by Roy J. Snell
CHAPTER VIII A HAVEN OF REFUGE
"It is going to storm." The old Scot dropped his paddle to the bottom ofthe dugout long enough to turn up the collar of his jacket, then he tookup the mechanical swing of his brawny arms that had done so much in thedays that had just passed to speed the three adventurers on into theNorthland.
"Going to be a bad one!" Johnny threw a fleeting glance at the girlbefore him. Like her grandfather, she performed wonders. She had kept upthe steady, monotonous swing of paddle until Johnny thought she must beworking in her sleep. The muscles of her arms had grown hard as a man's.
They had found the Corporal's cottonwood dugout a good one. For threedays it had carried them straight on into the great unknown.
"After all, she's only a girl," he told himself, thinking once more ofthe girl. "This storm will be a bad one. Wish we'd come to shelter. Themap shows a cabin or something down here somewhere. Be easy enough topass it in the storm. Map don't show which bank. Wish--"
Just then the advance guard of the storm struck. A rattling drive ofcutting snow, a sudden gust that set their canoe on side, and it wasgone.
"But there will be other blasts and worse ones," he told himself.
In this he was right. A half hour had not passed before they wereshooting along through a veritable wall of driving white. One of thosesudden and terrible storms that haunt the Arctic had come driving downfrom the North.
"Have to go ashore and try to get up something of a camp," said the oldScot, as with the greatest difficulty he unbent his benumbed fingers."Can't stand this. Cold and damp will get us. Wind off that ice water isterrible."
Once more Johnny looked at the girl. Gripping her paddle, she still swungher arms in rhythmic motion.
"Half froze," he thought, with a tightening of the throat. "She's doingand enduring all for the good of people she has not seen."
Just then there was a stir in the prow of the canoe. Tico, the dog givento Faye by the Corporal, had crept from his snug corner to lift his noseto the air, point toward the farther shore, and let out an unhappy wail.
"Something over there." The girl spoke now for the first time in a halfhour. "Maybe game. That's something. Our food supply is very low. Bettergo over."
Neither the old Scot nor Johnny questioned her judgment. Turning thecanoe half about, they struck for that distant shore.
It was a perilous journey. The moment they left the sheltering bank,waves began crashing over the gunwale.
The boat was half filled when the girl, dropping her paddle, began tobale. The men toiled unremittingly at the oars.
"Wind's with us. Be there soon," Johnny said cheeringly.
"Wa-roo!" answered the dog. Standing high in the prow, he appeared todirect their course.
They were still half a boat length from shore when with a mighty leap thedog, clearing the boat, landed on the ice that edged the water and atonce shot away into the forest.
"Tico! Tico!" the girl cried. "Come back! Come back!"
Wind and water drowned her cries. The dog did not return.
"All we can do is to follow him," said Johnny as he made the boat fast toa bough that hung far out over ice and water, then tested the ice with anaxe.
"Here, let me have those," he said as Gordon Duncan was about to throwhis bundle of bows and arrows ashore.
"Guess you better carry them," said Gordon Duncan. "Can't be too carefulof your artillery in such a land."
After a dangerous slide or two they were on land.
Following the dog's steps in the snow, Johnny led the way into thetangled brush. To his great joy he found indications of a rough trail.
"May have been made by moose or caribou, for all that," he told himself.
"What was that?" the girl exclaimed suddenly, stopping short.
From behind them had come a cracking sound.
Dropping the bundle of arrows he carried, Johnny sprang back over thetrail.
"It's gone!" There was a touch of despair in his voice as he called tohis companions. "The boat's gone! The branch tore away."
Never in his life had he felt more miserable. No food, no blankets, noshelter in a strange land, hundreds of miles from known human habitation,with a blizzard tearing at them.
"And it's all my fault," he said. "It was I who tied the boat. I shouldhave tested the moorings."
"No," said Gordon Duncan. There was force and dignity in his tone. "It isnot entirely your fault. We were there to offer counsel. And this is notthe end. It is but the beginning. We have bows and arrows. There is gamehere as elsewhere. There is always a way to prepare a shelter and make afire."
"But first we must find Tico," said the girl, who had just come up tothem. "I can't imagine what madness has seized him."
