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CHAPTER X
A NARROW ESCAPE

“HURRAH!” shouted Paul, as Dan trimmed the sail and it filled with wind. “Hurrah! We’re off!”

“I’m hopin’ th’ wind’ll breeze up a bit; an’ she does, we’ll be makin’ fine time,” remarked Dan, pointing the boat for the open sea. “She’s a rare good sailin’ craft.”

“Let me take the tiller, Dan. I can handle it, and I want to do something. You manage the sail.”

“An’ you wants,” said Dan, surrendering the tiller and settling comfortably amidships. “Head her just outside that p’int o’ land,” he directed.

“Isn’t it fine to be moving!” exclaimed Paul. “But the old camping place grew to seem homelike to me. Wasn’t it cozy when we first landed there from the ice, after we got our tent up and a fire started?”

“Yes, ’twere wonderful snug an’ fine, but I finds it a rare sight better afloat, an’ s’uthard bound.”

“Do you know, Dan, it gives me a sort of scarey feeling to think we’re out here alone in this little boat when there’s not another boat in sight, and likely there isn’t another within hundreds of miles of us, unless it’s the North Star; and we know that no one lives on the land. It’s a queer sort of feeling—nothing but a great big wilderness everywhere, and just us in it. But I’m glad to be here. I wonder what there is below that point and over the hill?”

“’Tis a wonderful bleak country, I’m thinkin’, an’ I’m wishin’ we were knowin’ where th’ fur traders is, an’ where we’re goin’.” Dan produced his harmonica as he spoke, drew it across his sleeve, and putting it to his lips blew a chord or two.

“It’s because we don’t know, I guess, and the uncertainty about it, that makes it interesting to me. I feel like an explorer. It’s simply great to sail along and wonder all the time what we’ll see next, and no way of finding out till we get there. That makes it exciting and romantic.”

“I don’t know as ’tis very exciting,” said Dan, removing the harmonica from his lips, “but ’tis a wonderful sight better ’n stayin’ around camp, with winter nigh, an’ ’t would be better yet if th’ ship came cruisin’ along t’ pick us up—which she won’t, as th’ ice sure drove she out.”

With this, and as if to dismiss the subject, he struck up one of his favorite tunes, playing softly, and ceasing only long enough to say to Paul: “A bit t’ port. That’s it, steady.”

The morning air was crisp and frosty. The sun illumined the eastern heavens in a blaze of wondrous colors, and presently raised his face above the glistening sea. Even the bleak coast, austere and rugged, possessed a unique grandeur and compelling beauty. The wind sprang up with the rising sun, and the little boat bowled along at a good speed, upon a gentle swell. Now and again Dan would trim the sail, and give an instruction to Paul, “Port lee a bit,” or “Starb’rd a bit,” and return to his music.

Paul was thinking of home, of his mother and father, and his homecoming—some time. He had no doubt that he and Dan would extricate themselves from the wilderness, for he had grown to have unbounded faith in Dan’s resourcefulness and ingenuity. He wondered what his parents would say, when Mr. Remington returned without him, if Dan’s assurance that the ship could never have remained in the face of the ice were correct.

While he realized and regretted the anxiety his absence would cause his parents, it did not occur to him that any one would believe that he and Dan were drowned. He believed that his father would send a vessel for them when the ice passed out of Hudson Bay the following summer, and that in the meantime he and Dan would be quite comfortable at some trading post which they should presently find.

He was thrilled with the delights of adventure, now that any real danger seemed past, and he made for himself pleasant pictures of his return to school and the rôle of hero he would fill in the eyes of the other fellows.

Presently Dan ceased playing, and they chatted intermittently. Once a great sea creature raised its back directly in front of them.

“What’s that?” asked Paul.

“A white whale,” answered Dan, as the thing sank, to appear again much farther out to sea.

At another time they passed several seals, and Paul wished to shoot at them, but Dan advised:

“’Tis rare hard t’ hit un, an’ if you did hit one an’ kill un, she’d sink before we could get un. An’ we’ll be needin’ all th’ cartridges,” so Paul did not shoot.

