CHAPTER IV THE FIRE PATROL

A few hours before daybreak they had successfully circled the fire and had reached a sparsely wooded height of land. So tired and worn out were the three messengers, that as soon as they had picketed out their ponies, they crawled into their blankets without troubling to prepare something to eat. Dick had almost fallen asleep when he was startled by a most peculiar sound—a sound so unusual and different from anything that he had ever heard since coming to the northern wilderness, that he sat bolt upright, wondering if his senses had not suddenly deserted him.

The metallic thub, thub, thub grew louder. He sat staring in the darkness, bewildered, a little frightened, and yet very curious to know its cause. More than anything else, it sounded like a high-powered motor boat, such as he had often seen and heard near his own home on the Great Lakes, back in the United States. Yet it was not a motor boat. They were still forty miles from the Peace River, and no body of water of any extent lay between them and the river.
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Then, suddenly, he had it. An airplane! His mouth curved in a smile of wonder and admiration. An airplane! What was it doing here? With an unearthly howl, he bounded to his feet and was soon shaking Sandy and Toma.

“Wake up! Wake up!” he shouted. “Listen to that!”

Daubing one hand across his sleep-dimmed eyes, Sandy gave vent to an ejaculation:

“For the love of Pete! Where did that come from?”

Immediately he broke forth in a howl of glee, pointing a finger at Toma. In all his long acquaintance with the young Indian, Dick had never seen the guide display any great amount of fear; yet he was frightened now. He sat huddled in his blankets, frozen with a nameless panic. Here was something beyond his ken and experience—to him an inexplicable, supernatural thing: A noise from the heavens, some horrible monster swooping down upon them from the black vault of the sky.

“What you—you call ’em that?” he finally stammered.

“Airplane,” said Sandy.

“A boat that flies through the air,” Dick elucidated. “What do you suppose it’s doing here?”
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The sound grew louder and presently the plane alighted less than two hundred yards away. The boys raced madly along through the darkness, finally coming out in an open space, where they could see a dark blur and hear the sound of voices.

Approaching, Dick hailed them:

“Hello there! Who is it?”

“Dominion Government cruising plane, C 94,” came the prompt answer. “Put out from Peace River Crossing to investigate this fire.”

Two men stood beside the plane and when the boys came up plied them with questions. Had they come through the fire? Were there many cabins destroyed in the country north of there? Where were the boys going?

Sandy and Dick gave them what information they could, in turn asking many questions of their own. Then Dick stated their errand:

“We’ve been sent out by Inspector Cameron to meet a relief party, which is bringing help to the people suffering from smallpox in the remote districts north of the Mackenzie. The situation is very serious. Hundreds have already died from the disease and probably hundreds more will before assistance can arrive.”

Horace Alderby, one of the aviators, spoke up quickly:
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“Queer we didn’t hear anything about it when we left the Crossing. I should think that if Inspector Cameron had wired to Edmonton the people at Peace River——”

“But look here, Horace,” interrupted the other, “have you forgotten that the wires are down as a result of this fire?”

“Why, yes, Randall, so I have,” laughed Alderby. “The line is clear from Peace River Crossing to Edmonton, but north the service has been disrupted. It is quite likely,” turning to the boys, “that your Inspector Cameron has not been able to get in touch with Edmonton at all.”

“That’s too bad,” said Dick. “It makes it all the more important why we should hurry on and send in the news from Peace River Crossing. Our plan is to go over to Fort Vermilion and from there try to secure a ride up the Peace in a steam or motor boat.”

“That’s a good three days’ trip,” stated Alderby. “It’s fortunate we ran across you.”

“Why?” Sandy asked innocently.

“Because,” the aviator replied, “we can take you over there ourselves just as soon as we look over our motor.”

“Did motor trouble force you to land?” Dick inquired.

“Yes, but it’s nothing serious. We’ll have it ready in a jiffy.”
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“Trouble is,” said Randall, “there’s room only for one of you.”

This statement immediately relieved Toma’s mind. He had begun to fear that he would be asked to sail through the sky in the bowels of that awesome monster—an invitation he had firmly decided to decline.

“That’s all right me, Dick. Mebbe you or Sandy go, but I like stay here with the ponies.”

“Dick will have to go, of course,” Sandy stated, experiencing a moment or two of regret as he looked at the plane and thought of the thrilling ride through the clouds. “As Toma just said, he and I can remain here with the ponies. We’ll make camp and wait for your return.”

“Good heavens, you can’t do that!” Dick expostulated. “You’ll be in danger here with the fire so close. You never can tell when the wind may change and blow it this way.”

