On the Yukon Trail Page 4

  CHAPTER IV JOE MISSING

  Curlie Carson was worried. As he sat on his rolled-up sleeping-bag in thetent which had been set with the usual care for a night's comfort, hisfingers drummed incessantly on the box which held his three-stageamplifier, while he muttered ever now and again:

  "Wish he'd come. I don't like the looks of it. What's keeping him? That'swhat I'd like to know."

  Joe was three hours overdue. After many days of travel they had madetheir way far into the interior of Alaska, well away toward the Yukon.Day by day they had broken trail for their dogs and day by day movedforward. At first the trail had been hard-packed from many dog teamspassing from village to village. But as they pushed farther and fartherinto the wilderness these villages had vanished. Towns that were townsonly in name greeted them now as they advanced. An Indian's hovel here,the shack of a long-bearded patriarch of a miner there, that was all.

  Snow had fallen in abundance. They were obliged to break every foot oftrail before their dog teams.

  Food was scarce. The question of feeding their dogs had become a problem.Then, only this very afternoon an Indian had told of a cache of cariboumeat some ten miles away in the forest. If they would wait for him tobring it, they would have fine fresh meat in abundance.

  The boys had debated the question. They were eager to go forward. Awhispered message of the night before had led them to believe that theirquest was nearing its end; that the man they sought was not far beforethem on the trail; yet the dogs must be fed.

  It had been decided at last that Joe Marion with an all but empty sledshould await the supply of meat, while the others pressed on breaking thetrail until near nightfall, when they would make camp and await hisarrival.

  Curlie and Jennings had carried out their part of the program, but whenhe should have arrived Joe had not appeared, rounding the clump of sprucetrees to the south of them.

  After an hour of anxious waiting, Jennings, taking his rifle, had goneout to search for him.

  "May have lost his way," he had commented.

  Curlie had remained to listen in on his radiophone. Joe carried with him,attached to his sled, a complete sending and receiving set. In time oftrouble the first thing he would think of would be getting off aradiophone message to his companions.

  "Ought to be getting something," Curlie mumbled. "I wonder what couldhave happened? I wonder--"

  He paused for reflection. Night by night as he had sat upon hissleeping-bag, listening in, strange messages had come to him from thesky. Now the rude interference of the unknown man who had been tearing upthe traffic of the air told Curlie that they were coming closer to oneanother, and now the whisper of the girl, that ghostlike creature whoappeared to haunt the track of the lawbreaker, told Curlie of the dayfast approaching when he and the outlaw of the air must meet face toface. At such times he had wondered if he should then meet the girl aswell as the man.

  On the previous night the whisper had informed him that they were butseventy-five miles apart.

  "Coming, coming," Curlie had whispered to himself.

  The trail had been heavy. They had made but fifteen miles. What of thestranger? How far had he come?

  Curlie's heart skipped a beat at the realization that he must be verynear at hand.

  At the same time there came a disturbing question. Had this man of evilintentions somehow stolen a march on them? Had he been in league with theIndian who had claimed to possess a supply of caribou meat? Had this beenbut a ruse to get them separated?

  "Well, if it was, it's been a complete success," he exclaimed. "Three ofus and not one of us knows where the others are."

  Turning, he reached for a box-magazine rifle. After examining the clip inthe chamber, he slipped three other loaded ones in his pockets.

  "You can never tell," he whispered, "you sure can not."

  A great silence hovered over the forest which bounded the banks of theTanana River. Such silences existed in these Arctic wilds as Curlie hadnever before experienced.

  "Fairly spooky," he whispered to himself. "Wish I could hearsomething--wind in the treetops, even. But there's not a breath."

  The forest lay all about him. Everywhere the ground was buried in twofeet of snow. Muffled footsteps might at this moment be approaching thecamp.

  At last, unable to bear it longer, he snapped off the radiophone for amoment to adjust a smaller set and tune it to 200, the wave length he andJoe had agreed to use if in distress.

  When this smaller set had been called into action, he tuned the largerset to longer wave lengths. He hoped to catch some sound from the airwhich might relieve the awful silence.

  "Wonderful thing this radiophone," he told himself. "Great boon to theArctic. Think of the trader, the trapper, the gold hunter alone in hiscabin, tired of the sound of his own voice and that of his dog. Think ofbeing able to tune in on his radio and bring down snatches of song, ofinstrumental music and of ordinary conversation, right out of theair--some young girl sending her lover a good-night kiss, for instance,"he chuckled to himself. "But--"

  He paused abruptly. He was getting something on the long wave lengths.Faint, indistinct at first came the message. Yet he caught it clearly.His nerves tingled as he listened. It was Munson, the great Arcticexplorer. He was attempting to inform the outside world, especially themen who had financed his expedition, of his plans. He had established alarge supply station on Flaxman Island; then he had pushed fearlessly outthrough the floes toward the Pole. His ship was strongly built, with anextra covering of iron-wood on its keel. Its engines were powerful. Hewould go as far as the steamer would carry him, then he would hop off inan airplane and attempt the Pole. He was supplied with three airplanes.In these, if his ship should be wrecked, he would be able to carry hisentire company and crew to the supply house on Flaxman Island.

  This brief report was followed by a personal message to his wife, thenthe air was once more clear. The old, monotonous silence settled downupon Curlie's little world. During all the time he had listened in, hisfingers had been flying across a sheet of paper. He had written down themessage. It was within the realm of possibility that he was the onlyoperator who had got it. In that case it would be his duty to relay it tothose for whom it was intended.

  During all this time one question had been revolving in his mind: Why hadnot the man he sought, the outlaw of the air, broken in on this message?He had been informed that this man had taken delight in breaking upMunson's communications. Why then this silence? Could it be that hehimself was out scouting around, trying to ambush Joe and Jennings and intime even Curlie himself? Or was he merely afraid of being detected atthis time?

  "Possibly," said Curlie to himself, "there was something about thatmessage which interested him. In that case he would want to hear to theend."

  Suddenly his hand made a clutch at his rifle. What was that? Had hecaught the sound of a footstep or was it merely a white owl flapping hiswings? He sat there listening, scarcely breathing, awaiting he hardlyknew what. And, at this moment, on the 200 meter wave lengths a messagecame to his waiting ears.