THE RIVER MOTOR BOAT BOYS ON THE YUKON (continued 3)

Together the two worked away at Case’s clothing, removing it bit by bit, being careful not to cut into skin or flesh. Each piece they removed was stained with blood. When the last piece had been cut away Clay arose and got the now hot water. “Get the medicine chest, Ike, while I wash off some of this blood,” he directed.

When the dried blood was washed away, the boys stood appalled at the sight that met their eyes. From head to feet Case’s body was a mass of cuts and bruises. Clay looked puzzled. “His heart action is good, and all his wounds, though there are a multitude of them, are not deep. If he has not been injured internally, I believe he will pull through. I think that lump on the head there is what has made him unconscious. Well, let’s get to work and fix him up as best we can.”

For a full hour the two boys labored over their wounded companion. First cleansing the wounds with warm water made antiseptic by the addition of a little carbolic acid, they applied a healing salve, and bound clean bandages to the parts until the unfortunate lad’s body looked like a checker-board. Along towards the last, Case began to show signs of returning consciousness and as they lifted him into his bunk he opened his eyes.

“I knew you fellows would come and find me,” he murmured weakly. “That, I guess, was the last thing I thought of before I hit that cottonwood tree.”

“Who hurt you?” inquired Clay eagerly.

Case tried to grin but groaned at the effort.

“It was Teddy Bear,” he said faintly. “As soon as we got amongst the cottonwoods, he bolted. I, like a fool, wrapped the end of the rope around my waist three or four times and tried to check him, but the first jerk threw me down, and away he went dragging me over logs and roots and bumping me up against the trees. I saw that big cottonwood tree coming and tried to throw myself one side, but couldn’t do it. I felt a smash on the head and that’s the last I remember.”

“Teddy must have pulled loose after you hit the tree,” Clay mused. “Feel any pain inside of you. Case?”

“No, but I feel mighty weak, loss of blood, I guess. If you’ll fix me up a bowl of broth, I’ll drink it and see if I can’t sleep off this weak feeling.”

Hot water was already on the stove and the addition of a full jar of beef extract quickly made a bowl of strong broth. Soon after he swallowed it, Case was sound asleep. His first deep breathing was the signal for the two boys to partake of their own supper, which had suffered greatly through neglect. Little was said as they ate, only Ike remarked.

“I don’t think Case is bad off. See how soundly he is sleeping. Those wounds don’t seem to hurt him a bit.”

“They will by tomorrow,” Clay prophesied, grimly. “Every inch of his body will be filled with aches and pains. Flesh wounds do not hurt much at first. If we keep on at this rate we’ll soon all be disabled,” he added gloomily. “Only one day out from Nome and two laid up beside Captain Joe. We will not go far at this rate.”

But Ike’s spirits had risen with the assurance of Case’s being in no immediate danger. “Oh, Alex, he will be all right,” he declared, as Alex’s loud snores filled the cabin. “Case, take longer maybe, but his blood is strong and clean an’ he’ll be all right in no time. Captain Joe, I am not so sure about, you understand, but I think maybe he die.”

“He certainly will if you do not quit stuffing food into him every half hour. When an animal or man is in Joe’s condition, the less you give them to eat the better until their wounds are mending. Captain Joe would stand more chance of getting well if he only had a bowl of broth with a few crackers broken up in it, three or four times a day, but we had better be getting into our bunks for we have to get an early start in the morning. If you’ll wash up the dishes, I’ll overhaul Captain Joe’s wounds again, and then turn in.”

Much to his surprise, Clay found Captain Joe’s cuts in much better condition than he had expected. “It must be that long soaking in the cold salt water has drawn a good deal of the fever out of them,” he said. “It looks to me as though the old fellow was going to get well.”

It was with the cheering thought that both their companions were in no danger of death that they fell into a sound sleep, exhausted by the eventful day they had been through.

So soundly they slept that they did not hear Case awaken just after midnight and groan to himself softly as he waited through the dreary hours for daylight to come and his chums to awake.

It was Ike who was the first to awake, and by the unwritten law of the cruise, he it was to whom the lot fell of cooking breakfast. He lay quiet for a minute, blinking the sleep out of his eyes, then slipped softly out of his bunk so as not to awaken his companions. He stopped at Case’s bunk with joyful greeting to find him conscious, if in pain.

Case tried to smile at the little Jew’s joyous greeting, but it was all he could do to stifle a groan.

“I’ll fix you up a cup of coffee and some broth, good broth, right away,” Ike said. “They no stop the hurt you understand. They just make you more strong to fight the hurts.” He was as good as his word and was back in a few minutes with the coffee and broth prepared over the electric stove while breakfast was cooking over the other one. It was not long before he was able to call “Grub’s ready,” which brought Clay and Alex tumbling from their bunks, Alex apparently none the worse from his experience of the day before. They both greeted Case with joy, but while the mystified Alex was learning what had happened to put his chum in such a condition, Clay slipped out to the point and looked up and down the river. Far down toward the mouth of the Yukon he saw a thin streamer of smoke and he grinned with satisfaction.

“We’ve got plenty of time to linger over our breakfast,” he announced gleefully. “That steamer is eleven or twelve miles down the river yet. Come on all, let’s eat.”

Over the meal Case’s accident was discussed. Alex was worst hurt of all, for Teddy Bear had been his dearest pet.

“I think if he comes back before we go we had ought to shoot him,” Ike declared, savagely.

“No, don’t hurt him,” growled Case from his bunk. “He didn’t mean to hurt me, I am sure. He was just wild for a run on shore.”

“I am the one to blame for this,” said Clay, regretfully. “I saw Ted’s trouble coming days ago. I ought to have insisted on leaving him at Nome. We were bound to lose him sooner or later, but I never thought he would do so much damage in his leave taking.”

“How did you know that Teddy was going to run away?” demanded Alex, scornfully. “Bears don’t think out loud and, if they did, I fancy it would take you some time to pick up their lingo.”

“Alex,” said Clay, thoughtfully. “Did you ever stop to think how good it seems when we get back to Chicago from one of our long trips? Everything looks fine and fresh to us. The shop windows are wonderful, the noise and bustle thrill one and even the smell of the asphalt is pleasant.”

“And there are the movies and the shows and all the excitement going on all the time,” murmured Alex, half regretfully.

“Well, that was what was the matter with Teddy,” Clay continued. “He was born in the Northland and its lure is one of the strongest instincts in him. As soon as we touched St. Michael’s he began to get uneasy. The trees and the smell of the earth was in his nostrils, and the whole lure of the Northland, handed down from a long line of savage ancestors, was stirring deep down within him and he had to go. He just had to go.”

“Bosh,” Alex said. “You’re weak in your comparisons. Aren’t we dead sick of Chicago early in the spring and eager to be off on another trip? Besides, Teddy is an educated bear with a taste for sugar that he will not soon forget. I’ll bet you we will see him again.”

“I hope not,” Clay said, arising. “Well, I guess we had better be getting under way. That old water wagon must be within three or four miles from here now. Ike, will you wash the dishes and tidy up the cabin? I hate to ask you to do it so often, but with Case laid up, I’ll have to have Alex do the steering.”

“That’s all right, Clay,” Ike replied cheerfully. “I can run a news stand all right, you understand, but I can’t run a motor boat yet, so why should I not make myself useful at something else? I didn’t come as a passenger. I came as one of the crew.”

The Rambler was backed slowly out of the little cove into the open river.

About two miles down the river the river steamboat was making slow progress against the current.

Alex headed out for the channel, the Rambler ambling lazily along under third speed. As soon as Alex reached the channel, he headed up stream so that the steamboat’s bow was headed directly for the Rambler’s stern.

Clay came forward to hold a conference with the wheelsman. “I am going to keep slowed down until we are within a couple of hundred yards of her, then swing around in a broad curve and come alongside, but be careful to keep far enough away, we don’t want any smash-up.”

He walked back to the motor, wishing he had Case, cool, cautious reliable Case, who was always alert to run no more risks than could be avoided. Alex was a skillful wheelsman but daring and reckless at times.

The big steamboat came up on them slowly but surely. When she was within about 200 yards of the Rambler, Alex twirled the wheel over and the Rambler swung around in a graceful curve, while Clay bent to his motor, shoved the timer up a few more notches and turned on a little more oil and air. A great yelling from the steamboat drew his attention away from the motor. Most of the passengers were on their feet waving their arms excitedly, while an officer on the upper deck was cursing volubly in the most approved Yukon style, for the Rambler was driving down on the steamer as if bound to cut her in two. Unmindful of the curses of the officer, Alex held on until it seemed that only a miracle could save the tiny Rambler from being smashed to pieces against her big sister. Alex jammed the wheel hard up and the Rambler, spinning around like a top, ranged alongside of the big boat, their sides almost touching. A swift glance upward showed him that he had hit where he had aimed for; on the deck above sat the Yukon Kid and close beside him was a wonderfully pretty girl.

The danger over, Clay was busy at the motor closing the timer down until the Rambler was running even with the steamer.

Ike had come out of the cabin and stood looking up at the Kid with a delightful grin on his face.

