 Chapter 1 of On the Yukon Trail by Roy J. Snell This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org Chapter 1 The Whisper from afar Curly Carson sat before an alcohol stove. Above and on all sides of him were the white walls of a tent. The constant bulging and sagging of these walls, the creek and snap of ropes, told that outside a gale was blowing. Beneath Curly was a roll of deerskin and beneath that was ice, a glacier, the Valdez Glacier. They were a half-days journey from the city of Valdez. Straight up the frowning blue-black wall of ice, they had made their way until darkness had closed in upon them and a steep cliff of ice had appeared before them. In a corner of the tent, sprawled upon a deerskin sleeping bag, lay Joe Marion, Curly's pal in other adventures. Lucky we've got these sleeping bags, Joe drawled. Even then I don't see how a fellow's gonna keep warm, sleeping right out here on the ice with the wind singing around under the tent. He shivered as he drew his mackinac more closely about him. Curly said nothing. If you have read the other book telling of Curly's adventures, Curly Carson listens in, he is scarcely need to be told that Curly Carson is a boy employed by the United States Bureau of Secret Service of the Air, a boy who has the most perfect pair of radio ears of any person known to the service. In that other adventure, which had taken him on a wild chase over the ocean in a pleasure yacht, he had had many narrow escapes, but this new bit of service, which had been entrusted to him, promised to be even more exciting and hazardous. He had been sent in search of a man who apparently was bent on destroying the usefulness of the radio phone in Alaska. His particular desire seemed to be to impair all the life of Munson, a great Arctic explorer, by interrupting his radio phone messages. This man was known to be possessed of abundant resources, to be powerful and dangerous. He had a perfect knowledge of all matters pertaining to the radio phone, and was possessed of a splendidly equipped sending and receiving set. By moving this set about from place to place, he had succeeded in eluding every government operator sent out to silence him. Already, he had done incalculable damage by breaking in upon government messages and upon private ones as well. Just at this moment, Curly sat cross-legged upon his sleeping bag, with head and shoulders drooping far forward, as if weighed down by the radio phone receiver which was clamped upon his ears. He appeared half asleep. Yet every now and again, his slim tapered fingers shot out to give the coil aerial, which hung suspended from the ridge pole of the tent, a slight turn. I don't see how we're going to get the rest of the way over this glacier, grumbled Joe. That wall looks straight up, slick as glass too. How are you ever going to get three sleds and eight hundred pounds of junk up there? I ought to have taken the lower trail. What if it is three times as far? Good trail anyway. Leave that to Jennings, murmured Curly. Oh, Jennings, exclaimed Joe. Maybe he doesn't know so much. He's been gone too long already. What's that package he took with him? Gave us a slip already, maybe. Might be just a frame up to keep us from making good time. Jennings looks all right to me, persisted Curly. He gave the aerial another turn. Well, anyway, shh! Curly held up a warning finger. His nose was wiggling like a rabbit's when he eats clover. Joe knew what that meant. Curly was getting something from the air. Curly started as the first word came to him, a whisper. He had heard that whisper many times before. For many days it had been silent. Now she was speaking to him again, that mysterious, phantom girl of the air. As he eagerly pressed the receivers to his ears, he caught, faint as if coming from afar, yet very distinctly, the whispered words. Hello, Curly. I wonder if you are listening in tonight. You are on your way north. I wanted to tell you the man you were after is on the Yukon Trail, coming south. He started yesterday. You may meet him, Curly, but be careful. It is big, Curly, and awful, awful, dangerous. Cold beads of perspiration stood out upon the tip of Curly's nose as the whisper ceased. He had measured the distance. The girl was a thousand miles away to the north. So that was it? The man he had been sent to track down by a means of the radio compass was coming south over the trail. They would meet. He wondered how and where. There were wild, desolate stretches of tundra and forest on that trail, inhabited only by Indians and wolves. These offered fitting background for a tragedy. Whose tragedy would it be? We might wait for him, he mused. But no, that wouldn't do. He might turn back. Then all that time would be lost. No, we must press on. We must get off this glacier at once. In spite of his optimism, this glacier bothered him. He had taken this trail at the suggestion of Jennings, a man who had gone over the trail during the gold rush of 98, and who had offered to go with them now without pay. He had, as he expressed it, been called back by the lure of the north and must answer the call. Curly had decided to accept his assistance and advice. Now he wrinkled his brow and fought. Had he made a mistake in the very beginning? Just then, as if in answer to his question, Jennings, a short, broad-shouldered person with keen, deep-set blue eyes and drooping mustache, part of the tent flaps and entered. What? Not turned in yet? His eyes showed surprise. Had to see that you got back safe, smiled Curly. He made a mental note of the fact that Jennings had not brought back the package he had carried away. Only a light axe swung at his belt. Well, that's kind and thoughtful, said Jennings. But we better get into them sleeping bags pronto. Got a good, stiff day tomorrow. Make good progress, too. Rom no sourdough musher. Fifteen minutes later, Curly, having buried himself deep in the hairy depths of his sleeping bag, had given himself over to a few moments of thought before the drowsy quiet of the tent lulled him to repose. The sleeping bags, in spite of Joe's forebodings, proved to be all that one might ask. With nothing but a square of canvas between his sleeping bag and the ice, and with the temperature of thirty below, clad only in his pajamas, Curly felt quite as comfortable as he might have felt in his own bed back home. Wonderful thing these bags, he thought dreamily. His thought about the future, the day just before him, was not quite so reassuring. They had come to ridges of ice on the surface of the glacier just at nightfall. There were many of these ridges. Dogs without sleds could climb them, but up their slopes they could not pull a pound. A man climbed them with difficulty. His feet slipping at every attempted step, he was constantly in danger of being dashed to the bottom. How were they to pack eight hundred pounds of equipment and supplies over these seemingly insurmountable barriers? Yet he dreaded to think of turning back. That meant four days of travel to reach a point which straight over the glacier was but twenty miles before them. Oh well, he sighed at last. Let tomorrow take care of itself. Perhaps Jennings really knows a way. He doesn't look like a foreflusher. With that his mind turned for a moment to the girl. The whisperer. Though he had never seen her, he had come to think of this whisperer as a real person, and indeed she must be, for times without number in the secret tower room back there in the city, in the wireless room on the yacht, in the tent on the trail, her whisper had come to him. Always it told him of the doings of one man, the man he had been sent after. But what sort of person? He had pictured her to himself as a small, dark, vivacious girl with snapping black eyes, yet that was only a piece of fancy. He knew nothing about her save the fact that she seemed always near the man he now was seeking. He wondered vaguely now whether he would meet her upon this trip. He tried to imagine the cabin, the lonely trail or the deep forest of the north, where he might meet her. Probably never will, he told himself at last. Probably will always be just a whisper. In the midst of his revering he fell asleep. End of Chapter 1. Recording by Tom Penn. Chapter 2 of On the Yukon Trail by Roy J. Snell. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Chapter 2. On Arctic Feathers. A tardy dawn had scarcely come creeping over the surface of the glacier when they broke camp. Having breakfasted heartily on sourdough flapjacks, warmed over baked beans and coffee, they were ready for anything. I'll sleep in a better bed tonight," remarked Jennings as he rolled up the canvas floor to their tent and threw it on his sled. Couldn't be warmer, said Curly. No, but softer. Cheer, oh! shouted Joe. That sounds good to me. Now, said Jennings, producing from the depths of his pack two small double pulleys in a coil of rope, the next thing is to get over the ridges. Have to use block and tackle. That sounds all right, smiled Curly. But how are you going to hitch a block to a smooth surface of ice? Leave it to me, laughed the minor. Between four and five thousand of us went over this glacier in ninety-eight. Had mighty few dogs and pulled fourteen hundred pounds of outfit apiece, too. That was tough sledding. Didn't make a thousand feet progress in a day sometimes. Three of our crowd never did get over, froze to death right here on the glacier. What I tell you, he exclaimed suddenly, those were the days. Those were the men. It's always the bravest and the best that go first in a rush like that. The cheap, the idle, the crooked ones come later to live off the gains of those who dared much in the beginning. Having ended this little oration, he got down to business. You boys string the rope through those blocks. When you get that done, throw me up one of the blocks. Here, he exclaimed, better strap these on your shoes. They'll help you a lot. The things he threw at their feet were made of steel and leather. They were strapped upon the soles of one's shoes. They transformed their plain, heavy, felt-lined shoes into something resembling baseball shoes. Great stuff! exclaimed Joe, driving the sharp steel barbs beneath the balls of his feet into the ice. Couldn't slip in these if you tried to! A moment later they tossed one of the blocks into which the rope had been threaded up to Jennings on the icy ridge above. All right! he sang out a moment later. It's the other block to the sled and heave away. Much to the surprise of the boys, when they pulled at the rope, the block out of sight on the ridge above held firm. And the sled climbed