“I—I don’t know.” Curlie seemed confused.
“What? You do a thing and don’t know the reason?”
“Sometimes I do.” Curlie spoke slowly. “There are times when I seem to be guided by instinct, or shall we say led by a spirit that is not myself, that is higher and wiser than I. At least,” he half apologized, “I like to think of it that way. Probably it’s all wrong.
“But I say, Jerry!” He sat up quickly. The eagle-eyed one started suddenly, then rising, glided silently away. “I say, Jerry old boy, that chap in the cabin was a world war veteran. A real one from Canada, or perhaps Ireland. He’s one of those scrawny little fellows so small and so quick that a shell couldn’t get them, nor a bullet either. Served through it all, then came back here to live on the birds and fish he can get with a light rifle and a gill-net. You can’t be rough with a chap like that, you really can’t.”
“No,” murmured Jerry. “Not even if he committed murder. But, Curlie, do you think he’s in with the crowd that’s flying wild up here and burning up our gas?”
“That,” said Curlie, “remains to be found out.”
“But, Jerry!” He leaned far forward. “There’s something about that little trapper and the carrier pigeon that we don’t know. I’m going to keep an eye on that little fellow and his cabin. There’s something worth knowing there. And in the end I’ll know it.”
CHAPTER X
THE VOICE OF THE WILDERNESS
Strange to say, at about the time Curlie and Jerry spoke of the pigeon that seemed so out of place in this frozen land, others in the cabin on the shore of far-off Great Slave Lake were speaking of this same bird. This did not come to pass, however, until a certain mysterious individual, seated beside the fire in Johnny Thompson’s cabin, had maintained complete silence for the space of two full hours. This person, who had the straight black hair of an Indian and the sharp, hawk-like features of a certain type of white man, was known far and wide as “The Voice of the Wilderness,” or more briefly as “The Voice.” The Voice spoke only when the Spirit moved him. And woe be to that one who attempted to break in upon his periods of silence.
Johnny knew him. Sandy MacDonald knew him. They knew his ways; knew, too, that at times he was able to render valuable service to those who respected his silence.