“Hallo, Ikey,” greeted the Kid, in good-natured banter. “Have you decided to set up that secondhand store in Nome yet?”

“No. Mr. Kid,” replied Ike politely. “It wouldn’t pay. There’s got to be more nice ladies come there first. It takes the ladies to make the men dress up fine. My, Mr. Kid,” he added innocently, “you sure are fixed up fine today.”

The Kid’s face grew red to the roots of his hair, while on the girl’s face a smile struggled for mastery over a blush.

Alex, up at the wheel, felt a thrill of joy for the quickness of the witty retort. “Ike’s sure my partner for this trip,” he promised himself.

CHAPTER XVI

ESQUIMAUX

“Hallo,” shouted Clay from the motor. “Good morning to you.”

“Same to you,” called down the Kid. “Say, that little tub of yours makes better time than I thought she would. I thought we passed you during the night. By the way. I’ve got something for you fellows. I’ll lower it down to you on a string.”

“Come down yourself,” Clay invited. “Just fasten a rope to the rail and shin down. I want to ask you a lot of questions and I can’t hear you well above the din of the motor, and the thrashing of the paddle wheels.”

The Kid hesitated. “I’m afraid you can’t get me back alongside again,” he shouted, “and I’ve got to be there with the mail on time.”

“We’ll get you aboard all right,” Clay promised. “That is, if you are not afraid. It’s a little risky for a tenderfoot.”

No live young man could stand such a taunt to his courage before a pretty girl, and the Kid surrendered. “All right,” he called down. “I’ll see the captain and see if he’ll promise to slow up a bit if we get too far behind.” He looked around at the crowd on deck and finally beckoned to an old sour-dough to take his chair. The old-timer obeyed, although he nevertheless seemed in his nervousness, to experience great trouble in disposing of his hands and feet.

Clay smiled at the Kid’s maneuvers. Evidently he was taking no chances.

Alex, up forward, secure in the fact that he could not be reached, was taking an impish delight in bantering the officer who had cursed so fluently. “Say, you snapping turtle of a log rider,” he hailed. “What do you mean by using such language when a real sure enough boat comes alongside your old mud scow? Afraid we were going to smash your old hulk to pieces? Where did you learn that sort of language, anyway? I’ll bet you used to raise mules down in Missouri.”

“I did handle mules for a while,” said the other with evident pride of his accomplishment. “That helped some. Then I mushed dog teams up here on the Yukon trail for four years and that sure taught me a lot. The rest is mostly Spanish I picked up here and there.”

“Why, you can’t swear at all,” scoffed Alex.

“You’re only an amateur. You just repeat words you have heard others use. You had ought to coin your words, have them nice and fresh and new all the time.”

“That’s a hard thing to do,” said the officer, gloomily.

“Pshaw, it’s easy,” Alex declared. “Just buy an automobile and run it yourself for six months and you’ll be a different man.”

The roar of laughter from the crowd above was as incense to Alex’s soul.

“The lad’s right,” said a serious-minded little man. “I used to own one in the States and I would hate to say half the things I used to think when I used to have to lay on my back under the car in maybe six inches of mud, wrastling away with a monkey wrench.”

Just then the Kid slid nimbly down a rope to the Rambler’s deck. Clay shouted to Alex to steer off from the steamer and as soon as he saw the order was obeyed, he moved the timer ahead at full speed and the Rambler shot away from her big, clumsy sister.

“Good-bye,” shouted Alex to the officer. “We hate to leave you but we got tired of staying in one place all the time. We’ll see you at Dawson if you’re lucky enough to get up there before the river freezes over.” But the officer was standing speechless, his mouth agape at the Rambler’s wonderful burst of speed.

As for the Yukon Kid, he slipped down on the deck and grabbed the funnel with both hands as though afraid the boat would slip out from under him. Gradually the startled look died out of his eyes to be replaced by a glint of humor. “This is one on me, boys,” he acknowledged. “It’s more than one, it’s a full baker’s dozen,” he grinned. “Just think of my begging the captain to slow up until I got safe back aboard. And me being so sure that we must have passed you during the night. I never dreamed a boat so small could run so fast, but I must go back on the steamer. I’ve got the mail locked up in my cabin, but I am supposed to guard it all the time.”

“Was that some mail you was guarding so close up there, Mr. Kid?” asked Ike, innocently.

The Kid ignored the question though he blushed deeply. “I’ve got something to give you that may be some use to you. I’ve got a copy of it at Nome so you needn’t hesitate about taking it. It’s pretty well thumbed and torn, but I guess you can make it out all right.” He unrolled a stiff paper and spread it out on the deck. It was a complete map of the Yukon. “I made it and it’s true to a hair,” said the Kid with pride. “Take it and keep it. It can be trusted where the government charts can’t. I’ve marked in red ink where the best Indian villages are.”

Clay thanked him and bent over the chart thoughtfully. “Look’s like clear water for a couple of hundred miles up.” The Kid nodded. “Pretty smooth sailing until we get to the Upper Yukon. Then it’s rapids after rapids, and some of them pretty fierce.”

“I see an Indian village marked down about 110 miles above here,” Clay remarked. “I believe we will run ahead and camp there tonight. We haven’t seen a native village yet.”

“This one is rather small. Most of its inhabitants died of famine last winter, and all the able bodied men and squaws are off on the long hunt now. You’ll likely find only old men and old women there now. Well, I’ll have a look at Friend Case and then I’ll have to get back aboard. I’ve been gone too long already.”

“Getting afraid your old-timer cannot hold down that chair?” smiled Clay with freedom of their quickly born liking for each other.

“Oh, Olson will keep that seat reserved all right,” said the Kid confidently. “He’s gun shy on women folks. What I am afraid of is that some chekako may try to take it away from him. If that happens there will sure be some blood spilled on deck, an’ I don’t reckon she’s used to sights like that. Don’t get me wrong. It’s no case of spoons or anything like it. She’s just an innocent girl with an old father and mother, and the poor innocents have got an idea that they are going to make a fortune by opening up a restaurant in Dawson. Think of it, boys. Those three poor innocents trying to stack up such a game in Dawson of all places on earth. They have brought in no supplies either, and even flour will be nearly worth its weight in gold dust before the winter is over. The chekakos are pouring in faster than the supplies. That’s what makes me want to get back to the steamer quick. There is a crowd of greenhorns on board and some of them think they are mashers. If any of them try to get gay there will sure be something doing. Well, I’ll just run down and see the invalid while you run me back to the steamer.”

Case, suffering intently in his bunk, greeted the Kid with delight. His firm, friendly hand shake seemed to lessen his intense pains.

The air of strength, energy and power radiating from the Kid seemed to enthuse his own battered body with new strength. The Kid sat down on the edge of the bunk and with a touch as tender as a woman’s, examined the deeper wounds. “You’ll be fit as a fiddle in no time,” he declared, cheerfully. The wounds are beginning to heal already. That’s the reason they hurt so. I’ll see you again tomorrow maybe. I’ve got to go now. Good-bye, keep as quiet as you can and don’t fret.”

Case, soothed and strangely comforted by the mighty magnetism of the man, snuggled down in his bunk and dropped off to sleep.

“He’ll be all right if you take good care of him and fever does not set in,” said the Kid as he came to deck. “But have one of you down with him all the time so as to keep him entertained and to wait on him. Just a simple little thing like his getting up to get a drink of water for himself might prove fatal to him in his present condition. At the best though, it will be a long long time before he will be completely well.”

“I should have stayed right by him,” Ike exclaimed with contrition. “I go right down now to him.” He paused on the steps to add shyly, “I got so interested to see if that mail was still well guarded that I forgot. It’s all right, Mr. Kid.”

A playful kick from the Kid sent him tumbling down the balance of the stairs.

As they swept alongside the steamer, Clay noted with a grin that Olson was still holding down the chair, a heavy long-barreled revolver resting across his knees, while two of the detestable breed of mashers stood a ways off eyeing the coveted chair with glances in which desire and temerity were equally blended. Whatever of womanly shyness Olson had ever possessed must have melted away, for his wrinkled face was smiling and with evident enjoyment. “Yes, he was admitting, reluctantly, “It does get a wee bit cold up here now and then, say around December, but Lord, man, what a country she is.”

The Kid grabbed the swinging rope and clambered up it like a monkey.

Olson gave up his seat with evident reluctance.

“Say, Kid,” he whispered. “She’s gold, pure gold, right down to bed rock.”

“I knew it,” replied the Kid, briefly. “Go and tell those two fresh young chekakos I want to see them in half an hour in my cabin on important business. I’m going to spank them both like their mothers used to do, only more so.”

Olson departed well pleased with his errand and sought out the two offenders, taking great pleasure in impressing upon them the dire evil that always followed disobedience to the Yukon Kid’s commands.

Later on he listened gleefully at a locked door from the other side of which came the sound of steady smacks laid on with a heavy hand. The heavy smacking was broken occasionally by subdued sobs.