slowly up the almost perpendicular bank. A moment later they saw Jennings drag the sled to a safe position on the icy perch. How does he do it? whispered Joe. Got me! hurly whispered back. He surely couldn't hold it. Say not! took both of us to haul it up and we had the advantage of the blocks. All right! came from above as a block glided back to them. Let's have the next one. When the three sleds were upon the bench and the dogs had been induced to follow, the boys climbed up, eager to discover the minor secret. Oh! exclaimed Joe. Only a stake in the ice. Who could have left it? He was staring at a stout stake which stuck ten inches above the surface of the ice. Nobody! I put it there. Jennings smiled, then seeing their look of incredulity he went on. You'll remember I left the cabin last night with a package under my arm. Also, you will remember that I melted a bucket of snow water while supper was cooking. In the bundle there was nothing but stout stakes. A dozen of them. You'll find them up the glacier, all frozen in. All I had to do was chip a hole in the ice, then thrust in a stake. After that I filled the hole full of snow, then poured water over it. The snow and water froze together almost instantly. And here we have our stakes. We'll have lunch on the other side of the ridge. And tonight we'll sleep in a spruce forest. We shall then have gained a full two days on our journey. With the trail in its present condition we could not have made the journey over the roundabout valley in less than four days. And even then we would have worn down our dogs. When, a few hours later, all the minor's prophecies had been fulfilled and the boys were preparing the second night's camp. They were enthusiastic in their praise of their newfound friend. Tonight, smiled the minor, we will sleep on a bed of arctic feathers. Arctic feathers? explained Curly in surprise. What are they? Wait and see. Jennings studied the safely spruce trees, which towered about them on every side. Then he allowed his eyes to wander over the surface of the earth's two-foot-thick mantle of snow. That's a good place. He pointed at a smooth spot which was surrounded by trees. First we'll tramp down the snow. No need of shoveling it away. At once they set to work packing down a square of snow. Might as well start right, said the minor. We're going into a land of long nights. Fairly long now, but they'll get much longer. Get to be twenty hours. If we start making camp right, we'll have all the comforts of home. There, he said at last. Guess that'll do. Now we'll divide up the work and make the jobs regular. Each fellow do the same thing every night. System. That's what you need on the trail, as well as in business. Turning to Joe, he said, there's a likely-looking tree right there. Cut it down. It won't burn. It's green. Who said it would? Joe grinned as he seized an axe to drive it into the thick bark of the tree. There's a dead tree for you, Curly, said the minor. Get it down and cut it into wood for the Yukon stove. Turning to the camp kit, he was soon at work straightening out the tent, which had collected dampness from the previous night and was frozen stiff in spots. He spread it over their tent side and set it up as best he could. Then, crawling inside, he set up the sheet-iron stove and started a fire. As the tent, worn by the fire, began to soften, he gradually drew it into its accustomed shape. In the meantime, each boy had felled his tree and had trimmed it up. Now, Joe, said the veteran camper, cut your tree into lengths to go across each side of our tent and chopped the first six inches of each end half off, as if you were building a log house. When this had been accomplished, he assisted Joe in placing the poles in a square about the tent. He next drew the lower edges of the tent out over the logs and packed snow over them to the depth of several inches. After that, he spread a square of canvas as a floor to the tent. There, he sighed at last, won't any air get into our tent tonight? Next thing is a lot of spruce boughs. Cut them right off and drag them inside. When the tent was packed half full of boughs, he took out a large clasp knife and began to clip off small twigs on the branches. The boys followed his example. In a few moments, the shorn branches were all outside the tent and the canvas floor was buried 10 inches deep with spruce needles and fine twigs. Now, said the miner, the two of you hold up the stove while I spread a canvas over the whole of it as our camp is made. Just like an old-fashioned feather bed, exclaimed Joe as he bounced down upon the springy bed of twigs. That's it, smiled the miner. Those are Arctic feathers. If we take time to make a camp like this every night, we'll get a lot of comfort out of it and be all the better fitted for the trail. I'll go out and set up a shelter for the dogs while you boys get supper, then we'll be through for the night. End of Chapter 2 Recording by Tom Penn Chapter 3 of On the Yukon Trail by Roy J. Snell This Libber Box recording is in the public domain. Chapter 3. A Clue After a hearty supper, Curly brought forth his instruments and carefully wound his coil aerial. The miner watched him for a long time in silence. Having lived in out-of-the-way places, I had learned nothing of this wonderful new invention, the radio phone. You don't mean to tell me, he broke forth at last, that you can hear folks talk with just that outfit, no wires at all, and them fifty miles away? Yes, smiled Curly. Five hundred miles or a thousand if you like. Almost any distance when conditions are right. Dropping back upon his sleeping bag, the miner watched with increasing interest. It was evident that he found the thing hard to believe and that, at the same time, he did not wish to doubt the word of a boy who had never told him a lie. Joe, said Curly, here's something brand new. I think it's going to help us a lot. He placed a small instrument on top of a metal box, then connected it by a tube to a loud speaker. After that, he tuned in on the 750 meter wavelength and spoke a few words into the transmitter. Having done this, he settled back as if to await an answer. Presently, a loud jumble of sound, resembling nothing quite so much as a flock of crows fighting over a carcass, began coming forth from the loudspeaker. Joe Marion's brow wrinkled. At the end of three seconds, he exploded. Tune her up, why don't you? Curly grinned, but did not move. No use letting it go on like that, expostulated Joe, making a move to take a hand in the business. He might be sending something important. He is, said Curly, pushing his companion back to his seat. He's saying something mighty important. That's why I don't change it. I told you I had something new. Can't you wait to see it try it out? Singing back into his place, Joe listened to the strange clack-clack in silence. A few seconds later, the sound ceased. Quickly removing a small instrument and disconnecting the tube from the loudspeaker, Curly tuned in on 350, and a moment later, they were listening to a concert which was being broadcasted somewhere on the Pacific Coast. Do you mean to tell me that that thing is a phonograph? Said Jennings. No, said Curly. I don't. That music comes to us over 500 miles of space, perhaps a thousand. Seattle, Vancouver, San Francisco. I don't know which. Again, the minor was silent. Removing a small disc from the instrument, which had produced the strange jumble of sounds, Curly slipped it upon a second instrument which resembled a small phonograph. Now listen to this, he said to Joe as he shut off the radio phone. From the phonograph-like instrument, there came first a grating sound, then in a somewhat metallic but very distinct tone. Maldives speaking, your man is still active, doing much damage in air. Last night, interrupted an important U.S. Army order. Seemed nearer. Appears to be moving toward us. Location somewhere south of Fort Yukon. Advise speed and caution. NTS. Well now, what do you think of that? exclaimed Joe. I think, said Curly, that we have put one over on our old friend up north there, who persists in raising hum in the air. You see, he went on more soberly. It's a very recent invention. You slip a little affair on your ascending instrument, which tears your tones all into little bits and sends them out as so much mental mince pie. But this little instrument here straightens them out for the person at the other end and gives them to him just as they had been spoken. I feel sure that the man we were after does not possess one of these outfits. That means that we may speak with Valdez at any time without fear of detection. All that an outside party gets is a jumble of sounds. If we ever get separated on the trail, we may speak to one another in the same way. You have that small reserve sending and receiving set on your sled, and I'm going to give you a set of these new instruments. Once more, he smiled. I want to state that it is my belief that if you keep your little radio phone dry and tuned up, it will help you out of any dangerous position. Had they known under what strange circumstances this belief would be tried in the days to come, and on this very trip, the two boys might not have laughed quite so merrily, as Curly again threw on the radio phone and they listened to jazz being broadcasted from Seattle. Joe, tired out from the day's struggle over the glacier, feeling the cozy warmth of the fire, stretched himself out on his sleeping bag and fell at once into a drowsy slumber. Here, said Curly, noting the eager manner in which Jennings listened to the bits of music and gossip which drifted in from the air. You listen with this. He snapped a receiver over the miner's head. I've got to shut off that loud speaker. I want to listen in and see what I can catch. For a time, he listened on short wavelengths for his friend, the whisperer. At last, having given that up, he tuned in on long wavelengths and at once began picking up something. Having tuned his instrument accurately and adjusted his coil aerial, he succeeded in listening in in a very satisfactory manner. Big business, he whispered to himself. Shouldn't wonder if that was a clue. It was indeed big business that was flashing through the air that night. It was the report of a government official the announcement of this securing of sufficient evidence at Nome, Alaska to convict a bold band of smugglers who had been carrying valuable jewels taken from rich families in Russia into America by way of Alaska. These smugglers had escaped detection for some time by traveling native skinboats across Bering Straits. In some way, curly