|THE RIVER of SKULLS
-by George Marsh
• PENN PUBLISHING CO. WNU SERVICE
CHAPTER XIII—Continued
—20—
The eyes of Heather shone like
Sapphires as Alan reached them.
She danced around the fire, her
wavy golden hair tossing about her
head, while her father reached a
big hand to grasp Alan’s in a fierce
grip.
“All aboard for the caribou, Alan,
my boy!” roared the giant. “Now
•hed those worries of yours! We’ll
•oon have meat and skins for
clothes, old kill-joy!"
1 Even the dogs grew excited at
the feverish activity at the camp.
Everything left behind was cached
safely out of reach of wolverines.
Then the impatient Napayo and
Noel started with rifles and light
packs, while John and Alan waited
for the aid of the moonlight to make
their way with the canoe and the
heavy packs up the trail through the
spruce and around the gorge. On
up the river in the morning went
the canoe, while Heather walked the
shore with the dogs for company.
In the middle of the afternoon the
signs of caribou hair along the wa
ter line increased. The deer were
passing in greater numbers, but
how far upstream? That night the
tired polers made camp late in the
twilight but there were no signs of
the two Indians ahead of them. At
sunrise, Heather and Alan went
back from the river to sweep the
uaiicus wnii uic
Rolling away before them reached
the white moss hills studded with
boulders. Alan handed the binocu
lars to Heather who focused them
on the distant tundra while he held
her rifle. As she stood like a statue
slowly searching the skyline, his
eyes feasted on the tumbled gold of
her hair, in its wayward luxuri
ance, then followed the nape of her
strong, round neck to the collar of
her patched shirt and the skin coat
worn over it. Tall and strong and
straight she was in her tattered
clothes, as she swept the tundra
with the glasses, all unconscious of
the silent tribute in the gray eyes
of the man beside her. He wanted
to touch her—touch the gold that
curled at the nape of her neck;
wanted to take her in his arms,
there on the barren, and kiss the
dimples in her brown cheeks.
As she turned and handed him
the glasses, her violet eyes, deep
ened in hue by contrast with her
tanned face, caught the warmth of
his gaze, and she looked away as
she said, “I see no deer.”
‘‘If you knew how you looked,
standing there—” he began, but she
interrupted, hoarsely:
' ‘‘Why do you say this to me,
when you carry her picture? Oh,
don’t think I’m not sorry for you
—leaving her as you did with your
heart sad—”
He reached swiftly and placed his
hand over her mouth. “I’m not
?ad, Heather!” he cried. “I’m glad
—glad that I’m here with you—you!
Do you hear that! Do you under
stand? It’s you, Heather! Only you
who count!”
“Why do you still carry her pic
ture?”
“It went into the Are, long ago.
It’s you, Heather! You I’ve been car
rying in my heart!” He impulsively
reached to take her in his arms,
but she stepped away from him.
She shivered as if suddenly cold.
“It’s only because I’m here, with
you, Alan. You’re lonely—you only
think you’ve forgotten her. If we
live—get out of this terrible coun
try, you’d be sorry, if I believed
what you say now. No, it’s because
you’re lonely. You’d only be sor
ry!”
He smiled as his gray eyes met
hers. “You mean everything to mel
Everything! Getting out with the
gold means little to me, nowl It's
bringing you out safely, that
counts.”
Without answering, she started
back over the caribou path toward
the river. Her moccasined feet
seemed uncertain to the man who
followed.
Hour after hour, the two men
slaved at the poles, pushing the ca
noe up against the hard running wa
ter. Heather was somewhere be
hind with the dogs when they
turned a bend where the river
broadened into a long reach of quiet
water and Alan shouted, “Look
ahead therel We’ve struck them,
John! We’ve got our meat and
clothes, now.”
Above them, splashing the water
in all directions, four caribou
plunged into the stream and started
to cross. Antlered heads, backs,
white rumps and tails out of water,
the frightened deer drove across the
current as if propelled by engines.
Seizing his rifle, Alan dropped to a
knee, while McCord steadied the
boat with his pole, and fired as the
deer reached the shallows. Again,
as they left the water in a wild pan
ic, he fired and two bucks wavered,
stumbled and, reaching the beach,
fell.
“Red meat for supper!” cried Mc
Cord. “That’s good shooting, boy!
From this distance in a canoe, good
shooting!”
“We’ve struck them, nowl” an
iwered Alan. 'There go two more
above! We’d better camp here and
wire up the dogs, John. Noel has
probably got plenty of deer above
here and the dogs might turn the
deer to the west They’ll be com
ing for days!”
