“See—see—” The Voice grew faint. “See dim. See not at all.”
Johnny started to his feet. Sandy pulled him back. Once more the fire flared up, then again died away.
“See bird.” The Voice rose high. “Strange bird. Not Devil Bird. Bird, how you say? Like raven. So big. No croaks. No black. Gray like clouds when sun not yet up. Fly, fly fast, that bird. Fly far. Not sing, that bird. White man keep in box. White man let him out, say: ‘Fly away! Fly straight!’ Fly far, that one.”
“Must be a carrier pigeon,” Johnny thought to himself. “But who would have a pigeon in such a land?”
Two minutes of silence. Sandy cast more tinder on the fire. The light flared up. Johnny started and stared. The figure was no longer in the corner. He fully expected the Voice to drone on. It did not. The Voice had slipped silently from the room, into the night.
A few moments later, as Johnny stood looking away at the glimmering field of white that was the frozen lake, he murmured two words:
“Moccasin Telegraph.” Then he turned back into the house.
And that is how it came about that Johnny and Sandy sat for an hour before their fire telling one another all they knew about carrier pigeons and speculating on their possible use in this frozen land.
“I read,” said Johnny, “an article in some paper telling of the manner in which blackmailers used carrier pigeons. They sent a pigeon with a demand for money to some wealthy man. The money was to be attached to the bird’s leg and the bird was to be freed. Detectives in airplanes tried following the pigeons.”
“Think they could?” asked Sandy.