While this little scene was being enacted, the Rambler was miles away, headed for the Indian village. Once clear of the steamer, Clay shut down the hatch cover over the motor and joined Alex in the bow. “Let me take the wheel for a while,” he offered kindly. “Take a rest while you can, you’ll want to look over the village when we get there. You haven’t got back your full strength yet. You look all played out. That motor will run itself now.”

Alex meekly surrendered the wheel. “I do feel slim,” he confessed. “I guess I’ll stretch out and rest for a little while. But here comes Ike with some dinner for us. I guess I’ll tuck some of that inside me first.”

Ike stood beaming upon them while the two boys ate the dinner he had so thoughtfully prepared. As soon as they had finished he bore the empty dishes below while Alex stretched out on a seat and was soon asleep.

As the Rambler dashed through the water. Clay frequently consulted the chart and compared it with the passing shores. It was accurate as the Kid had stated. Near the middle of the afternoon, he sighted the tall cliff just beyond which the Kid had said lay the little Indian village. He awakened Alex, and turning the wheel over to him, went back to the motor. As they passed the cliff they come into sight of the village, a miserable collection of anthill-like huts. As they eased the Rambler to shore, their noses were greeted by a multitude of odors blended into one malodorous whole—the usual odor of an Esquimaux village. “You and Alex can go ashore and look around,” Clay said. “I’ll stay and look out for Case. I’ve got a hunch that there’s fish lurking in this little cove and I’m going to have a try for them. Taste good for a change, wouldn’t it?”

The village lay back a ways from the river on a high bank and this the boys scrambled up, to find themselves in the middle of the settlement. It was almost deserted, only a few old men and old women crouched in the warm sunshine in front of their wretched buildings. Only a very few children played solemnly in the sun and they looked wan and haggard. None of the faces looked attractive. They were broad, flat and stupid.

Ike, with true trader’s instinct, had brought a pack with him and a glint of interest shone in the eyes of the old men. It might contain tobacco of which they had none in many weary moons. The one who seemed in authority, approached Alex. “How,” he said.

“How yourself?” replied Alex. “Who is your chief?”

“I am a great man amongst my people,” said the native. “I am Shaman, the medicine man. I protect my people from sickness and guard them from the evil spirits of the Yukon.”

“Guess you got the wrong hunch last winter or else the Yukon spirit’s out-wrestled you,” said Alex lightly, as he glanced around at the empty huts. “Say, who’s that chap with a face like an Indian’s?”

The Shaman glanced at the still impassive face that Alex pointed out.

“Him Nichols, the story teller. He is a great man in the tribe. He keeps the people contented in the long winter’s darkness by telling them wondrous tales about when the Northland was always green and the sun shone every day warm, and game was plenty in the land. Not like now when the cold pierces to the marrow and hunger gnaws always at the empty belly.”

Alex was not taken much by the Shaman’s looks, so leaving him to the tender mercies of Ike, who was undoing his pack, he strolled on through the little village, thrusting his little freckled face in here and there and noting everything with keen eyes.

There was little to be seen, however, and he soon returned to Ike, who was exultant over his bargain, conducted on both sides by many words and protests of being robbed. It ended by Ike becoming possessed of a silver fox skin worth many dollars—while the Shaman, smiling broadly over getting the best of the white man, was now the possessor of a one dollar watch, two plugs of tobacco, a ten cent looking glass, and a pair of green goggles.

CHAPTER XVII

ABE

“Come on, Ike,” said Alex. “Let’s go back to the boat. There won’t be anything worth seeing and I’m getting sick of this smelly place. Better fun to go down and fish with Clay.

“All right,” agreed Ike, willingly. “I got the only good fur in camp, so I guess we don’t need to stay. Understand me, though, that Shaman is a thief and a robber. We got a bargain all fixed up once and then he backed out and wants one more plug of tobacco. My, but he is a rascal.”

“You poor fellow,” said Alex in mock pity. “I don’t believe you made over 1000 per cent on that deal.”

Ike grinned joyously. “There is some little profit,” he admitted. “Enough to help pay the expenses. I wish we could find more Shamans with pretty fox skins.”

“He has got something prettier than a fur skin,” exclaimed Alex, as they paused by the Shaman’s igloo. “Say, did you ever see anything like that team of dogs?”

Inexperienced as they were with the toilers of the North, the two lads recognized that these dogs were no common breed of huskies like those they had seen at Nome. They were bigger and lacked much of the wolf-like features of the usual husky, nor was there the usual husky’s bearing of white fangs at their approach. They were lean and gaunt, as scantily-fed Indian dogs always are, but there was strength and endurance written on their broad chest and lithe muscles. Even their coats of thick, black, glossy hair did not resemble a husky’s in the least. They were stretched out in a line basking in the sun. One, apparently the leader, for he was by far the biggest and most powerful of the lot, attracted Alex strangely. The large, noble head and big eloquent eyes seemed strongly familiar to the boy. He approached the magnificent animal cautiously and held out his hand warily, ready to snatch it back if he was greeted by the silent snap of the wolf-bred dog. Instead, he was met by a wag of the bushy tail and the dog reached out and smelt of the extended hand. A second smell, and Alex felt the soft, warm caress of a licking tongue. The boy stooped and patted the dog’s head and the dog responded with a short, joyous bark and lifted up his eyes, eloquent with love and reverence. Alex was now examining him closely. “Ike,” he cried. “He’s Newfoundland, clear bred Newfoundland.”

“Well,” said Ike, indifferently. “What of that? He’s just a dog, ain’t he?”

“But just think of it,” Alex cried, angered by his friend’s lack of interest. “A dog from God’s country up in these desolate wastes.” A recollection of a dog of whom he had read, in “The Call of the Wild,” swept into his memory. “Buck,” he called softly, “Buck.” The animal with one magnificent leap covered the space between them, while the rest of the pack crowded around him, wagging their tails and looking at him with curious eyes.

The Shaman seeing his interest in the dogs, approached him to be greeted by a volley of questions by Alex.

“Yes,” he admitted. “They were his dogs.” “Would he sell? Perhaps, but the price must be large for they were the best dogs on the Yukon. Yes. they were the best dogs in all Alaska. They could go faster and further than any other dogs in the country. Yes, he knew where they came from but the big one, the leader, was no doubt a gift of the good spirits sent to him, the Shaman, for his great goodness and virtue. He, the big dog, had come into their camp one stormy night in the blackness of winter and had made it his home. He, the Shaman, had with his own hands, harnessed him with the other sled dogs, but, at first, there had been trouble. The new dog was a born leader. One by one he had fought and whipped the other huskies for he had ways of fighting new to the North and he always won. Lastly, he had whipped the leader and become by the law of the North, the leader himself. Later he had mated with a huge husky and there had been five puppies. The strange dog had trained them himself in the ways and laws of the trail. No, they were not bad dogs. Never did they snarl or fight amongst themselves like the huskies. But one thing one must never do. He must never lift a stick to the big dog. One man had done so and like a flash the big dog’s teeth had met in his throat.

Buck’s eyes, now mistily wistful, met Alex’s. “Good Lord, Buck, you can almost talk,” Alex said reverently. “I understand what you are trying to say. You got sick of running with the wolves, their ways were not your ways. So you sought out your own kind again. They are not like the white gods you used to serve, though you have served them faithfully. But you want to leave them. Your sensitive nostrils that can catch the faintest odor in the air are sick of the scent of blubber, seal oil, and stinking furs and you want to be gone from it all serving men with white bodies, clean from much washing, big men who will smile at you kindly and like you because you are brave, strong and fearless.” Buck wagged his tail as if to show that he was understood.

“Lord,” said Alex, again reverently. “You can do all but talk. Say,” he demanded of the Shaman, “how much do you want for that team, leader and all?”

“Nine hundred dollars, said the Shaman firmly.

“We can’t buy them,” Alex said sadly. “We haven’t got that much money. Besides, it would be an awful expense to feed them the balance of the summer. I sure would like to own that Buck dog though.”

“We get him when we come back,” Ike whispered. “I trade for him and get him cheap. I talk to that robber, now, so he will not sell him ’till we get back.”

“We go up the river ‘You Never Know What’ in our steamer that travels by fire,” he explained, with many gestures of his hands. “Before the big cold we come back to trade with our new friends. Our hearts are big and we pay big for everything we buy. The eyes of the Indians have never beheld such wondrous things as we have on board our fire boat. Cloth like fresh gold from the ground, warm like the blue of the sky in summer, and others so rich of color that they dazzle the eye. Of tobacco we will have hundreds of plugs. Of the ice that never melts and shows a man his face like still clear water, we will have great quantities. And of many other things new and strange we will have a plentiful supply. We have a little box filled with spirits that talk or sing or laugh as it’s owner commands.”

“All white men are liars,” said the Shaman calmly. “How do I know you have such a wonderful box?”

“Come down and see it tonight,” Ike invited.

“I will,” accepted the Shaman, “but it will be much better if I come alone. It is bad for the people to know too much about spirits.”

“Your dog team is as good as yours already,” whispered Ike as they turned away. “He will hold that team for you if he has to wait all winter, you understand. Once he hears that spirit box he’s going to want it badly.”

Alex grinned. “Put me next,” he begged. “I’m not wise to that spirit box stunt.”

