CHAPTER VI A WANDERER RETURNS
Florence stirred uneasily beneath the blankets. Morning was coming. Afaint light was creeping in over the cabin loft where she and Mary sleptin a great, home-made bed.
More often than not it is a sound that disturbs our late slumbers.Florence had never become quite accustomed to the morning sounds abouttheir little farm. All her life she had lived where boats chug-chugged inthe harbor and auto horns sounded in the streets. Here more often thannot it was the croak of a raven, the song of some small bird, the wildlaugh of a loon on the lake that awoke her.
Now, as a sharp suggestion of approaching winter filled the air, on morethan one morning it was the quack-quack of some old gander of the wildduck tribe, flown to the lake from the far North, or the honk-honk ofgeese.
All this was music to the nature-loving girl's ear. And, of late, all oflife seemed to her a great symphony full of beautiful melodies. The hardbattle of summer was over. Bravely the battle had been fought. The Hughesfamily had come to this valley to win themselves a home. She was one ofthem, in spirit at least. The beginning they had made surpassed theirexpectations. Now, as she opened her eyes to find herself fully awake,she thought of it all.
"A ticket to adventure," she whispered low to herself, "that's what theman said he was giving me. It's been a ticket to duty and endless labor.And yet," she sighed, "I'm not complaining." A great wave of contentmentswept over her. They were secure for the winter. That surely wassomething.
"Adventure," she laughed, silently. "Bill has had the adventure. He--"
Her thoughts broke off. From somewhere, all but inaudible, a sound hadreached her ear. More sensation than sound, she knew at once that it wasmade by no wild thing. But what could it be? She listened intently, but,like a song on their little battery radio, it had faded away.
Yes--her thoughts went back to her neighbor--Bill Vale had soughtadventure and had found it. With his mother still in Palmer, he hadpacked up a generous supply of food, charged to his mother's account atthe government commissary, and joining up with the dreamy-eyedprospector, Malcomb Dale, had gone away into the hills searching forgold.
"Not that Bill's mother would have objected," Florence thought. "Shewould have said, 'Bill is incurably romantic. The quest for gold appealsto him. All our desires in the end must be satisfied if we are to enjoythe more abundant life. Besides, what is there to do? There are sixhundred men working in gangs. They will clear up our land for us andbuild cabins before snow flies. We shall be charged with it all, but thenwe have thirty years to pay.' Yes, that is exactly what Bill's motherwould have said," and the thought disgusted Florence not a little.
So Bill had gone away into the mountains. The mountains, those glorious,snow-capped mountains! Florence, as she bent over her work in their largegarden, had watched him start. And as she saw him disappear, she had, forthe moment, envied him.
Often and often, in the sweet cool of the evening, she and Mary hadtalked about how, in some breathing spell, they would borrow a horse andgo packing away into those mountains. The breathing spell had never come.And now, the brief autumn was here. Winter was just around the corner.Florence had no regrets. Never before had she felt so happy and secure.
Bill had been gone six weeks. The clearing and building crew had arrivedwhile he was away. There was dead and down timber at the back of Bill'slot that would have made a fine, secure cabin, had Bill been there topoint it out. He was not there. So the cabin was built of green logs.Already you could see daylight through the cracks, and Bill's mother, whohad moved in with what to Florence seemed an unnecessary amount offurniture and equipment, was complaining bitterly about "the way thegovernment has treated us poor folks."
Bill had returned at last. Sore-footed and ragged, his food gone, hishigh-priced rifle red with rust, he had returned triumphant. He had foundgold. In the spring he would begin operations in a big way. Proudly hedisplayed six tiny nuggets, none of them bigger than a pea.
"Seeds," old John McQueen had called them. "Golden seeds of discontent."But to Bill they were marvelous. For him they hid the cracks in theircabin, his unplowed field, his uncut woodpile. And, because she doted onher son, they hid all these things from his mother's eyes as well--atleast, for a time.
"Poor Bill!" Florence sighed, as she snuggled down beneath the blankets."He's such a dreamer. He--"
There was that strange sound again, like a speedboat motor. She laughedat the thought of a speedboat on their tiny lake. But now, as before, itfaded away.
Yes, with her help, the Hughes family had won. Their summer had been acomplete success. How they had worked, morning to night. Mosquitoes andflies, tough sod and weeds, they had battled them all. And how they hadbeen rewarded! Never had plants grown and flourished as theirs did.Mark's tomatoes were a complete success. Twice, it was true, the mercurydropped to a point perilously near freezing and their heads rested onuneasy pillows. But the Alaskan weather man had been kind. Their brightred harvest, "bushels and bushels of tomatoes," had come and had beensold at unbelievable prices. All along the Alaskan railroad, people hadgone wild about their marvelous tomatoes.
"And now," the girl heaved another happy sigh. Now their little sodded-incellar was packed full of potatoes, beets, turnips, and carrots; theirshelves were lined with home-canned wild fruit, raspberries, blueberries,high bush cranberries, and their storeroom crowded with groceries, allpaid for. What was more, a horse! "Old Nig," bought from a discouragedsettler, was in their small log barn. It was marvelous, truly marvelous!And yet, in this wild land full of possible exciting events, they hadknown no adventure.
