“But the message?”
“When they were in the thick of their troubles they hove to not far off the icy beach, and a Husky came down on them in some kind of boat.”
“A Husky?” repeated Wyllard, who knew the seaman meant an Esquimau.
“That’s what Dunton called him, but I guess he must have been a Kamtchadale or a Koriak. Anyway, he brought this strip of willow, and he had Tom Lewson’s watch. Dunton traded him something for it. They couldn’t make much of what he said except that he’d got the message from three white men somewhere along the beach. They couldn’t make out how long ago.”
“Dunton tried for them?”
“How could he? His vessel would hardly look at the wind, and the ice was piling up on the coast close to lee of him. He hung on a week or two with the floes driving in all the while, and then it freshened hard and blew him out.”
The stranger had told his story, and Wyllard, who rose with a quick gesture of deep anxiety, stood leaning on his chairback. His face was grave.
“That,” he said, “must have been eight or nine months ago.”
“It was. They’ve been up there since the night we couldn’t pick up the boat.”
“It’s unthinkable,” declared Wyllard. “The thing can’t be true.”