* * * * * * * *
It was on this same day that Johnny Thompson, who had followed the dog team far into the wilderness in search of radio-active rock, met with some of the most startling adventures of his eventful life.
Two hours after sun-up he had paused to build a small fire and had prepared himself a breakfast of beans warmed in a pan, bacon and pilot bread. The dogs, who lay contentedly on the snow, knew that their turn to eat would come when the day’s work was done. Dogs on the trail are fed but once a day.
His breakfast over, he had driven in a leisurely manner up a small stream, across a narrow lake, around a series of rushing cascades, and then across a second small lake.
He was beginning to feel the strain of long continuous travel, his dogs were lagging, when he came to a third lake much larger than the others. There he met with what to him seemed extreme good fortune. He had started upon the journey prepared to spend his nights rolled up in his feather robe, sleeping beneath the cold white gleam of the stars. But here, nestling among the scrub spruce trees, was a cabin. True, it was but a narrow shelter built of logs, but its roof of heavily painted canvas was still intact, its door still hung upon its hinges, and there was a rough chimney of stones with a crude fireplace at its base.
“What could be sweeter?” he said to his dog leader, Ginger. “What, indeed? A floor to sleep on, a place for a fire and shelter from the wind. Going to storm, too.” He stepped outside to sniff the air. “Yep, sure is!”
A hasty examination showed him a lean-to against the upper end of the cabin. Beneath this were tiers of ten gallon tins piled high.
“Empty.” He kicked one.
“No. Full. Gas. Some aerial mining company’s base. Well, I won’t disturb them. My craft don’t burn that kind of fuel.”
Digging into his pack he drew forth a large piece of juicy caribou meat. “Guess this will be better than gas.” His dogs crowded around him. He cut off bits of meat and threw them up to be caught by the hungry travelers.