The Radio-Phone Boys Stories

On the
Yukon Trail

By
JAMES CRAIG

The Reilly & Lee Co.
Chicago

Printed in the United States of America

Copyright, 1922
by
The Reilly & Lee Co.
All Rights Reserved

CONTENTS

CHAPTER PAGE [I The Whisper from Afar] 9 [II On Arctic Feathers] 18 [III A Clue] 27 [IV Joe Missing] 36 [V Dangerous Business] 44 [VI The Battle Cry] 51 [VII Revenge for a Lost Comrade] 58 [VIII A Watch at the Side of the Trail] 66 [IX Who Is This Whisperer?] 73 [X On the Yukon] 80 [XI A Moving Spot on the Horizon] 88 [XII A Bad Follow Up] 95 [XIII Saved by a Whisper] 103 [XIV A Strange Sight] 113 [XV Curlie Vanishes] 120 [XVI A Strange Steed] 128 [XVII A Knotty Problem] 138 [XVIII A Mysterious Attack] 145 [XIX Ships That Pass in the Night] 154 [XX “We Have Met with Disaster”] 163 [XXI A Tense Situation] 170 [XXII A Mad Dream] 179 [XXIII “A Bear! A Bear!”] 186 [XXIV A Wild Mix-Up] 193 [XXV The Wild Stampede] 199 [XXVI The Sparkle of Diamonds] 206 [XXVII Diamonds and Other Things] 214

On the Yukon Trail

CHAPTER I
THE WHISPER FROM AFAR

Curlie Carson sat before an alcohol stove. Above and on all sides of him were the white walls of a tent. The constant bulging and sagging of these walls, the creak and snap of ropes, told that outside a gale was blowing. Beneath Curlie was a roll of deerskin and beneath that was ice; a glacier, the Valdez Glacier. They were a half day’s journey from the city of Valdez. Straight up the frowning blue-black wall of ice they had made their way until darkness had closed in upon them and a steep cliff of ice had appeared before them.

In a corner of the tent, sprawled upon a deerskin sleeping-bag, lay Joe Marion, Curlie’s pal in other adventures.

“Lucky we’ve got these sleeping-bags,” Joe drawled. “Even then I don’t see how a fellow’s going to keep warm, sleeping right out here on the ice with the wind singing around under the tent.” He shivered as he drew his mackinaw more closely about him.

Curlie said nothing. If you have read the other book telling of Curlie’s adventures, “Curlie Carson Listens In,” you scarcely need be told that Curlie Carson is a boy employed by the United States Bureau of Secret Service of the Air, a boy who has the most perfect pair of radio ears of any person known to the service.

In that other adventure which had taken him on a wild chase over the ocean in a pleasure yacht, he had had many narrow escapes, but this new bit of service which had been entrusted to him promised to be even more exciting and hazardous.

He had been sent in search of a man who apparently was bent on destroying the usefulness of the radiophone in Alaska; his particular desire seeming to be to imperil the life of Munson, a great Arctic explorer, by interrupting his radiophone messages. This man was known to be possessed of abundant resources, to be powerful and dangerous. He had a perfect knowledge of all matters pertaining to the radiophone and was possessed of a splendidly equipped sending and receiving set. By moving this set about from place to place, he had succeeded in eluding every government operator sent out to silence him. Already he had done incalculable damage by breaking in upon government messages and upon private ones as well.

Just at this moment, Curlie sat cross-legged upon his sleeping-bag. With head and shoulders drooping far forward, as if weighed down by the radiophone receiver which was clamped upon his ears, he appeared half asleep. Yet every now and again his slim, tapered fingers shot out to give the coil aerial which hung suspended from the ridge pole of the tent a slight turn.

“I don’t see how we are going to get the rest of the way over this glacier!” grumbled Joe. “That wall looks straight up; slick as glass, too. How y’ ever goin’ to get three sleds and eight hundred pounds of junk up there? Ought to have taken the lower trail. What if it is three times as far? Good trail anyway.”

“Leave that to Jennings,” murmured Curlie.

“Oh! Jennings!” exclaimed Joe. “Mebby he doesn’t know so much. He’s been gone too long already. What’s that package he took with him? Gave us the slip already, maybe. Might be just a frame-up to keep us from making good time.”

“Jennings looks all right to me,” persisted Curlie.

He gave the aerial another turn.

“Well, anyway!”—

“Sh”—Curlie held up a warning finger. His nose was wiggling like a rabbit’s when he eats clover. Joe knew what that meant; Curlie was getting something from the air.

Curlie started as the first word came to him—a whisper. He had heard that whisper many times before. For many days it had been silent. Now she was speaking to him again, that mysterious phantom girl of the air.

As he eagerly pressed the receivers to his ears, he caught, faint as if coming from afar, yet very distinctly, the whispered words:

“Hello - Curlie - I - wonder - if - you - are - listening - in - to-night. You - are - on - your - way - north. I - wanted - to - tell - you - the - man - you - are - after - is - on - the - Yukon - Trail - coming - south. He - started - yesterday. You - may - meet - him - Curlie - but - be - careful. It - is - big - Curlie - and - awful - awful - dangerous.”

Cold beads of perspiration stood out upon the tip of Curlie’s nose as the whisper ceased.

He had measured the distance. The girl was a thousand miles away to the north. So that was it? The man he had been sent to track down by means of the radio-compass was coming south over the trail. They would meet. He wondered how and where. There were wild, desolate stretches of tundra and forest on that trail. Inhabited only by Indians and wolves, these offered fitting background for a tragedy. Whose tragedy would it be?

“We might wait for him,” he mused, “but, no, that wouldn’t do. He might turn back. Then all that time would be lost. No, we must press on. We must get off this glacier at once.”

In spite of his optimism, this glacier bothered him. He had taken this trail at the suggestion of Jennings, a man who had gone over the trail during the gold rush of ’98 and who had offered to go with them now without pay. He had, as he expressed it, been called back by the “lure of the North,” and must answer the call. Curlie had decided to accept his assistance and advice. Now he wrinkled his brow in thought. Had he made a mistake in the very beginning?