That night Noel and Napayo ap
peared at the camp. It was only
the vanguard of the migration, the
Naskapi told them. The big herd
would be crossing for days and they
could select the fattest for meat
and the best fauns and yearlings
for clothing as they passed. He and
Noel had already shot, dressed and
skinned a number from the scat
tering bands and placed them in a
cache upstream.
While the rest of the hungry hunt
ers revelled in deer chops, Noel and
the Naskapi roasted the head and
tongue, the best part of the animal
in the opinion of the Indians.
The following day in small bands
the migrating caribou continued to
cross the river headed for tlje pro
tected valleys and wooded country
far to the south. Stationed along
the river shore at the well beaten
paths leading down from the tun
dra, the hunters chose their deer,
avoiding the old bulls whose white
manes and great antlers dis
tinguished them from the younger
V \%V\ \ YW VV\ W W\ v\% * %\Vt
the scattered groups of deer head
ing for the river crossings. Then, in
the afternoon, the van of the great
herd appeared. As far as they
could see with the glasses marched
the battalions and regiments of the
army of caribou, on their annual
journey from the vast highlands
west of Ungava Bay to the sheltered
valleys of the south—one of the zoo
logical phenomena of the world.
For hours the absorbed McCord,
Alan and Heather watched the
marching thousands, like great
herds of cattle; bulls, cows and
fauns, all moving into the breeze.
Over them hovered circling ravens
and a golden eagle hung high in the
sky. On a hilltop off the flanks of
the main herd, Alan’s glasses re
vealed for a space the slinking
shapes of a family of white wolves
watching for a straggling faun or
yearling.
For, like ghosts, the wolves follow
the migration south and, again
north, in the spring. And nearer,
from the graveled summit of a
ridge, two shaggy animals with long
bodies and bear-like heads, a pair
of wolverines, the most hated beast
in the north, viewed the spectacle.
Then for days the hunters toiled
at the camp on the river, preparing
the skins and meat to be taken
“There go two more above!”
animals. By night they had enough
chocolate-and-white faun skins for
their winter clothing and sufficient
meat to be cured and brought back
to the camp. But Alan and John
were anxious to see the main herd
which Napayo assured them was fol
lowing these scattered bands—a
compact mass of literally hundreds
of thousands of traveling caribou,
larger than the mythical buffalo
herds that once roamed the west
ern plains. So, leaving the Indi
ans McCord, Alan and Heather
went back on the barrens.
As they left the scrub of the val
ley and came out on the open tun
dra above, to gaze over the rolling
moss-covered plain reaching away
mile after mile to dim hills on the
horizon, McCord gasped:
“Look at those deer!”
In every direction bands of cari
bou dotted the white moss tundra,
always moving into the light breeze
that blew from the west. On the
skyline of an adjacent rise in the
barren a line of white-maned stags
were standing enjoying the breeze
that gave them relief from the pest
of flies. Everywhere the amazed
eyes of the three hunters gazed they
met moving groups of deer. Does
with their parti-colored fauns, year
uiigs, uiu sings, an moving up-wina
as is their invariable habit.
The three traveled on farther
from the river watching the moving
deer when suddenly, out of a little
valley, rushed a band with their
peculiar, high knee-actioned trot,
snorting and grunting as they came.
“Hear the click of their hoofs,
Heather?” cried Alan. “They al
ways make it when they travel.”
“But, don’t they see us? Why,
they’re going to run right over us!”
exclaimed the excited girl, as the
band of deer approached.
The two men smiled at the girl’s
apprehension.
“Watch them when they get our
scent. You’ll see some antics!” re
plied Alan.
Suddenly, as the band of ap
proaching deer, whose eyesight is
poor, crossed the scent of the hunt
ers, they recoiled as if by word of
command. Several young bucks
rose on their hind legs and pranced
back and forth, snorting loudly. The
band scattered and retreated, then
bunched again, and, led by a cow,
finally charged across the tainted
air that so frightened them, and
were off over the tundra.
“Hear their hoofs click, Heath
er?”
“I should say so! But aren’t they
beautiful creatures! It’s a pity to
shoot them, Alan!”
“Yes, but without them the Indi
ans would starve and freeze. And
so would we, this fall!”
The two men and the girl watched
downstream in the canoe, and build
ing a huge cache of heavy stone on
the river shore. Days after the
head of the migration had crossed
the river above the camp, the strag
glers were still coming from the
north by thousands.
CHAPTER XIV
It was deep in September and
each morning, now, a film of ice
reached out from the shores of the
bars where John and Alan still
worked with sluice and shovel and
pan while the others were busy sew
ing hooded coats, breeches and leg
gings, sleeping-bags and smoke
tanned moccasins for use on the
snow; pounding pemmican and stor
ing it in bags, and stringing the
bows of snowshoes with rawhide.