“Say, you remember that cheap phonograph you boys bought for one of your trips and the heap of old cracked up records too? In Chicago the lot might be worth $5.00, but I doubt it. Here it’s worth a dog team, which costs nine hundred dollars, if you boys let me do the bargaining, you understand,” Ike enlightened him.

“Go to it,” exclaimed Alex joyously. “Hello, there’s something going on around that ant-hill over there. Let’s run over and see what the trouble is. Maybe it’s a fight.”

The two boys pushed through the little circle in front of the igloo just in time to see a litter carried by old men pass up from the burrow-like entrance. On the litter lay a skeleton-like figure of a young boy. His large, mournful-looking eyes looking out of a face on which the skin was pulled tightly over the bones.

“What’s the matter?” Alex demanded of a native, who happened to be Nicholas, the story teller.

“He plenty sick,” Nicholas replies. “He die pretty soon.”

“But why don’t they leave him in the hut?” Alex persisted.

“Esquimaux no stay in house where one has died,” said Nicholas.

“What are they going to do with him?” the boy insisted.

“Put him in a thicket and stuff moss in his mouth so he make no noise to keep people awake,” said Nicholas calmly. “By and by Luna come and get him spirit.”

“What’s Luna?” Alex demanded.

“Him the great spirit of the Yukon,” said Nicholas with a shiver. He live down under the ice. Him the greatest spirit of the Yukon.”

“What are we going to do about it, Ike?” Alex asked, helplessly. “It’s their law and custom. Has been for hundreds of centuries, I guess, but we can’t let that little fellow die like that. Of course we could pick him up and carry him off but it might mean a fight with these old men and old women and we might kill some of them. It wouldn’t be right to kill a live person for the sake of saving one who is dying. I don’t know what to do.”

“I’ll fix it up all right,” said Ike. “Don’t you worry your head none.”

“Him got father?” he demanded of Nicholas. “Father him die. Winter famine catch him.” “Mother,” Ike questioned.

“She die too—famine.”

“Ain’t he got no relations at all?” Ike inquired. An old man, shaky with age, stepped out from the group. “I’m his uncle,” he quavered.

“Now we are getting down to business, you understand,” said Ike with satisfaction. “Your nephew no good to you now?” The old man shook his palsied head. “Him dead plenty soon,” he said stolidly.

“You no want nephew then?” Ike persisted, and the old man shook his head decidedly.

“Then I buy him,” Ike said promptly. “For him I give two plugs of tobacco, of red cloth 20 yards, and of big tallow candles three. Does the uncle accept?” The uncle did with eagerness. It was more than the boy was worth when well. He was little and it would be many seasons before he could become a skillful hunter. Clearly these pale faces, not yet the size of men, were crazy, crazy as wolf-dogs when the moon is full. A fear seized him that this crazy young pale-face, who waved his hands so wildly when he talked, might repent of his bargain and demand all this wealth back. He was starting for his igloo as fast as his shaky legs would carry him, when Ike sternly commanded him to stop. “Take me to where you put the boy,” he said, “and explain to him that hereafter I am his father, mother and uncle, and when I speak he is to obey.”

They found the little fellow in the middle of a bunch of willows, a handful of dirty moss stuck in his mouth. He was lying perfectly quiet looking up at the skies with his black, beady eyes. He was only a child, but he knew the laws and custom of his people, many had he seen during the great cold, dragged out to die alone in the deep snow.

Alex pulled out the gag of dirty moss and threw it away, while the old man in quavering tones, told him what Ike had directed him to say.

The child looked up at Ike with grateful eyes. “All right, fadder, me do what you say.”

Ike strove to hide his pity for the sick, deserted little fellow. He bent down and put his arms around the shrunken shoulders. “Put your arms around my neck and hang on as tight as you can,” he commanded sternly. “Here, Alex, grab him around the legs and we will have him down to the boat in no time, you understand.”

Clay was still fishing contentedly, a number of large salmon flapping helplessly on the deck around him.

“For goodness sakes, what have you there?” he cried as he spied the limp burden.

“This is my son,” said Ike, solemnly. “He is sick, very sick. Come help us with him, Clay.”

A bunk was hastily made up on the floor, and on this the little Esquimau was placed.

“He’s got no fever,” Clay said, after examining the little thermometer he had been holding under the lad’s tongue. The way I size it up is that he starved so long last winter that his stomach rejected the greasy heavy blubber with which they broke their long fast in the spring. I believe that he will come out all right with careful feeding and good care. The first thing to do is to take off those filthy furs he has got on, give him a good bath, and find something clean and warm for him to wear.”

“I find him some clothes what gets too small for me, but which I can pin up a little for him,” said Ike. “Say, I think I call him after a good friend of mine, a fellow named Abe. I think Abe a pretty name for him.”

When the last of the mangy furs were removed from the little lad, the boys stood back and viewed him pitifully, wondering how the spark of life had managed to keep alight in such a wasted and shrunken skeleton. Abe objected as much as his feeble strength would permit, to the awful bath, but when he was, at last, rubbed clean and dressed in a suit of Ike’s pajamas, he drank a bowl of warm soup greedily and in a few minutes was sound asleep. Alex had been cooking supper while his chums had labored over the lad and they now sat down to a meal of delicious fried salmon, coffee, and mealy potatoes. They had but finished, when the Shaman appeared, slipping in softly like a cat. The boys had had no time to separate the good records from the bad. All they could do was to wind up the wheezy old machine, start it going, and trust to luck, which proved to be in their favor, for the Shaman listened like one entranced, to songs, minstrel jokes and music.

CHAPTER XVIII

THE TRADE

The records could hardly have been worse and the machine was suffering badly from the asthma, but the Shaman could not have shown more appreciation had it been the grandest combination in existence. “Won’t you come Home, Bill Bailey?” seemed to give him complete satisfaction, but “Ain’t It Funny When You’re Out of Money That the Only Thing You Get Is Sympathy?” brought forth an expressive grunt, while “If You Ain’t Got No Money, Why You Needn’t Come Around,” appeared to afford him great pleasure. Then Alex made the mistake he had been dreading all the evening. After winding up the machine he slipped in a fresh record and started it going. At the first snappy, scratching, breaking sounds, Alex and Ike looked at each other in dismay. It was the worst record in the lot because it had been their favorite and had been played over and over again until it was only a battered wreck, seamed with scratches and disfigured by cracks. Of the former Battle Hymn of the Republic there remained only a few unintelligible words and a discordant discord.

The boys glanced at the Shaman fearfully and were surprised to find him grinning with delight at the awful discord.

“I know that spirit,” he declared, proudly, as the record ended with one last abrupt crash, “It’s the voice of Luna, the great Yukon spirit. It is his voice. I know it. Many seasons I have heard it when he was breaking up the ice in the spring. Have you more of the spirits to put into the box?”

But Alex was not going to risk another mistake. It might not turn out so fortunately next time. “There are dozens more of them,” he said, “but we are getting tired of calling them forth. It is enough for tonight. We have proved that all white men are not liars.”

“It is true,” agreed the Shaman, “but,” he added, thoughtfully, “you are not grown to man’s size yet.”

“Maybe we trade it to the Shaman in the next village,” Ike suggested with a guileless face.

But the Shaman protested violently. “They were not all good Shamans like himself in the other villages. They would certainly cheat and rob him. Why did he not trade with him? He had a big heart. He always gave more than he received. Then, too, he was losing power over his people. There were the priests that traveled summer and winter through the land, treating the sick for nothing and always talking against the medicine men and forever preaching a new faith that might be all right in another land, but which would not work in the Northland, where life was cruel and no man could love his brother like himself. Many of his own tribe had embraced the faith and openly laughed at his power. And soon he, the Shaman, whose father had been a Shaman, and whose father’s father had been a Shaman, would be regarded as only a common man in the tribe. The wondrous box would help him to regain his power. His people would be convinced of his greatness when he summoned the spirits to talk and sing to them, but to give up the finest team in Alaska, that was too much.”

This was Ike’s cue, and the bargaining that ensued was a thing worth remembering. From the lockers, Ike brought out some of all the things they had brought to barter, while the Shaman viewed the head with eyes of cupidity.

Ike selected a dozen plugs of tobacco and laid them out in a row.

The Shaman eyed them with envy, but controlled himself with an effort.

“More,” he grunted.

Ike wrung his hands and declared he was being robbed, but he added four more plugs of tobacco to the row. After all it was only the beginning of the battle and he had decided in the first place to give thirty plugs if he had to do so. For two hours the battle raged, the pile of trinkets before the Shaman growing steadily. Often the boys turned their heads aside to hide their grins at Ike who, with tears in his eyes, protested that he was being robbed, that he was a poor man with a sick child to support, and he was taking the bread from his child’s mouth to give to a stranger, but Ike’s wildest outbursts were met by the Esquimau, with a steady demand of:

“More, more.”