The sun was close to the western horizon when, ravenously hungry, for they had eaten nothing since breakfast, they ran into a little cove, unloaded their belongings, hauled the boat to a safe position, and made camp. They had kept steadily going all day, for Dan had been unwilling to lose advantage of the fair wind, and had they gone ashore to cook dinner it would have consumed at least an hour of valuable time.

“Th’ days is growin’ wonderful short,” said Dan, “an’ we’ll have t’ be usin’ all of the daylight when th’ wind’s fair an’ good. ’Twill save grub, too, if we eats only twice a day.”

During the four succeeding days they made indifferent progress. The weather was glorious, but the wind for hours at a stretch died to a dead calm, the sail hung slack, and to keep in motion they were compelled to work at their stern oar, and progress by this means was slow and tedious.

They were very sparing of their provisions. A couple of geese were killed and added to their store, but nothing else. Then came another day with a good breeze, but when they went into camp that night they had only a gull to divide between them for supper. It was an unpromising shore for game, and Dan expressed himself of the belief that it would be quite fruitless to hunt.

“If we sees any place tomorrow that looks like a river, or a likely place for huntin’, we’ll land an’ try un,” he commented as, very hungry, they settled for the night.

There was not a scrap to eat for breakfast. Paul declared he could eat his shoes, and Dan facetiously advised that he fill up on water, the one thing that was abundant. They set sail as the first light of dawn appeared in the east. Paul shivered in the frosty atmosphere, and both of the young voyagers sat despondently quiet, until the sun pushed his big glowing face above the eastern waters, and seemed to laugh at them.

“Dad says, ‘Keep a stiff upper lip, do th’ best un can, an’ she’ll work out all right,’” encouraged Dan, at length, breaking the silence. “They ain’t nothin’ we can do but keep goin’ an’ watch out for game. Th’ Lord’s been watchin’ out for us right along, an’ He’s got His eye on us now, I’m thinkin’. We ain’t been lookin’ much for grub. We been thinkin’ too much about gettin’ on. An’ we looks out, we’ll be gettin’ grub before night. They’s been chances t’ kill grub every day, but we been goin’ right on an’ not takin’ un.”

“We’ll have to get something pretty soon or we’ll starve to death,” said Paul. “I wonder how long people can live without eating?”

“I’m not knowin’ just how long. Dad’s been a week more ’n once without eatin’, an’ he says ’t were just makin’ he a bit weak, but not hurtin’ he none.”

“I’m sure I never could stand it for a week.”

“Oh, yes, un could. Dad says ’t is bad when folks gives up, an’ thinks they’s goin’ t’ die after fastin’ for a bit.”

“But we can’t live unless we eat,” insisted Paul.

“No, but we can go a wonderful time without eatin’ before we dies, if we only thinks we can.”

The wind was rising. White caps were appearing upon the surface of the sea, and presently the boat began now and again to ship water.

“We’ll have t’ make shore th’ first promisin’ place,” suggested Dan. “We’re sure in for a blow. There’s a p’int ahead, and we’ll make for th’ lee of un.”

The wind was in the northeast, and it drove the little craft before it at a terrific rate. In an incredibly short time it had developed into a tempest. The angry waters piled about them and tossed the boat about upon the wave crests like a leaf. While Paul held the rudder Dan lowered the sail, and they ran before the gale with bared mast. Dan resumed the rudder and Paul baled out the water, working as he had never worked before.

“We’ll never make it, Dan!” he shouted at length. “We’ll swamp, sure!”

“Oh, yes; we’re gainin’ on un,” encouraged Dan. “We’ll make un.”

Dan’s face, however, was tense, and it was plain that he was not so confident as his words seemed to indicate.

They had almost passed the point when a great wave broke over them, nearly swamping the boat, and leaving it half full of water, but they made the point, and passed into less tempestuous waters before another wave caught them.

Even here the sea was as rough as the little boat could weather, for the shore was not so well protected as it had seemed, and it was lined with jagged rocks, making a landing impossible, for to have attempted it would have resulted in the boat’s smashing to pieces and perhaps their being carried away before they could reach safety.

