Ah yes, there had been children’s cries that day; rough, unkind words had been said at times to the children. Little wonder, for they had that day—hundreds of men, women and children—disembarked from a ship that carried them far toward their promised land, the Matamuska Valley in Alaska.
They had been dumped quite unceremoniously, a whole shipload of people with cows, horses, dogs, cats, canaries, trucks, tractors, tents, lumber, hardware, groceries, shoes, hammers, saws, and clothespins on the dock at Anchorage. Men dashed about searching for tents and baggage. Women sought out lost or strayed pets. Children had cried and above it all had come the hoarse shout of some enthusiast: “On! On! to our new home! Three cheers for Alaska!”
Over all this darkness had fallen. After a cold supper, having pitched their tents and spread their blankets, they had stretched out on the rough surface of the dock to sleep, if sleep they could. And now Florence was hearing that distressing moan of a child.
“Near at hand,” she thought, raising herself on an elbow to listen once more, this time more closely. “A strange sort of cry. Can’t be a child from our party. I’ve heard them all cry.”
Indeed she had. The long journey half way across America, then along the coast to Alaska had been hard on the children.
“A ticket to adventure,” she whispered once again. They had come here, their little party of four, to begin life anew, to secure for themselves a home and if possible, a modest fortune. Would they win? With God’s help, could they? And was true adventure to be thrown in for good measure? The girl thrilled at the thought, for, ambitious as she undoubtedly was, she was human as well, and who does not feel his blood race at thought of adventure?
However, at this moment something other than adventure called, the cry of a child in the night. Florence dearly loved small children. She could not bear to have them suffer.
“I—I’ve just got to get out and hunt her up,” she murmured.
With a shudder she dragged her feet from the warmth of the blankets, slipped on knickers and shoes, then crept out into the cheerless night.
She did not have far to go. Huddled in a corner, out of the wind, she discovered two blanket-wrapped figures. Girls they were, one small, one large. Indians, she saw as she threw her light upon their dark faces.