But it was not in the law of things for a Jew to be worsted by a mere Esquimau, so when Ike decided that the pile had grown big enough, he reached out and gathered it up in his arms. “We can not trade,” he shouted angrily. “Here I offer you gifts worthy of a prince, besides a box full of spirits, and all you say is ‘More, more,’ all the time. All these things I offer you for a few mangy dogs, so poor you can see their ribs and so old and worn out that they do not snap and bite like real huskies do. Go. Perhaps in the next village we will find a Shaman who is not a robber.”

“Wait,” protested the Shaman, startled at all the rich treasure he was about to lose. “Let not a trifle upset a trade between friends. Just give me of those shiny things a few and our trade will be complete.” The shiny things were a box of coffin trimmings which Clay had brought as a venture because, though made of tin, they were cheap and bright and stamped out in the shape of birds, fruits and flowers.

Alex measured out a quart of them with a reluctant hand. “Now you must keep the dogs for us till we come back in the fall. Not starve ’em, you understand, make them sleek and fat.”

“It will take many salmon,” said the Shaman. For that there should be two more measures of the shiny birds and flowers.”

Ike hastened to dole out the two measures, for he had expected to pay much more for the dogs’ keep.

Business concluded, the boys showed the Shaman how to run the phonograph, and the wily savage departed as silently as he had come, all his newly gained treasure tightly rolled up in his dirty, greasy parka.

“How much did the team cost us?” Alex inquired.

Ike grinned. “Not so bad, you understand. Fifty dollars as near as I can tell and that includes their board.”

“Why, that’s highway robbery,” Clay exclaimed. “Fifty dollars for a nine hundred dollar team of dogs is as bad as stealing.”

“It’s business,” said Ike, placidly. “If he was smart enough, don’t you think he would take everything we have got? Besides,” he continued. “You needn’t worry about him. He will get plenty of furs with the things we gave him. I expect he make them coffin trimmings bring him in a fur for each trimming.”

“Then the poor people of the villages have to pay for our bargain,” Alex said.

“That is business also,” Ike remarked. “But I think the same as you, Clay. We get a good trade. When we come back let’s give them poor people plenty of good things to eat, so that they will not suffer from hunger this winter. Say we give five hundred dollars’ worth of rice, sugar, beans and flour. You see, we still have made a good trade for the team, the Shaman makes plenty of money off his coffin trimmings, and the box, and the poor people are contented because the hunger does not gnaw at their bellies.”

“I am too sleepy to point it out,” yawned Clay, “but there’s a flaw some where in your reasoning. We beat a man out of his dogs for a few worthless trinkets. We gain, don’t we?” The man who owns the dogs gains, the people gain also. Nobody loses. Looks to me like high finance.”

“High finance,” snorted Ike, indignantly. “Who ever heard of high finance giving back food to the people—a library or an institute, perhaps, but food, no. We might give them $500.00 worth of books,” he added thoughtfully, “on condition, you understand, that they raise another $500.00. The Shaman could be the librarian.”

“You idiot,” grinned Clay, as he crawled into his bunk. “What do the Esquimaux want with books? They are too hungry, weary, and hopeless for books.”

“Maybe,” admitted Ike, as he climbed into his own bunk, “but say, it would make us one splendid advertisement.”

When they crowded up on deck after a hearty breakfast next morning, there curled up on the bank was Buck, surrounded by his family. At sight of Alex, he barked joyously, and the boy went ashore to bid the noble animal farewell. “Good-bye, Buck,” he whispered. “We will come back for you soon. Be patient, for it will only be a short time. Very soon we come and get you.”

Buck wagged his tail mournfully at thought of the delay, but beamed with joy over Alex’s parting head patting.

As they backed out of the cove, Alex glanced back. Buck was leading his family back to the settlement, but the big leader’s tail drooped mournfully and every few paces he would stop and gaze back at the retreating boat.

The boys found that the steamer was some five miles ahead of them, but under full speed it took but a short time to range alongside the clumsy craft. The Kid, without waiting for an invitation, came sliding aboard. “Well, how did you like the village?” was his first query.

“All right, except for the people, the huts and the smells,” Clay grinned and he proceeded to relate the story of their experiences.

“Sure you’re going some for chekakos,” the Kid commented. “I’ve heard of that dog team. All the Yukon has for that matter, but few have seen it. I saw them once on the trail and I’d been glad to have traded my team for them and given two hundred dollars to boot, which is going some, for I’ve got one of the best teams on the Yukon.” The kid will be a lot of help too, if you can raise him. The Pymauts live not far from the Holy Cross Mission and the fathers have taught many of them to speak English and have converted many. He’ll come handy interpreting for you when you get down to trading with the tribes. I reckon I’ll step below and see how both of those chaps are making out,” he said.

He was back soon with a smile on his face. “They are both sound asleep,” he said and I wouldn’t disturb them. “Sleep’s the best healer there is. I’ll see them again after they are awake,” he said.

“Do you think your party would like to take a spin on the Rambler today,” Clay asked, thoughtfully. “I mean of course, Miss—er—”

“Ethel Mason,” supplied the Kid promptly. “Miss Ethel Mason and her parents, I mean, of course,” Clay said. “It would be a change from that slow, lumbering steamboat. They could troll for salmon—there are lots of them around here and we could have a fish dinner and maybe they would like the change from the steamer for even a day.”

“They would,” exclaimed the Kid, brightly.

“It’s rough on them—being only two women amongst such a raft of men. ’Course the men don’t, many of them, mean anything wrong but they haven’t seen anything but ugly Indian squaws for so long that they can’t help but stare when they see a pretty face peeping up like a flower out of the snow. Sure, they will come. I’ll get one of the crew to fix up a boatswain’s chair and lower them all three down easy.”

“I’m so sorry you can’t come, Mr. Kid,” said Ike, regretfully.

“But I am coming,” declared the Kid emphatically. “Why not?”

“I thought you had to stay on board and guard that mail,” said Ike, innocently.

The Kid reddened. “I’ll go up and tell them and see about getting that chair ready,” he said, hurriedly, as he clambered up the rope.

“In a few minutes the chair was ready and the two old folks, followed by the girl, were lowered to the Rambler’s decks.

Clay immediately decided that he liked all three of the visitors. The girl had a frank, boyish-looking face, charming in its gentleness and firmness. Her father was a great giant of a man with the quaintly gentle air of authority that one comes to associate with country storekeepers or local postmasters, while his wife was a kind-faced, motherly-looking woman. Clay decided that the Kid was right. These three gentle folks were not of the kind to meet the rough, lawless element of gold-mad Dawson.

Mrs. Mason at once declared her desire to see the sick boys, of whom the Yukon Kid had told her.

Ike led her below, having already informed the invalids of her coming. Case ground his teeth to shut out the groans. He was feeling worse than usual that morning. His wounds were knitting and the tortured nerves were crying out for mercy. He looked up suddenly to see a kindly face with tear-filled eyes bending over him and to hear a quite motherly voice saying, “You poor, poor boy; how you must be suffering.” A few deft pats to the pillow and a rearrangement of the blankets gave Case unspeakable relief. “Now, boy, just keep still and try to go to sleep,” commanded the gentle voice. “As soon as I look at that other poor boy. I’m going to come back and read to you for a while.”

The little Esquimau met Mrs. Mason’s eyes with the dark mournful gaze bred by the untold suffering of hundreds of generations of hunger, suffering ancestors. The good woman groaned at the sight of the skin-covered bones. “You speak English?” she inquired with lips that trembled with emotion.

“Yes, I speak the English,” he said weakly. “Learn it at Holy Cross Mission. Here all the same as Holy Cross, all clean and white and every one good and kind.”

“You must lie still and get well,” commanded the lady, “so you can tell me much about the Holy Cross, and, always, eat of the things I send you. They will make you well and strong. Good-bye, I’ll see you again soon,” and the tender-hearted woman stumbled up the cabin stairs with eyes that could scarcely see through the tears that blinded them.

“Go right back to the steamer,” she commanded Clay. “You boys have done your best for your sick companions, but there are some things you lack and I am going back to get them.”

Clay signalled to Alex to turn around and in a few minutes the Rambler was tearing her way back to the steamer.

CHAPTER XIX

WINTER QUARTERS

“Slow her down, Clay, slow her down,” pleaded Case. “Slow her down,” shouted Alex from the bow. “I can’t do much with her going so fast.”

It was a different scene from that, in which we last saw the boys. Long gone were the golden days when they had journeyed leisurely up the river with Mrs. Mason nursing Case and the Esquimau lad back to speedy health. Gone also were that exhilaration of shooting the rapids, and gone were the pleasant nights when, with a bad stretch of water ahead of them, the steamer and the Rambler had tied up together at the bank and all had made merry by the light of big fires, singing, talking, and even dancing on the rough, uneven ground. Gone were the pleasant loitering days in gold-mad Dawson, mingling with the old timers, eager to lend a hand wherever needed and gaining in return many new quaint facts of the country and the trail. They had hardly noted the growing keenness in the air until the Kid, anxious still in his love affair, whispered to them that it was time for them to go, that much ice was already bubbling up in the smaller streams, and, knowing the Kid as they did, they had followed his advice. It was an exciting race with winter at their heels, but the Rambler driving ahead with the current at a speed of from twenty-five to twenty-eight miles an hour, kept ahead of the big cold.