"Dogs," said Gordon Duncan, "are sometimes wiser than humans. There maybe something in his actions that is worth investigating. Let us begoing."
In this he was more right than he knew.
They had not gone a hundred yards when the trail widened. Another hundredyards, and a dark bulk loomed through the whirling snow.
"A cabin or a boulder," said Johnny a little breathlessly.
"Either will prove a boon," said the old Scot. "A shelter in the time ofstorm."
"A cabin! A cabin!" the girl cried joyously as the dog came bounding backto meet her.
And such a cabin as it proved to be! Built of massive logs, with a doorthat required the strength of two to swing it wide, what a haven! It wasequipped with rude bunks, a hand hewn table and chairs and a massivestone fireplace.
"This," said Gordon Duncan, a note of deep, silent joy creeping into hisvoice, "is the very place we were to leave the canoe and strike awayacross the tundra. Truly we have been guided by a great good God."
"God, and Tico," whispered the girl as she sank down upon a chair. Therewas no suggestion of irreverence in her tone.
"Aye, and the dog," said the old Scot. "I doubt not that many times thegreat Creator finds a dog's course more easy to direct than that of ahuman."
A hasty survey of the cabin revealed many delightful surprises. Built, nodoubt, by some trader and trapper of bygone days, it had been fashionedto shut out the rigor of winter and the tearing rush of wild northerngales. It had been equipped with massive iron cooking utensiles whichwere still serviceable. It had, beyond doubt, been used by the MountedPolice as a temporary station, for, hidden away among the rafters wereblankets, a coffee pot, a small quantity of flour and baking powder, acan of coffee, a sack of beans and a square of bacon.
"Man! Did I not tell you?" exclaimed the joyous Scot. "'Twas God's handthat led us. 'Tis a royal feast we'll have.
"No better fritters were ever made than those moulded by the hands of thebonny lassie here. Bacon, fritters, coffee beside a fire that laughs up agenerous chimney. Who could ask for more?"
Johnny joined with the old Scot in his rejoicing. He had not, however,forgotten that their boat was irretrievably lost and that it was many,many weary miles back, even to the cabin where they had enjoyed theirlast real night's sleep.
Being young and strong, possessed of a healthy body and a vigorous mind,he did not trouble about the future for long, but springing out into thestorm, began dragging in dry brush and logs.
"Ah, now the storm may laugh and the wind crack her cheeks!" exclaimedthe Scot as he attacked the branches with an axe he had found in thecorner.
Bacon, fritters and coffee might seem a meager feast. But to those whohad lived for days on caribou steak, rabbits, partridge and squirrel, itwas indeed a rich repast. Even Tico enjoyed it beyond his power toexpress.
When at last the feast was over and the heavy pots and pans hung in theirplaces Johnny piled three great spruce logs in the center of thefireplace, thrust dry branches and wind wrecked splintered fragments inthe niches between, then with his friends sat down to watch with dreamyeyes the leaping, laughing, roaring flames.
The old Scot was soon nodding in his chair. Lower an
d lower his head sankupon his breast until only the tangled gray of hair and beard werevisible.
Softly, on tiptoe, the girl went to bend over his chair. As she tiptoedback to her place beside the boy, she whispered:
"Sleeping."
Johnny nodded.
For a long time, save for the roar of the wind outside answered by thecrackle of the fire within, there was silence. But who can say whatcommunion may be had between hearts loyal and true in moments of silence?
When the girl spoke her tone was deep and low. "I am afraid for him. Hisheart," she said, glancing toward the sleeping patriarch, "Some day--"
She did not finish, but once more sat starring at the fire.
"This," she said at last, "is to be his one great adventure. He has theheart of youth, of a knight, a Crusader. We have always lived quietly onour farm, except for these trips into the forest. Always since he was aboy, he has told me, he has longed for an opportunity to render a greatservice. He believes this is his great opportunity, his crowded hour,this and his final search for old Timmie and his green gold. What atriumph it will be if he accomplishes all!" Again she stared at the fire.
Johnny nodded. He understood.
"We will do all we can to help him realize his highest hope," he saidhuskily.