could hardly make out how, a great explorer Munson had been of some assistance to the government in bringing these men to justice. Because of this service, the government was instructing all its officials, especially wireless operators, to lend every assistance possible to Munson in his dash to the pole. Don't see how a fellow 3,000 miles away to help an explorer reach the pole, curly told himself. But I suppose there must be a way his thoughts were cut short by an interruption to the message. Someone with a powerful sending said, had cut loose into the air with his speaker. The result was utter bedlam of the air. Not one word could be recognized. That's the man, curly breathed excitedly. That's the fellow I'm after. Now for his location. His fingers moved rapidly from instrument to pencil and paper, then back to instrument again. There was a look of tense excitement on his face. Such a look as comes upon a hunter as he sights a moose not a hundred yards away. Curly was a born hunter, a hunter of the air. He had got scent of a prey, a dangerous prey, and was at this moment hunting him down. There he breathed as the bedlam ceased, and he drew the receiver from his head. I know where you are, at least. You're moving. I wonder if we'll meet and when. I know what I'm going to say to you when we meet. Wonder if you know what you're going to say to me. Having packed his instruments away, he stretched himself out before the fire to think. Events were moving on a pace. It looked as if his journey would be shorter than he had at first believed it would be. You never could tell, though. He thought for the hundredth time of the whisperer, wondered who she really was and why her whisper had been missing tonight. At last, reaching over to Joe, he shook him into wakefulness and told him to turn in. Having undressed, he slipped on a suit of pajamas, crept into his sleeping bag and was soon fast asleep. End of Chapter 3 Recording by Tom Penn Chapter 4 of On the Yukon Trail by Roy J. Snell This labor box recording is in the public domain. Chapter 4 Joe Missing Currently 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. Well, he muttered every now and again. Wish he'd come. I don't like the looks of it. Well, it's keeping him. That's what I'd like to know. 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 further and further into the wilderness, these villages had vanished. Towns that were towns only in name greeted them now as they advanced. An Indian hovel here, the shack of a long-bearded patriarch of a miner there. That was all. Snow had fallen in abundance. They were obliged to break every foot of trail before their dog teams. 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. 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. 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. Curly 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. After an hour of anxious waiting, Jennings, taking his rifle, had gone out to search for him. May have lost his way, he had commented. Curly had remained listening on the radio phone. 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 radio phone message to his companions. Lot to be getting something, Curly mumbled. I wonder what could have happened. I wonder... 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 Curly that they were coming closer to one another. And now the whisper of the girl, that ghost-like creature, who appeared to haunt the track of the lawbreaker, told Curly 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. On the previous night the whisper had informed him that they were about seventy-five miles apart. Coming, coming, Curly had whispered to himself. The trail had been heavy. They had made about fifteen miles. What a stranger! How far had he come? Curly's heart skipped a beat at the realization that he must be very near at hand. 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? Well, if it was, it's been a complete success, he exclaimed. Three of us and one of us knows where the others are. Turning, he reached for a box magazine rifle. After examining the clip in the chamber, he slipped three other loaded ones in his pockets. You can never tell, he whispered. You sure cannot. A great silence hovered over the forest, which bounded the banks of the Tanana River. Such silences existed in these arctic wilds as Curly had never before experienced. Fairly spooky, he whispered to himself. Wish I could hear something. Wind in the treetops, even. But there's not a breath. 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. At last, unable to bear it any longer, he snapped off the radio phone for a moment to adjust to a smaller set and tune it to 200. The wavelength he and Joe had agreed to use if in distress. When this smaller set had been called into action, he tuned the larger set to the longer wavelengths. He hoped to catch some sound from the air, which might relieve the awful silence. Wonderful thing, this radio phone. He told himself. Great boon to the arctic. Think of the traitor, 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 he paused abruptly. He was getting something on the long wavelengths. 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 flows toward the pole. His ship was strongly built, with an extra covering of ironwood on its keel. Its engines were powerful. He would go as far as the steamer would carry him. Then he would hop off on 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. 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 Curly'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. 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 Curly himself? Or was he merely afraid of being detected at this time? Possibly, said Curly to himself. There was something about that message which interested him. In that case, he would want to hear to the end. 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 wavelengths, a message came to his waiting ears. Dangerous business. The Indian who had promised to provide the boys with caribou meat had not deceived them. At the appointed hour he had returned with an abundant supply. In his eagerness to secure provisions for a long lap of the journey, Joe had piled his sled high with meat. In doing this he had made a mistake. But this he did not know at the time. Having paid the Indian, he lashed his rifle to the top of the load and, shouting to his dogs, went racing away after his companions. The short day was nearing its close when, on passing a turn in the trail, Joe found himself swinging out of the forest into an open stretch of wild meadow. He had hardly made a hundred rods of this open trail when he heard a sharp howl which came from the edge of the forest. Wolves, he muttered, caught the scent of this meat. Indian say it's been a bad winter for wolves. Starving, I guess. Well, we'll show those boys our heels. Reaching out to the sled as he traveled forward, he unlashed his rifle and threw it across his arm. As he did so, he caught his breath. There were, he suddenly remembered, but four cartridges in the rifle and none on the sled. Their supply of ammunition was on Curly's sled. Shouting at the dogs, he gripped a handle of the sled with one hand and with rifle poised in the other, went pit patting along over the trail. He had reached the center of the open space and was hoping to arrive at the forest soon and find the others in camp there and the tragedy suddenly descended upon him. A dull crash was followed by a sickening thud. The sled, having been twisted sideways and crossing a dry ravine, had crumpled down. Springing forward, the boy found that all the lashings and braces of one runner were torn away. Smash beyond repair, he muttered. Now how am I going to get that meat to camp? He thought of unhitching the dogs and of clinging to the main draw rope as he raced away to his friend's raid. This thought was speedily banished when a dismal, long-drawn howl came from the edge of the forest. Wolves, he muttered, they'd eat it all. He thought of making the canvas covering of his pack into an improvised sled and placing the meat upon it, of hitching the dogs to that and don't believe they could haul it, he decided. The trail's too narrow. Snow on sides is too deep. Again there came the dismal howl. This time it was followed by a yap, yap, yap. To the boy's consternation, this yapping was answered from a dozen points at once. A lot of them out there got hungry beasts dangerous, I guess. Again he thought of the four cartridges. They were not enough. He might be obliged to cut his team loose and make a dash for it. The dogs heard the challenging call from the wild creatures of the forest and bunched together as if for defense. Their mains stood straight up. The leader, a part hound, was growling in a low tone as if talking to himself. This team of five dogs, which Joe drove, was a pickup team. Besides the part hound leader, there was one Husky and three dogs of uncertain breed. The Husky's teammates, sport, was slight of build and inclined to shirk. The two wheel horses were short stocky fellows who worked well in traces and showed signs of being good fighters. Like some scout preparing for an Indian attack, Joe now loosened the dog's traces from the sled, but that they might not rush out heedless of danger to be cut up by the merciless fangs of the wolves. He chained each dog to the sled. Time enough to let you at him later, he murmured. He felt a certain amount of security in their companionship. Just what he meant to do, he did not for the moment know. Darkness had fallen. Like twin glowworms, the eyes of the wolves were shown at the edge of the forest. Already some of them were creeping out into the open. There were a number of them, just how many he could not tell. The one that sent out the call was probably the daddy of a large family, he told himself. And he's invited the whole family to a feast. But, he said as he said his teeth hard, there won't be any feast if I can help it. Leaning his rifle against the sled, he dropped his chin on his hands to laughs into deep thought. Then suddenly he leaped into action. Why didn't I think of that before? He exclaimed as he tore at the wrappings of the sled. He had thought of the radio phone equipment packed away on this sled. The reserve outfit, which always rode there. If I can get it set up, he told himself, I'll be able to call Curly. Then he and Jennings will make a dash for it. With rifles and plenty of ammunition, they'll beat the wolves off. We'll feed some of their carcasses to the dogs and have that much more caribou meat for ourselves. His fingers trembled as he unpacked