Great mackerel! You mean he’d let us die!”
Caribou nodded solemnly. “I warned you—that Dulac is a mean one!”
Chet looked apprehensive. “Do you think he’ll keep on our trail and cause us more trouble?”
The big trapper shrugged. “It could be so. We will have to keep eyes in the backs of our heads.”
Frank had been silent, mulling over the recent incident. Now he said, “What I can’t figure out is why Dulac went to all the trouble of following us here—even using a phony name to trick us. He must be up to something more serious than robbing traps—or trying to spite you, Caribou.”
The others agreed. “But what?” Joe puzzled.
“No more mysteries tonight!” Chet begged. “How about a little sleep?”
The boys and Caribou were soon back in their bags. They dozed off but their rest was fitful.
The next morning was bright and clear. After washing in the bracing river, the group had a good breakfast. Everyone pitched in to break camp, then they set out in the canoe again.
As the sun grew hotter, hordes of insects buzzed about the boys’ heads, and they quickly covered their upper bodies with the netting they had brought along.
“Dad was right about these pests!” Joe said, slapping at a persistent black fly.
During the next four hours, they navigated down the rapidly moving river, searching for the gasoline raft. They were perspiring from the heat and were growing discouraged when Frank suddenly pointed to the shore.
“Over there!” he called out.
A crude log raft was barely visible under low-hanging brush. Quickly Caribou cut the motor, and the boys paddled swiftly to shore.
Joe jumped out first and ran to the raft. Reaching it, he called excitedly, “We’ve found it! I can smell gasoline!”
CHAPTER IX
Grizzly Charge!
EXCITED but silent, Frank and Chet slipped out of the canoe, and with Caribou’s help, hauled the boat up on the beach. They rushed over to join Joe at the raft.
“Bon tonnerre!” The French-Canadian trapper gave a huge sniff. “This certainly carry fuel!”
“We can’t be sure that this is Keating’s raft,” Chet spoke up.
“No,” said Frank. “But it’s a good place to start a search and find out the owner’s identity. Let’s separate and look for a trail.”
The four spread out in different directions, struggling through the dense, tangled undergrowth back from the river. Suddenly Frank gave a birdcall from a thicket to signal the others.
“I’ve found an opening!” he told them. “Over here!” His companions joined him quickly and found Frank at the head of a crude, narrow trail.
He and Joe dropped to their knees and studied the path and the weeds at the edge.
The boys noted that the dirt bore scrape marks and the growth was trampled. Frank announced triumphantly, “Something heavy was dragged or rolled along here not too long ago—and, from the footprints, probably by two men.”
“Like a fuel drum?” Joe added, grinning.
“Ah!” Caribou exclaimed, his eye
s flashing. “Come on! We’ll follow their trail!”
He and the boys rushed back to the canoe and unloaded their gear. They strapped on their rucksacks. Chet and Caribou toted the rest of the equipment, while Frank and Joe carried the canoe.
The searchers set forth on the trail. For the first hundred yards it was narrow and roughly blazed. The group trudged along as the path twisted and turned, growing wider as they walked farther inland. Finally the trail led up the face of a rugged incline.
“Whew! That’ll be a tough portage,” Joe said, as they all paused to rest.
The Hardys decided to leave the supplies and canoe camouflaged beneath some dense brush. Then the ascent began.
“Boy!” Chet puffed. “Lucky we left our stuff back there and didn’t lug it!”
“Oui,” said Caribou. “The men with the drum were very determined.”
Frank was first to reach the top. He found himself gazing out over a small, sparkling, jewellike lake about a mile in diameter. The shores were ringed with tall, stately Canadian blue spruce trees.
The other three scrambled to join him at the summit. “Pretty nice,” said Joe. “I could go for a dive in there.” He mopped his brow.
“Me, too,” Chet added emphatically.
The four hurried along the trail, which was smooth and well cleared, to the edge of the small lake. There the drag marks disappeared into the water. But there was nothing in sight on the smooth surface.
“Let’s circle the lake,” Frank suggested, and they tramped along the curving shore.
About a quarter of the way around, Joe suddenly pointed offshore. “What’s that out there?” he asked excitedly.
Everyone stared at a floating object glinting in the sunlight on the surface of the lake.
“It’s an empty gasoline drum!” said Frank.
“What a clue!” Chet exclaimed.
The boys stripped to their shorts, swam out, retrieved the metal cylinder, and dragged it up onto the sandy beach.
Caribou rolled the drum over for inspection. “It’s Keating’s all right,” he announced, pointing to the Hudson’s Bay stencil 42. “This is the Fort Smith store number.”
The Viking Symbol Mystery Page 5
