by Roy J. Snell
CHAPTER XXIII THREE BEAR SKINS
Early next morning, before Gordon Duncan was astir, and while the girlstill slept the sleep of exhaustion, the Indians crept from beneath theircaribou skins and journeyed forth in quest of food.
Within the hour they returned. And such a load as they carried on theirbacks! Three bear skins and two hundred pounds of meat they cast downupon the ground. Then kicking off the hungry dogs, they cut away broadslices to throw them in the midst of the fighting pack.
"Three bears!" said Faye when she saw them. "How can they have killedthem so soon?"
"Not kill," said the Indian who understood English. "Dead, that one, two,three bear."
"Dead! Then there is someone about."
"No. Not anyone."
"Then who killed them?" She was examining one of the skins. The marks shefound there had not been made by bullets, but by arrows.
"White man no save," said the Indian, shaking his head. "That oneIndian," nodding to his companion, "how you say it? Him one doctor, oneshamin. Plenty spirits help him. Spirit eagle, spirit white fox, spiritold man, long time dead, never shoot rifle, always bow and arrow, thatone help him.
"So this one morning he say, that one (another nod toward his companion),that one say, 'Spirit of old man, kill bear for my dinner. Kill one, two,three bear. Kill him.' That's all. See old man's tracks, mine. So big!"He stretched out his arms at full length.
"He is trying to tell you," said Gordon Duncan, "that his companion has afamiliar spirit; that he is in league with the ghost of an old man andthat the ghost, at his request, has killed three bears."
Faye shook her head. She did not believe it.
"Neither do I." Her grandfather smiled. "But we have the meat. It isenough. Now we may resume our journey in search of Timmie and the greengold."
Had Faye been alone she most certainly would have visited the valley ofdead bears. Had she done so, she must surely have recognized at once thefootprints of her lost pal and the "great banshee."
But, looking at the drawn face of her aged sire and realizing what longmiles must still lie before him, she permitted him to have his waywithout a word.
All day the dogs followed the faint trail left by the fleeing Timmie andhis wolfhounds. That night they camped beneath a sheltering cliff thatlay at the foot of a heavily timbered hill. At the crest of that hill wasa cabin, and in that cabin Johnny Longbow slept. Had a shot been fired byone of the Indians he must have heard it. No shot was fired. There wasfood in abundance. Besides, there was nothing to kill.
So, early next morning, they prepared again for the trail.
"Wonder why they carry those raw skins along," Faye said to Gordon Duncanas the natives lashed the three bear pelts to their sled. "They weigh asmuch as our whole kit. And what possible good can they be?"
"Faye," the old man rumbled, "to a native of this land a pelt of any kindis a precious thing. All year round he dresses in skins, always he sleepsbeneath them. His home in summer is built of them, and in winter theyform the floor mat which protects his feet from the cold earth. His dogharness is made of skins, his sled lashed together with them. To theseIndians a pelt is a thing of great value. To cast it away is to offendthe spirit of the dead bear."
All that he said was true enough. Too soon he was to discover the realreason these sturdy little brown men were willing to put their ownshoulders to the harness that the skins might remain upon the sled.
As they broke camp that day, Faye found herself wondering about manythings. Would they come up with Timmie? Did he carry on his sled thestrange collection of green gold antiques? Was he truly attempting to runaway with the gold? If so, why? And what of Johnny, her good pal of thelong trail? They had experienced many adventures together. Would theirtrails ever cross again? She could not quite believe him dead.
"Adventures," she thought. "How little enjoyment one gets from anadventure when he has no one to share it!"
Adventure came soon enough that day. But first they arrived at that whichappeared to be an impasse in their journey.
The trail that morning led for three miles across a barren tundra. Thereit lost itself in a tangled wilderness of trees and bushes. The trustydogs did not so much as falter. Their senses were sure; their aim true.
But what was this? After an hour of travel through the silent forest theycame to an abrupt halt. Before them lay a tangled mass of freshly cutboughs.
"He made camp here last night," said Faye as her heart gave a great leap."Per--perhaps he is still here."
Certainly she hoped this might be true. The trail had been long, very,very long, and she was weary. It was not the weariness that comes fromone day of strenuous toil, but the bone weariness of the long, longtrail.
"He's gone!" Gordon Duncan said a moment later. "Gone down the river."
"Not--not down the river!" Faye passed round the pile of brush, to dropweakly to earth as she read unmistakable signs of a raft built and pushedoff from the shore.
"To think," she said, her eyes reflecting the tragedy of her heart, "hewas here working while we slept! And now he is gone; gone forever. And wehave come all this way but to know defeat!"
"We must follow," said Gordon Duncan.
"The break-up will come. We will perish!"
"We must trust God, and go."
"But how?"
The Indians answered this question. Producing their bear skins they begancutting willows.
"We make skin boat," they said. "Tie wood together so; stretch skin so;sew it this way; not leak. Very good boat. Ride water. Ice not break.Very strong. Very good."
"Wonderful!" said Gordon Duncan. "God sent you to us."
"Eh-eh, the Great Spirit," said the Indian.
Late that afternoon, in a boat that might have been made by someprimitive man three thousand years before, they glided from the shore andaway through the water that ran above the surface of six foot ice which,soon enough, would rise and go booming and crowding and grinding towardthe sea.
Faye's heart missed a beat as she took her place in the prow. They werefacing grave dangers. Would this be her last ride?
And yet it was to be a race, a race between a raft and a skin boat on aturbulent river. Races are always thrilling. Soon her nerves were alla-tingle.