The narrow, ten-foot toboggan sled
with its wrapper of deer skin and
the dog-harness, hung in a tree wait
ing for the long trail up the Kok
soak with its load of 20-pound bags
of yellow dust and nuggets and still
more precious food for man and
dog. Before the water grew too cold
and silt ice stopped them, John and
Alan worked on the eddies in the
gorge and filled two more skin bags
with large nuggets and flake gold.
Flurries of snow, now, frequently
filled the frosty air. The last of the
geese and swan had passed south
west The "Moons of the Long
Snows" had again come to the land
of the Naskapi.
Late in September, when light
snow blanketed the barrens, Na
payo again went on a mission up
the Koksoak to look for signs of
McQueen or the Naskapi. Fear of
an ambush of the dog team on the
river ice, later, was constantly with
them. A week passed and the In
dian did not return. Another week,
and each night around the fire in
the spruce, the faces of the waiting
men and girl grew more grave, for
the boy had won his way to their
hearts.
"If Napayo does not show by to
morrow,” said Alan,” Noel and I’ll
take the dogs straight over the bar
ren to the Koksoak and follow it up
a day or two. The snow is begin
ning to pack. It’s all right for the
light load we’ll carry.”
"Yes, and run into what he’s prob
ably met—an ambush?” objected
McCord. “No, let’s hang together.
When we start up the Koksoak,
we’ll travel like an infantry column
with flank patrols out on the
shores."
‘‘I’ve felt it all along,” burst out
Heather. ‘‘It’s McQueen! He’s got
poor Napayo! It’s this terrible gold
in the bags there! For two months,
Dad, you’ve thought of nothing but
gold! You’ve been mad—crazed,
about it! You want to load the sled
down with it until there’s not enough
food to take us through! You'd kill
the poor dogs to carry your gold!”
‘‘Heather, Heather, girl,” soothed
McCord, ‘‘you’re tired and worried.
You don’t mean what you say.
We’re going back all safe and sound,
Honey, and we have a fortune with
us. McQueen’ll never bother this
outfit—if he's alive, but he’s not.
We’ll never see hide or hair of Mc
Queen again. The Naskapi took care
of him!”
‘‘The Naskapi may take care of
us, too,” she objected, winking back
the tears her emotion had aroused.
‘‘No, Heather,” said Alan. ‘‘The
Naskapi don’t winter in the Koksoak
valley, Napayo told me. They’re
probably in the timbered lake coun
try, hundreds of miles south of here,
by now.”
‘‘Then were is poor Napayo?” she
cried. ‘‘You say McQueen is dead
and the Indians are not near us, and
yet you’re going to look for signs of
both McQueen and the Indians. Nei
ther of you believe what you say!
You’re only trying to keep your
fears from me!”
In the morning, the river an
swered Heather’s question. When
Alan and Noel went down to the
shore to the hole they kept broken
in the ice for water, they saw some
thing adrift in the swift, unfrozen
channel.
‘‘What’s that, floating out there
beyond the ice in the channel, No
el? asked Alan. “Couldn’t be a
deer, could it?”
The Montagnais gazed at the sub
merged flotsam reaching out from a
bar. Slowly Noel’s swart features
changed color and his face went
grave. “We tak’ cano’ and see,” he
said. “No deer! Deer float high.”
As they ran the canoe out over
the shore ice and into the open
channel Alan knew that the dread
in Noel’s heart was the same dread
that sickened him as they poled the
canoe up to the submerged shape
bobbing at the ice edge. They turned
over the battered body, floating face
down, and looked into the glazed,
staring eyes of Napayo.
“They got him, Noel! They got
him!” groaned Alan. “Look at that
hole in his head and there’s another
in the back. See? He was shot
from the rear! No muzzle loader
did that! That was made by a Ross
and that Ross belongs to McQueen!"
(TO BE CONTINUED)
■■■ - * -- ‘ ...
Monte Carlo Is Number Mad; Digits Are
Picked at Random to Be Played on Wheel
The roulette wheel has made
Monte Carlo perhaps the most num
ber-conscious community in the
world. People there have ever-alert
eyes for numbers between one and
thirty-six; they are always search
ing for portents, omens, indica
tions from above which will re
veal to them which number will be
favored by fate at the casino that
day. Generally, people bet on the
day of the month, the number of the
hotel room, or their age, writes
David Ewen in the Globe Magazine.
Motor car licenses, when they
have a striking repetition of one
digit, will frequently inspire people
to borrow that number for the day.
When, during the last automobile
sweepstake race in Monte Carlo,
car No. 12 came in first there was a
preponderance of betting on that
number that evening at the casino;
and by a curious coincidence No.
12 appeared frequently on every
roulette wheel.
