Lost in the Air Part 6

As they rushed down the white expanse, many thoughts raced through Barney's mind. It seemed that hunger and cold grew upon him with every whirl of the engine-shaft. He thought of Bruce and La Vaune. Would they ever return to La Vaune with the money which was rightfully hers? And Timmie? Would they ever be able to help him blot the stain from his name?

Barney's friend, Dave Tower, who had gone North in a submarine on a mission as mysterious as their own; would they ever meet?

They had now turned and were making their way slowly back. The fire had burned down to a dull red glow. The forest about had escaped the flames, and this was fortunate. Should the Indians leave them unmolested, they might possibly find a means of sustaining life by hunting and trapping.

"When we get to the bay, might as well land," grumbled the Major. "It's mighty tough up here!"

Barney a.s.sured him that it certainly was tough. He was glad they were to land, being very sure that if an Indian did shoot him he would not feel it, so thoroughly benumbed was he with cold.

Then, suddenly, he gave a cry of surprise. They were nearing a point where Conjurer's Bay should appear. Instead of the bay he saw what appeared to be merely a broad shoulder of frozen water, and beyond that, perhaps two miles, was a small lake lined by the forest. It was on the edge of this small lake that the fire smouldered. The boy rubbed his eyes, then looked again. Had the cold benumbed his senses? Was he seeing things? Was he asleep and dreaming?

Apparently not, for from Bruce through the receiver came a groan, then;

"What's happened? The whole shape of the lake has changed within an hour!"

Barney shut off the engines. In the welcome silence which followed, as they drifted downward in a slow spiral, not a man spoke. Their eyes were focused upon the earth.

But now there came to their ears a sound like the distant rush of many waters. This grew rapidly louder, and finally divided itself into rattling and snapping sounds.

Presently the Major let out a roar of laughter.

"Caribou!" he exploded. "They pa.s.s south from the barren lands in herds of hundreds of thousands, so thick they look like land! Tip her nose up for another circle. See! There is the end of the herd away there in the distance. We'll be able to land where they have pa.s.sed in fifteen minutes, an ideal landing-place--tramped hard."

With a grin Barney obeyed orders, and, as his engines began to revolve, felt himself shooting skyward.

"Now it's clear," roared the Major.

Barney did not respond on the instant. He was thinking of something he had read about the "camp-followers of the barren-ground caribou." A chill not of the wind and cold crept into his heart. But what was to be done?

He felt that another hour aloft would so benumb his senses that a crash would be inevitable. To land at a point other than that trampled by the caribou involved great risk, for there was undoubtedly a thick coating of drifted snow on the lake's surface. So he stopped the engines and they spiraled once more toward the earth.

Now they were nearing the surface of the lake. The distance was a thousand feet; now eight hundred. Did he see shadows flitting across the ice? At five hundred feet he was sure that he did. He said nothing. So intent on landing was he that no risk seemed too great. At three hundred feet he saw them distinctly--gray streaks scooting across the trodden snow or resting on haunches, their shadows stretching before them.

"Great Scott!" he muttered, "must be hundreds of them! Oh well, they're cowards!" He tilted the machine for the final glide. There came a sudden exclamation from the Major, then from Bruce. They, too, had seen. It was too late now, for their landing wheels were almost touching the surface as they glided on. And now, strangely enough, some of the gray streaks began to chase the plane. As if imagining it a bird with flesh to eat and bones to gnaw, they came on. Then, all at once, Barney realized what they followed--the scent of fresh meat. Timmie had killed a reindeer in honor of their departure and had presented them with a hind-quarter. This was now roped on the fuselage behind the Major. They would have a fight. He knew that now. He thought of their weapons--two rifles. They were almost useless against five hundred gaunt, hungry wolves. And they were gaunt; he could see that as he flew by them. Evidently camp-following this year had not given them an over-abundant supply of food. The season's calves were fleet and strong by now, and every herd had its thousands of antlered bulls that formed bristling hedges to defend their own.

b.u.mp! The plane struck the ice and bounded, then struck again. Barney's mind was now working fast. Yes, there were other weapons--the oxy-acetylene torch--yes, the machine-gun. He shouted to Bruce to get the torch, and, as soon as the plane slowed down, freed his hands from his gloves and began fumbling at the gun before him. The Major was unstrapping the two rifles. The wolf-pack was crowding around in a grinning circle. Barney caught his breath as his eyes swept the circle.

Five hundred if one, dripping-jawed, red-eyed, gray creatures-of-prey, they waited, as ever, for the coward's chance to fight with great odds in their favor.

"Don't shoot until forced to," said Bruce, turning to the Major. "If you do you may bring the whole pack down upon us."

