<h2 id="c13"><span class="small">CHAPTER XIII</span> <br/>SAVED BY A WHISPER</h2>
<p>Back in the camp Jennings was working on
an Eskimo type of 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 sealskin and fashioned in a manner
somewhat similar to a breast collar, would relieve
this.</p>
<p>Joe Marion had gone a short way from camp
in the hope of finding a snowshoe rabbit or a
ptarmigan. His search had been rewarded. In
crossing a low hill he had caught the whir of
wings and had, a moment later, sighted 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.</p>
<div class="pagenum" id="Page_104">[104]</div>
<p>He was searching about for other birds when
a sudden gust of wind sent cutting bits of snow
into his face.</p>
<p>“Huh!” he grunted, looking away to his left.
“Well, now, that looks like business. Came up
quick, too. I’d better be getting back.”</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>He found Jennings struggling with the tent
ropes. The tent was in a complete state of
collapse.</p>
<p>“Wind tore it down,” shouted Jennings.
“Give—”</p>
<p>The wind caught the tent and fairly tore it
from his grasp.</p>
<p>“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.”</p>
<div class="pagenum" id="Page_105">[105]</div>
<p>“There’s a lot of willow bushes with the dead
leaves on down there by a little stream,” suggested
Joe.</p>
<p>“That’s the place. We can tie the ropes to
the willows. Willows keep off the wind. Come
on, let’s pack up.” Jennings threw the tent into
a heap.</p>
<p>“But Curlie? He’ll be coming back.”</p>
<p>“Set up a stake. Write a note. Tell where
we’ve gone. Got a pencil, paper?”</p>
<p>“Yes.”</p>
<p>“You write it.”</p>
<p>Creeping beneath the overthrown tent, Joe
managed to scribble a note. This he fastened
securely to an Alpine staff and, having tied a
red handkerchief to the staff that Curlie might
not miss it, set it solidly in a hard-packed snowbank.</p>
<p>“That’ll do,” said Jennings. “Now give us
a hand. Watch your face; it’s freezin’—your
cheeks. Take your mitten off and rub ’em.”</p>
<div class="pagenum" id="Page_106">[106]</div>
<p>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 as to render
them useless.</p>
<p>“Here, Ginger,” shouted Joe, “here Bones,
Pete, Major. Show ’em what a real dog team
can do!”</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>“Good old boys!” he muttered hoarsely;
“we’ve fought wolves together. Now we’ll fight
this blizzard.”</p>
<p>A sled-load of camp equipment was soon moving
down to the willows by the creek bed.</p>
<p>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 in spite of the storm.</p>
<p>“Now for a feed,” said Joe, producing his
hunting bag.</p>
<div class="pagenum" id="Page_107">[107]</div>
<p>“What you got?”</p>
<p>“Ptarmigan. Three of ’em.”</p>
<p>“Good!”</p>
<p>“We’ll save one for Curlie,” said Joe, tossing
one of the birds into the corner. “It’ll be better
piping hot.”</p>
<p>“I’m worried about Curlie,” said Jennings,
cocking his head on one side to listen to the
howl of the storm. “This is no night to be out
alone. 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.”</p>
<p>“You fix these birds and I’ll set up the radio-phone,”
suggested Joe. “He took his belt set
with him. We can at least listen in for him.”</p>
<p>A half hour later, as he sipped a cup of delicious
broth, Joe gave an exclamation of disgust:</p>
<p>“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—”</p>
<div class="pagenum" id="Page_108">[108]</div>
<p>He broke off abruptly, to clasp his receivers to
his ears. He was getting something.</p>
<p class="center"><span class="gs">* * * * * * * *</span></p>
<p>Curlie had once read a book written by a man
whose 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.</p>
<p>“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 sheltered 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 waken you.”</p>
<p>“I wonder if that is true?” he thought to
himself as he huddled against the cut bank between
his two walls of snow to watch the snow
sifting down the hillside like sand down a dune.</p>
<div class="pagenum" id="Page_109">[109]</div>
<p>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
clime.</p>
<p>Before him a palm tree spread its inviting
shade. Across the horizon a slow procession
moved, camels and horses. “A 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 men
on horseback, who swung sombreros and lariats.
A cloud of dust followed the herd lazily. But
ever just before him the brown sand sifted,
sifted, sifted eternally.</p>
<p>Into 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:</p>
<p>“Curlie! Curlie Carson, are you there?”</p>
<div class="pagenum" id="Page_110">[110]</div>
<p>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, benumbed
but not chilled by the cold, he had
fallen asleep and had been dreaming. The two
deserts were but dreams.</p>
<p>As he sat there staring at the snow he suddenly
realized that part of his dream was reality;
the whisper continued:</p>
<p>“Curlie Carson, can you hear me?”</p>
<p>Clapping his hands to his ears, he suddenly
realized that his belt radio was working and
that the Whisperer had returned.</p>
<p>Springing to his feet, he attempted to grasp
the coil aerial. His hands and arms were like
blocks of wood.</p>
<div class="pagenum" id="Page_111">[111]</div>
<p>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
outlaw 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 thirty or forty
below.</p>
<p>“Are you - there - Curlie?” came the whisper.
“I would - have - called - you - sooner Curlie -
but I - could not. We - have come - a - long
way.”</p>
<p>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!</p>
<p>“Something - tells - me - you - are - near -
us - now - Curlie. Do - be - careful. It - is -
dangerous - very - very dangerous.”</p>
<div class="pagenum" id="Page_112">[112]</div>
<p>As the whispered words ceased, Curlie’s
fingers trembled. He had located the Whisperer
not forty 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.</p>
<div class="pagenum" id="Page_113">[113]</div>
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