the detector and set it firmly upon the overturned sled. He had caught the gleam of a pair of flashing eyes much closer than he had thought the wolves would dare to come. He had caught to the ominous sound of chop-chopping jaws. Pete, the husky, was kayaking and straining at the chain. Major, the dog who always guarded the sled at night, was sending forth a low rumbling challenge. As Joe set his amplifier into position, he sent a flash of light from his electric torch full upon one of the gray beasts. The wolf, recoiling as if shot by a rifle, doubled into a heap, then sprang, snarling away. Joe laughed at this wild demonstration of fear. The next instant his face sobered, he was surprised at the size of those timber wolves and at their gauntness. Starved to skin and bones. Ready for anything. He muttered grimly as he set two jointed poles straight up in the snow. From the top of these poles hung suspended his coil aerial. There remained but to connect the batteries. He was bent over the sled intent upon making these connections secure when he was startled by a mad chop of jaws directly behind him. The next instant there was a wild whirling of legs and fur as Major engaged a wolf in combat. Snatching his rifle, Joe stood ready to do deadly execution once the combatants separated. But only four cartridges! He breathed. In my call for help, not yet sent. His heart sank. End of Chapter 5. Recording by Tom Penn. Chapter 6 of On the Yukon Trail by Roy J. Snell. This Leaver Vox recording is in the public domain. Chapter 6. The Battle Cry. Even hampered as he was by the chain attached to his collar, the faithful old watchdog was more than a match for his lighter opponent. Over and over they tumbled. Twice the chain, tangling about the wolf's legs, seemed about to make him prisoner. At last, with a savage onslaught, Major leaped clean at the enemy's throat. There followed a gurgling cough. For a second the end seemed at hand. But the next instant, Major's teeth lost their grip. The wolf, feeling himself free and having had quite enough, slunk away into the shadows. Might as well let him go, was the boy's mental comment. He's well licked. You'll not want to come back. Save my shots for those who mix in next. In this, perhaps, he made a mistake. Bleeding from many wounds, the wolf carried a rank scent of battle and blood back to his companions. A scent more maddening than was that of the frozen meat upon the sled. Hardly had he disappeared into the darkness, then there arose from out of the darkness a war song such as Joe at never before given ear to. A song that made his blood run cold. Not a second to lose, he exclaimed as he snapped the receiver over his head, threw on the switch, and pressed his lips to the transmitter. He was talking on two hundred. Hello, hello, Curly. You hear? Wolves. Six miles from Indian shack. Sled broken. Must fight for life. Got four shots. Bring rifles. Come quick. Eagerly he pressed the receivers to his ears. Wildly his heart beat. It was a tense moment. Would Curly be listening in on two hundred? Would the message carry? Would he respond? After a moment had elapsed with the gleam of eyes coming ever closer, he repeated his message. Again he pressed the receivers to his ears. He won't hear. He muttered half in despair. Have to make a dash for it. Meat might save us. Might satisfy them. But they're mad with the smell of fresh food. There a voice boomed in his ear. It was Curly. Coming, he roared. Hold fast. Ah. Even as he snatched the receiver from his head and clutched at his rifle. That's better. Even as he said it, a flash from his electric torch caught a huge fellow, the leader of the pack, all but upon them. Like the other, he doubled up and leaped away. But this only made the boy understand that his position was still perilous. Curly had not told him how far he was away. It must be at least five miles, he groaned. Take him a half hour. Major old boy, you think we can hold him? The answer from the dog was a low rumbling growl. There was a deal of comfort to be obtained from that growl. Here to fore, Joe had thought of these sled dogs as mere beasts of burden. Thought of them as he might have thought of horses and mules on the flat, sleepy, safe prairies in the Mississippi Valley. Now he found himself regarding them as friends, as fellow warriors engaged in a common business, the business of protecting their lives against the onrush of the enemy. Some dogs you are, he murmured gratefully. You not only pull a fellow's load for him, but in time of danger you turn in and fight for him. He knew that if he came out of this combat alive, he would always cherish a feeling of loyal friendship for these five companions in combat. It was a tense moment, they were in a tight place. A chill raced up his spine and his knees trembled as he caught the gleam of new pairs of eyes burning holes into the darkness. Others had heard the blood-curdling war song and come to join in the battle. The flash of the torch held the beasts at bay for a time, but at last it only maddened them as they pressed closer in. Joe was in despair. Should he loose the dogs? He scarcely dared. They would rush out at those burning eyes and be destroyed. Then he would be alone. Yet, if worse came to worse, if the enemy rushed in, there would not be time to loose them. And chained as they were, the dogs would fight at a disadvantage. In the meantime, Carly Carson was bounding over the trail. Now he had covered a mile, now two, now three. There were three miles more, panting, perspiring, staggering forward, now tripping over a snow-covered bush and now falling over a log. He struggled on. He—he can't make it! Joe all but sobbed as he counted the moments. Oh, here they come! There was time only to loose the chain of major before three gray streaks leaped at them. Major met one and downed him. Ginger, the hound leader, chained as he was, grappled with a second. The third leaped at the boy's throat. Just in time, he threw up the rifle barrel. Gripped in both his hands, it stopped the beast. Kicking out with his right foot, he sent him sprawling. The next instant the rifle cracked. One shot gone, but an enemy accounted for. A fourth wolf sprang upon the gentle, inoffensive sport and bore him into the snow. Leaping upon the sled, Joe stood ready to sell his life as dearly as he might. Catching the coy eye of Pete, the husky, he reached over and unsnapped his chain to see him leap at the throat of the nearest enemy. They're coming, coming! Joe sang out. All fear had left him now. He was in the midst of a battle. That they would win this battle he did not dream. Curly could never reach them in time. But, like Custer's men, they would die game. Sport was down. Major was strangling the life from a clawing wolf. Ginger was engaged in an unfinished battle. Two wolves leaped at their sled, one from either side. The rifle cracked. A wolf leaped high and fell. The second sprang. He was instantly met and born to the snow by bones, the second wheel horse. But now they came in a drove. Five, six, seven gaunt-grey beasts with chop-chopping jaws. With deliberate aim, the boy dropped the foremost. Then the second. Then, calmly clubbing his rifle, he waited. The foremost wolf was not two yards from the sled when Joe was startled to hear a rifle crack and see the wolf leap high in the air. He was astonished. He had not possibly have reached his objective in this time. Who was this man, his deliverer? Leaning far forward, he tried to peer into the darkness as the rifle cracked again and yet again. End of chapter 6, recording by Tom Penn. Chapter 7 of On the Yukon Trail by Roy J. Snell Let's leave our Vox recording as in the public domain. Chapter 7. Revenge for a Lost Comrade For a second, as he stood there on the sled with the big Arctic moon rising above the forest with the crack of the strange rifle, the roar of dogs and the howl of wolves dinning in his ears, Joe fancied himself acting a part in the movies. It was too strange to seem real. This lasted but a second. Then, realizing that the battle was more than half one but that some of his dogs might be in danger, he sprang from the sled. The next instant, with the butt of his rifle, he crushed the skull of a wolf whose fangs were tearing at the throat of a dog. The wolf, crumpling over, lay quivering in death. As he bent over the prostrate dog, he saw that it was sport. Frightened, bewildered, disheartened by the crack of the newcomer's rifle, the remnant of the wolf pack took to its heels. Soon, safe for the growl and whine of dogs, silence reigned in meadow and forest. The man with the rifle stepped forward. To Joe's surprise, he saw it was Jennings. Why, it's you, he exclaimed. Who did you think it might be? Why, it might have been most anyone. Might even have been the man Curly's looking for, the outlaw of the air. I thought you were with Curly. Curly's coming. Must be most of the way here. Then, said Jennings quickly, I'd better go back and meet him. Then he and I will go back and bring the other sleds. Here, he handed Joe two clips of cartridges. Guess they'll not come back. Never can tell, though. You'll be safe with these. He turned and walked quickly away. Left with his dogs and his outfit, Joe made a thorough examination of things. Three of his dogs, Ginger, the leader, Major, the sled guard, and Bones, his teammate, were sitting on their haunches or curled up licking their wounds. Sports done in. He murmured with a queer catch in his throat. Dogs get to be a fellow's pals up here. Pete's missing. Rushed out after the retreating enemy to avenge his teammate, I guess. Only hope he doesn't get the worst of it. Five dead wolves lay near the sled. These he dragged into a pile. Enough pelts there for a splendid rug, he told himself. I'll get some Indian woman to tan them, then realizing that it would be some time before his companion would return and having nothing else to do. He began skinning the carcasses. He had nearly completed the task when from the edge of the forest there came a long-drawn howl. What, again? He exclaimed, seizing his rifle. All right, come on. I'm ready for you this time. A pair of fiery balls shone out of the shadowy edge of the forest. Lifting his rifle, he took steady aim. His breath came quick. To shoot in the quiet calm of perfect self-composure was quite different from a pitched battle. He had a perfect beat on the spot between the eyes when the creature moved. He came a few paces closer, then again halted and howled. And now once more the boy had a perfect aim. His finger was on the trigger. It was a high-power rifle. The shot could