Just then, as if in answer to his question, Jennings, a short, broad-shouldered person with keen, deep-set blue eyes and drooping moustache, parted the tent-flaps and entered.

“What? Not turned in yet?” His eyes showed surprise.

“Had to see that you got back safe,” smiled Curlie. He made a mental note of the fact that Jennings had not brought back the package he had carried away. Only a light axe swung at his belt.

“Well, that’s kind and thoughtful,” said Jennings. “But we’d better get into them sleepin’-bags pronto. Got a good stiff day to-morrow. Make good progress too or I’m no sourdough-musher.”

Fifteen minutes later, Curlie having buried himself deep in the hairy depths of his sleeping-bag, had given himself over to a few moments of thought before the drowsy quiet of the tent lulled him to repose.

The sleeping-bags, in spite of Joe’s forebodings, proved to be all that one might ask. With nothing but a square of canvas between his sleeping-bag and the ice, and with the temperature at thirty below, clad only in his pajamas Curlie felt quite as comfortable as he might have felt in his own bed back home.

“Wonderful thing, these bags,” he thought dreamily. His thought about the future, the day just before him, was not quite so reassuring. They had come to ridges of ice on the surface of the glacier just at nightfall. There were many of these ridges. Dogs without sleds could climb them, but up their slopes they could not pull a pound. A man climbed them with difficulty. His feet slipping at every attempted step, he was constantly in danger of being dashed to the bottom. How were they to pack eight hundred pounds of equipment and supplies over these seemingly unsurmountable barriers?

Yet he dreaded to think of turning back. That meant four days of travel to reach a point which, straight over the glacier, was but twenty miles before them.

“Ho, well,” he sighed at last, “let to-morrow take care of itself. Perhaps Jennings really knows a way. He doesn’t look like a four-flusher.”

With that his mind turned for a moment to the girl, the Whisperer. Though he had never seen her, he had come to think of this Whisperer as a real person. And indeed she must be, for, times without number, in the Secret Tower Room back there in the city, in the wireless room on the yacht, in the tent on the trail, her whisper had come to him. Always it told of the doings of one man, the man he had been sent after. But what sort of person? He had pictured her to himself as a small, dark, vivacious girl with snapping black eyes. Yet that was only a piece of fancy. He knew nothing about her save the fact that she seemed always near the man he now was seeking. He wondered vaguely now whether he would meet her upon this trip. He tried to imagine the cabin, the lonely trail or the deep forest of the north where he might meet her.

“Probably never will,” he told himself at last. “Probably will always be just a whisper.”

In the midst of his revery he fell asleep.

CHAPTER II
ON ARCTIC FEATHERS

A tardy dawn had scarcely come creeping over the surface of the glacier when they broke camp. Having breakfasted heartily on sourdough flapjacks, warmed-over baked beans and coffee, they were ready for anything.

“We’ll sleep in a better bed to-night,” remarked Jennings as he rolled up the canvas floor to their tent and threw it on his sled.

“Couldn’t be warmer,” said Curlie.

“No, but softer.”

“Cheer-o,” shouted Joe, “that sounds good to me.”

“Now,” said Jennings, producing from the depths of his pack two small double pulleys and a coil of rope, “the next thing is to get over the ridges. Have to use block and tackle.”

“That sounds all right,” smiled Curlie, “but how you going to hitch a block to a smooth surface of ice?”

“Leave it to me,” laughed the miner. “Between four and five thousand of us went over this glacier in ’98. Had mighty few dogs and pulled 1400 pounds of outfit apiece too. That was tough sledding. Didn’t make a thousand feet progress in a day sometimes. Three of our crowd never did get over; froze to death right here on the glacier. But I tell you,” he exclaimed suddenly, “those were the days! Those were the men! It’s always the bravest and the best that go first in a rush like that. The cheap, the idle, the crooked ones come later to live off the gains of those who dared much in the beginning.” Having ended this little oration, he got down to business.

“You boys string the rope through those blocks. When you get that done, throw me up one of the blocks.”

“Here,” he exclaimed, “better strap these on your shoes. They’ll help you a lot.”

The things he threw at their feet were made of steel and leather. When they were strapped upon the soles of one’s shoes they transformed their plain, heavy felt-lined shoes into something resembling baseball shoes.

“Great stuff!” exclaimed Joe, driving the sharp steel barbs beneath the balls of his feet into the ice. “Couldn’t slip in these if you tried to.”

A moment later they tossed one of the blocks into which the rope had been threaded up to Jennings on the icy ridge above.

“All right,” he sang out a moment later. “Hitch the other block to the sled and heave away.”

Much to the surprise of the boys, when they pulled at the rope, the block, out of sight on the ridge above, held firm, and the sled climbed slowly up the almost perpendicular bank. A moment later, they saw Jennings drag the sled to a safe position on the icy bench.

“How does he do it?” whispered Joe.

“Got me,” Curlie whispered back. “He surely couldn’t hold it.”

“Say not! Took both of us to pull it up and we had the advantage of the blocks.”

“All right,” came from above as a block glided back to them, “let’s have the next one.”

When the three sleds were upon the bench and the dogs had been induced to follow, the boys climbed up, eager to discover the miner’s secret.

“Oh!” exclaimed Joe. “Only a stake in the ice. Who could have left it?”

He was staring at a stout stake which stuck ten inches above the surface of the ice.

“Nobody. I put it there,” Jennings smiled. Then, seeing their look of incredulity, he went on, “You’ll remember I left the cabin last night with a package under my arm. Also, you will remember that I melted a bucket of snow water while supper was cooking. In the bundle there was nothing but stout stakes; a dozen of them. You’ll find them up the glacier, all frozen in. All I had to do was to chip a hole in the ice, then thrust in a stake. After that I filled the hole full of snow, then poured water over it. The snow and water froze together almost instantly and here we have our stakes. We’ll have lunch on the other side of the ridge and to-night we will sleep in a spruce forest. We shall then have gained a full two days on our journey. With the trail in its present condition we could not have made the journey over the roundabout valley in less than four days and even then we would have worn down our dogs.”

When, a few hours later, all the miner’s prophecies had been fulfilled and the boys were preparing the second night’s camp, they were enthusiastic in their praise of their new-found friend.

