The Radio Boys Rescue the Lost Alaska Expedition Part 3

Mr. Hampton nodded.

"As I said before," he stated, "that seems a reasonable explanation.

Three or four men, left alone, might have feared to face the Winter iced in, or might have been stricken ill, and so, for some reason that appeared good enough to them, might have decided to violate orders and start out. As to the disappearance of the ship, many an undermanned vessel has gone down in a storm, without leaving a trace."

"But, Dad, you've said nothing about this," protested Jack.

Mr. Hampton smiled slightly.

"There are a lot of things which I know I have never told you, Jack," he said. "If I really have neglected to speak of this, however, it has been through an oversight. I've had a lot of things on my mind. But, come. We know this is the way Thorwaldsson pa.s.sed. We are on the right track. So let us push on. We have still four hours of travel to do before making camp."

CHAPTER IV.-STRIKING GOLD.

Life flowed along very pleasantly indeed, for the boys, during the weeks that followed. They were so far north that the sun shone constantly, and never a cloud came to trouble the sky, never a storm to drive them to take shelter. When they camped it was usually in the dim cool recesses of a forest of firs, beneath the dense shade of which could be found the only semblance of night.

Never before had they known the delights of camp life, as they were now living it. It was like being on one continuous picnic. For a considerable period of time they found themselves in a mesh or network of streams and lakes, through which Tom Farnum guided them steadily northeastward, with never a sign of doubt as to the course to take.

They wondered about this, asked why they took certain forks of river or stream, why avoided others. Tom answered readily enough. From Mr.

Anderson he had received a minute report containing every sc.r.a.p of data Farrell had been able to furnish as to the course taken by him and Cameron on going into the wild country.

"So you see," he added, "while I may not be following in the exact footsteps of Thorwaldsson, yet I am going over the same general route.

Sooner or later we will cover the same ground which he covered again, and then I expect we shall find some other record which he has left behind, just as in the case of that note on the Hare Indian."

This was enough for the boys. It satisfied their curiosity. They dismissed, or practically so, from their minds all worry as to the "Lost Expedition." They were too busy enjoying life as they found it each waiting moment.

Around each bend in a stream that their paddles took them, on the sh.o.r.e of each deep, silent lake, was some new marvel. Now it would be a bear grunting on the bank. Again, a deer, probably a runaway from some Eskimo herd on Summer pasture as Farnum explained, standing in the stream, and starting with a snort into the timber at their approach. Occasionally a gray wolf could be seen loping in the distance. Now and again a beaver cut across stream.

With their light rifles the boys occasionally were permitted to pick off some game, usually wild ducks or geese, of which there were numbers along the watercourses. But nothing was shot wantonly. Many a time, youthful fingers itched on the trigger, only to be restrained by the thought of the cruel uselessness of shooting merely for sport.

Of other inhabitants in this vast northern wilderness, none were encountered. And at this the boys marvelled. It was as if they had the world to themselves. They could not understand it. To them it was a paradise.

"Wait till you see this in Winter," said Farnum grimly. "Or rather, pray that you never do. It is a land of perpetual night, and the temperature is so low that when you stop moving you must have a fire or you will freeze to death. And it isn't every day that you can travel. For this isn't a land of tame Winter as you boys know it. Out of the north comes storms succeeding storm, pitiless in severity. Even the creatures of the wild cannot stand it, in many cases, and drift to the south."

"But how about the Eskimo?" asked Jack. "This is their country, isn't it? How do they stand it?"

"Sometimes they don't," said Farnum. "When the hunting is poor and famine stalks through the Eskimo village, only the hardiest survive."

"Where do they live, anyway?" struck in Frank. "Why aren't they around here? Why haven't we seen any?"

"They may have seen us," said Farnum, "and are avoiding us. They are a timorous people, know the white man only by tradition. To the Eskimo, the white man is a sort of G.o.d, at least to the Eskimo of all this country north of us. Back along the coast of Alaska, of course, some sort of contact has been made. But these Eskimo never come in touch with the whites. They are a migratory people. In Summer they range far and wide on the hunt. In the Winter, they retire to the edge of the Arctic Ocean."