At the Indian village they had stopped to get their dogs and buy furs from the Shaman who, fat and sleek, by artful trading, had acquired nearly all the furs from the hunters who were drifting in from the long hunt one by one. To the hunger-pinched poor folks, they gave the provisions Ike had suggested. They also gave them freely of their trinkets that they might not be tempted to trade off the precious food for the Shaman’s worthless baubles.

Short as their stay had been, they were surprised at the change in the river. Much ice was bubbling to the surface like yeast. It was not the same Yukon upon which they had ridden up so pleasantly in summer. It was tempestuous with white-capped waves that battered against the Rambler’s bow and sent icy showers of spray aft. By midday the fierce wind had died away and thin cakes of ice were floating on the surface.

Slow her down, Clay,” Alex begged. “I can’t help much at the rate she’s going.” He was leaning over the bow, boat hook in hand, trying vainly to thrust to one side the blocks of ice that impeded the Rambler’s progress. While Case, well once more, was standing at the wheel, his alert eyes picking out the channels of open water freed from ice throes.

Down in the cabin, Ike was already beginning the evening meal and talking gravely to Abe, whose wan face had filled out amazingly and who was clumsily trying to help fadder with the cooking.

“Slow her down, can’t you?” Alex yelled again.

Clay left the motor and made his way forward. “Do you see that mountain ahead where the river seems to make a bend? I noticed it when we were going up. Just beyond it is a snug little cove with a shelving beach. Just the place to winter in, it struck me. Now the shores here are not fit for a winter camp. They are too wind-swept. We have just got to make that cove. We simply can’t stop. The river will be frozen over by morning and when the ice breaks up in the spring, the Rambler would be crushed into splinters between the floes. At this rate we can not make the cove before night. I don’t want the responsibility all on myself. But I think now is the time to make a break for it. The ice is thin yet and the Rambler has got plenty of power and we know she has not got an unsound plank in her. I vote to try for the cove. What do you fellows say?”

“I’m for it,” said Case, knocking his ice-cold hands against his body to take away the numbness. “Anything is better than this.”

“The cove or bust,” Alex exclaimed, as he threw the boat hook up on the cabin top. “This spearing off ice floes is like bobbing for apples, only more so. One just gets wet and tired without getting any apples.”

“All right,” Clay agreed. “Pick out the smoothest course you can, Case, and hold her to it.”

He went back to the motor and slowly shoved the timer ahead. The Rambler, which before had been barely moving, suddenly gathered speed and leaped forward at the ice field ahead. She struck with a crash, and, scarcely pausing, darted forward to meet the next, leaving behind a rapidly closing wake filled with shattered ice.

Clay, leaning out of her motor hold, grinned with delight. “She eats them, eats them up alive,” he exulted.

But it was a dearly bought victory for the little boat, for when at last she reached the cove, her bow post was a mass of splinters, while long streamers of wood hung from her bruised sides, and showed where the sharp ice had torn streaks out of her oak planking.

“Another victory like that would be a defeat,” remarked Case, as from the shore he viewed her wrecked appearance.

A portion of the brief Arctic day remained, and it’s dim twilight glow was too precious to be wasted. Alex cut down a dead cottonwood tree and chopped it up for the Yukon stove, which they had bought at Dawson, on the Kid’s advice. While he was thus engaged, Ike, leaving Abe to look out for the cooking supper, came on deck to render his assistance. A thick layer of spruce boughs were cut and laid ahead of the boat, and, by use of rollers and block and tackle, the three managed to pull the Rambler out on her springy bed.

“That will help to keep her warmer inside in winter,” Clay said with satisfaction. “We could never have kept her warm with her bottom resting on the ice. Now the next thing is to fix up the sides and cabin top so as to protect them from the stinging cold.”

Long poles were cut and placed rafterwise from the peak of the pitched cabin roof to the ground. On these rafters they piled layer upon layer of small spruce boughs and banked up around the sides with a generous supply of the fragrant limbs. It was almost dark when their task was completed and they stood back and viewed the result with satisfaction. “A house inside a house,” Case said. “All it needs is a good fall of snow to fill up the chinks and we will be as snug as a bug in a rug.”

They were all tired, cold, and hungry and it was a joy to descend into the brightly lit cabin where a merry fire crackled in the Yukon stove and a savory supper fresh from the fire, steamed on the table.

“I wonder when we will see the Yukon Kid again,” said Case musingly, during a lull in the supper chatter. “He was due to leave St. Michael’s yesterday and I bet he started on time, for he’s fairly crazy to get back to his lady fair in Dawson.”

Alex snorted in disgust. “Looks like all you fellows can think of is girls,” he sneered, and his companions shifted sheepishly in their chairs, expecting and dreading a storm of ridicule from his sharp little tongue. But Alex remained silent after his outburst. In truth, he was picturing for himself a dull and sombre future. As the others wandered on to other topics he sat thinking gloomily. Here was the Yukon Kid, mightiest of the mighty men of the North, hanging to the apron strings of a mere slip of a girl. Clay and Case both had girls in Chicago, he knew; they would soon be getting old enough to marry and then the fine long cruises would stop, for their wives would not let them go unless they went with them. Case’s red headed girl wouldn’t, he was certain. There would be no more trips. Only he and Ike would be left to talk over alone the glory of this trip. A horrible suspicion flashed into his mind, perhaps even Ike had a girl.

“Ike,” he demanded, suddenly. “Where does Rebecca work?”

“She works in a shirt waist factory. By and by she be forewoman,” Ike said proudly, caught unawares.

A roar of laughter from the boys awoke him to the slip he had made. His face reddened and he resolutely closed his mouth and refused to commit himself further in reply to Alex’s adroit question.

“It’s all right, Alex,” he said stoutly. “Maybe you got one little laugh on me now, you understand. But some day I get big laugh on you because I laugh last.”

“Fadder,” interrupted Abe, “you better put mukluks by the fire to dry.”

It was a rule of the trail, the Kid had tried to impress upon them, to always dry out their footwear after the day’s work, but it needed the grave voice of the child to recall it to them. Abe was born on the trail and he was learned in its dangers.

“If Abe says so we had better do it and turn in,” Clay remarked, and soon five sets of footwear were ranged around the stock and the five boys were sound asleep in their bunks.

It was Clay’s cheery “Get up, grub’s ready,” that awakened his sleeping companions.

“What do you mean by having breakfast at such an unearthly hour?” grumbled Alex, tumbling out of his bunk and fumbling for his trousers. “Why, the cabin’s as dark as pitch.”

Clay snapped on the electric lights. “We are late getting up this morning. Remember, young man, this is the season when the days grow short and we’ve got to make every minute of daylight count. Get up and thank your lucky star that you’ve got a partner good enough to get up before you, warm the cabin up, fry ham and eggs, and cook coffee for you.”

The mention of food sent Alex tumbling into his clothes, an example his companions were not slow to follow.

By the time they had finished eating, a wan light was stealing into the cabin windows. The last mouthful swallowed, they hurried up for a look at the river. It was a sheet of solid white from shore to shore. They all felt a feeling of gratitude that they had won to the little cove and were not penned up out there in that desolate waste exposed to the full fury of every gale. They now had time to note more closely the place in which their winter was to be passed. It was a tiny cove well protected from wintry blasts. On one side of them rose the big mountain; on the other side lofty crumbling cliffs protected them from the raw west winds, while back of them the ground rose in a gradual slope, densely covered by cottonwoods and spruces.

“The first thing to do is to get out our snow shoes and practice breaking trails,” Clay declared. “We have got to harden our muscles and get used to it before we start out on the trading trips.”

All of the boys, but Ike, had had on snow shoes before, but this task of breaking trail for the dogs was a new trick to them and they could not quite get the hang of it until the little Esquimau lad gravely strapped on a pair and showed them how the big webbed shoe must be lifted carefully up, straight up, until it cleared the surface, so that no snow should be tumbled into the packed place, then how it must be shoved cautiously ahead while the same careful uplifting must be repeated by the other foot. Ike’s first experiment plunged him into a snow drift, leaving only his big snow shoes waving madly above the surface.

“Fadder, fadder,” cried Abe in delight. “If you want to walk on your hands tie the shoes on them.”

Clay and Case grinned at each other. It was the first time either of them had heard the lad laugh. Clearly, under the nourishing food and kind treatment he was receiving, Abe was certainly picking up.

The unaccustomed trail breaking brought into play muscles the boys never dreamed they possessed, and after a few hours’ practice, Clay called a halt. “We don’t want to try it too long at a time. Tomorrow we will do a little more and keep it up that way until we can do an all-day stunt. Then we will be fit to start out on our trading trips.”

About noon the Yukon Kid hove in sight and with but little pressure, was induced to stay to dinner and rest up his tired dogs, which he had evidently been pushing hard.

