CHAPTER XIX

SHIPS THAT PASS IN THE NIGHT

Much as they regretted it, Joe Marion and Jennings after a night’s sleep were forced to admit that it seemed their duty to push on over the trail left by the outlaw.

“’Twouldn’t be so bad if we hadn’t caught Munson’s message,” said Joe thoughtfully. “In a case like this, one is obliged to consider the highest good to the greatest number. It might easily happen that a delay on our part at this moment would mean the loss of Munson’s entire party. It would almost surely mean that if they arrived at Flaxman Island to find their supply depot in ashes.”

“And as for Curlie,” added Jennings, “if he came out of that blizzard alive with his rifle in hand, he’ll take care of himself, trust him for that.”

“Yes, and with that hind-quarter of caribou meat.”

So it was decided that they should press on. They had followed the trail of the outlaw for ten miles or more when they came upon footprints in the snow beside the trail which seemed to indicate that the outlaw had paused in his travel.

“Wonder what he stopped there for?” said Jennings, examining the tracks carefully. “From the position of his feet I’d say he’d been looking down the hill.”

“Aw, c’mon,” said Joe. “The big point is, he went straight on and we’re following.”

A hundred yards farther on they came to a place where a reindeer and sled joined the trail.

“That’s queer!” said Jennings, pausing again. “Funny that fellow would follow the outlaw. Looks exactly like the track made by that other fellow when he pulled out of that clump of willows after he’d left his deer tied there all night and had camped in our thicket. Wonder if it could have been the same man.”

He would have wondered still more had he known that his companion, Curlie, was on that sled and that each mile he traveled brought him closer to the curly-haired young radiophone expert.

His wonder did grow apace when, mile after mile, the reindeer driver followed the trail of the outlaw.

“Wonder what he’s after,” he mumbled over and over.

When presently he saw the reindeer tracks suddenly swing to the right and down the ridge, and by straining his eyes he made out a large herd of reindeer feeding at the edge of the scrub forest, he was truly disappointed.

“Thought it meant something,” he grumbled, “his following along that way. But I guess he was just following the ridge for good going till he got to his reindeer herd. We might go down and buy some reindeer meat. I think I see a cabin at the edge of the forest. They might have other things to eat, coffee, hardtack and the like. Natives often do.”

“Can’t afford to use up the time,” said Joe. “We’re doing well enough on caribou meat. Got quite a supply of it yet. So we’d better mush along. All right, Ginger! Let’s go,” he shouted. His leader leaped to his feet and they were away.

It would be interesting to speculate on just what would have happened had they decided to descend the hill to trade with the natives. They might have been ambushed and slain, for Curlie Carson was at that moment in the cabin at the edge of the forest and he was far from free to go his own way.

So like ships in the night they passed, Curlie Carson and his pals. Only once Jennings paused to look back. Then as he shaded his eyes he said to Joe:

“Seems like I see something hovering up there about the tree tops.”

“White owl or raven,” said Joe.

“No, I don’t think it is. Can’t quite make out what it is, though.”

Then they pressed on over the trail left by the sleds of the outlaw.

The fluttering above the edge of the forest was caused by neither white owl nor raven, but by three balloons bobbing about in the air; a red one, a white one and a blue one. These balloons, considerably larger than toy balloons, were kept from fluttering away by silk cords reaching to the cabin below.

Before we can explain their presence here we must first tell what had happened to Curlie Carson since we left him huddled behind a snowbank with bullets singing over him.

Without knowing why he had been attacked Curlie realized that he was in grave danger. These rough men, whoever they might be, were apparently bent on his destruction.

For the moment he was safe. The snowbank was thick and solid. A bullet, he knew, made little progress in snow. But they might outflank him and come in to the right or left of him. They doubtless believed him to be in possession of a rifle, or at least an automatic. They would plan their attack with extreme caution but in time they would get him.

Twisting about under cover he studied the lie of the snow to right and left of him. It was not reassuring. True, there were other snow ridges, but to reach these he must expose himself. This would not do. To cut himself a trench along the hillside would take too long. Besides he would be detected in the attempt. He thought of his belt radiophone equipment.

“Might get up a balloon aerial,” he told himself, “and send an S. O. S. But that would take time—too much time. Besides, who’d come to my rescue? Deuce of a mess, I’d say!”

He at length determined on a bold move.

“Might get shot down on the spot,” he admitted, “but it’s better than waiting.”

The thing he did was to leap suddenly upon the crest of the snowbank with his hands held high in air, at the same time keeping a sharp eye on the attackers. If they shot he would instantly drop back.

They did not shoot. Their rifles went to their shoulders but when they saw his hands in air they hesitated.

After a brief consultation, two of them, with rifles extended before them for a hip-shot, walked slowly toward him.

When they were within twenty yards of him Curlie said in the calmest tone he could command:

“What’s the matter with you fellows? I didn’t steal your reindeer. Found him tangled in a thicket where he would have starved. Besides, I have no guns. What harm could I do you?”

Without a word the two men proceeded to advance. As they came closer Curlie became convinced that they were Indians and not Eskimos as he had supposed them to be.

“That makes it look different,” he told himself. “They may be reindeer rustlers who have stolen the reindeer herd. Probably are. Never heard of a reindeer herd being given to Indians. Might have, for all that. Or they may be just herding them for some white men.”

As the two men came up to him one man felt of his clothing for concealed weapons. After this, with a grunt, he pointed toward the cabin, then led the way, leaving his companion to bring up the rear.

Arrived at the edge of the forest, the foremost man joined the man who had remained behind. After a short consultation in tones too low to be understood, he returned to Curlie and again motioning him to follow, led him to a low log cabin.

Once inside this cabin, he pushed Curlie into a small dark room, after which he swung to a heavy door and dropped a ponderous bar.

“Well now, what about that?” Curlie whispered to himself.

A hasty survey of his prison revealed a chair and a rough bed made of poles on which there rested some filthy blankets. The place was lighted by two windows, not more than ten inches square. The walls were of heavy logs.

“I wonder who they are and who they think I am,” he asked himself.

He sat down to think and as he did so his arm brushed his belt. At that moment an inspiration came to him.

“Worth trying anyway,” he whispered as he rose hastily. “Have to be quick about it though. Lucky that window’s at the back of the cabin.”