"But why?" asked Bob, in surprise. "I should think that would be the very place for them to steer away from."

"Oh, no," said Farnum. "You see, all game goes far to the south in Winter, so the Eskimo goes to the ocean because it is the home of the only game left-the seal. He builds his snow house or igloo and camps near the air holes of the seal, spearing them as they come up for air.

Occasionally he slays a polar bear, too."

"I confess I know very little about the Eskimo," said Jack. "What are his weapons?"

"Bows and arrows tipped with flint or copper, copper-pointed spears, and wooden knives edged with copper," said Farnum.

"But, a bear," cried Bob, incredulously. "How could an Eskimo kill a great polar bear with such weapons?"

"Single-handed, he couldn't," said Farnum. "But when the bear is hunted, the whole tribe of hunters go together. They attack in a circle. Their spears or harpoons have lines attached. And as these harpoons sink into the body of the bear, the lines pull him this way and that as he charges on his tormenters. Eventually, if the Eskimo are lucky, they have him so surrounded that he cannot move. Then one dashes in and administers the death blow."

"Then necessity forces them to live in tribal groups?" asked Jack.

Farnum nodded.

"In the Summer they often hunt alone, ranging far, for they are great travelers. But in Winter, the hunters are all back with the tribe."

"And the Indians?" asked Frank.

Farnum's face darkened.

"There are not many," he said. "I wish there were less. You may say all you please about the 'n.o.ble red man.' But all I ever heard about the Indians of the Far North doesn't predispose me in their favor. They are cutthroats, thieves and liars. Usually they hunt somewhat to the south of us, and make their way in towards the northern Canadian settlements as Winter approaches. Let's hope we encounter none of them."

The boys wondered as they went along whether this were gold-producing country into which they were pushing. They spoke of the matter to d.i.c.k, their canoe mate, at times. Taciturn though he was usually, at every mention of gold his eyes brightened, and he became almost voluble.

"Never been this far north," he said on one occasion, "no white man ever has been in here, reckon. But I'd like to stop at the foot o' some of these rapids and wash a little gravel for luck. I sure would like to."

"Let's do it the next rapids we come to," suggested Frank, with eager interest. "It wouldn't take long, would it?"

"Orders is not to waste time."

"Well, I'll speak to father," said Jack. "I'm sure he'd let us try it just once."

In this surmise he was correct, for the noon halt happened to be at the foot of a rapids that would necessitate a portage, and d.i.c.k and Art reported the graveled bank showed signs of "color." Even Farnum, his mind concentrated on the task of getting his party along and on the job in hand, showed interest when addressed on the subject. With pick and pan, therefore, the two men got busy, while the boys watched with breathless interest the process of rocking the pan and washing out the gravel.

"Whoopee," cried d.i.c.k, suddenly. "Thar she is. Color in the pan."

"Sure as I'm born," e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed his partner. "Strong, too."

All the boys could discern, however, were some dully gleaming particles at the bottom of the pan, out of which most of the gravel had been washed with the water. They had half expected to spy nuggets. Farnum and Mr. Hampton, however, were as eagerly interested as the two old-timers.

"Try another pan, men," suggested Mr. Hampton. "Let us go a little farther upstream."

Once more the process was repeated. This time the pan was rich in "pay"

and the excitement of the four older men mounted, hectic spots glowing dull beneath their tan in the cheeks of the two old-timers especially.

Then d.i.c.k, who was wielding the pick, attacked a clump of rocks in the edge of the stream at the very foot of the rapids, standing in his boots almost knee-deep in the water. For several minutes he picked and pried and finally, with a shout of delight, turned to his audience behind him on the bank and, having plunged an arm into the water, held it up dripping.

"Look," was all he said.

They gazed, all eyes.