not fail. Now, he whispered to himself, now. But at that instant a strange thing happened. All ginger, the leader, answered the creature's call. The answer was not hostile, but friendly. Joe's rifle dropped with a soft plump into the snow. The next instant he cupped his hands and shouted, Pete! Pete! You old fool! Come on in here! You nearly got shot. It was indeed Pete the Husky. He had returned safely from his expedition of revenge for a lost comrade. As he came trotting in, head up and ears pricked forward, he marched straight up to Joe, as a Husky will, and jamming his nose straight against his leg gave a big sniff. After that he curled up with his comrades to lick his wounds. Two hours later the camp in the forest was once more in order. The meat had been piled high upon a hastily made cache of strong boughs, rope between trees. The dogs had been bedded down with spruce boughs. All was snug for the night. They were preparing to turn in. Tomorrow would be a busy day. They would spend the greater part of it in camp. The broken sled must be mended. Joe's dogs must be allowed to recover from the first shock of the battle. Jennings would repair the sled. Curly and Joe would go ahead breaking the trail on snowshoes for a few miles. This would be the day's work. That in keeping a sharp look out for the outlaw of the air. The outlaw of the air! Curly was thinking of him when there came a rattle from the loud speaker attached to the receiving set tuned for long wavelengths. Leaping to the tuner he touched its knob, twisted it first this way and then that. He touched a second and a third knob, then bent his ear for the message. Another government affair, he told himself, then suddenly as a bursting out of the very room came a loud bar. Instantly his hands flew to the radio compass as he muttered. That's him, the outlaw. He measured the distance accurately, calculated the direction, then located it on the map. There! he murmured. He's right there. Not 40 miles. A little off the trail, for safety from discovery I suppose, camp there for the night. By a forced march we could reach that spot before nightfall tomorrow. Question is, shall we do it? Throwing on his coat he went out of the tent. There for ten minutes he bathed his temples, throbbing with excitement in the cold night air. Pacing up and down on the narrow trail he debated the problem. If we try to steal upon him, he may discover us first in Elutus, he told himself. If he does that, probably we can't catch him, for his dogs will be fresher than ours. If we wait for him here, he may take some Indian trail which cuts around this point and we may never see him. So there it is. It was a difficult decision, but much quiet thinking led him to believe that there was more to be gained by waiting than by moving. They ought not break trail beyond the point where they now were. That would give the man warning. Early in the morning he would send Joe exploring across trail for any other trail that might pass close to this one. They would move camp to a position a few yards off trail in the forest, then he would set a watch. Instinctively, as he entered the tent, he examined a clip of cartridges in his rifle. Not looking for him tonight, are ya? Grin Joe. No, not looking for him, but you never can tell, said Curly soberly. Think it's necessary to set a watch? No, that dog that guards your sled, old Major, is watch enough. He'll let us know if anyone comes down the trail. And even if they should attempt to escape us, they couldn't do it. Not with two of our teams in prime condition. End of Chapter 7 Recording by Tom Penn Chapter 8 of On the Yukon Trail by Roy J. Snell This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Chapter 8 A watch at the side of the trail Early next morning, Curly established himself in the midst of a thick clump of young pine trees where he could keep a constant watch on the trail and not be seen by anyone approaching. He had dragged into the clump a number of spruce boughs. On these he sat. On one side of him was his smaller radio phone receiving set. And on the other, his rifle. The receiver of the radio phone was clamped over his ears beneath his cap. This day, he was to be a detective of the earth as well as of the air. The camp had been moved well back from the trail where without danger of being heard, chinnings could work upon the broken sled. Whether their quarry were caught in their trap this day or not, they must be prepared to travel on the morrow. As he sat there with his eyes moving up and down the trail, he thought of the adventurers his calling as a secret serviceman of the air had brought him. He recalled those wild hours on the tossing sea when death appeared so near that it seemed almost to beckon. He thought of the girl, Gladys Ardmore, who had behaved so bravely on that night. He wondered what she might be doing at that moment. Then his mind carried him back to the adventure which appeared to be just before him. The man he was seeking had repeatedly broken all the laws of the air. He was subject not only to heavy fines but also to long years of imprisonment. That he would fight and willingly commit murder to escape punishment Curly did not doubt. Yet here was Curly, ready and willing to attempt to stop him in his mad career. One does not do such a thing for himself. He reasoned. He does it for the good of others. Here in Alaska are thousands of lonely people who can be cheered by music, stories and speeches broadcasted over thousands of miles. Yet a few outlaws of the air can spoil all that. It is the duty of some of us to see that they do not do it. There are matters of even greater importance. A miner lost on the tundra? Snow blind and all but hopeless? Can, if he has a small radio phone set, send out a call for aid. From a large station this message may be picked up. He may be located and his life saved. Even the great explorer Munson may need some such assistance. Had he known how prophetic this last thought was and how much he was to have to do with the explorer who was at that moment more than 2,000 miles away on a ship beset by the perpetual ice of the Arctic, he would have been startled. As it was his mind turned to the mystery that always surrounds true adventure. He recalled the words of an old friend. Adventure, true adventure, like fame, does not come to those who seek it. It comes unbeckoned and unannounced. Oh yes, you can blunder about and get into all kinds of scrapes, which really do not mean anything to yourself nor to anyone else, but that is not adventure. You may even succeed in getting yourself killed without experiencing an adventure. You'll know an adventure when you see it. When, with no willing of your own, but following the plain lead of duty, you feel yourself going into something as dark and mysterious as an unexplored cave. When your heart beats madly, your knees tremble and your tongue clings to the roof of your mouth, yet you go straight on because you know that duty leads you. Then you may be sure that you're about to enter upon a genuine adventure. As Hurley recalled those words, he wondered whether or not, before the day was done, he would find himself entering upon a true adventure. Would his quarry, the outlaw of the air, come down the trail? The day wore on. Noon came. He ate a frozen lunch. The sun sank lower and lower. His vigil did not relax, but he began to lose faith in his plan. Joe said he would come and tell me if he found other trails, he told himself. The outlaw can't have gone round us. Where can he be? If we've missed him, well, anyway, he can't escape us. They'll take him when he enters Valdez. And yet, as he thought it through, he was not so sure of it. The man was utterly unknown. Not one person who was in any way interested in his capture had ever seen him. Hundreds of strange men drifted in and out of the seaport city of Valdez every day. How then was anyone to put his hand on one of them and say, this is the man. He was interrupted in these disconcerting reflections by a sound in his receiver. It was a whisper. The whisper. Hello? Hello, Curly? It said. Hello, are you there? Do you hear me? I have something important, dreadfully important to say. He, the man you want, has turned back. Went forty miles today. Now he is camped. So you see, you did not get him. Did you, Curly? I'm sorry, Curly. Extremely sorry. For he goes fast, very, very fast. You cannot catch him, can you, Curly? So, goodbye. Curly seized, Curly leaped to his feet. His fists were clenched through his tight-set teeth he hissed. I can catch him. I can. I can, and I will. Hastefully gathering up his equipment and his rifle, he hurried away at once to break the news to his companions. Strange to say, in all this time it had never occurred to him to doubt the truth of the whisperer's message, nor to question her sincerity in wishing him well, or in desiring to assist him. And yet she had been playing a very hurtful game of hide-and-seek in the air with him for many weeks. And in all that time, except perhaps that time in the hotel window, told about and Curly Carson listens in, he had not caught one single glimpse of her. He had heard her whisper. That's all. Can one judge a person's character by the quality of his whisperer? Well, that's the question. End of Chapter 8 Recording by Tom Penn Chapter 9 of On the Yukon Trail by Roy J. Snell This Liber Rocks recording is in the public domain. Chapter 9 Who is this whisperer? What does it mean? Puzzled Joe has Curly reported the whisperer's message. Did he listen in last night when I was calling for help? And was he frightened by that? Might have, said Curly. But anyway, you couldn't help that. You were in a mess and had to be helped out. For a moment the two boys were silent. Then Curly spoke again. Might not be that at all. I listened in on a message last night. It was from Munson, the explorer. It was not broken in upon, as his others have been. There may have been something in that message which caused the outlaw to turn back. Well, anyway, he exclaimed. Whatever the cause is, we'll go out and after them the first thing after dawn. Is everything alright? Sled fixed and dogs doctored up? Everything's fine as silk. Alright then, listen chow. After that we'll turn in. Luck doesn't go with any one person forever. Why, even tomorrow we might catch up with our outlaw friend. Hardly that, smiled Joe. We've got 40 or 50 miles of unbroken trail to make before we really get on the scent at all. By that time, traveling on a hard pack trail as he is, he'll have a big lead on us. There are probably forks and crosses in the trail a hundred