Dan watched for an opening, as they paralleled the shore a safe distance from it, and at length discovered a bit of gravelly beach reaching down between high boulders.

It was a difficult landing to make, but it was their only hope, and he headed directly for the opening.

“Get t’ th’ bow an’ jump th’ minute we strikes!” he shouted to Paul, and Paul obeyed.

For an instant it seemed that in spite of Dan’s best effort they must strike upon the rocks, the next instant the danger was past, the boat drove hard upon the gravel, and both boys sprang ashore for their lives, to escape a breaker which swept over the boat.

One on either side they grasped the bow, and as another wave came rolling in, pulled with all their might. Thus, aided by the force of the water, the boat was drawn sufficiently high to permit them to unload, bale out the water, and haul the boat to safety.

“We made un all right,” remarked Dan, when everything was beyond danger.

“Yes,” said Paul, “but it was a narrow escape.”

“’T were that,” admitted Dan. “’T were wonderful close we was t’ bein’ swamped.”

The boys themselves and all their things were drenching wet. Not a stick of driftwood was to be found. The wind was bitterly cold. They had eaten nothing since the previous evening, and then only the unsatisfying gull, and the barren coast was destitute of game. But they had escaped death, and were thankful for their deliverance.

CHAPTER XI
A DEATH STRUGGLE

“WE’D better open th’ outfit up, an’ let th’ wind be dryin’ un while we hunts grub,” suggested Dan, as he unfolded a blanket and proceeded to spread it upon the ground, after they had made a brief survey of their immediate surroundings.

“I’m so dead hungry and empty I can hardly move,” said Paul, sitting impotently on a rock. “I feel weak, too. The scare, and pulling on the boat, just about knocked the ginger out of me.”

“We’ll be findin’ timber clost by, an’ they’s a good chanst t’ kill some grub before night. ’T ain’t noon yet. We’ll start soon’s we get th’ things spread, an’ I’m thinkin’ we’ll be good an’ snug by night,” encouraged Dan.

“It’s all my fault that we ever got into this scrape, Dan,” Paul remarked dejectedly, as he arose to assist in unpacking the wet things. “If I’d listened to you, and done as I promised, we’d have been safe on the ship now, instead of starving to death out here.”

“They’s no tellin’,” Dan consoled. “I’m thinkin’ ’twould have been the same anyhow. Maybe ’twas meant we be goin’ adrift. Leastways ’tain’t no use botherin’ about un now. Dad say what’s done is done, an’ ’tain’t no use botherin’ our heads about a thing after she’s done an’ past. What’s past might as well be forgot. Dad says ’tain’t what was, but what is, as counts. He says: ‘If you weren’t doin’ things right yesterday, ’tain’t goin’ t’ help none t’ bother about un t’day, but just do th’ things you has to do t’day right, an’ do un th’ best un can, an’ what you weren’t doin’ right yesterday won’t count ag’in you.’”

“Maybe you’re right, Dan, and I may as well quit worrying about it. One thing’s certain. When I promise to do anything at a certain time again, I’m going to do it. And I’m going to do the best I can now, and stop complaining. I wish I could do things as well as you do. You know how to do everything.”

“They’s a wonderful lot o’ things I’m not knowin’ how t’ do. I’m knowin’ how t’ sail a boat an’ do things around camp, because I always had t’ do un. ’Twon’t be long till you knows how t’ do un too, an’ then you’ll know a lot more ’n I do. Where you lives you had t’ learn t’ do other kinds o’ things, an’ them things you knows how t’ do I don’t know nothin’ about. Dad says learnin’ t’ do things is like plants growin’. ‘If you plants a turnip seed t’day,’ says he, ‘you can’t pull a turnip from un th’ same day. Th’ turnip’s got t’ have time t’ grow after th’ seed’s planted, an’ you can’t learn t’ do things what’s worth knowin’ how t’ do,’ says he, ‘in one day. You got t’ keep learnin’ a little about un every day till you learns how t’ do un.’ You learn about doin’ things in camp wonderful quick, Paul.”

