“Wha—what do you want?” the Indian quavered.
“Only my reindeer, my sled and a chance to get away from here,” smiled Curlie.
“Boz Peon, go get ’em.” The Indian spoke to the half-breed. At once he was away.
“All right, McGregor,” Curlie breathed into the transmitter. “Thanks a lot. Hope I meet you sometime. If there’s anything further you’ll get my S. O. S.”
Turning to the window, he began hauling in on the wire and silk cord. Just as the reindeer arrived at the door, he replaced in his belt the last bit of apparatus.
“All O. K. for next time,” he whispered to himself. “Trust the old radiophone to pull you through.”
After leaving the cabin he was obliged to lead his reindeer for the first two or three miles. Had he not done this the deer might have rebelled again and gone racing back.
“Wish I’d insisted on their giving me a rifle,” he told himself. “Wish there was some way of getting that reindeer herd from them,” he thought a few moments later. “It’s a shame that they should rob the Eskimo that way. The reindeer are everything to the Eskimo, food, clothing, bedding and means of travel. It’s a crime to rob them. Of course the rascals will be caught and punished, but by that time the splendid herd may be scattered to the four winds.”
Little did he guess the strange circumstances under which he would see that herd again, nor of the ways in which the herd would assist him in carrying out the purposes which were already forming in his mind.
An exclamation of joy escaped his lips as he swung back on the trail running along the ridge.