“But we no stay here,” Toma enlightened him. “We go on to Fort Vermilion. You come back that way.”
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It seemed a good arrangement and soon afterward Dick climbed aboard, crouching down in the limited space assigned to him. He felt a little nervous now that they were about to start. At the first crackling roar of the powerful motor, his heart leaped up in his throat. He called out something unintelligible to Sandy and Toma, grabbed for his hat as the plane commenced bounding along the uneven ground, then stole one frightened look over the side just as the earth commenced to drop away from him in a manner that was both sickening and disconcerting. Nearly ten minutes had passed before he had recovered sufficiently from the shock to realize that he had actually started out on his first journey through the air.

“How do you like it?” asked Randall.

“Do-o-n’t kn-n-ow yet,” he managed to articulate. “How long are we going to be up here?”

“Just a few hours,”—reassuringly.

Just a few hours! Saints and martyrs! Could he stand it that long? When minutes were terrible, what would hours be like? Instantly he dismissed what remained of a once overpowering ambition to become an aviator. It wasn’t exactly in his line anyway. He lacked the necessary physical qualifications. He hadn’t realized it before, not until now, but his stomach was weak. It felt as if there was a big hole there, through which a current of cold air passed every few seconds at a terrific rate of speed. It made him almost ill.

In an effort to keep his thoughts in more comfortable channels, he addressed himself to Randall:

“You said this was a government plane?”
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“Yes,” came the ready answer, “one of five sent out to this north country to assist in the prevention and control of forest fires. The country will need all this valuable timber some day. Millions of dollars going up in smoke. Time we put a stop to it.”

Randall’s voice trailed off and became lost in the roar of the motor and the screeching of the wind. Dick tried to stretch his legs. He tried to sleep. He endeavored to accustom himself to the queer, unpleasant motion of the plane. He was unutterably glad when he heard Alderby trumpeting in Randall’s ear:

“Crossing lights!”

Dick steeled himself and looked down. Ahead and far below he perceived a faint effulgence—like glow-worms shining feebly across a vale of darkness.

Not long afterward they began to descend. Hills took shape. The wide ribbon of the Peace and the Hart, cascading down through the hills to join it. The shape of trees, the rugged contours of the land and, finally, straight below them, a level field, which seemed to come up, up, up to meet them, and upon which, a short time later, they landed in safety.

“Here!” exclaimed the jovial voice of Alderby.

In the chill, gray light of dawn, Dick followed Randall past the hangar and into the town. His heart was beating jubilantly.
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His companion led the way through the streets of the little town, pausing at length in front of a small brick building, which served as an office for the government telegraph. The door was locked, but following a short rattling at the knob, they were admitted by a sleepy operator, who demanded to know their business.

In a few words, Randall explained the reason for their early call.

“We would like to know,” he continued, “if you have any information concerning a smallpox epidemic in the north, or of a relief party which has been sent out from Edmonton?”

“Yes, I know something about it.”

The operator invited them inside and switched on the lights. He in turn asked a question of Randall:

“Is this one of the young men Cameron instructed to come here to meet the relief party?”

Before Randall could answer, Dick produced the letter he had received from the Indian messenger and handed it over.

“That will serve as my introduction. Read it.”

“Fine!” exclaimed the operator, glancing over the missive. “Yes, Cameron got his message through. The relief expedition is already on its way.”

“But I thought the government line was out of order, had been destroyed by the fire north of here.”
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“So it was. Inspector Cameron’s s.o.s. was broadcast by radio from Mackenzie River and someone in Edmonton picked it up. The message was repeated again early this morning. It’s common property now all over the province. Every available airplane in Edmonton and Calgary is being sent up. A few of the planes ought to arrive any time. Also a special passenger train is scheduled to arrive tonight.”

“Can the airplanes go as far north as the Mackenzie?” Dick asked.

Randall replied in the affirmative. “The only difficulty is to carry enough gasoline.”

“In that case,” said Dick, a little crestfallen, “our services will no longer be required.”

“Don’t worry. You’ll have plenty to do,” laughed the operator.

“Your troubles have only commenced,” smiled Randall. “I’ll take you back and pick up your friends at Fort Vermilion, then we’ll pilot the other planes through to the Mackenzie. You’ll be a regular air-hawk before long.”

He turned to the operator. “Thank you very much for your kindness. I think I’ll take Dick over to one of the hotels and then slip back to the flying field.”

“I can’t go to a hotel just yet,” Dick interposed. “I was told to report to Inspector Anderson at the police barracks here.”
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Hardly were they in the street again, when the aviator clutched Dick’s shoulder with one hand, while with the other he pointed aloft. Through the still air there came to them the distant strum, strum, strum of a motor.

“Look!” he shouted. “The first plane from Edmonton!”