No sooner had the monoplane begun to disappear over the northern hills than the impatient Paul demanded the attention of Colonel Howell.
"Colonel," he began, "I'm almost ashamed to even make the suggestion, but I've been watching the men at work on the gusher. They don't seem able to get a plug into the pipe or to put a cap on the end of it, even with the rigging they've managed to set up."
"We seem to be at the end of our string," laughed Colonel Howell. "But laymen frequently make suggestions that never occur to professionals. Have you an idea?"
"Not much of a one," answered Paul diffidently, "but I learned one thing in school—I think it was in what you call 'Physics.'"
"Speak out," laughed Colonel Howell. "We've utilized all our own ideas; that is, all but one, and I don't like that. I suppose we can dig a pit around the pipe and smother the blaze. But that's goin' to be quite a job, and I'm not sure it would work."
"A pit!" exclaimed Paul. "Now I've got it. They used to tell me, when you strike a force you can't handle, try to break it up into parts."
Colonel Howell looked up quickly.
"We don't need a pit," went on Paul, "but something like a trench. Let's dig down alongside the pipe until we're ten or fifteen feet beneath the ground and then tap the tube and let some of the gas out where it won't do any harm. If we can't drill a hole, we can rig up a long-handled chisel and punch an opening. When the gas rushes out, down there in the trench, maybe it won't catch fire for a few minutes and it's sure to shut off a good deal of the pressure at the mouth of the tube. If it does, maybe we can get the cap and the regulator on the top. Then we can plug the opening below. It'll leak, of course, but the regulator'll fix things so we can use the gas at least."
Colonel Howell thought a moment and then slapped the young man on the back. Without a word, he hurried to the two workmen and in a few moments Ewen and Miller had begun digging into the frozen ground. Colonel Howell's orders were for them to make a trench about four feet wide and extending toward the river about twenty feet. It was to be twenty feet deep alongside the pipe and in the form of a triangle, the long side to incline toward the river. This was to facilitate the removal of the gravel and dirt and to afford a path to the deep side of the trench where it touched the gas tubing.
"Five feet from the bottom," explained the enthusiastic Paul, "we'll put a shelf across the trench and we'll work from this, so that when a hole is made in the pipe no one will be in danger from the rush of gas."
"That's right," added Colonel Howell. "All the gas can't get out through the new opening, but enough of it ought to escape to make it possible to work on the top opening. But we'll hardly finish the ditch before the boys get back?"
"Hardly," smiled the happy Paul. "They ought to be here before dark."
While Ewen and Miller were busy with picks and shovels, Colonel Howell and Paul devoted themselves to improvising the long wooden handle for the chisel to be used in cutting the pipe. But the workmen had not finished the trench when night came and, to the surprise of Colonel Howell and Paul, the Gitchie Manitou had not returned. This fact especially disturbed Colonel Howell and Paul because soon after noon the bright day had ended and the afternoon had passed with lowering clouds and other evidences, including a decided drop in the temperature, that a bad night was approaching.
The northward flight of the aviators had been made without any premonition of this change. After the monoplane had reached the high ground, Norman could not resist a temptation to make his way some miles back from the river, where the boys could see that the sparse timber grew very much thinner and that within five miles of the river the timberland disappeared altogether in a wide prairie or plain. Still farther to the east, they could make out irregular elevations on the plain, which appeared to be treeless ridges.
"I wish we had time to go over there," remarked Roy, "for we may never get back this way and I'd like to have had one good look at the caribou lands."
But the general nature of this treeless, barren waste had been ascertained and Norman brought the swift car back on its flight toward the river. Colonel Howell had explained to them that the Indian village they were seeking was one hundred miles from the gas camp. As it was not certain that Pointe aux Tremble could be easily made out from a distance, it was necessary to keep careful watch of the chronometer and the propeller revolution gauge.
The flight over the picturesque banks of the great river was now getting to be an old story to the boys and protected as they were in the inclosed cockpit, the journey proceeded with only occasional comment. They had left the camp at nine twenty-five o'clock, having set the engines at fifty miles, and, allowing for their detour, at a quarter after eleven o'clock Roy arose and began to use his binoculars. But either the reputed distance or the boys' calculations were wrong, for it was not until a quarter of twelve o'clock that they caught sight of a few cabins scattered along the riverbank within a fringe of poplar trees.