miles or so further on so we've got a real task ahead of us. We don't have to be sly as foxes to catch him now. I suppose that's so Curly sighed. But we'll get him. See if we don't. Say! exclaimed Joe suddenly. Who is this whispering friend of yours anyway? Don't know. Said Curly, scratching his head. Ever seen her? I don't know. How she come to be traveling with this man anyway? Can't say. Mighty queer I'd say. I'd say as much myself. Queer and interesting. I may as well admit that I am as much interested in coming up with the whisperer as I am in catching this outlaw. Well, we won't do either if we don't eat and turn in. Said Joe as he reached for the frying pan. Joe's prophecy that they would not at once catch up with the man they sought proved correct. The first two days they struggled forward through soft snow over a trackless wilderness. Then they came upon the campsite of the outlaw. His last camping place before he turned back. It was a thrilling moment. It was the first earthly sign he had ever seen of this strange pair. The outlaw and the whisperer. Here to fore he had followed only the trackless trail of the air. Now he had footprints of a man and of many dogs to go by. The mark of the camp, though three days old, was as fresh as if it had been abandoned but two hours before. There had been no snowfall. There was never a breath of wind in that forest. As long as his trail is not joined by any other Jennings told the boys we can follow it with our eyes shut. We could do that three months from now. There might be four feet of snowfall but on top of it all there would be the depression made of the first two feet of snow. There is never any wind to move the snow about. So there's your trail carved in the snow permanent as marble till the spring thaw comes. But when he comes to the Yukon River trail, suggested Curly, well that's going to be harder. The miner wrinkled his brow but we'll find a way to track him. The way he hitches his dogs, track of his sled there's always something if you are sharp enough to see it. Curly examined the marks of the camp very carefully. It was evident that the man knew as much about making an art of camp as did Jennings. The square made by the tent floor showed that he had spread down a canvas floor and the heap of spruce twigs tossed all about. Thought that he had vetted the place down before he spread out his blankets or sleeping bags. Two teams was Jennings comment. Nine dogs to the team. Find big fellas too. Shouldn't wonder if they were Siberian wolfhounds. One thing Curly made a secret search for footprints. There were enough of one sort the broad marks of a man's foot clad in moccasins or Eskimo skin boots were everywhere present. What he sought was the mark of a smaller foot. A much smaller foot. The foot of the whisperer. But though he examined every square yard of trampled ground around the camp and though he ran ahead of the dogs for two miles after resuming the trail he saw no trace of a woman's footprint. Looks like he drove one dog team and led the other. He told himself looks as if for the first time he began to doubt the existence of the whisperer. Can it be? He asked himself that the outlaw and the whisperer are one. Does he change his voice and pretend to give me tips when he is in reality only leading me on? In his mind he went back over the times when the whisperer had broken in on the silence of the night. There had been those two times when he had been listening in at the secret tower room back there in the city told about and Curly Carson listens in. There had been two times when he had caught her whisperer out over the sea. That time he told himself she told me he had gone north. Why should this man keep me informed of his own doings? He ought to know that I'd report it that someone would follow him if I didn't. No. There must be a real whisperer. The girl must exist. She's somewhere up there on the trail ahead of us. And yet he reasoned if she is there where are her tracks? Again he began convincing himself that she did not exist. That it was all a hoax invented by the mind of this clever outlaw. The more he thought of it the more sure he became that this was true. The more sure he became of it the more his anger grew. To be shamed to be tricked deceived buncoed by the man you're pursuing he exploded. That is adding insult to injury. With the plane trail stretching straight out before them they now traveled far into the night. Little dogs and men were ready to drop. Only then did they turn to the right of the trail and set their weary muscles to the task of making camp. End of Chapter 9 Recording by Tom Penn Chapter 10 of On the Yukon Trail by Roy J. Snell This Libra rocks recording is in the public domain. Chapter 10 On the Yukon To follow the trail of the outlaw of the air for the first four days was but to trace out his sled tracks in a wilderness that was trackless save for the footprints of caribou, wolf, and bear. But once he had reached the Yukon all this way changed. There were three trails to choose from which had he taken the one to the left which led up the river the one to the right down the river or the one which led straight before them up one of the branches of the mighty Yukon. The last trail, less traveled than the others, led away toward the Arctic Ocean. He may have taken the down river trail for that would carry him farther and farther from communication with the outside world said Jennings as he searched in vain to distinguish his track from those of scores of other travelers. Might have taken the up river trail. He went on. He'd be in some danger of getting caught by a message sent on ahead. But since the telegraph wires are down the message would have to be sent by radio phone so he could listen in and take up some branch over the hills if he needed to. You don't think he'd go straight ahead up the branch? said Curly. Why should he? The miner looked at him in surprise. Up that trail for 50 or 100 miles you'll find Indian huts and miners' cabins here and there. After that you'll find nothing but a blind trail that grows steeper and steeper. There's no food to be had to save wild game and little enough of that. Why should he go up there? Might run up there for a blind and live with an Indian for a time. If he did we'd trap him like a rabbit and bury the miner emphatically. Well since we don't know which way to go and it's getting dark I move that we make camp right here. This suggestion was acted upon and some two hours later Curly might have been seen nodding over his radio phone boxes. His companions were fast asleep. What do you remain up with the receiver clamped over his head in the rather forlorn hope that the outlaw would let slip some fragment of message which might reveal his whereabouts? Fact is he told himself that in spite of all the evidence against it I still have a sneaking feeling that the whisperer is a real person a girl and that she's up here somewhere in the white wilderness I sort of hope that sooner or later she'll whisper a more secrets to me in this hope for the night at least he was doomed to disappointment no whispered secrets came to him from out of the air a message came however a message which set his mind at work he had fallen quite asleep when he was suddenly awakened by a voice in his ear he recognized at once the voice of the government official who had dictated that other message regarding the band of smugglers caught operating on bearing straits the message itself to him was unimportant or at least for the time it seems so it gave more definite details of the evidence procured and stated one fact that was most important the big man the one higher up the brains of the smugglers had not been apprehended indeed it was not even known who he was it was thought that he might be at this moment in Alaska but where? this question could not be answered the message had proceeded to this point Curly had maintained a drowsy interest in it when he sat up with a sudden start all awake the message had been broken in upon by a powerful sending set which was much nearer to Curly than was that of the government man got gotta get him he mumbled as his slim fingers caressed the radio compass coil there got him that's it he was not a moment too soon for not only had the message ceased but the interruption as well huh he grunted scratching his head huh up there and believed it why good gracious it can't be yet I couldn't have missed it how that man travels 200 miles and no trail to speak of probably none at all for a moment he sat in a brown study then he suddenly shook his fist toward the north we'll get you now old boy he exclaimed we'll get you you're breaking trail for us we'll follow that trail if it takes us right out on the ice flows of the Arctic and we'll get you just as Jennings says like a rabbit in a hollow tree that is he said more soberly if there doesn't come a heavy snow the man saw the radio compass had said had taken the trail which led straight away toward the Arctic ocean then for a long time Curly sat staring at the knob of his tuner he did not see the knob he did not see anything he was concentrating reasoning thinking hard trying to put a lot of facts together and make them fit so the mastermind of the smugglers had not been caught what if the outlaw of the air proved to be that man did he not? that would explain why he was so continually breaking in upon the message regarding it and that he whispered leaping to his feet and dashing out of the tent in his excitement that would explain why he appears so eager to frustrate all of Munson's plans to keep in touch with the outside world by radio phone Munson assisted in breaking up the smuggler band as their leader there is nothing he would not do to wreak revenge and and he breathed hard because of the thoughts that came trooping into his mind that might explain the man's change of plans the very night that Munson sent his message telling of his supply of food on the shore of the ocean this outlaw who probably listened in turned about and started straight north to to where? dashing back into the tent he unfolded a map for a moment with strained attention he studied it when he straightened up it was to whisper yes sir that's it Flaxman Island his present course will bring him straight to Flaxman Island in Munson's food supply he sat down again and asked himself once he arrives there what will he do? will he winter there living upon the explorer's supplies and thus saving himself from prison or will he out of revenge destroy the supplies if he stays and lives on the supplies what will happen if Munson comes ashore with