I have known people to sit quietly
at. the cafe sipping an aperitif when,
suddenly, they perceived a number
on the lapel of the waiter; without
hesitation of a moment, they rose to
their feet and rushed to the casino
to make a bet on the number.
One of the most amusing inci
dents in Monte Carlo concerns this
indefatigable pursuit for lucky num
bers among Monte Carlo inhabi
tants. It was noticed at the English
church that every Sunday morn
ing the church would be crowded
until the preacher announced the
number of the hymn to be sung;
whenever the number was below 36,
the church would instantly become
half-empty.
How High Is a Tree?
Did you ever want to know how
high a tree was without going to the
trouble of going to the top with a
yard-stick or tape measure? It can
be done ail from the ground, says
Hoard's Dairyman. Set up a stick
straight from the ground and meas
ure the length of the shadow it
casts. Now measure the length of
the shadow of the tree. Multiply
the length of the tree shadow by the
height of the stick. Divide this fig
ure by the length of the shadow of
the stick and you have the height of
the tree.
Aunt Tibby's f -Bt
_ , j D. J. WALSH
I lUnK J Copyright—WNU S*rvlc*.
** UT, Mazie," remarked Bert
Howard to his pretty little
wife, “it isn’t quite fair that Aunt
Tibby should want to come back
so soon; it’s less than three weeks
since she left, and she had been
here six months. I have no ob
jections to your aunt; she's a nice
old lady, if a bit eccentric, but
you always work so hard enter
taining her that you wear yourself
out. Between worrying over her
comfort and fussing about the
safety of that old cowhide trunk,
home becomes a place of torment
for me instead of a haven of rest.'*
And then Mazie, whose bobbed
crown of glory was decidedly of
the shade beloved by Titian, and
with a temper to correspond,
replied thus: “If you were proper
ly interested in the welfare of
your family you’d want to keep
Aunt Tibby here all the time! Do
you fancy that she herself would
be so particular about that old
cowhide trunk, as you are pleased
to call it, if it didn’t contain valu
ables? She told me—no, I won’t
say she exactly told me, but she
gave me to understand, and, I
know all the family have the same
impression—that in it she carries
her stocks and bonds. She has
bequeathed the trunk to the one
in whose home she happens to
die.”
“Mazie!” exclaimed Bert, put
ting his arms around his wife,
"waiting for ‘dead men’s shoes’
is sorry business 1 Do what you
can for your aunt without making
your family unhappy, but put all
such ideas as you’ve just men
tioned out of mind; they are un
worthy of you!" and Bert stopped
to kiss his wife good-by.
The first evening of Aunt Tib
by’s arrival Mazie began, “Bar
bara 1 do sit still! You’ll make
Aunt Tibby nervous!” or “John!
don’t walk so heavy!”
Aunt Tibby had been with them
several weeks when she came
down with a cold. The doctor called
pronounced the trouble pneumo
nia. “Which at her age,” said
he (Aunt Tibby was 86), “is a
serious matter. You had better
get a nurse.” Aunt Tibby had been
so humored by her niece, howev
er, that the nurse could do little
to suit her, and Mazie was obliged
to fetch and carry, to run up and
down stairs until, ten days later.
Aunt Tibby sank into her last
sleep.
After the funeral the relatives
who had gathered from far and
near demanded that the will be
read at once. So the old cowhide
trunk was brought down to the
living room and opened in the
presence of all. It contained Un
cle David's army uniform, a few
books, half a dozen packages of
old newspapers—and a long let
ter written by Aunt Tibby herself.
This was addressed to her rela
tives in general and was a sort of
confession. In it she stated that
her income since Uncle David’s
death had been limited to a pen
sion of $6 a month. That in some
way the story had been circulated
that this old trunk contained valu
ables and she had never contra
!______ _f
dieted it, fearing if she told the
truth some one might put her in
an old ladies’ home, an institu
tion she detested. She trusted her
relatives would pardon her and
that the old trunk would be kept
for her sake; that it might prove
a magic casket to the owner, just
as it had to her.
The trunk was left with Mazie,
as she was the only person who
displayed the least desire to pos
sess it. After everyone had de
parted she threw her arms around
her husband’s neck and cried,
“Oh, Bert, can you ever forgive
me?” Judging by the sigh of con
tentment she uttered Bert’s an
swer was satisfactory.
Aunt Tibby was right; the trunk
did prove a magic casket for Ma
zie. It stood in the upstairs hall
where she had to pass it many
times a day and whenever she
was seized with envy, stubborn
ness or a desire for finery she
could not afford, one glance at
the old trunk was sufficient to dis
pel such feelings in a twinkling.
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d on the purchase ol a new
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t ■-—■ - — .. :
, TPTT nm TTTT TTTT TTTTT TTTTT TTTT TTTT TTTT
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