Had it not been for three dogs skulking at the back of the cabin, and a few fresh moccasin tracks in the snow before the door, the place would have seemed deserted.
“Strange the fellow don’t come out to meet us,” Curlie grumbled, as no one appeared to greet them.
It was strange. In the North the airplane has come to be what coastwise steamers are to fishing villages along a rockbound coast, or the slow-going local passenger train is to mountain towns. It brings the mail, reports news of the outside world, and delivers such necessities as the land itself does not supply. At the first sound of drumming motors the cabin dwellers flock forth to greet their soaring friend.
Not so, here. The place was as still as it might have been had its last occupant passed away.
Curlie knocked loudly on the door. No response. He knocked again, more loudly.
“Asleep or drunk,” he muttered. He gave the door a lusty kick. It flew open. At the same instant a short, scrawny, red-faced man sprang from a bunk in the corner.
“Sorry,” apologized Curlie. “A pigeon soared down here. Seen it?”
“And if I have?” The man’s tone was defiant.
“We want to see it.”
“Your pigeon, I suppose? Flyin’ ’ere in this ’ere blasted frozen wilderness.” The man took a step backward toward the corner. A heavy rifle rested there.