A few hundred feet from the outer edge of the ice-cliff, the forested moraine became a "dead" glacier. When a glacier advances no longer, but draws back year by year, it is said to be "dead." The live glacier is simply a river of ice pouring down precipices and into gorges and fiords.
As a matter of fact, the log cabin was built upon a glacier, for under the luxuriant summer undergrowth, under the flowers, and under the bright green of the hemlocks, lay a great bed of ice which, however, was slowly receding. In times gone by the current of ice had flowed into the Gulf of Alaska, but now, because of drainage in another direction, the glacial ice swept off to the west, in the direction of Copper river.
The four boys in the cabin had just finished supper, the cooking having been done over a gasoline "plate," and they were now discussing the advisability of spending the remaining hour of daylight in the investigation of the strange, wild land in which they now found themselves.
Two days before they had landed at Katalla, and had spent the intervening time in transferring their supplies to the log house on the glacier. They had traveled northward by the inland route, and landed in the vicinity of Controller bay, bringing with them provisions sufficient for a long stay in the wonderful North.
Those who have read the previous volumes of this series will well remember the adventures of Will Smith, Charley (Sandy) Green, George Benton and Tommy Gregory. After startling experiences among the Pictured Rocks of Old Superior, in the mysterious swamps of the Everglades, in the rocky caverns of the Continental Divide, amidst the snows of the Hudson Bay wilderness, and in the coal caverns of the Pennsylvania anthracite region, they had decided to spend a portion of the summer in Alaska. They had reached Controller bay without serious accident, and now found themselves in one of the most picturesque sections of the great territory, with plenty of provisions and ammunition.
The lads were all dressed in the khaki uniform of the Boy Scouts of America, the badges showing membership in the Beaver Patrol of Chicago. Their coat sleeves showed medals proclaiming the fact that they had passed examinations and were well qualified to serve as Stalkers, Seamen, Pioneers, or in the Ambulance squad. The pennant of the Beaver Patrol flew above the door of the cabin.
Tommy Gregory separated himself from, the group about the supper table and walked to the heavily-screened doorway. His face was covered by an Alaska head-net, and he wore a pair of strong leather gloves.
"Why didn't some of you boys tell me that the mosquitos here are as large as robins?" he asked.
"Because they are only half as large," replied Sandy Green with a grin.
"If some one will hand me my gun off the table," Tommy went on, with a wrinkling of his freckled nose, "I'll shoot one, and we can have him for supper! One of the outlaws ought to make a good meal for us four!"