“To-night,” smiled the miner, “we will sleep on a bed of Arctic feathers.”

“Arctic feathers!” exclaimed Curlie in surprise. “What are they?”

“Wait and see.”

Jennings studied the shapely spruce trees which towered about them on every side. Then he allowed his eyes to wander over the surface of the earth’s two-foot-thick mantle of snow.

“That’s a good place,” he pointed at a smooth spot which was surrounded by trees. “First we’ll tramp down the snow. No need of shoveling it away.”

At once they set to work packing down a square of snow.

“Might as well start right,” said the miner. “We’re going into a land of long nights. Fairly long now but they’ll get much longer. Get to be twenty hours. If we start making camp right we’ll have all the comforts of home.”

“There,” he said at last, “guess that’ll do. Now we’ll divide up the work and make the jobs regular; each fellow do the same thing every night. System, that’s what you need on the trail, as well as in business.”

Turning to Joe he said: “There’s a likely looking tree right there. Cut it down.”

“It won’t burn; it’s green.”

“Who said it would?”

Joe grinned as he seized an axe to drive it into the thick bark of the tree.

“There’s a dead tree for you, Curlie,” said the miner. “Get it down and cut it into wood for the Yukon stove.”

Turning to the camp kit, he was soon at work straightening out the tent, which had collected dampness from the previous night and was frozen stiff in spots.

He spread it over their tent-site and set it up as best he could. Then, crawling inside, he set up the sheet-iron stove and started a fire. As the tent, warmed by the fire, began to soften, he gradually drew it into its accustomed shape.

In the meantime each boy had felled his tree and had trimmed it up.

“Now, Joe,” said the veteran camper, “cut your tree into lengths to go across each side of our tent and chop the first six inches of each end half off as if you were building a log house.”

When this had been accomplished, he assisted Joe in placing the poles in a square about the tent. He next drew the lower edges of the tent out over the logs and packed snow over them to the depth of several inches. After that he spread a square of canvas as a floor to the tent.

“There,” he sighed at last; “won’t any air get into our tent to-night. Next thing is a lot of spruce boughs. Cut ’em right off and drag ’em inside.”

When the tent was packed half full of boughs, he took out a large clasp knife and began to clip off the small twigs on the branches. The boys followed his example. In a few moments the shorn branches were all outside the tent and the canvas floor was buried ten inches deep with spruce needles and fine twigs.

“Now,” said the miner, “the two of you hold up the stove while I spread a canvas over the whole of it and our camp is made.”

“Just like an old-fashioned feather bed!” exclaimed Joe, as he bounced down upon the springy bed of twigs.

“That’s it,” smiled the miner. “Those are Arctic feathers. If we take time to make a camp like this every night, we’ll get a lot of comfort out of it and be all the better fitted for the trail. I’ll go out and set up a shelter for the dogs while you boys get supper, then we’ll be through for the night.”

CHAPTER III
A CLUE

After a hearty supper, Curlie brought forth his instruments and carefully wound his coil aerial.

The miner watched him for a long time in silence. Having lived in out-of-the-way places, he had learned nothing of this wonderful new invention, the radiophone.

“You don’t mean to tell me,” he broke forth at last, “that you can hear folks talk with just that outfit, no wires at all, and them fifty miles away?”

“Yes,” smiled Curlie, “five hundred miles or a thousand if you like. Almost any distance when conditions are right.”

Dropping back upon his sleeping-bag the miner watched with increasing interest. It was evident that he found the thing hard to believe and that at the same time he did not wish to doubt the word of a boy who had never told him a lie.

“Joe,” said Curlie, “here’s something brand new. I think it’s going to help us a lot.”

He placed a small instrument on top of a metal box, then connected it by a tube to a loud-speaker. After that he tuned in on the 750 meter wave length and spoke a few words into his transmitter. Having done this, he settled back as if to await an answer.

Presently a loud jumble of sound, resembling nothing quite so much as a flock of crows fighting over a carcass, began coming forth from the loud-speaker.

Joe Marion’s brow wrinkled. At the end of three seconds he exploded:

“Tune her up, why don’t you!”

Curlie grinned, but did not move.

“No use letting it go on like that,” expostulated Joe, making a move to take a hand in the business. “He might be sending something important.”

“He is,” said Curlie, pushing his companion back to his seat. “He’s saying something mighty important. That’s why I don’t change it. I told you I had something new. Can’t you wait to see it tried out?”

Sinking back into his place, Joe listened to the strange clack-clack in silence.

A few seconds later the sounds ceased. Quickly removing a small instrument and disconnecting the tube from the loud-speaker, Curlie tuned in on 350 and, a moment later, they were listening to a concert which was being broadcasted somewhere on the Pacific Coast.

“Do you mean to tell me that that thing is a phonograph?” said Jennings.

“No,” said Curlie, “I don’t. That music comes to us over five hundred miles of space, perhaps a thousand; Seattle, Vancouver, San Francisco, I don’t know which.”

Again the miner was silent.

Removing a small disc from the instrument which had produced the strange jumble of sounds, Curlie slipped it upon a second instrument which resembled a small phonograph.

“Now listen to this,” he said to Joe, as he shut off the radiophone.

From the phonograph-like instrument there came first a grating sound, then in a somewhat metallic but very distinct tone:

“Valdez speaking. Your man is still active. Doing much damage in air. Last night interrupted an important U. S. army order. Seemed nearer. Appears to be moving toward us. Location somewhere south of Fort Yukon. Advise speed and caution. N. T. S.”

“Well, now, what do you think of that!” exclaimed Joe.

“I think,” said Curlie, “that we have put one over on our old friend up north there who persists in raising hob in the air.

“You see,” he went on more soberly, “it’s a very recent invention. You slip a little affair on your sending instrument, which tears your tones all into little bits and sends them out as so much mental mince pie. But this little instrument here straightens them out for the person at the other end and gives them to him just as they have been spoken. I feel sure that the man we are after does not possess one of the outfits. That means that we may speak with Valdez at any time without fear of detection. All that an outside party gets is a jumble of sounds.

“If we ever get separated on the trail we may speak to one another in the same way. You have that small, reserve sending and receiving set on your sled and I am going to give you a set of these new instruments.