It was necessary to find a suitable landing place and both aviators busied themselves in this respect with no great result. What clearing there was seemed to be full of tree stumps and large brush. The car, having passed over the few cabins of what seemed to be a deserted village, with no living thing in sight, it was necessary to make a turn to look for a landing place in the vicinity. In doing this, Norman made a wide swing.
The only naturally open place was some distance to the east. Without consulting Roy, he made for this white glare of snow. As the monoplane dropped toward the wide opening, Roy made a desperate dive toward the floor of the cockpit and, before Norman learned the situation, his chum was pulling its new mooseskin jacket from the .303 rifle.
"It's a moose!" shouted Roy, "and a dandy. Gi' me a shot at it. I've got to shoot something from the machine."
"I thought there wasn't any game around here," answered Norman, trying in vain to get his eyes above the cockpit.
"I guess the hunters have all gone too far," answered Roy breathlessly. "Anyway, there's a dandy bull right out there in the open. Give me a shot at it."
As he spoke, he dropped one of the front sections and pointed to one side of the basin-like opening among the spruce trees. The moment Norman caught sight of the animal, which stood with its forefeet together, its head erect, and its immense spread of antlers reared almost defiantly, he brought the machine directly toward the animal. There was a heavy discharge from Roy's rifle, but no sign that his shot had gone home.
"Try him again," laughed Norman. "He's big as a barn."
But while Roy pumped a new shell into place, the erect animal suddenly stumbled and then with a snort whirled and sprang toward the trees. This time when the rifle sounded the great antlers seemed to rise higher and then the moose lunged forward on its head and began kicking in the snow. Norman, gazing at the struggling animal, brought the monoplane to the wide drifts of snow.
"You get out and finish him," he exclaimed as the Gitchie Manitou came to a jolting stop. "It's getting colder. I'm going to put some alcohol an' glycerine in the radiator. This isn't a very good place to freeze up."
"Why not wait till we get over to the camp?" asked Roy as he dropped one of the side sections.
"We've got enough of a load now," answered Norman as he began to prowl around among the extra supplies. "There isn't much snow among the trees. We'll take all we can carry of this fresh meat and go to the camp on foot. There's no place to land there, anyway."
Closing the machine, the two boys soon quartered the moose, and leaving a part of the carcass in the lower limbs of a spruce tree, shouldered the remainder and made their way toward the Indian village. The snow and their heavy load made this a panting task and in the mile walk they paused to rest several times.
When they finally reached the edge of the Indian settlement and broke their way through the last of the trees, they found before them a picture that had escaped them from the airship. In the distance lay the deserted looking cabins but, nearer by and as if seeking protection among the scrub spruce, rose a single tepee. Before it stood two men and two squaws.
"They must have seen us," panted Roy, as he and Norman advanced, bending low under their burdens. "They seem to be watchin' for us."
In fact, one of the men had his arms outstretched. The cheerless group was made even more so by a small, almost blazeless fire, in the thin smoke of which was suspended a black kettle.
"No wonder they let a moose almost stick his nose in camp," was Norman's comment. "The men seem to be as old as Methuselah."
There was nothing dramatic in the arrival of the boys, for the Indians spoke no English and gave not the least sign of gratitude when the quarters of the moose were thrown on the ground. Both the women sank on their knees and one of them eagerly bit into the raw flesh. After vainly attempting to talk to the men, Norman pointed to a knife in the belt of one of them and then at the freezing flesh on the ground.
While the boys watched them, this aged and emaciated Chipewyan also dropped on his knees and hastily cut off four strips of flesh. Without any attempt at cooking these the starving group attacked them voraciously in their raw condition. After a few moments, the boys took the other quarter and, motioning toward the other cabins, started toward them. They decided, if they found no younger men, to take the two old men back to the monoplane and deliver to them their other provisions.
Having reached the first cabin, the boys at once discovered that Chandler had not overstated the camp condition. Neither in this filthy structure, nor in any but one of the other half dozen did they find anyone but women and children. In each cabin there was heat in plenty, but signs of food were wholly missing. In each place the air was foul, and half-clad children made the situation pitiable. In one fortunate cabin, the children were chewing shreds of skin.
