<h2 id="c4"><span class="small">CHAPTER IV</span> <br/>JOE MISSING</h2>
<p>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:</p>
<p>“Wish he’d come. I don’t like the looks of
it. What’s keeping him? That’s what I’d like
to know.”</p>
<div class="pagenum" id="Page_37">[37]</div>
<p>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.</p>
<p>Snow had fallen in abundance. They were
obliged to break every foot of trail before their
dog teams.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<div class="pagenum" id="Page_38">[38]</div>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>After an hour of anxious waiting, Jennings,
taking his rifle, had gone out to search for him.</p>
<p>“May have lost his way,” he had commented.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>“Ought to be getting something,” Curlie
mumbled. “I wonder what could have happened?
I wonder—”</p>
<div class="pagenum" id="Page_39">[39]</div>
<p>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.</p>
<p>On the previous night the whisper had informed
him that they were but seventy-five
miles apart.</p>
<p>“Coming, coming,” Curlie had whispered to
himself.</p>
<p>The trail had been heavy. They had made
but fifteen miles. What of the stranger? How
far had he come?</p>
<p>Curlie’s heart skipped a beat at the realization
that he must be very near at hand.</p>
<div class="pagenum" id="Page_40">[40]</div>
<p>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?</p>
<p>“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.”</p>
<p>Turning, he reached for a box-magazine
rifle. After examining the clip in the chamber,
he slipped three other loaded ones in his pockets.</p>
<p>“You can never tell,” he whispered, “you
sure can not.”</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>“Fairly spooky,” he whispered to himself.
“Wish I could hear something—wind in the
treetops, even. But there’s not a breath.”</p>
<p>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.</p>
<div class="pagenum" id="Page_41">[41]</div>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>“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—”</p>
<div class="pagenum" id="Page_42">[42]</div>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<div class="pagenum" id="Page_43">[43]</div>
<p>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?</p>
<p>“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.”</p>
<p>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.</p>
<div class="pagenum" id="Page_44">[44]</div>
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