“Once more,” he smiled, “I want to state that it is my belief that if you keep your little radiophone dry and tuned up, it will help you out of any dangerous position.”

Had they known under what strange circumstances this belief would be tried in the days to come and on this very trip, the two boys might not have laughed quite so merrily as Curlie again threw on the radiophone and they listened to jazz being broadcasted from Seattle.

Joe, tired out from the day’s struggle over the glacier, feeling the cozy warmth of the fire, stretched himself out on his sleeping-bag and fell at once into a drowsy slumber.

“Here,” said Curlie, noting the eager manner in which Jennings listened to the bits of music and gossip which drifted in from the air, “you listen with this.” He snapped a receiver over the miner’s head. “I’ve got to shut off that loud-speaker. Want to listen in and see what I can catch.”

For a time he listened on short wave lengths for his friend, the Whisperer. At last, having given that up, he tuned in on long wave lengths and at once began picking up something.

Having tuned his instrument accurately and adjusted his coil aerial, he succeeded in listening in in a very satisfactory matter.

“Big business,” he whispered to himself. “Shouldn’t wonder if that was a clue.”

It was indeed big business that was flashing through the air that night. It was the report of a government official, the announcement of the securing of sufficient evidence at Nome, Alaska, to convict a bold band of smugglers who had been carrying valuable jewels, taken from rich families in Russia, into America by way of Alaska. These smugglers had escaped detection for some time by traveling in native skin-boats across Behring Straits. In some way, Curlie could hardly make out how, the great explorer Munson had been of assistance to the government in bringing these men to justice. Because of this service the government was instructing all its officials, especially wireless operators, to lend every assistance possible to Munson in his dash to the Pole.

“Don’t see how a fellow three thousand miles away can help an explorer reach the Pole,” Curlie told himself, “but I suppose there must be a way—”

His thoughts were cut short by an interruption to the message. Someone with a powerful sending set had cut loose into the air with his sparker. The result was utter bedlam of the air. Not one word could be recognized.

“That’s the man,” Curlie breathed excitedly, “that’s the fellow I’m after! Now for his location.”

His fingers moved rapidly from instrument to pencil and paper, then back to instrument again. There was a look of tense excitement on his face, such a look as comes upon the hunter as he sights a moose not a hundred yards away. Curlie was a born hunter, a hunter of the air. He had got scent of a prey, a dangerous prey, and was at this moment hunting him down.

“There,” he breathed as the bedlam ceased, and he drew the receiver from his head. “I know where you are, at least. You’re moving. I wonder if we’ll meet and when. I know what I’m going to say to you when we meet. Wonder if you know what you’re going to say to me!”

Having packed his instruments away, he stretched himself out before the fire to think. Events were moving on apace. It looked as if his journey would be shorter than he had at first believed it would be. You never could tell, though. He thought for the hundredth time of the Whisperer; wondered who she really was and why her whisper had been missing to-night.

At last, reaching over to Joe, he shook him into wakefulness and told him to turn in. Having undressed, he slipped on a suit of pajamas, crept into his sleeping-bag and was soon fast asleep.

CHAPTER IV
JOE MISSING

Curlie Carson was worried. As he sat on his rolled-up sleeping-bag in the tent which had been set with the usual care for a night’s comfort, his fingers drummed incessantly on the box which held his three-stage amplifier, while he muttered ever now and again:

“Wish he’d come. I don’t like the looks of it. What’s keeping him? That’s what I’d like to know.”

Joe was three hours overdue. After many days of travel they had made their way far into the interior of Alaska, well away toward the Yukon. Day by day they had broken trail for their dogs and day by day moved forward. At first the trail had been hard-packed from many dog teams passing from village to village. But as they pushed farther and farther into the wilderness these villages had vanished. Towns that were towns only in name greeted them now as they advanced. An Indian’s hovel here, the shack of a long-bearded patriarch of a miner there, that was all.

Snow had fallen in abundance. They were obliged to break every foot of trail before their dog teams.

Food was scarce. The question of feeding their dogs had become a problem. Then, only this very afternoon an Indian had told of a cache of caribou meat some ten miles away in the forest. If they would wait for him to bring it, they would have fine fresh meat in abundance.

The boys had debated the question. They were eager to go forward. A whispered message of the night before had led them to believe that their quest was nearing its end; that the man they sought was not far before them on the trail; yet the dogs must be fed.

It had been decided at last that Joe Marion with an all but empty sled should await the supply of meat, while the others pressed on breaking the trail until near nightfall, when they would make camp and await his arrival.

Curlie and Jennings had carried out their part of the program, but when he should have arrived Joe had not appeared, rounding the clump of spruce trees to the south of them.

After an hour of anxious waiting, Jennings, taking his rifle, had gone out to search for him.

“May have lost his way,” he had commented.

Curlie had remained to listen in on his radiophone. Joe carried with him, attached to his sled, a complete sending and receiving set. In time of trouble the first thing he would think of would be getting off a radiophone message to his companions.

“Ought to be getting something,” Curlie mumbled. “I wonder what could have happened? I wonder—”

He paused for reflection. Night by night as he had sat upon his sleeping-bag, listening in, strange messages had come to him from the sky. Now the rude interference of the unknown man who had been tearing up the traffic of the air told Curlie that they were coming closer to one another, and now the whisper of the girl, that ghostlike creature who appeared to haunt the track of the lawbreaker, told Curlie of the day fast approaching when he and the outlaw of the air must meet face to face. At such times he had wondered if he should then meet the girl as well as the man.

On the previous night the whisper had informed him that they were but seventy-five miles apart.

“Coming, coming,” Curlie had whispered to himself.

The trail had been heavy. They had made but fifteen miles. What of the stranger? How far had he come?

Curlie’s heart skipped a beat at the realization that he must be very near at hand.

At the same time there came a disturbing question. Had this man of evil intentions somehow stolen a march on them? Had he been in league with the Indian who had claimed to possess a supply of caribou meat? Had this been but a ruse to get them separated?

“Well, if it was, it’s been a complete success,” he exclaimed. “Three of us and not one of us knows where the others are.”