"Duty first," John McQueen had said to her once. "And when duty is done,let adventure come as it may. And it _will_ come."
"Good old McQueen," she sighed. "God surely knows all our needs. He sendsus such men."
Suddenly her feet hit the floor with a bound. She had heard that soundonce more. It was the drum of an airplane motor. She judged by the soundthat it was circling for a landing, perhaps on their little lake. Howwonderful! Was it their friend, the young aviator? Had he come for them?Her blood raced.
"Mary!" she fairly screamed. "Wake up! An airplane! And it's going toland. It's landing right now."
They jumped into their clothes and were out on the cabin steps just intime to see the beautiful blue and gray airplane, graceful as any wildfowl, circle low to a perfect landing.
With mad scurrying, wild ducks and geese were off the water and away onthe wing, leaving the intruders to the perfect quiet of a glorious autumnmorning.
A short time later they were all at the water's edge, Florence, Mary,Mark, Bill, and Dave. The hydroplane had been anchored. Three men hadjust put off in a small boat.
"Hello, there," one of them shouted. "How's the chances for sourdoughpancakes and coffee?" It was Speed Samson.
"Fine!" Florence laughed. "Plate of hots coming up."
"This is not to be our trip." There was a note of disappointment inFlorence's tone as she murmured these words to Mary. "He's got a huntingparty. Probably going after moose or grizzly bears." Nevertheless, shewas ready enough to offer to the party the true hospitality of the north.Soon their plates were piled high with cakes, their cups steaming withfragrant brown coffee.
As Florence sat talking to them, one of the men, all rigged out inhunting belt filled with shells, riding breeches and high boots, seemedfamiliar to her. Who was he? For the life of her, she could not think.
It was Mary who dispelled her doubt. "Florence," once they were alone inthe kitchen, she gripped her arm hard, "that man's the one who roared atthe little Eskimo, Mr. Il-ay-ok, back there on the dock in Anchorage."
"That's right," Florence's whisper rose shrill and high. "I don't likehim and I don't think I ever shall."
"Why did he hate that little man?"
"Who knows?" Florence answered hastily. "Anyway, his name is PeterLoome."
"How--how do you know that?"
Florence
did not catch this, she was already hurrying away.
"We're bound for the big-game hunting ground," one of the men wasexplaining to Mark. "Wonderful sport! Wild sheep and goats, moose and bigbrown bear!"
"Man, you're lucky!" Bill exclaimed.
Mark made no response.
"Your motor don't sound just right," Mark said as the conversationlagged.
"What's wrong with it?" the young pilot demanded.
"Can't quite tell," Mark puckered his brow.
"Ever fly?" The pilot looked at him sharply.
"No-o. But then your motor's just like the ones we had in some speedboatsback in the Copper Country. I tinkered with them. You get to know by thesound," Mark replied modestly.
"Want to turn her over once or twice?" the pilot invited.
"Sure. Be glad to."
Two hours later grim, greasy, but triumphant, Mark emerged from theplane. He had located the trouble and had remedied it.
"Say-ee, you're good!" the pilot was enthusiastic. "Want to go along asmy mechanic? Grand trip! Shoot goats, bears, moose, and--"
"Can't get away just now," said Mark quietly. "Thanks all the same."
Just the same, there was a look of longing in his eye that Florence knewall too well. He had two passions, had Mark. He loved growing things andwonderful machinery. Growing was over for this year. Dull, dreary days ofautumn were at hand. For him, to spend two weeks or even a month watchingover that matchless motor would be bliss.
"No-o," he repeated slowly, almost mournfully. "I can't go. There isstill work to be done before snow flies."
"Say!" Bill put in. "Take me. I'll go."
"Know anything about motors?"
"Sure, a lot," Bill, never too modest, replied.
"All right. Get your things." A half hour later, Bill sailed off to onemore adventure.
"Yes," Florence thought with a grim smile. "He's spent two weeks fellinggreen trees to cut with his new buzz-saw. Be fine wood in twelve months.But how about next January? Poor Bill!"
Strange to say, the one thought that often haunted both Florence and Marywas the realization that their splendid cabin had been built by someoneelse. That this someone had hidden a big copper kettle and, perhaps,seven golden candlesticks near the cabin, then had gone away, did notseem to matter. "What if they should come back?" Florence asked herselfover and over.
Then, one bright autumn day, their dark dream came true. Busy in thekitchen, Florence did not notice the approach of a stranger. Only whenshe heard heavy footsteps outside did she hurry into the large frontroom. Then, through the open door, she heard a loud sigh, followed by thecreak of a bench as a heavy person settled upon it. After that, in avoice she could not mistake, though she had never heard it before, therecame: "Ah! Home at last!"
"Madam Chicaski, the original owner of the cabin," the girl thought inwild consternation. "She has returned!"