Still unable to find anyone who could speak English, the boys continued their work of rescue by cutting off a generous piece of moose and then continuing their investigation. Having reached the last cabin, which differed in no respect from the others, Norman and Roy came across a surprise that was a shock to them. Swinging open the door, without warning, they entered a chill interior that was reeking with new odors. A small fire burned in one corner and before it, on a pallet of worn and greasy blankets, lay the distorted figure of a man. He was the sole occupant of the almost dark room.
While the boys hesitated, choking with the rancid and stifling odors about them, they saw the figure turn its head with an effort. Then they saw that it was a man of about middle age, who was almost completely paralyzed. He could move neither his legs nor his body, but with the use of his elbows, he was just able to turn the upper part of his body.
He did not resent the intrusion but he did not give the young men the least sign of welcome. In his left hand rested a charred stick. With this he was able to reach the little fire at his side, in front of which was piled a heap of small sticks and branches—his firewood.
The fireplace and chimney, which was also inside the cabin, were made of clay and occupied the corner of the uninviting apartment. Near the fire stood a smoke-begrimed frying pan in which there was a piece of black meat of some kind. On the dirty clay hearth was a tin basin, in which were a few ounces of soiled looking meal or flour.
"The man's paralyzed," remarked Norman in an undertone. "But at that he seems better off than the rest."
"He ain't starvin', at least," answered Roy. "But we'd better give him his share of moose."
He spoke to the man and was surprised to receive a grin in return. It meant that the invalid did not understand. But the moment they offered the meat to the almost-helpless man, they were glad to see that he had the full use of his arms and fingers. Reaching for a knife that lay under him, he began to cut off pieces of fat with celerity. These he ate without cooking.
The close cabin was so crowded with articles of various kinds that the boys could not resist an examination before they took their leave.
"Somebody's been livin' here besides this man," exclaimed Roy at once. He pointed to the opposite corner of the cabin where there were indications that some one had had a bunk. Then in the other end of the room they found the cause of the heavy odors. Hanging from the rafters were several dozen skins, stretched tightly on trappers' boards, and in various states of curing. There was also a collection of steel traps, a dog sled and a jumbled mass of dog harness.
Curing skins was not exactly a novelty to either of the boys but they knew a valuable skin from an ordinary one and they could not resist the temptation to look for a possible silver fox. They soon decided that the trapper who might have collected these furs was one of no great experience. Roy pointed to the skins, then made signs to the Indian as if to ask if the skins belonged to him. The man grinned in silence and punched up his little fire. Roy was examining one of the stretched hides when he suddenly called to Norman and pointed to a name written with indelible pencil near the bottom of the board.
"Well, what do you think of that?" exclaimed the astonished Norman.
The two boys were looking at the scrawl which was plainly "E. O. Chandler."
"There you are!" exclaimed Roy. "Here's where our friend made his headquarters. No wonder he knew that the Indians were starving."
There was a light tapping on the floor and the paralyzed and speechless Indian pointed toward the corner of the room where there were signs of a bunk. In the gloom the boys went to this place. But they noticed nothing in particular until the prostrate Indian again lifted his stick upward. And then, shoved in a crevice between the logs, they saw a soiled and crumpled envelope. Taking it to the window, they read plainly enough the address—"E. O. Chandler, Fort McMurray." There was no postmark but in the upper left hand corner was this printing—"Hill Howell, Contractor, Centralia, Kansas."
"It's one of the envelopes that Colonel Howell has down in camp," exclaimed Roy.
"Yes," answered Norman slowly, "and I'll bet you it's a message that either Ewen or Miller wrote to Chandler after he left us."
"Do you think we ought to read it?" asked Roy, his fingers grasping the greasy envelope as if itching to extract the enclosure.
"I reckon it's none of our business," answered Norman, as if with some regret, "but I'll bet it concerns Colonel Howell and I believe we ought to take it to him."
Roy turned toward the Indian and made signs of putting the letter in his pocket. If this meant anything to the helpless man, he gave no sign other than the same peculiar grin. Roy put the envelope in his pocket and, making signs of farewell, the two boys left the cabin.