Turning, he reached for a box-magazine rifle. After examining the clip in the chamber, he slipped three other loaded ones in his pockets.

“You can never tell,” he whispered, “you sure can not.”

A great silence hovered over the forest which bounded the banks of the Tanana River. Such silences existed in these Arctic wilds as Curlie had never before experienced.

“Fairly spooky,” he whispered to himself. “Wish I could hear something—wind in the treetops, even. But there’s not a breath.”

The forest lay all about him. Everywhere the ground was buried in two feet of snow. Muffled footsteps might at this moment be approaching the camp.

At last, unable to bear it longer, he snapped off the radiophone for a moment to adjust a smaller set and tune it to 200, the wave length he and Joe had agreed to use if in distress.

When this smaller set had been called into action, he tuned the larger set to longer wave lengths. He hoped to catch some sound from the air which might relieve the awful silence.

“Wonderful thing this radiophone,” he told himself. “Great boon to the Arctic. Think of the trader, the trapper, the gold hunter alone in his cabin, tired of the sound of his own voice and that of his dog. Think of being able to tune in on his radio and bring down snatches of song, of instrumental music and of ordinary conversation, right out of the air—some young girl sending her lover a good-night kiss, for instance,” he chuckled to himself. “But—”

He paused abruptly. He was getting something on the long wave lengths. Faint, indistinct at first came the message. Yet he caught it clearly. His nerves tingled as he listened. It was Munson, the great Arctic explorer. He was attempting to inform the outside world, especially the men who had financed his expedition, of his plans. He had established a large supply station on Flaxman Island; then he had pushed fearlessly out through the floes toward the Pole. His ship was strongly built, with an extra covering of iron-wood on its keel. Its engines were powerful. He would go as far as the steamer would carry him, then he would hop off in an airplane and attempt the Pole. He was supplied with three airplanes. In these, if his ship should be wrecked, he would be able to carry his entire company and crew to the supply house on Flaxman Island.

This brief report was followed by a personal message to his wife, then the air was once more clear. The old, monotonous silence settled down upon Curlie’s little world. During all the time he had listened in, his fingers had been flying across a sheet of paper. He had written down the message. It was within the realm of possibility that he was the only operator who had got it. In that case it would be his duty to relay it to those for whom it was intended.

During all this time one question had been revolving in his mind: Why had not the man he sought, the outlaw of the air, broken in on this message? He had been informed that this man had taken delight in breaking up Munson’s communications. Why then this silence? Could it be that he himself was out scouting around, trying to ambush Joe and Jennings and in time even Curlie himself? Or was he merely afraid of being detected at this time?

“Possibly,” said Curlie to himself, “there was something about that message which interested him. In that case he would want to hear to the end.”

Suddenly his hand made a clutch at his rifle. What was that? Had he caught the sound of a footstep or was it merely a white owl flapping his wings? He sat there listening, scarcely breathing, awaiting he hardly knew what. And, at this moment, on the 200 meter wave lengths a message came to his waiting ears.

CHAPTER V
DANGEROUS BUSINESS

The Indian who had promised to provide the boys with caribou meat had not deceived them. At the appointed hour he had returned with an abundant supply.

In his eagerness to secure provisions for a long lap of the journey, Joe had piled his sled high with meat. In doing this he had made a mistake, but this he did not know at the time.

Having paid the Indian, he lashed his rifle to the top of the load, and, shouting to his dogs, went racing away after his companions.

The short day was nearing its close when, on passing a turn in the trail, Joe found himself swinging out of the forest into an open stretch of wild meadow.

He had hardly made a hundred rods of this open trail when he heard a sharp howl which came from the edge of the forest.

“Wolves!” he muttered. “Caught the scent of this meat. Indians say it has been a bad winter for wolves. Starving, I guess. Well, we’ll show those boys our heels.”

Reaching out to the sled as he traveled forward, he unlashed his rifle and threw it across his arm. As he did so, he caught his breath. There were, he suddenly remembered, but four cartridges in the rifle and none on the sled. Their supply of ammunition was on Curlie’s sled.

Shouting at the dogs, he gripped the handle of the sled with one hand and with the rifle poised in the other, went pit-patting along over the trail.

He had reached the center of the open space and was hoping to arrive at the forest soon and find the others encamped there, when tragedy suddenly descended upon him.

A dull crash was followed by a sickening thud. The sled, having been twisted sideways in crossing a dry ravine, had crumpled down. Springing forward, the boy found that all the lashings and braces of one runner were torn away.

“Smashed beyond repair,” he muttered. “Now how am I going to get that meat to camp?”

He thought of unhitching the dogs and of clinging to the main draw rope as he raced away to his friends for aid. This thought was speedily banished when a dismal, long-drawn howl came from the edge of the forest.

“Wolves,” he muttered. “They’d eat it all.”

He thought of making the canvas covering of his pack into an improvised sled and placing the meat upon it, of hitching the dogs to that.

“Don’t believe they could haul it,” he decided. “The trail’s too narrow. Snow on sides is too deep.”

Again there came the dismal howl. This time it was followed by a yap-yap-yap. To the boy’s consternation, this yapping was answered from a dozen points at once.

“Lot of them out there. Gaunt, hungry beasts. Dangerous, I guess.”

Again he thought of the four cartridges. They were not enough. He might be obliged to cut his team loose and make a dash for it.

The dogs heard the challenging call from the wild creatures of the forest and bunched together as if for defense. Their manes stood straight up. The leader, a part-hound, was growling in a low tone, as if talking to himself.

This team of five dogs which Joe drove was a pick-up team. Besides the part-hound leader, there was one huskie and three dogs of uncertain breed. The huskie’s team mate, Sport, was slight of build and inclined to shirk. The two “wheel-horses” were short, stocky fellows who worked well in traces and showed signs of being good fighters.

Like some scout preparing for an Indian attack, Joe now loosened the dogs’ traces from the sled. But that they might not rush out heedless of danger to be cut up by the merciless fangs of the wolves he chained each dog to the sled.

“Time enough to let you at them later,” he murmured. He felt a certain amount of security in their companionship.

Just what he meant to do, he did not for the moment know. Darkness had fallen. Like twin glowworms, the eyes of the wolves shone at the edge of the forest. Already some of them were creeping out into the open. There were a number of them; just how many he could not tell.