“I’ve got a bit of news for you,” he said between mouthfuls. “Got the true story of Bill and Jud. Got it straight from an old timer who lived in the same part of Ohio that Bill came from. Bill and Jud are brothers, but no more alike than a rotten egg is like a fresh laid one. Jud, he stuck to the farm and grew up big, strong, and honest, though I guess he would have done that anywhere. Bill hit for the city, and the village folks said they hoped he would never come back for he’d always been mean, lying and thieving, although Jud was always mighty fond of him and was always making excuses for him and claiming that it was only Bill’s high spirits that got him into mischief. Well, Bill got a job in a store and mighty proud of it Jud was, always telling people that Bill was getting along fine in the city Pretty soon the store people found out that their cash was turning up short every night and they traced it to Bill. He confessed and Jud put a mortgage on the farm and went up and settled with the store folks so that Bill wouldn’t be prosecuted, but the lesson didn’t do Bill any good, he kept getting lower and lower until he got to be a common holdup man and burglar. Then Jud up and sold his interest in the farm, and bid good-bye to the village folks, telling them that he was going to get Bill away from the bad fellows who were always leading him into trouble all the time. He made good his word evidently, for here they are up here on the Yukon with Jud looking out for Bill and keeping him as straight as he can. Funny ain’t it, how a good man like Jud will let himself be forced into bad ways just to keep a worse man from doing worse things. I reckon Jud would kill any one who tried to hurt his brother. Reckon that’s what the Good Book calls brotherly love, but I don’t take much stock in that kind of love myself, it’s too one-sided.”

The Kid did not pause for much more conversation and the boys did not attempt to detain him, for they knew he was eager to be off for Dawson.

“I’ll have more time to stay with you on my way back,” he shouted back to them as his rested team swung into line. “Oh! by the way. Bill and Jud are on the Yukon now somewhere. Heard they left Nome with two boats and a small outfit, but I haven’t passed them on the river.”

CHAPTER XX

THE VISION

It was not until they had practiced a week at the mock trail work that Clay decided they were in shape to tackle the real work of the trail. The week had wrought changes in them. It had been real work. Everything they had learned of the work from the old timers they had put into practice again and again until they had learned to do the thing with neatness and despatch. They were astonished at the miracle the week had wrought in themselves. Their bodies were stripped of every ounce of fat and new unknown muscles had sprung into notice while the old prominent ones had become as things of elastic steel. Their hunger was of the order of famished wolves and they grew to understand the look of knowing hunger in the eyes of their dogs as they wistfully watched them eat breakfast and supper, of which two meals the animals were not allowed to partake, but could only look on in wretched misery at their masters eating with such relish.

Before leaving Dawson the boys had cleared out the forehold and had filled it with a great store of dried salmon. Of this, they gave their dogs more than double the quantity usually given by dog drivers. But they gave it to them only at night, according to the iron law of the trail, whose motto was that a full dog travels slow. Their first real trip was to the nearest of the Indian villages which seemed to inclose the Catholic Mission of the Holy Cross in a kind of semi-circle. They started with the usual trail traveler’s pack, containing only the things absolutely necessary, such as frying pan and a big kettle to cook in, a change of footgear and clothing for each, an axe and a fair amount of the staple food of the trail, beans, pork, coffee, flour and sugar. A smaller pack contained the supply of dried salmon for the dogs, and another of trading trinkets, while over all was strapped down tightly over the load a large square of waterproofed canvas, another of the Kid’s suggestions. It being the first trip and a novelty, all were eager to go, but none liked to leave the Rambler alone. For, although well protected from view, there was the possible chance that some traveler might stumble upon the tiny cove and relieve the Rambler of some of her already diminishing stock of provisions. So it was decided that one should be left to guard the boat, that one to be decided by the drawing of straws. The short straw fell to Case to his intense disgust.

“Just my luck,” he grumbled, “to be left behind on a day like this when the snow has just got a crust an elephant could not break through, and everything seems to promise the finest kind of weather. When I get a chance to go the snow will be five feet deep and we will have to pack trail every foot of the way right in the teeth of a sixty-mile gale.”

What Case said about the conditions for traveling were true. They could hardly have selected a better time. The start was made long before daylight, Clay running side by side with the leader and striving to keep to the due south course by his pocket compass, but he soon realized that Buck sensed their destination and, like one on familiar ground, was picking his way toward a certain goal. Now and then he would swerve to one side to avoid a clump of trees or a steep gully, but always swinging back again and ever bearing back again to the south.

“No use trying to guide that dog,” Clay panted as he fell back to join his companions who were half running to keep up with the flying sled. “He knows where we are going and the best way of getting there far better than I do myself. I don’t believe there’s another team like this in the world. Look how they run in perfect harmony with each other.”

Their admiration for their team was further increased when, upon the rising of the sun, they looked back at the distant mountain from whose base they started only a few hours before. All the boys were feeling the tremendous pace at which they had traveled and Clay called a brief halt for them all to gain their breath. The dogs, obedient to his commands, dropped down in their traces and instantly curled up in the hard snow.

“Look how much trail wisdom they’ve got,” said Alex in admiration. “They go like the wind, by they don’t waste a second when they get a chance to rest.”

“We have got to borrow a little of their wisdom,” Clay observed. “If we don’t we will all of us be tired to death and have to camp long before the day is over. We had better take turns in riding on the sled, one at a time. That will give each man thirty minutes of running and fifteen minutes to rest up in. We ought to be able to hold on at that.”

Even under this liberal arrangement, the boys were well pleased when the whole team stopped and curled up in their traces, close beside a bunch of cottonwood trees.

“Get up! Push on there!” shouted Clay, surprised at the sudden action, but Buck only gave him a reproachful look.

Alex grinned with delight. “Don’t disgust Buck right at the start by letting him know that you are a blamed chekako,” he advised. “He knows that it’s dinner time and that this is a mighty good place to cook with all the dead cottonwood lying around.”

The boys fell to the work of getting dinner with the system of old timers. While Clay cut dead cottonwood, Ike built a fire and melted snow for coffee. Alex brought out a frozen sausage-like length of beans, ready cooked with a generous mixture of cubes of pork, from which he hacked short pieces and placed them into the frying pan to heat, continuing the operation until the pan was full. Then in a short time dinner was ready and the boys sat down to it with keen appetites. A short rest after, and they were off again. Before daylight ended, they swept around a high bluff into full sight of the village they sought. Buck, in his knowledge of the country, had brought them straight to their destination. Barking dogs and a crowd of natives met them at the village limits. The dogs’ barking ceased at sight of Buck who, with hair raised and teeth bared, gave utterance to one low ominous growl at which the dogs in front shrank back silently, leaving a path through their midst for the sled. Down it Buck walked in state with never a glance to left or right, moving like a king before his subjects.

“He’s grand,” Clay exclaimed. “He’s the Yukon Kid of the dog trails.”

It was evident that the natives thought so too, for they crowded around with grunts of envy and admiration.

“Sell him?” queried one native, but Clay shook his head.

“No sell.”

“Trade?”

“No trade for dogs. Trade for furs plenty. Got a pack full of wonderful things.”

The crowd of Esquimaux greeted this announcement with grunts of satisfaction. No trader had come their way as yet and their igloos were crowded with furs of the finest. Would the strangers come and look and be convinced? But Clay declined the invitation. He had learned too much of the stuffiness and smells of the average Esquimau dwelling to care to enter one again. “No,” he announced, “they would camp in the open. When the night fires were lit all who had fine furs could come and exchange them for many wonderful things.”

The preparations for the night were simple and speedily made. While one cut wood, another put on a huge pot of bacon and beans to boil and the third cut poles and drove them down in the snow, then all three joined in stretching the big square canvas over the poles, bringing it down to the snow on one side and raising it at the side nearest the fire so the heat would radiate downwards.

The whole village gathered around the fire and watched the boys as they cooked and ate; they were of a far superior class to any the boys had yet seen, due, perhaps, to the efforts of the priests from the not far distant mission, who labored constantly to teach and help all within their reach. Nearly all had brought valuable furs with them and the trading was quickly concluded, for Clay frowned down all of Ike’s attempts to drive long, close bargains and their customers departed well pleased at having received for their furs much more than they had intended to demand.

While the village was yet asleep the boys struck camp next morning and headed back for the Rambler, for they knew Case would worry until they returned. They reached the boat shortly after midday to find Case sitting in the cabin gloomily playing solitaire. He greeted them with joy, and, as they had not stopped for dinner on the trail, he flew around and got them a hasty lunch while he listened to the story of their trip. The first time he could do so unnoticed by Alex and Abe and Ike, he gave Clay a signal that he wanted to see him alone. Clay, quick to note the anxiety in his partner’s face, quickly finished his dinner and turned to the others.

“Will you two clean up and pack away the furs when you get through?” he inquired. “Case and I want to take a hunt and see if we can not get a few squirrels or something else fresh to eat.”

The two were quick to agree. Their feet and legs were aching from their long, hard run and they were thinking longingly, of a nice long rest in their bunks after the simple tasks were performed.

Taking the rifle and shot gun with them, Clay and Case made their way out on the ice.

“What’s the matter, old chap?” Clay asked as soon as they were beyond the hearing of those on board the Rambler.

“First, I want you to keep your eye on that mountain,” Case replied. “It’s due to come at any minute now. I noted the time it came yesterday by my watch, and it is nearly it now.”

