Chapter 9 HELP FROM THE SKY

True to Mark's prophecy, dawn of the following day found them on the move. By the light of a candle, hotcakes and coffee had been stowed away under their belts. Now they were ready to pack up.

As Mary stepped from the tent her eyes fell upon a pair of lifeless eyes that seemed to stare down upon her. One of the hunters had killed a moose. All this time, well out of the reach of thieving wild creatures, its head had hung there in a tree. It seemed now a little strange that those dead eyes could give her such a start.

"Nonsense!" she whispered, stamping her foot. "Enough to dread without that." And indeed there was. Despite the fact that the men agreed on the solidness of the ice, she dreaded the take-off. What if the ice were thinner in some places than at others? What if it should give way at just the wrong time? What of the planes? Were they truly fit for service? And what of those hand-made skis? All these fears were banished by the excitement of breaking camp. Tents were taken down, bedding was made into bundles, and bags were packed. Bill, now quite able to walk, but with arms still smothered in bandages, was helped down the trail.

Mary thrilled anew as she approached the small blue and gray plane. "A ticket to adventure," she whispered for the hundredth time. Then her face sobered. Was this to be the end of adventure or only its beginning? An hour's safe flying would bring them to the cabin where there awaited dishes to wash, beds to make, paths to shovel, all the daily round. "Yes," she told herself with renewed interest, "yes, and Madam Chicaski to wonder about. Where adventure ends, mystery begins."

One thing pleased her, she was to travel with Bill and Mark in the smaller plane. She liked being with her friends. She was very fond of Speed Samson, the smiling young pilot. She feared and hated Peter Loome.

"I am taking the hunters straight to Anchorage. They seem to be in one grand rush," Dave Breen, pilot of the large gray plane, said. Then aside to Mary he whispered, "They're paying me well. Hunt me up in Anchorage and I'll buy you a hot fudge sundae." Mary smiled her thanks. They were fine fellows, these pilots, just how fine she was later to learn.

The take-off was exciting. She shuddered as they glided over the ice. An ominous crack-crack-crack sent chills up her spine, yet the ice held. There had been a light snowfall. The snow was sticky, it would not let them go. Round and round the lake they whirled. Louder and louder the motors thundered. Then someone shouted "Up!" and up they went whirling away over the treetops.

Once again the glorious panorama of dark forest, gray crags, winding streams and blankets of snow lay beneath them.

"We're going home! Home!" Mary shouted in Mark's ear. Mark nodded soberly. He was listening. Listening for what? Mary knew well enough, for trouble, motor trouble.

"There will be no trouble," she assured herself. Once again she thought of home. What a place of joy that once deserted valley of the North had become for them. She thought of the worried millions in the cities and scattered over the plain far to the south of them-worried millions wondering where the next week's food supply was to come from. She thought of their well-lined cupboards, of their cellar bursting with good things to eat, then sighed a sigh of content.

This mood was short-lived. Even she caught and understood the strange shudders that shook the small plane. A moment of this and they went circling downward toward the shining white surface of a small lake. Once again her heart was in her mouth. They had left the higher altitudes where the nights were bitter cold. They were equipped with skis. Would this new lake be frozen hard enough for that? Scarcely time for these few flashing thoughts and bump-they hit the lake. Bump-bump-bump. What glorious bumps those were. They meant one more happy landing.

Dismounting, the girl stared aloft while the large gray plane circled over them. Once, twice, three times it circled through the blue, then, with a sudden burst of speed, like some wild duck that had heard the bang of a hunter's gun, it sped straight away.

Florence was walking disconsolately back and forth along the pier at Anchorage early that same afternoon. She was deep in her own thoughts. Having gone for a visit to Palmer, she had been invited to come for a stay at Anchorage. Sending a note back to her cousins, she had taken the train for Anchorage.

Strangely enough, Mary had met high adventure, while she was meeting with bitter disappointment. She had so hoped that her lone fifty-dollar bill would somehow carry her to that charmed city of her grandfather, Nome, Alaska.

"No chance!" she murmured low. "Not a chance in the world." And yet, she dared hope.

Now catching the drone of an airplane motor, she shaded her eyes to look away toward the east. Standing where she was, she watched the large gray plane come driving in, then circling low, make a perfect landing.

"Oh!" she breathed. "If only-" she did not finish, but marched soberly on her way.

Having made a round of the city's stores, she was headed back to the home of her hostess. "Tomorrow," she thought, "I shall go back to our happy valley." But would it be so happy for her? When one longs to be in one place, can he be truly happy in another? Who knows? As it turned out, Florence would not be obliged to test her ability to be happy.

Of a sudden, as she walked along, she heard someone call: "Florence! Florence Huyler!" Turning about, she found herself facing a total stranger.

"You are Florence Huyler," the man smiled.

"How-how did you know?" she gasped.

"If you hadn't been, you wouldn't have turned about so quickly," he laughed. "Ever try calling out quite loudly, 'John!' at the edge of a large crowd? No, of course not. Just try it sometime. You'll be surprised at the number of Johns that turn to answer.

"But that-" his voice changed, "that's not the point. Suppose you heard of the accident?"

"Accident? No! I-" her face paled.

"Now, now! nothing to be excited about," he warned. "You've been away from home so you haven't heard. Your friend Bill got clawed up a bit by a bear. Say!" his voice rose. "Want to come in here and sit on a stool while I tell you? I'm dying for a cup of coffee."

"Al-all right."

Three minutes later, their feet dangling from stools, they were drinking coffee, munching doughnuts, and talking.

"So you see," the aviator ended his story, "your cousin did me a mighty fine turn. I got a good fee for bringing those hunters out and so if you or he ever need a lift, just signal me by Morse code or any other way and I'll turn my motor over P.D.Q.

"Of course," he added, "I'm off to Nome tomorrow, but I'll be back. Back before you know it. Not such a long trip that.

"But say!" he exclaimed. "What's the matter?" The girl's face had turned purple.

"Choked! Well, I'll be! Here, let me-" He began pounding her on the back.

"Just-just a-a-piece of dough-doughnut," she managed to sputter at last. "Went-dow-down the wrong way."

"Do you get that way often?" he grinned.

"Only when people tell me they're going to Nome."

"What's so awful about that?"

"Awful? It's glorious. If only-"

"If only what?"

"If only I were going!"

"And why not?"

Fishing in her pocket, she displayed her only banknote.

"That's good money," the pilot felt of it with thumb and finger.

"But not enough," she shook her head sadly.

"For what?"

"A trip to Nome."

"To Nome! You want to go to Nome? You're off, child! You're off right now. There's just room for one more. Got the Bowmans to take up, three of 'em. Big reindeer people. Grand folks! Just room for you."

"Tha-" Florence could not finish. She had choked again, but not on a doughnut. Mutely she held out the crumpled bill.

"Put it in your pocket, child," his tone was gruff but kind, "you'll need it. But say! Why do you want to go to Nome?"

"Got a grandfather up there."

"And haven't seen him for a long time," he added for her.

"Never saw him!"

"What? Never saw your grandfather? Say! That's terrible. I had two of 'em. Grand old sports. Both gone now. Say! That's great! And you're going with me to hunt up your grandfather. That, why that's like moving pictures. Going? Of course you're going! Due to take off at nine a. m." He slid off the stool, then held out a hand. "Glad to have met you. Meet you again right here at 8:30 tomorrow morning. Will you be here?"

Would she? If necessary she would form a one-man line and stand right here in the snow and cold until the sun rose and the clock said a half hour after eight.