“The one that sent out the call was probably the daddy of a large family,” he told himself, “and he’s invited the whole family to a feast. But,” he said as he set his teeth hard, “there won’t be any feast if I can help it.”

Leaning his rifle against the sled, he dropped his chin on his hands to lapse into deep thought. Then suddenly he leaped into action.

“Why didn’t I think of that before?” he exclaimed as he tore at the wrappings of the sled.

He had thought of the radiophone equipment packed away on his sled, the reserve outfit which always rode there.

“If I can only get it set up,” he told himself, “I’ll be able to call Curlie. Then he and Jennings will make a dash for it. With rifles and plenty of ammunition they’ll beat the wolves off. We’ll feed some of their carcasses to the dogs and have that much more caribou meat for ourselves.”

His fingers trembled as he unpacked the detector and set it firmly upon the overturned sled. He had caught the gleam of a pair of flashing eyes much closer than he had thought the wolves would dare to come. He had caught, too, the ominous sound of chop-chopping jaws. Pete, the huskie, was ki-yi-ing and straining at his chain. Major, the dog who always guarded the sled at night, was sending forth a low rumbling challenge.

As Joe set his amplifier into position, he sent a flash of light from his electric torch full upon one of those gray beasts. The wolf, recoiling as if shot by a rifle, doubled into a heap, then sprang snarling away.

Joe laughed at this wild demonstration of fear. The next instant his face sobered. He was surprised at the size of these timber wolves and at their gauntness.

“Starved to skin and bones. Ready for anything,” he muttered grimly as he set two jointed poles straight up in the snow.

From the top of these poles hung suspended his coil aerial. There remained but to connect the batteries. He was bent over the sled, intent upon making these connections secure, when he was startled by a mad chop of jaws directly behind him. The next instant there was a wild whirling of legs and fur, as Major engaged a wolf in combat.

Snatching his rifle, Joe stood ready to do deadly execution once the combatants separated.

“But only four cartridges,” he breathed, “and my call for help not yet sent.” His heart sank.

CHAPTER VI
THE BATTLE CRY

Even hampered as he was by the chain attached to his collar, the faithful old watchdog was more than a match for his lighter opponent. Over and over they tumbled. Twice the chain, tangling about the wolf’s legs, seemed about to make him prisoner. At last with a savage onslaught Major leaped clean at the enemy’s throat. There followed a gurgling cough. For a second the end seemed at hand. But the next instant, Major’s teeth lost their grip. The wolf, feeling himself free, and having had quite enough, slunk away into the shadows.

“Might as well let him go,” was the boy’s mental comment. “He’s well licked. He’ll not want to come back. Save my shots for those who mix in next.”

In this, perhaps he made a mistake. Bleeding from many wounds, the wolf carried a rank scent of battle and blood back to his companions, a scent more maddening than was that of the frozen meat upon the sled. Hardly had he disappeared into the darkness than there arose from out that darkness a war song such as Joe had never before given ear to, a song that made his blood run cold.

“Not a second to lose,” he exclaimed as he snapped the receiver over his head, threw on the switch and pressed his lips to the transmitter.

He was talking on 200. “Hello! Hello! Curlie, you hear? Wolves. Six miles from Indian’s shack. Sled broken. Must fight for life. Got four shots. Bring rifles. Come quick.”

Eagerly he pressed the receivers to his ears. Wildly his heart beat. It was a tense moment. Would Curlie be listening in on 200? Would the message carry? Would he respond?

After a moment had elapsed, with the gleam of eyes coming ever closer, he repeated his message. Again he pressed the receivers to his ears.

“He won’t hear,” he muttered half in despair. “Have to make a dash for it. Meat might save us—might satisfy them. But they’re mad with the smell of fresh food. They’re—”

A voice boomed in his ear. It was Curlie.

“Coming,” he roared. “Hold fast.”

“Ah!” Joe breathed as he snatched the receiver from his head and clutched at his rifle, “that’s better!”

Even as he said it, a flash from his electric torch caught a huge fellow, the leader of the pack, all but upon them. Like the other, he doubled up and leaped away, but this only made the boy understand that his position was still perilous. Curlie had not told him how far he was away.

“Must be at least five miles,” he groaned. “Take him a half hour. Major, old boy, do you think we can hold them?” The answer from the dog was a low, rumbling growl.

There was a deal of comfort to be obtained from that growl. Heretofore Joe had thought of these sled-dogs as mere beasts of burden; thought of them as he might have thought of horses or mules on the flat, sleepy, safe prairies of the Mississippi valley. Now he found himself regarding them as friends, as fellow warriors engaged in a common business, the business of protecting their lives against the onrush of the enemy.

“Some dogs you are,” he murmured gratefully. “You not only pull a fellow’s load for him, but in time of danger you turn in and fight for him.”

He knew that if he came out of this combat alive he would always cherish a feeling of loyal friendship for these five companions in combat.

It was a tense moment. They were in a tight place. A chill raced up his spine and his knees trembled as he caught the gleam of new pairs of eyes burning holes into the darkness. Others had heard the blood-curdling war song and had come to join in the battle.

The flash of the torch held the beasts at bay for a time, but at last it only maddened them as they pressed closer in.

Joe was in despair. Should he loose the dogs? He scarcely dared. They would rush out at those burning eyes and be destroyed. Then he would be alone. And yet, if worse came to worst, if the enemy rushed in, there would not be time to loose them, and chained as they were, the dogs would fight at a disadvantage.

In the meantime, Curlie Carson was bounding over the trail. Now he had covered a mile, now two, now three. There were three miles more. Panting, perspiring, staggering forward, now tripping over a snow-covered bush, and now falling over a log, he struggled on.

“He—he can’t make it!” Joe all but sobbed as he counted the moments! “Ah, here they come!”

There was time only to loose the chain of Major before three gray streaks leaped at them.

Major met one and downed him. Ginger, the hound leader, chained as he was, grappled with a second. The third leaped at the boy’s throat. Just in time he threw up the rifle barrel. Gripped in both his hands, it stopped the beast. Kicking out with his right foot, he sent him sprawling. The next instant the rifle cracked. One shot gone, but an enemy accounted for.