A moment later, as the wind shook the cabin, the girl's mood changed. Shefound herself longing for the home of many simple comforts she had leftto follow her grandfather on this strange and uncertain quest.
"You have never seen our home," she said dreamily. "It's not a palace,but it's home. Just a cottage with vines climbing up the front and withfine old fashioned roses, yellow, pink and red, on either side. There's acozy little parlor with a reed organ in one corner. Grandfather loves tosing to it on a Sunday afternoon, those old, old fashioned tunes that areso quaint and so--so sort of wonderful. You should hear him boom themout.
"My room," she went on as if speaking to herself, "looks out upon a fieldof red clover at the side, and at the back is a clump of forest. Thesquirrels are so tame that they come to perch on my window sill and begfor sweets and nuts."
As she ceased speaking Johnny looked at her and realized as never beforethat she was, despite her rugged face and splendid untiring muscles, onlya girl very far from the nest that she called home.
"But," she exclaimed suddenly as if waking from a dream, "we must notturn back! We must go on! Go on for him!" She nodded toward the sleepinggrandfather. "And for the little brown people who, but for us, maystarve."
Three days the storm raged on. Restful days these were, but not idleones. Some of their arrows had gone downstream with their ill-fatedcottonwood boat. Fortunately they found within the cabin two steel sledrunners and a home-made feather duster. The dusters were made of wildgoose feathers. No better for arrows can be found. With the aid of fireand such tools as were at hand, they succeeded in cutting the sledrunners into bits and fashioning them into arrow heads. Dry fir furnishedthem shafts for the arrows. Long hours, working side by side over thetable, the boy and girl, directed by the old man, worked at the task ofmaking arrows. Cutting, scraping, shaping, pounding, forging, binding,with grimy hands but gleaming eyes they worked on and on until when thestorm broke and the sun came out they found themselves better armed thanever before.
"So we may say the storm was a blessing in disguise," said Gordon Duncan."To-morrow we must be on our way," he said as he gazed upon the fadingtints of their first red sunset in the wilderness. "We must hurry. Thecaribou may come and pass to their northern feeding grounds before us.Then indeed our little brown friends will starve."
"And we with them," Johnny wanted to add, but did not.
That night, by the light of the fire, Johnny spent a full hour studyingthree maps he had spread out on the table. More than once a suddenexclamation escaped his lips. At last he rose and began pacing the floor.The old Scot was asleep in his chair. Faye Duncan had watched Johnny withkeen interest. Now as she caught the light of a quizzical smile playingacross his face, she said,
"What is it?"
"Why look!" he replied, leading her to the table. "See, here are threemaps, the one done on white leather by your grandfather so many yearsago, the roughly drawn one by the Corporal to guide us on this trip, andan old general map of the country which I found here in the cabin.
"It's strange," he said, straightening up, "but when you trace the tworoutes out, the one your grandfather proposed to follow in his search forthat more or less mythical partner of his--"
"Don't say that!" Her finger touched his lips. "It's all very real tohim."
"Well, anyway, we are now across the river, and if we follow the routethe Corporal has marked out for us we will be going almost directlytoward the spot your grandfather has marked for Timmie's cabin.
"So," he said, reading the surprise and joy in her eye, "the longest wayround is the shortest way home, after all! See!" He pointed to a spot onthe map. "See. There is the camp of the Eskimo. And here, just a shortway across the tundra, then over these low mountains, is Timmie's cabinand the--the green gold."
"So in choosing to be of service to the natives, Grandfather was reallyserving himself," the girl said as they returned to their places beforethe fire. "How often life is like that."
"Green gold." She repeated the words thoughtfully after a time. "Do yousuppose there is any such thing?"
"Yes, of course there is," said Johnny. "They use it for making jewelry,rings, watch-cases and the like. But where it comes from I haven't theleast notion."
"Is--is it very valuable?"
"Why yes, it must be."
"And if there was a lot of it, a mine or something, and Grandfather has ashare, we would be--might be--"
"Quite rich."
"Oh!" Her eyes shone.
"You know," she said after some time, "we are quite poor andwe--Grandfather might need money badly to--to defend--"
Johnny waited long for the rest of that sentence. It never came.
"Well," he said at last, "to-morrow it's the long, long trail once more."