“Thank you, Dan. You always encourage me. I’d have given up long ago if it hadn’t been for you.”

“Oh, no, you wouldn’t. You’d have been findin’ out how t’ do things. You got a rare lot o’ pluck.”

By this time the things were spread where wind and sun could dry them, with boulders placed upon them as a precaution against the wind carrying them away.

“Now,” said Dan, shouldering his rifle, “we’ll be goin’. ’Twill be best t’ bring your shotgun an’ plenty o’ shells, an’ I’m thinkin’ we’ll find grub, an’ be feelin’ better when we makes camp this evenin’.”

Three quarters of a mile inland lay a ridge of low, barren hills. Dan, in the lead, directed their course toward it, and set a good pace, with Paul, who was learning the trick of walking over rough, untrailed country with less effort than formerly, close at his heels.

Paul bore small resemblance now to the sallow, listless youth who in July climbed the ladder to the deck of the North Star, lying in Sydney harbor. His face was brown and ruddy, his eyes bright, his limbs lithe, his step springy, and he had grown eager and alert. Both he and Dan were, however, now conscious of a growing weakness, the natural result of insufficient food for several days, and particularly due to their unbroken fast of several hours.

At the foot of the ridge they encountered a growth of straggling spruce brush. Above the brush, near the summit, the hills were of a reddish hue, in marked contrast to the surrounding gray. This red coloring, they presently discovered upon ascending the ridge, was given the hills by masses of red berries, half the size of ordinary cranberries but resembling them in flavor and appearance.

The wind swept the ridge with terrific fury, and was very cold, but they fell upon their knees, uncomfortable as it was, and partially satisfied their hunger with the fruit.

“They ain’t so bad,” remarked Dan, “but they’s so sour I’m thinkin’ we better not eat too many t’ onct.”

“They are pretty sour,” admitted Paul, reluctantly rising to follow Dan, “but they taste mighty good.”

“If we don’t kill nothin’ we can eat more of un when we comes back. But I’m thinkin’ we’ll find pa’tridges along here, feedin’ on un. Pa’tridges is wonderful fond o’ berries, an’ they’ll not be missin’ a feedin’ ground like this. Th’ kind that takes t’ th’ hills is bigger’n better’n them that sticks t’ th’ willers. They both turns white in winter, an’ they’s both better ’n th’ spruce pa’tridges that sticks t’ th’ spruce timber.”

“Maybe you better take the shotgun, Dan. You can shoot quicker than I can, and if we see any partridges we’ve just got to get them.”

“You shoots fine, but I knows better how t’ look for th’ pa’tridges, an’ I’ll take un. With th’ wind they’s like t’ be wonderful wild.”

Dan passed his light rifle over to Paul, and with Paul’s shotgun proceeded to the top of the ridge, keeping a careful lookout, as he walked, while Paul followed a little distance in the rear. On the summit Dan halted until Paul joined him.

“’Tis fine,” said Dan; “look now.”

Below them lay a wooded valley, the green spruce trees splotched with golden yellow patches, where groves of tamaracks had taken on their autumnal coloring. To the westward a small lake shimmered in the sunlight, and leading to the southward from it could be traced the winding course of a creek which was presently lost among barren hills beyond.

“Isn’t it fine!” exclaimed Paul.

“An’ ’tis like t’ be a game country.”

“Oh, I hope so!”

“Now I’ll be leadin’ ag’in, an’ you follows a bit behind.”

A little way down the slope Dan stopped again, and when Paul overtook him, pointed to the berries at his feet.

“See th’ signs? They’s been feedin’ right here. Just over there they been wallerin’ in th’ sand.”

He went forward again noiselessly, carefully scanning the receding slope ahead. Presently he began a more cautious advance, halting now and again and then advancing.

All at once, quick as a flash he threw the gun to his shoulder and fired—bang! bang!—both barrels almost as one. Quickly he dropped two fresh shells in the gun, and running forward fired both barrels again. As he did so a great flock of ptarmigans, with a noise like the wind, rose and flew far away, apparently alighting at the edge of the timber below them.