A fourth wolf sprang upon the gentle, inoffensive Sport and bore him to the snow.

Leaping upon the sled, Joe stood ready to sell his life as dearly as he might. Catching the ki-yi of Pete, the huskie, he reached over and unsnapped his chain, to see him leap at the throat of the nearest enemy. “They’re coming, coming!” Joe sang out.

All fear had left him now. He was in the midst of a battle. That they would win that battle he did not dream. Curlie could never reach them in time. But, like Custer’s men, they would die game.

Sport was down. Major was strangling the life from a clawing wolf. Ginger was engaged in an unfinished battle. Two wolves leaped at the sled, one from either side. The rifle cracked. A wolf leaped high and fell. The second sprang. He was instantly met and borne to the snow by Bones, the second “wheel-horse.”

But now they came in a drove, five, six, seven, gaunt gray beasts with chop-chopping jaws.

With deliberate aim the boy dropped the foremost, then the second. Then, calmly clubbing his rifle, he waited.

The foremost wolf was not two yards from the sled, when Joe was startled to hear a rifle crack and see the wolf leap high in air. He was astonished. Curlie could not possibly have reached his objective in this time. Who was this man, his deliverer? Leaning far forward, he tried to peer into the darkness, as the rifle cracked again and yet again.

CHAPTER VII
REVENGE FOR A LOST COMRADE

For a second, as he stood there on the sled, with the big Arctic moon rising above the forest, with the crack of the strange rifle, the roar of dogs and the howl of wolves dinning in his ears, Joe fancied himself acting a part in the movies. It was too strange to seem real.

This lasted but a second; then, realizing that the battle was more than half won but that some of his dogs might be in danger, he sprang from the sled. The next instant with the butt of his rifle he crushed the skull of a wolf whose fangs were tearing at the throat of a dog. The wolf, crumpling over, lay quivering in death.

As he bent over the prostrate dog he saw that it was Sport.

Frightened, bewildered, disheartened by the crack-crack of the newcomer’s rifle, the remnant of the wolf-pack took to its heels. Soon save for the growl and whine of dogs, silence reigned in meadow and forest.

The man with the rifle stepped forward. To Joe’s surprise he saw that it was Jennings.

“Why! It’s you!” he exclaimed.

“Who did you think it might be?” laughed the miner.

“Why, it might have been most anyone. Might even have been the man Curlie’s looking for, the outlaw of the air. I thought you were with Curlie. Curlie’s coming—must be most of the way here.”

“Then,” said Jennings quickly, “I’d better go back and meet him, then he and I will go back and bring the other sleds. Here,” he handed Joe two clips of cartridges, “guess they’ll not come back. Never can tell though. You’ll be safe with these.” He turned and walked quickly away.

Left with his dogs and his outfit, Joe made a thorough examination of things. Three of his dogs, Ginger, the leader, Major, the sled guard, and Bones, his team-mate, were sitting on their haunches or curled up licking their wounds.

“Sport’s done in,” he murmured with a queer catch in his throat. “Dogs get to be a fellow’s pals up here. Pete’s missing. Rushed out after the retreating enemy to avenge his team-mate, I guess. Only hope he doesn’t get the worst of it.”

Five dead wolves lay near the sled. These he dragged into a pile. “Enough pelts there for a splendid rug,” he told himself. “I’ll get some Indian woman to tan them.”

Then, realizing that it would be some time before his companions would return, and having nothing else to do, he began skinning the carcasses. He had nearly completed the task when, from the edge of the forest, there came a long-drawn howl.

“What, again?” he exclaimed seizing his rifle. “All right, come on. I’m ready for you this time.”

A pair of fiery balls shone out of the shadowy edge of the forest.

Lifting his rifle he took steady aim. His breath came quick. To shoot in the quiet calm of perfect self-composure was quite different from a pitched battle.

He had a perfect bead on the spot between the eyes, when the creature moved.

He came a few paces closer; then again halted and howled.

And now once more the boy had a perfect aim. His finger was on the trigger. It was a high-power rifle. The shot could not fail.

“Now!” he whispered to himself. “Now!”

But at that instant a strange thing happened. Old Ginger, the leader, answered the creature’s call. The answer was not hostile but friendly.

Joe’s rifle dropped with a soft plump into the snow. The next instant he cupped his hands and shouted.

“Pete! Pete, you old fool, come on in here. You nearly got shot.”

It was indeed Pete, the huskie. He had returned safely from his expedition of revenge for a lost comrade.

As he came trotting in, head up and ears pricked forward, he marched straight up to Joe, as a huskie will, and jamming his nose straight against his leg, gave a big sniff. After that he curled up with his comrades to lick his wounds.

Two hours later the camp in the forest was once more in order. The meat had been piled high upon a hastily made cache of strong boughs, roped between trees. The dogs had been bedded down with spruce boughs. All was snug for the night.

They were preparing to turn in. To-morrow would be a busy day. They would spend the greater part of it in camp. The broken sled must be mended. Joe’s dogs must be allowed to recover from the first shock of the battle. Jennings would repair the sled. Curlie and Joe would go ahead breaking the trail on snowshoes for a few miles. This would be the day’s work; that and keeping a sharp lookout for the outlaw of the air.

“The outlaw of the air!” Curlie was thinking of him when there came a rattle from the loud-speaker attached to the receiving set tuned for long wave lengths.

Leaping to the tuner, he touched its knob, twisted it first this way, then that. He touched a second and a third knob, then bent his ear for the message.

“Another government affair,” he told himself. Then, suddenly, as if bursting out from the very room, came a loud, “Bar-r-r-r!”

Instantly his hands flew to the radio-compass as he muttered.

“That’s him, the outlaw!”

He measured the distance accurately, calculated the direction, then located it on the map.

“There!” he murmured. “He’s right there. Not forty miles. A little off the trail. For safety from discovery I suppose. Camped there for the night. By a forced march we could reach that spot before nightfall to-morrow. Question is, shall we do it?”

Throwing on his coat, he went out of the tent. There for ten minutes he bathed his temples, throbbing with excitement, in the cold night air. Pacing up and down on the narrow trail he debated the problem.