his band some interesting problems there interesting and foolish he told himself as he dropped into another mood all imagination I guess suppose there's nothing to it probably he's not the king of smugglers at all but just a plain mischief maker of the air when he caught Joe's message to me that night when we fought the wolves he knew he was being pursued and turned back now he's hiding out till the storm blows over possibly knows where there's a native reindeer herder up there the end of the stream and over the hills well old top he again shook his fist towards the north you might just as well come out of your hole the storm isn't going to blow over your little cabin of fall streams is going to be wrecked by it and that before many days end of chapter 10 recording by Tom Penn chapter 11 of On the Yukon Trail by Roy J. Snell this LibriVox recording is in the public domain chapter 11 a moving spot on the horizon but the outlaws teams of powerful dogs had endurance to exceed anything ever before witnessed by those who followed on their trail even Jennings was astonished by the manner in which they ate up the miles those dogs are devils he exclaimed after ten days of trailing them devils is what they are and a prince of devils is their driver straight north the trail ran there could be no mistaking it in the soft snow of the forest as Jennings had said it might have been followed after three months had elapsed just as surely is on the day after it was made up frozen streams over ridges when streams were too rapid to freeze even in midwinter down narrow Indian trails when snow laden branches constantly showered the traveler with snow the trail led on and on and on always as nearly as possible do north at night camp maiden supper over curly his instruments before him the receiver over his head always sat on his sleeping bag with arms crossed over his feet with head dropping forward like jack London's primitive man he listened for sounds the sounds he expected to hear were from the air not from the forest that was the only difference otherwise he was that same primitive man hunting and being hunted in turn he was ever pursuing the outlaw but who could tell when the same outlaw might face about upon the trail and become himself the hunter so they moved forward once curly received a thrill on examining a camp lately deserted by the one who went before he came upon a strange footprint a single print of moccasin or bamboo in the snow yet how it made his heart beat this footprint was much smaller than that of the outlaw could this be the whisperer at first it seemed to him that there could be but one answer it is but at that time they were not beyond the creeks and rivers inhabited and traveled by Indians two Indian sleds had not long since passed that way it did not be that some Indian woman or girl had visited the camp of the outlaw so curly a certainty was destroyed yet he still had a feeling that this might have been the footprint of the whisperer nothing more came to him from the air the outlaw was silent so too was the whisperer night after night he caught only now and again a fragment of some song or some orchestra production being broadcast thousands of miles away now and again there would come fragments of messages from afar but never anything of importance from the air they learned nothing of the position of the outlaw but by examining the signs of camp and trail Jennings long accustomed to these signs was able to announce to them each night that they were drawing closer ever nearer to the man they sought now they were three days journey from him now two now one and a half now only one faint and far distant they fancied they caught sight of the column of smoke rising straight above the forest from his campfire food became scarce they had bought dried fish from the last Indian camp they had come upon now this had to suffice for both men and dogs the outlaw they knew by signs of the trail had been more fortunate once a reindeer straying from some distant domestic herd had forfeited life by crossing his path at another time a caribou doe and her fawn had fallen victim to his rifle it's tough luck that's claimed him with all that fresh meat and us with none what the tables will turn we're gaining, gaining every day the soft trail for him becomes hard for us after the nights freeze you'll see you will get him yet but where do you think he's headed for Joe demanded can't tell Jennings scratched his head maybe some Eskimo village maybe some reindeer camp and maybe did you say Munson had a supply camp somewhere yes well maybe he's headed for that to use it or to destroy it destroy it Jennings steered at him in astonishment what would be the sense of destroying it he doesn't know he's being followed at least twice I don't think he does who'd think of destroying a winter supply of grub it wasn't Napoleon who burned Moscow was it Joe did not answer but he and Curly had their own private notions about the matter then just as they hoped to be closing in upon the prey two things happened which postponed that great event for many days they came suddenly out upon the open tundra where the snow was hard packed by the wind where the trail was difficult to follow and where with as good a trail as the boys had to follow the soft snow no longer gave them the advantage and the outlaw could make as good time as they probably better for his dogs were stronger bad luck to us Jennings stormed we'll have to follow him straight to the Arctic and us with no food but a dozen pounds of fish if we don't watch out we'll be in full retreat eating our dogs as we go Curly who had been sitting on his sled silently watching something in the distance suddenly leaped to his feet exclaiming it moves what does demanded Joe something off there to the left think it's him who the outlaw no I don't what I do think though is that it's a reindeer or caribou a moment later he ordered make camp right here we've got to have meat and this is our chance looking to the clip in his rifle he turned to go then after a seconds reflection he turned back partly unpacked the sled and having dragged out a strange looking belt buckled it on beneath his Mackinaw just by way of extra precaution he smiled atop the nearest ridge he turned to wave his hand had he known what events would transpire before he saw his companions again he would most surely have turned back not knowing he shaded his eyes for a moment once more to locate the moving spot on the horizon then went strolling down the low hill end of chapter 11 recording by Tom Penn chapter 12 of on the Yukon Trail by Roy J. Snell this Leber Rocks recording is in the public domain chapter 12 a bad follow up having covered half the distance between himself and the brown spot on the horizon currently decided to drop down below the crest of the hill by going up a narrow ravine for a half mile then creeping over the ridge and following down the bend of a second ravine he would he was sure come out close to the feeding animal quite close enough for a shot stealthily he carried out his plans when at last he reached the end of this little journey and with finger on the trigger slowly rose from the ground where he had been creeping for the last hundred yards he was so surprised that for a second he felt paralyzed there not twenty yards away with his back to the boy feeding like some contented domesticated creature in a pasture stood as fine a buck caribou as one might ask to see the wind being away from him and toward the boy he had neither smell heard nor seen curly he did not even know of the boy's presence there to say that curly was suddenly stricken with buck fever would be putting it mildly his fingers trembled cold perspiration stood out upon his brow this lasted but a second then he was himself again it was a tense moment the fate of their expedition might hang upon his shot the question of going on or turning about must be decided by their ability to procure food how? he whispered how in time do you shoot a caribou when he's got his back to you he hesitated a shot fired now might not reach a vital spot yet the creature might at any moment sense his presence and go crashing away over the hard crusted snow at this moment he was startled by a loud ac ac ac to the right and above him two of them he whispered as he dropped behind the snow bank the thing he now witnessed both surprised and amused him a second caribou had appeared at the crest of the steep hill having paused there long enough to call to his companion instead of racing away to a place of gradual descent he spread out his snowshoe and with a loud ac ac went scooting toboggan fashion down the hill so fascinated was Curly with the sight of his performance that for a moment he forgot his duty to his friends and himself but just in time he brought himself up with a snap the rifle went to his shoulder just as a second buck the larger of the two reached the bottom and stood at attention and cracked the buck leaped high to plunge back upon the snow crack crack crack went the hoofs of the first caribou as he raced away and the crack crack crack answered the rifle it took not a second glance to tell Curly that his first shot had reached its mark think I hit the other two's better than one he muttered as he raced away over the fresh trail true enough there were drops of blood here and there on the snow went over the ridge I'll get him Curly snapped a fresh cartridge into the magazine as he went zigzagging his way up the hard pack and slippery hill twice he lost his footing and narrowly escaped a slide to the bottom but each time he escaped by digging into the snow with fingers and toes at the top he breathed a sigh of relief for a few seconds he could catch no sight of the caribou then he saw it disappearing over the next ridge just as it dropped from sight it appeared to stumble and fall done for exalted the boy just one more ridge and I've got him for a second he hesitated it was growing dark ought to go back he mumbled and I can get along without light till then hurriedly sliding down the ridge he made his way up the other arrived there he glanced straight ahead expecting to see the caribou lying at the bottom of the ravine but not a brown speck marred the white of the snow that's queer he exclaimed I was sure he was done for my looking closely I was able to see four sharply cut paths in the snow crust he toboggan down and I thought he fell curly grinned that's one on me well there's no use to follow him if he is well enough to go tobogganing he's not greatly in need of attention I better go back and tend to the other one darkness had