“This is the way Thorwaldsson’s party expected to go,” Farnum had said. “For it was this route which Farrell and Cameron, the two prospectors, followed on their way in. They were prospecting for gold, you know, had no idea of finding oil. It was their original intention to strike northeast across the numerous streams at the head of the Hare Indian in search of gold. And Farrell reported, when he reached the outside, that he had found traces and, in fact, several sizable pockets of gold.”
Accordingly they pushed on up the Hare Indian a number of days until, in fact, the extra supplies of gasoline which had been taken aboard on leaving the MacKenzie dwindled to the point where it became advisable for the party to go ashore in order that the schooner might turn about and have sufficient fuel to make its way downstream to the supply depot.
It was a period of time that, in fact, however, could hardly be considered in terms of days. So far north had the party come that the sun shone perpetually. It was only at midnight, for a brief space, that it dipped to the horizon.
And what a gorgeous time it had proven to be for all concerned, but especially for the boys. As the powerful little schooner forged ahead, there was not a bend the rounding of which did not afford a surprise. Sometimes it would be caribou or reindeer, probably an escape from some Eskimo herd, which would be surprised standing in the water, and breaking for the timber on the bank at their approach. Again brown bear would be seen on the bank, or beaver swimming strongly across the stream. As for fishing, it was an Izaak Walton paradise. All Bob, Frank and Jack did for hours on end was to lean overside with hooks baited with bacon rind dangling in the water astern, and pull in speckled beauties. And many a meal was made, too, on wild duck or geese, picked off with a light rifle.
Then came the time when Tom Farnum announced that they would stay ashore on the morrow. And little sleep did the boys have that night, as they lay awake on deck, whispering to each other, an awning shading them from the sun.
Early the next morning they went ashore with their outfit, and then watched the gasoline schooner throb off downstream, around the last bend, and out of sight. As it disappeared, for the first time there came to each of the three boys the feeling of isolation natural to their situation. The last settlement was two hundred miles behind them. They were going into the great unknown, into the regions marked “Unexplored” on the maps of that great northern rim of the North American continent.
True, the weather was fine now and the country green and pleasant about them. But how long would that endure? What if they were beset by oncoming Winter before they could make their way to the outside? What if they were attacked by hostile Indians? What obscure fate had met the Thorwaldsson expedition, traces of which they sought?
Into the mind of each thronged such thoughts, as they stood in unwonted silence. Then Mr. Hampton called to them.
“No time for day-dreaming. Each man to his job.”
With him Tom Farnum had brought two trusted men. They hailed from Nome, but were old-timers who had been up and down Alaska for many years. Both were men of forty, sober, steady fellows who would be useful in helping distribute the burden of packs, and would, moreover, be of inestimable value in keeping the party supplied with game as well as in almost any situation that might arise. They were grizzled, weather-beaten men of medium height, both with stout frames, and because of their long existence in the lonesome north little given to talking. Their names were Dick Fairwell and Art Bowman, and they were “Dick” and “Art” to each other and the other members of the party. The boys had taken a liking to both.