“If we try to steal upon him, he may discover us first and elude us,” he told himself. “If he does that, probably we can’t catch him, for his dogs will be fresher than ours. If we wait for him here, he may take some Indian trail which cuts around this point and we may never see him. So there it is.”

It was a difficult decision but much quiet thinking led him to believe that there was more to be gained by waiting than by moving. They ought not break trail beyond the point where they now were. That would but give the man warning. Early in the morning, he would send Joe exploring across-trail for any other trail that might pass close to this one. They would move camp to a position a few yards off trail in the forest. Then he would set a watch.

Instinctively, as he entered the tent, he examined the clip of cartridges in his rifle.

“Not looking for him to-night, are you?” grinned Joe.

“No, not looking for him, but you never can tell,” said Curlie soberly.

“Think it’s necessary to set a watch?”

“No. That dog that guards your sled, old Major, is watch enough. He’ll let us know if anyone comes down the trail, and even if they should attempt to escape us they couldn’t do it—not with two of our teams in prime condition.”

CHAPTER VIII
A WATCH AT THE SIDE OF THE TRAIL

Early next morning Curlie established himself in the midst of a thick clump of young pine trees where he could keep a constant watch on the trail and not be seen by anyone approaching.

He had dragged into the clump a number of spruce boughs. On these he sat. On one side of him was his smaller radiophone receiving set and on the other his rifle. The receiver of the radiophone was clamped over his ears beneath his cap. This day he was to be a detective of the earth as well as of the air.

The camp had been moved well back from the trail, where without danger of being heard Jennings could work upon the broken sled. Whether their quarry were caught in their trap this day or not, they must be prepared to travel on the morrow.

As he sat there with his eyes moving up and down the trail he thought of the adventures his calling as a secret service man of the air had brought him. He recalled those wild hours on the tossing sea when death appeared so near that it seemed almost to beckon. He thought of the girl, Gladys Ardmore, who had behaved so bravely on that night. He wondered what she might be doing at that moment.

Then his mind carried him back to the adventure which appeared to be just before him. The man he was seeking had repeatedly broken all the laws of the air. He was subject not only to heavy fines but also to long years of imprisonment. That he would fight and willingly commit murder to escape punishment Curlie did not doubt. Yet here was Curlie, ready and willing to attempt to stop him in his mad career.

“One does not do such a thing for himself,” he reasoned. “He does it for the good of others. Here in Alaska are thousands of lonely people who can be cheered by music, stories and speeches broadcasted over thousands of miles. Yet a few outlaws of the air can spoil all that. It is the duty of some of us to see that they do not do it. There are matters of even greater importance; a miner lost on the tundra, snow-blind and all but hopeless, can, if he has a small radiophone set, send out a call for aid. From a large station this message may be picked up. He may be located and his life saved. Even the great explorer, Munson, may need some such assistance.”

Had he known how prophetic this last thought was, and how much he was to have to do with the explorer who was at that moment more than two thousand miles away on a ship beset by the perpetual ice of the Arctic, he would have been startled.

As it was, his mind turned to the mystery that always surrounds true adventure. He recalled the words of an old friend:

“Adventure, true adventure, like fame, does not come to those who seek it. It comes unbeckoned and unannounced. Oh! yes, you can blunder about and get into all kind of scrapes which really do not mean anything to yourself nor to anyone else, but that is not adventure. You may even succeed in getting yourself killed without experiencing an adventure.

“You’ll know an adventure when you see it. When, with no willing of your own, but following the plain lead of duty, you feel yourself going into something as dark and mysterious as an unexplored cave; when your heart beats madly, your knees tremble and your tongue clings to the roof of your mouth, yet you go straight on because you know that duty leads you, then you may be sure that you are about to enter upon a genuine adventure.”

As Curlie recalled these words he wondered whether or not, before the day was done, he would find himself entering upon a true adventure. Would his quarry, the outlaw of the air, come down the trail?

The day wore on. Noon came. He ate a frozen lunch. The sun sank lower and lower. His vigil did not relax, but he began to lose faith in his plan.

“Joe said he would come and tell me if he found other trails,” he told himself. “The outlaw can’t have gone round us. Where can he be? If we’ve missed him—well, anyway, he can’t escape us. They’ll take him when he enters Valdez.”

And yet, as he thought it through, he was not so sure of it. The man was utterly unknown. Not one person who was in any way interested in his capture had ever seen him. Hundreds of strange men drifted in and out of the seaport city of Valdez every day. How then was anyone to put his hand on any one of them and say, “This is the man”?

He was interrupted in these disconcerting reflections by a sound in his receiver. It was a whisper—the whisper.

“Hello - hello - Curlie,” it said. “Hello - are - you - there? Do - you - hear - me? I - have - something - important—dreadfully - important - to say. He—the - man - you - want—has - turned - back. Went - forty - miles - to-day. Now he - is camped. So - you - see - you - did - not - get - him - did - you - Curlie? I - am - sorry - Curlie - extremely - sorry - for - he - goes - fast—very - very - fast. You - cannot - catch - him - can - you - Curlie? So - good-bye.”

As the sound ceased, Curlie leaped to his feet. His fists were clenched. Through his tight set teeth he hissed: “I can catch him! I can! I can! And I will.”

Hastily gathering up his equipment and his rifle he hurried away at once to break the news to his companions.

Strange to say, in all this time it had never occurred to him to doubt the truth of the Whisperer’s message nor to question her sincerity in wishing him well or in desiring to assist him. And yet she had been playing a very artful game of hide-and-go-seek in the air with him for many weeks and in all that time, except perhaps that time in the hotel window (told about in “Curlie Carson Listens In”), he had not caught one single glimpse of her. He had heard her whisper, that was all. Can one judge a person’s character by the quality of his whisper? Well, that’s the question.

CHAPTER IX
WHO IS THIS WHISPERER?

“What does it mean?” puzzled Joe, as Curlie reported the Whisperer’s message. “Did he listen in last night when I was calling for help? And was he frightened by that?”

“Might have,” said Curlie, “but anyway you couldn’t help that. You were in a mess and had to be helped out.”