Paul hurried down to Dan, who was gathering up the fruits of his hunt. There were eleven fat birds, now nearly white, in their winter dress.

Paul, in happy thankfulness, could scarcely control his emotion.

“It seems almost too good to be true, Dan!” he said finally.

“I finds un fine too,” admitted Dan. “They was wonderful tame for a windy day, an’ just runs instead of flyin’ after I fires th’ first shots. That gives me time t’ load an’ shoot ag’in.”

“But how did you get so many with just four shots? Oh, Dan, I believe it’s just as you always say; it was Providence sent us here and let you get so many.”

“’Twere that. On th’ ground I lines ’em up, an’ knocks over two or three to a shot, except th’ last shots, when they flies away, I only gets one on th’ wing. ’Tis hard t’ get more ’n one when they’s flyin’. Th’ Lord just kept ’em on th’ ground!”

“And now we can eat again!” exclaimed Paul.

“Yes, an’ th’ finest kind o’ eatin’ too. I’ll be lookin’ for th’ flock, where they flies to, an’ try for another shot, while you plucks two, an’ cooks un,” suggested Dan, and when they reached the edge of the timber he directed:

“Go straight in here till you comes t’ th’ creek, an’ put on your fire there, an’ I’ll be findin’ you.”

Entering the timber, Paul found himself sheltered from the wind, in pleasant contrast to the open hills. Scarcely two hundred yards from where he parted from Dan he came upon the creek. Though he had no axe he made his fire without difficulty, profiting by the wood lore learned from Dan. He had also learned the knack of plucking birds quickly, and in a little while had the two ptarmigans, impaled upon sticks, broiling before the blaze, while he basked in the warmth, and filled in his time plucking the remaining birds.

Dan had not yet put in his appearance when Paul decided that the ptarmigans were quite done. He removed them from the fire, and with a strong exercise of self-restraint waited for Dan to join him in the repast. Presently, however, hunger got the better of him.

“There isn’t any use waiting for Dan,” he finally said to himself. “I simply can’t stand it another minute,” and he ate one of the birds with a relish beyond anything, he thought, that he had ever before experienced. The temptation to eat the other was very strong but he turned his back upon it, and, lying down, was presently dozing.

How long he had been asleep he did not know, but at length he opened his eyes, suddenly wide awake, with a consciousness that something was watching him. The fire had died to smouldering coals, and he was cold, but fear of the watcher impelled him to remain motionless and still, while he peered into the shadow of the timber.

Presently he discovered in a clump of bushes on the opposite side of the creek a pair of glowing amber-green eyes. They were malicious, piercing eyes, and Paul’s heart stood still for a moment. Then he remembered what Dan had often told him: “They ain’t nothin’ in this country t’ be scared of unless you comes on a big pack o’ wolves, an’ they’s mostly cowards,” and his courage returned.

Very cautiously he reached for Dan’s rifle, and with exceeding care sighted it upon a spot just between the glistening eyes. Then steadying his nerves, and holding his breath for an instant, he fired.

Simultaneously with the explosion something sprang into the air and then fell back upon the ground. Whatever the thing was, he had hit it. Highly excited, he dropped the rifle, and regardless of the icy waters forded the creek, dashed up the opposite bank, and without doubt that the animal was quite dead, ran directly in, incautiously, toward the clump of bushes where it had fallen.

Suddenly, when less than ten feet from the bushes, a great snarling, malevolent cat-like beast appeared at the edge of the cover, directly before him.

Paul stopped, stupefied at the unexpected appearance. The animal crouched for a spring. It was too late to retreat. Paul’s heart stood still. A cold chill ran up his spine. He had left his rifle at the fire, and was quite defenseless, save for the hunting knife at his belt. He grabbed the knife, and as the beast leaped toward him instinctively threw up his arms to guard his face.

Its fore paws landed squarely upon his shoulders. With one hand he grasped its throat, and with a tremendous, unnatural strength pushed it from him, while with the other hand he slashed blindly with his knife at its body. He could feel its sharp claws tearing his flesh. Then the earth began to reel, darkness came, and he fell unconscious.