In this emergency, Bruce took the lead, and, a.s.suredly, that was the wise plan; for, reared as he had been in the forests and plains of the Northland, he knew wolves. Just now he was dragging from their hiding-place in the fuselage two iron tubes, perhaps eighteen inches long and six in diameter. One tube contained oxygen, the other acetylene gas. The tubes were connected by a set of registering valves. To these, in turn, was fastened a wire-wound rubber hose with a long bra.s.s nozzle. Once the valves were turned, the acetylene gas forced out by a pressure of a thousand pounds and united with oxygen as an accelerator would produce a shooting flame that burned metals as if they were sun-dried pulp.

The machine stopped and the pack crowded in. With an electric flash lamp in one hand and the rubber hose in the other, Bruce stood watching. With aching, clumsy fingers and bleared eyes, Barney worked on the machine-gun that, with oil fairly frozen in its parts, seemed about to refuse to respond.

"Hurry!" exclaimed Bruce, as a gaunt form with patches of brown, and double nose, telling of mixed blood, sprang forward, eager to drag the fresh meat from the fuselage.

Instead of firing, the Major beat the beast over the head, and with a snarl he resumed his place in the ever-narrowing circle.

And now the time for concerted action on the part of the pack seemed to have come; for, with one savage snarl, the first row rushed straight on.

There came a flash, then the hiss of a white-tongued fiery serpent. As the first wolf reared on his haunches, the smell of burning hair and roasting flesh halted the half-maddened pack, and, falling over one another, again they retreated.

It was a tense moment. Slapping his hands to warm them, Barney adjusted cartridges and swept the circle with an imaginary volley. What if the machine-gun jammed? There could be but one result. The torch would not long hold the beasts off. Besides, the gas would not last.

"Well, shoot if you can!" exclaimed Bruce. "This gas is precious stuff.

We can't waste it."

At that, there came the staccato music of the machine-gun. With steady eye Barney swept the inner circle. They went down like grain before a gale. With strange wild snarls they bit at their wounds, at one another, at the snow. The gun swept again with its merciless fire. The furthermost members of the pack began to slink away. Then as Barney raised his gun and sent a rain of bullets pattering about them, the whole snarling pack fled in yelping confusion.

The battle was won. Bruce cut off the gas. Barney ceased his fire. The Major, loosing his harness, stood up and stretched himself. Then they looked at one another and laughed.

"Some fight!" exclaimed Barney.

"Some fight!" agreed Bruce.

"Some fight!" reechoed the Major. "And the next thing is to put the injured out of their misery. After that we must skin 'em and make a cache for the meat."

"Meat?" the boys questioned.

"Sure," smiled the Major. "Wolf meat isn't bad at all. You perhaps forget that we have not a hundred miles of gas in the tank. We may be here quite some time!"

CHAPTER IV

A MODERN BATTLE WITH CRIMINALS

When Dave Tower, Barney Menter's one-time pal, received the letter suggesting a bit of "jazz" somewhere within the Arctic Circle, he was on twelve-hour sh.o.r.e leave. They were to start on that mysterious subsea journey at high-tide next day. He grinned as he showed the note to Ensign Blake, his commander. Then he went around the corner and purchased a second-hand guitar and an oboe.

"Look!" he exclaimed, pointing to a pair of battered kettledrums in the corner. "There's the original pair--made by the Adam and Eve of the South Sea Islands, or wherever kettledrums originated. I'll buy 'em and teach some gob to drum. We'll have a whole band when we arrive."

A few hours later found them aboard the snug, shapely hull of U boat N.

12 of the U.S.A. submarine fleet. The sub was a small one, patterned after the most recent British model, known as the "K" cla.s.s. Fleet as a flying-fish, she made twenty-two knots on the surface and ten knots when submerged. She presented a rather odd appearance, having a short, square funnel, which was swung over into a recess in the deck when the craft submerged.

Her gun and torpedoes had been removed. The weight of those had been replaced by an additional supply of oil and by quant.i.ties of provisions.

The provisions, together with bales of skin clothing, were packed into every available s.p.a.ce.

She made splendid progress as she left the harbor and wound her way in and out among the islands of Puget Sound, to emerge finally round Cape Flattery and strike away into the open sea.

It became evident at once that this was no coastwise journey. Further than that, not even Ensign Blake knew its purpose.

The sub was registered at the Navy-yard as "off on detached duty." The crew of ten men were all volunteers for the trip. The expedition was under the direction of a doctor. A man past middle age, he sat in a wicker chair below, smoking innumerable cigars and saying nothing.

"Far's I can dope it out," Blake said to Dave, "the old fellow did some good service for the Government during the war. He's had plenty of experience in the North; has some theories he wants to work out about subs and the Arctic. The Government has some little trick they want pulled off up in that North country. The Doctor volunteers to lead the expedition, and here we are!"

"But what do you suppose--"

"Don't suppose a thing," said Blake, gazing astern at the last fading bit of land. "There's a lot of things that might be; but like as not none of my guesses is correct."

"Let's hear you guess."