fallen it was with the greatest difficulty that he made his way back to the spot the dead caribou lay once there he proceeded to cut up the meat then having built a cache out of blocks of snow which would keep the meat out of the reach of wolves and foxes he shouldered one hind quarter and turned to go then and not till then did he realize that he did not exactly know the way back to camp he had come a considerable distance and in the eager excitement of the hunt had failed to take note of each turn in his trail or to fix in his memory the shapes of the hills about him that they might serve him as guideposts pretty pickle he told himself here I've got a heavy load and all likely is not have to walk ten miles to make five going to storm too he told himself as he studied the hazy horizon the mountains were smoking with snow forty miles away this afternoon oh well guess I'll make it some way shouldering his burden he went slipping sliding down the hill he had not been going many minutes before he realized that he was not going to make it some way not that night at least a playful breeze began throwing fine snow in his face as he approached the crest of a ridge this breeze grew rude he gave him a shove which landed him half way back down the hill stop that you he grumbled as he gathered himself up and attempted to hill anew but the thing did not stop it grew in violence until the boy knew he was facing one of the sudden severe blizzards known only on the arctic hills snowmen can face for hours and live it's no use he told himself I just blunder around till I'm hot and exhausted then sit down and freeze better sit down here while I'm still all here making his way to a spot somewhat sheltered by a cut bank he placed his burden on the ground then set to work with his sheath knife cutting blocks from a snow bank out of these he built a snow fort like a fair which protected him on two sides wish I knew how to build a snow house he told himself but I don't so what's the use to try having accomplished this much he cut thin strips of meat from the caribou carcass these he placed upon the snow when they had frozen he ate them with relish hmm he murmured most as good as cooked and a whole lot better than dried fish having eaten he gathered his garments close in about him and sat down upon the ground presently he rose suddenly and having drawn several small articles from pockets in his belt proceeded to wind a coil antenna this when completed he hung to the top of his alpine staff which he had stuck in the snow then having thrust a pair of receivers over his head he sat down again in the belt there was arranged a complete radio phone receiving set with a range of 200 miles might hear something more interesting than the storm he told himself brrr it sure gonna be bad end of chapter 12 recording by Tom Penn chapter 13 of On the Yukon Trail by Roy J. Snell this LibriVox recording is in the public domain chapter 13 saved by a whisper back in the camp Jennings was working on an Eskimo type harness for ginger Joe Marion's leader the white man's collar which was very much like a leather horse collar had worn a sore spot on his neck a harness made of strips of steel skin and fashioned in a manner somewhat similar to our breast collar would relieve this Joe Marion had gone a short way from camp in the hopes of finding a snowshoe rabbit or a ptarmigan his search had been rewarded in crossing a low hill he had caught the roar of wings and had a moment later cited three snow white ptarmigan these quails of the Arctic wilderness went racing away across the snow his aim was good and with all three of these in his bag he was sure of some delicious broth and tender juicy meat that night he was searching about for other birds when a sudden gust of wind sent cutting bits of snow into his face huh he grunted looking away to his left well now that looks like business came up quick too I better be getting back he had no trouble finding his way back to camp but by the time he reached it the snow fog was so thick he could not see three rods before him he found Jennings struggling with the tent ropes the tent was in a complete state of collapse when tore it down shouted Jennings give the wind caught the tent and fairly tore it from his grass give us a hand he puffed as he regained his hold this is going to be bad got to pack up and get out of here and find shelter of some kind tent won't stand here there's a lot of willow bushes with dead leaves on down there by a little stream suggested Joe oh it's the place we can tie the ropes to the willows willows keep off the wind Jennings threw the tent into a heap but currently he'll be coming back set up a stake write a note tell where we've gone got a pencil? paper? yes? you write it creeping beneath the overthrown tent Joe managed to scribble a note this he fastened securely to an alpine staff and having tied a red anchor chift to the staff that Curly did not miss it set it solidly in a hard pack snow bank that'll do said Jennings now give us a hand watch your face it's freezing your cheeks take your mitten off and rub them the dogs, with tails to the wind stood patiently enduring the storm but when Jennings tried to get his team together they backed twisted and turned in such a manner just to render them useless here ginger shouted Joe here bones Pete, major show them what a real dog team can do so great was the comradeship between these dogs and their young master that he was able in a moment's time to hitch them to the sled ready for action good old boys he muttered hoarsely wolves together now we'll fight this blizzard a sled load of camp equipment was soon moving down to the willows by the creek bed in the course of an hour they had succeeded in establishing a safe and fairly comfortable camp the dry willow leaves served in lieu of arctic feathers while the stems and branches made a crackling fire whose genial warmth pervaded the tent now for a feed said Joe producing his hunting bag what you got tarm again, three of them good we'll save one for Curly said Joe tossing one of the birds into the corner it'll be better piping hot I'm worried about Curly said Jennings cocking his head on one side to listen to the howl of the storm ought to do something only we can't not a thing be lost yourself in no time if you went out to look for him you fixed these birds and all set up the radio phone suggested Joe he took his belt set with him we can at least listen in for him a half hour later as he sipped a cup of delicious broth Joe gave an exclamation of disgust what's the good of all my listening in? he can't get a message off he'd have to have a high aerial for that could manage it with balloons on a still night but not in this gale wires would tangle in an instant you can he broke off abruptly to clasp his receivers to his ears he was getting something Curly had once read a book written by a man who's daring exploits in the north he had greatly admired this writer had said that the notion that falling asleep when out in a blizzard might cause one's death by freezing was a great mistake should you find yourself lost in a blizzard he remembered the words as well as he might had he read them but an hour before seek out a shelter spot and compose yourself as best you can save your strength if you can fall asleep so much the better you will awake refreshed you will not freeze if you become chilled the cold will awaken you I wonder if that is true he thought to himself as he huddled against the cut bank between two walls of snow to watch the snow sifting down the hillside like sand down a dune he did not attempt to decide whether or not he would put the thing to a test he merely sat there until the white sifting snow became brown and gold until the gale became a gentle breeze until all about him was the warmth of a tropical climb before him a palm tree spread its inviting shade across the horizon a slow procession moved camels and horses the caravan he murmured then silently the scene shifted before him instead of palms were cacti instead of camels a great herd of cattle urged on by a man on horseback who swung sombreros and larriots a cloud of dust followed the herd lazily but ever just before him the brown sand sifted sifted sifted eternally this scene there moved a beautiful girl she was dressed in the gay costume of a mexican her cheeks were brown with the sun but she was good to look at moving with a strange grace she came close to him and whispered in his ear what she said was curly curly carcin are you there? the question seemed so strange that he started and starting he suddenly awoke the girl and her desert vanished like magic before him the sifting still went on but now again it was sifting snow drowsy with fatigue be numbed but not chilled by the cold he had fallen asleep and had been dreaming the two deserts were but dreams as he sat there staring at the snow he suddenly realized that one of his dreams was reality the whisper continued curly carcin can you hear me? clapping his hands to his ears he suddenly realized that his belt radio was working and that the whisperer had returned springing to his feet he attempted to grasp the coil aerial his hands and arms were like blocks of wood madly he thrashed them about until circulation was partially restored the whisperer was still speaking what she said was not as important as the mere fact that she was speaking at all he had remembered that he was lost he thought he knew about where she and the ant-law should be located if he could but discover the direction from which this whisper came he might take a course to the left of it and in that way find the camp of his companions it was a desperate chance but better than none he was now convinced that the writer of that book was mistaken he knew now that a person with a clear conscience has no business going to sleep when the mercury is 30 or 40 below are you there, Curly? came the whisper I would have called you sooner, Curly but I could not we have come a long way ah now his fingers were working he could move the coil he held his breath had the last word been spoken was he lost as before? no something tells me you are near us now, Curly do be careful it is dangerous very very dangerous as the whispered words ceased Curly's fingers trembled he had located the whisperer not 40 miles away he thought he knew the way back to camp the wind had fallen somewhat there was now a chance a chance for his life dragging out his pocket compass he fought his way to the top of the hill then mapped out as best he could a course which should take him to camp end of chapter 13 recording by Tom Penn