Chapter 8 PHINEAS ROEBACH, OIL HUNTER

As has been said, the boys and their older companions had been in many perilous situations; but no adventure promised to end more tragically than this flight of the huge airship. The descent of the Snowbird, punctuated by the rifle shot below, seemed likely to be fatal to them all.

"What kind of people can they be?" gasped Mark. "They are trying to shoot us."

"Give me my rifle! I'll show 'em!" exclaimed the old hunter.

"You'll do nothing of the kind, Andy," commanded Professor Henderson.

"Do not make a bad matter worse by yielding to your passions."

A second shot was fired by those upon the ground; but the bullet went wide of the mark. Jack shouted:

"We are drawing away from them. Look out! we all but hit that tree!"

"Steady, Jack," admonished the professor. "We'll be down in a minute, my lads. Cling to anything handy. She will bounce some, but I believe we shall not be injured." The calmness of the aged scientist would have shamed the others into some semblance of order, were it needed; but both the boys were courageous, Andy Sudds did not know fear, and if Washington White was in a panic of terror, he did not get in the way of the others to hamper their movements.

The Snowbird was fluttering over the ground like a wounded bird, while so black were their surroundings that none of the party could distinguish anything of nearby objects. The clouds had broken but little, and only for a moment.

"She's down!" suddenly shouted Mark Sampson, and the flying machine jounced on its rubber-tired wheels, and then struck the ground again almost immediately.

Mark leaped down on one side and Andy Sudds on the other. Instantly, relieved of their weight, the flying machine was carried on again and Mark and Andy were thrown to the ground.

Perhaps that was well, for several rifles were again fired behind them and they heard the bullets whistle above their heads.

"Low bridge, Mark!" cried the old hunter, meaning for the boy to keep close to the earth. "I've got my gun."

"Don't fire on them, Andy," responded young Sampson, remembering the professor's warning. "We don't know who they are or what they mean by their actions."

"We don't want to be shot down without making any fight; do we?" cried

Andy.

"Let us escape without a fight if possible," urged the cautious youth, feeling sure that Professor Henderson would approve of this advice.

But the pounding of many feet approaching over the rising ground-evidently, as Mr. Henderson had said, the foothills of the mountain range-warned Mark and the hunter to keep still. In the partial light they saw a group of tall men, all armed, running past them in the direction the wounded Snowbird had been blown.

"Hush!" whispered Andy. "Indians!"

Mark had seen their long hair and beardless faces, and believed the hunter was right. The enemy were dressed in clothing of skins and were without hats. Yet Mark knew that the Indians of Alaska were much different from the savages of the western territories of the United States. He did not believe these Alaskan aborigines would attack white men.

It was growing lighter about them every moment. The lad and the tall hunter arose and stood listening for a further alarm-or for some cry from their comrades in the flying machine.

As the light increased they saw that they were in a grove of huge trees. Somehow the Snowbird had fluttered away through these forest monarchs and was now out of sight.

"I wonder what's happened to them?" gasped Mark.

"Them Indians haven't attacked yet," growled Andy Sudds. "If they begin to shoot we'll know which way to go, and we'll foller them."

But the first sound they heard came from behind them. There was the crash of heavy footsteps and a big man suddenly came panting up the slope. Cold as it was, his shirt was open at the neck, he was bare-headed, and he had not stopped to pull on his boots when he arose from his bed. In his right hand he carried a battered "fish-horn," and without seeing Mark and Andy he stopped and put this instrument to his lips, blowing a blast that made his eyes bulge and his cheeks turn purple.

"Hold on, Mister!" ejaculated the hunter. "What you got to sell? Or be you callin' the cows?"

"Mercy on me!" cried the fat man, and in a high, squeaky voice that seemed to be a misfit for his huge body. "I am sure I'm glad to meet you. You must have just arrived," and he squinted at the strangely clad hunter and his boy companion, for Mark wore a helmet with ear-tabs.

"We just landed, that's sure," admitted Andy. "From an airship, I fancy," exclaimed the other. "That is what is the matter with my Aleuts, then. They never have seen such a thing as an airship, I'll be bound. Have they hurt any of your party?"

"I don't know," Mark said, hastily. "If you are in command of those Indians, call them off, please. There are three of our party somewhere with the flying machine, and the Indians have been shooting at them."

"I'll try it," declared the man, instantly. "I can usually call them together with this horn," and he raised it to his lips again and blew another mighty blast.

"I have had this bunch of Aleuts six months," he explained, when he got his breath again. "They are good workers, but as superstitious as you can imagine. They are particularly shaky just now, for a number of queer things have happened lately in these parts. There is a volcano somewhere in action-we had a storm of ashes a week ago. And night before last there was a positive earth-shock."

"You seem like a pretty intelligent man," grunted Andy Sudds, in his blunt way. "What are you doing up here in this heaven-forsaken country?"

"Why, I am an oil hunter," said the fat man, simply. "A what?" repeated Andy and Mark together.

"Oil hunter. My name is Phineas Roebach, and I am in the employ of the Universal Oil Company. I am here-as I have been in many lands-boring for petroleum. You understand that my mission is semi-secret. If we find oil here we shall obtain a grant from the Government, or something like that."

Just at that moment Mark Sampson was not particularly interested in the odd-looking Mr. Roebach or his business.

"Blow your horn again, sir," he begged. "Call off your Indians. They may shoot our friends."

"If your party is all dressed as peculiarly as yourself, young sir," said Phineas Roebach, "my Aleuts could scarcely be blamed for taking a pot shot at them."

Then he blew the horn mightily for the third time.