Mystified, Clay gazed up at the lofty mountain. Being so early in the winter and still in the midst of the windy season, the mountain was free from snow, save where it nestled in the pockets and crevices, and the main part of it lay naked and exposed to the eye. It was like a huge cake packed layer after layer, each layer getting smalled and smaller until the apex was hidden in eternal snows. Each layer was made of a different strata of which the mountain was composed. Here was a dull-red streak indicating the presence of iron ore, above it the dull grey of granite, and below that a curious blend of green. As Clay stood looking up, the miracle happened. The low slanting sun lingered on the mountain’s face for a minute and it became as a thing transformed, all its varying hues stood out blended softly together by the sun’s lingering rays. Pink, red, lavender and green blended for a moment in one harmonious whole, then the sun’s rays passed on and—the vision of beauty was gone.

Clay drew in a breath of keenest pleasure. “Glorious,” he exclaimed.

“Don’t it suggest anything to you?” questioned Case.

“A great big, beautiful rainbow seen close to, of course,” Clay replied promptly.

“Nothing more?” Case suggested.

Clay thought for a moment. “I’ve got it,” he suddenly exclaimed. “That mountain marks the bend in the river, and that rainbow furnishes the rest. It’s Rainbow Bend, the place Ike’s uncle lives. He must have a camp in the next cove. Funny that we should be neighbors so long and never know it.”

“I wouldn’t say anything to Ike about it, not just now at any rate,” Clay said slowly. “I—well, I did a little exploring myself after I saw that rainbow yesterday and I found a little cabin of logs in that next cove. The door was open a bit and the cabin was partly full of snow, but in one corner, back behind the door, was a sight that made me hustle out into the open air with my legs shaking a bit, I guess, Clay,” and the lad’s voice lowered. “It was the skeleton of a man, a big man with bent shoulders. His skull was smashed to pieces and an axe lay close by with some grayish hairs sticking to it.”

Clay turned back for the Rambler. “Let’s be getting back,” he said quietly, “we will slip away tomorrow and bury the body and say nothing to the boys until winter is over. This country is no place to brood in over anything.”

“But I haven’t told you the worst yet, Clay,” Case blurted out. “Our potatoes are all gone, and part of our provisions also.”

Clay stopped in his tracks, his face paling. This was the last straw. “When did it happen. Who did it?” he said, bewilderedly.

“Goodness knows,” Case said despairingly. “It may have happened a week ago. You see we have been light on the potatoes because we did not have more than enough to last until spring anyway. We have kept a supply in the kitchen locker so as not to have to burrow around in the hold for them every time we wanted a mess. I guess I was the last one to fill the locker, about a week ago. I went to fill it again yesterday but could only find a handful scattered in the hold. Part of our flour, beans and bacon is gone too.”

“It must have been done when we were getting in that week of practice work with the snow shoes and team,” said Clay, thoughtfully. “There were hours at a time when all of us would be out of sight of the Rambler. It strikes me something like this,” he continued, after another pause. “It looks like the work of those two wretches. Bill and Jud, from beginning to end. They knew Ike’s uncle well enough so that he trusted them to carry a letter to Ike. He may have let out a hint to them that he had found something of value. Likely they demanded to have a share in it. A quarrel arose over it and the old man was killed without their learning his secret. But they had the letter to Ike. They opened it but apparently could not make out its meaning. They tore off a corner of it, however, so that Ike could not make out its meaning either, without their help. Then they came to the States and delivered it to Ike. We all know how they pestered Ike all winter and in the end how they tried to kill or rob him. When we get up here, we find them here ahead of us and ready to do us harm at the first opportunity. They know of Rainbow Bend. They likely reasoned that Ike knew its whereabouts too and would land here sooner or later and they proposed to be not far off when he came. We know from what the Kid said that they are up the river somewhere. I believe that it is they who have stolen our stuff. I believe that their main plan is to get Ike and torture him until he reveals the secret in his uncle’s letter. Well, there is a lot of theory in what I’ve been saying, but it fits in nicely with the facts.”

“What are we going to do?” asked Case hopelessly.

“Do,” said Clay, straightening up. “We are going to face it like men. Trust in the Lord, and do our best.”

CHAPTER XXI

THE MYSTERY

Alex and Ike had to be told of the loss of food and also that Bill and Jud were likely lurking in the neighborhood. No mention was made to them, however, of the discoveries Case had made.

It was a gloomy little group after Clay had finished his tale. A winter in the Arctic was to be dreaded at its best, but with little food on hand and no potatoes, it was a horrible thing to meet. It was Clay who tried to enthuse a little cheerfulness into the grim situation. “We’ve got to face it, boys,” he said, “and it’s going to be hard to do, but we are going to make bad matters worse if we just sit and brood on it. I believe that we are going to come out of this all right. The main thing to do is to keep cheerful and keep busy. Let’s go on with our trading just as if nothing had happened, except that we will not only buy furs, but also meat whenever we get the chance. Perhaps we may be able to get a few potatoes at the Catholic Mission. They may have laid enough in to spare us a few. Alex, you and Ike had better, in the morning, overhaul all the stores and see just what we have left and how best to portion it off so as to make it last. Case and I have a little job on of our own to attend to. We will tell you about it later on. Now let’s turn in and go to sleep, each one determining that he is never going to worry over anything until it actually happens to him. Half the time the things we fear never happen. Long brooding over fears makes a coward and I believe even the Lord himself despises a coward. Good night, you fellows. I’m going to sleep.”

He and Case were early astir in the morning and stole out of the cabin softly so as not to awaken the sleepers. It was still dark, but the stars were shining like glimmering lanterns hung far above their heads and the black mass of the towering mountain rose dimly from its white carpeted base to serve them as a mighty guide post pointing out their way. By the time the two boys rounded the mountain’s base and entered the cove beyond, the dim twilight had driven the darkness to flight and they easily found the little cabin nestling up against the mountain side. Theirs was a gruesome task and they went to work at it with reluctant hands. The ground was too firmly frozen to dig a grave so they did the best they could. They carried the gruesome object up to the foot of a big wide-spread spruce and laid it down. Then they covered it with a thick layer of fragrant spruce boughs; upon this mound they leaned up some loose planks and around the whole built up a mound of stones to protect the one beneath from hunger-maddened wolves. This task done they skirted the edge of the cove, looking for any trace of other human habitation along its shore. Both had felt that their enemies might be camped in this very cove but their search pretty well convinced them that this was not so likely. “There’s no telling where they may be now,” Case said. “To look for them in this great, desolate frozen country would be like looking for a needle in a hay stack. They may be camped within a mile of us, or, again, they may be hundreds of miles away by now. Our trouble is that we do not know just when the stuff was taken and we can find no tracks that tell which way the thieves went. Better give it up. We have got a lot to do before the real winter sets in. We ought to start in tomorrow and begin our trading in earnest. We want a lot more furs and most of all we need meat, all we can get of it. It will keep all winter. We may not be fit to work later on,” he concluded significantly.

“You’re right,” Clay agreed reluctantly. “We will start out tomorrow for the next village. But all the same,” he added, “I have a feeling that those fellows are near us now just waiting for a good chance to get at Ike. One of us two must always stay behind. Two are enough to go with the team anyway. The other two, with Captain Joe on watch, had ought to take care of themselves and the boat all right. Well, we can do nothing more here. We had better get back to the Rambler before the boys get too curious and come hunting us up.”

They found a hot breakfast awaiting them and the boys finished the computing of the Rambler’s stores, a process which Ike with pencil and paper in hand, was enjoying hugely.

“This committee finds,” he announced, “that if we all eats like Alex here there is plenty of food for two months yet. If we eats only enough to live on there be food for four months, maybe. If we feed the dogs Indian fashion, just a little at a time, you understand, there will be quite a lot of salmon left for us. That is all, I think, gentlemen, except the dogs. But Alex here says he will shoot any one who touches Buck and I do the same for Captain Joe, for he helps save my life one time, you understand.”

Clay laughed. “Why, we are not near so bad off as I expected,” he said, brightly. “Almost anything can happen in two months. I’ve got a hunch boys, that everything is going to turn out all right. Let’s keep on full rations for two weeks more, then we can cut down gradually if we see we need to. We had better give the dogs their double rations while they are working and cut it down to the usual feed when they are idle. Now let’s put the stores back where they belong and wash up the dishes and then go out and cut up firewood. This fine weather is not going to last forever. There are going to be days when no one will hanker to go out in the cold and chop wood. Better get up a good pile now when we have the time.” The boys knocked off work at sunset, and after they had finished their evening meal, Clay brought out from his locker a pack of cards, a checker board, and a chess board with its queens and pawns. “Lucky I thought to bring these,” he said. “They will help to pass the time. Let’s have a game and then turn in, for Case and Ike will have to get an early start in the morning.” The boys made merry over the game that followed, but deep down in each young heart was the creeping dread of that scourge of the Northland, scurvy. Clay expressed it when he said, thoughtlessly, “We had ought to save those few potatoes for Christmas. We want to have a special feast Christmas day.”