Dick’s gaze turned from the cache to the opposite end of the room in the hope that he might see Sergeant Richardson. But, although he craned his neck in the effort, he could discern nothing. He had decided to slip around to another side of the dwelling, when the sound of footsteps came from the darkness beyond. Instinctively, he flattened himself against the wall of the cabin. The steps came closer. A vague form! A start of surprise—Rand!
The policeman did not see him at once, but Dick drew his attention by whistling softly and very soon the two stood close together gripping each other’s hands.
“Lucky you’ve come,” whispered Dick. “Just take a peep inside.”
“I don’t believe that Richardson’s here,” said Corporal Rand when he had stepped back. “As I came out to the clearing, I thought I saw two of the outlaws carrying something between them. Possibly the sergeant. I had no way of stealing up on them without being detected. So I decided to come on here and await their arrival.”
“If it is Richardson, do you think we can get him away from the outlaws?”
“We can try.”
“What plan would you suggest?”
“Wait until La Qua has taken out all of the fur and the pack-train is ready to start. They’ll be compelled to leave Richardson here under guard. Our chance will come then.”
Two powerful breeds appeared at the door soon after, carrying the prostrate form of Sergeant Richardson. They dropped him, none too gently, on the floor close to the fire-place. The prisoner’s limbs were bound. He was unconscious, his face ghastly white except where a small stream of blood trickled down from his forehead.
Sudden rage seared Dick’s mind. His friendship for the police sergeant was great and he resented the malicious attack upon him. He could hardly contain himself as the packers left their work and advanced in a curious group, only to be driven back again by the cursing, perspiring La Qua. Then as a vent for his outraged feelings, the outlaw kicked the unconscious man in the ribs.
At sight of this gross treatment, Rand started forward, scarcely able to suppress his cry of rage. He checked himself, but one hand gripped Dick’s arm, fingers digging into the flesh.
“I could almost kill him for that!” he snarled.
The cache diminished quickly. All that remained of the bulky pile in a few minutes more were a few scattered bales, lying on the floor at the far end of the room. Corporal Rand and Dick were waiting impatiently for the completion of the task, when suddenly the policeman’s sharp intake of breath drew the other’s attention.
“Shades of Lucifer!” gasped the corporal. “Look at that!”
At first Dick did not understand, but presently he saw the cause of the corporal’s excitement. A low cry of admiration escaped his own lips.
“Why—why, it’s Toma! The nerve of him! Can you imagine anything more foolhardy?”
Toma it was—Toma, sober and unconcerned as ever. In the guise of a packer, he had joined the other half-breeds and Indians. He followed closely behind two strapping natives, picked up a bale of fur and walked out with it. Twice more in the next few minutes he repeated this performance. On his third trip, however, all the fur had been removed. La Qua and a somewhat short and corpulent half-breed of indeterminate age were the only occupants of the room. These two looked up, as if resenting Toma’s intrusion. Then they sprang back, hands high in the air, as a dangerous-looking automatic seemed to leap into the young guide’s hand. Calmly, Toma ordered the two men back against the wall and disarmed them.
Dick followed Rand and the two stormed through the door, revolvers in readiness. They called out to Toma not to shoot. The corporal yanked down a coil of rope from a peg on the wall and proceeded to bind the outlaws, at the same time ordering Dick to bolt and lock the door, then to release Richardson.
La Qua was pale with fury, swearing vengeance upon the police.
“Yuh can’t get away with this,” he snarled. “You’ll pay good an’ plenty. Jus’ remember that.”
“I’m willing to answer for my conduct here,” laughed Rand. “I’m not frightened.”
Toma and Rand dragged the bodies across the floor, concealing them behind a pile of blankets. Then they turned to examine the sergeant.
His injuries were not serious. Already he showed signs of returning consciousness. Rand brought water and bathed and dressed the wound with a skill and precision that struck Dick’s admiration.
Someone pounded on the door. Drawing his revolver, the policeman hurried over, shot the bolt, swung open the door, concealing himself behind it. A tall, fierce-visaged man stepped into the room, demanding harshly:
“Who locked this door? Where’s La Qua? The boys are ready to start.”
Instantly he perceived that he had committed a blunder. Dick and Toma he had never seen before. Slightly puzzled, he took one step forward, when he felt the steel muzzle of Rand’s revolver poking him in the ribs.
“Stand right where you are,” said the corporal pleasantly. “Glad you came in. Permit me to relieve you of your hardware.”
One glance into the steady eyes, a look at the familiar uniform, and the intruder saw the futility of resistance. Yet there was bluster in his voice.
“What does this mean?”
“It means that the fun’s over,” Rand stated evenly. “Stand right where you are! So the pack-train’s ready to start?”
The prisoner made no reply. Tall, sullen, resentful—unflinchingly he met the cool gray eyes of the mounted policeman.
“Come, speak up! I mean business!” Rand shoved his revolver into the man’s ribs again. There was nothing pleasant about his voice now.
“They’re ready tuh start if yuh want to know,” begrudgingly answered the outlaw.
“Are you heading straight for the pass?”
Again the hesitation. Again the revolver fondling the man’s ribs.
“Yep.”
“All right,” said Rand, cooly deliberate. “You can go out and tell them to start. Tell them La Qua is ready.”
The prisoner stared.
“Go out. Yuh mean that?”
“Yes, but not alone. I’ll go with you. I’ll be standing right behind you when you give them those orders. But before we go, you might as well understand that there’s to be no trickery. No treachery. It might prove fatal.”
Rand opened the door, making a gesture with one arm.
“Out of here—and watch your step! I’ll have my gun on you every minute!”
The door closed softly. The sound of retreating footsteps, a pregnant silence—a period of waiting which seemed interminable. Then the door opened again and Rand and the prisoner appeared. In the eyes of the policeman there sparkled a triumphant light. He turned to Dick with a smile.
“They’ve gone. Never suspected anything. Told them that La Qua and our friend here would follow at their leisure. Bring me the rest of that rope, Toma.”
They trussed the man and dragged him back to the far corner of the room to keep company with La Qua. Again they stood in front of Richardson, who lay with half-closed eyes. He had not yet recovered consciousness. Rand spoke quickly:
“We haven’t a minute to lose. Every moment counts. Toma, I’m going to ask you to remain here to guard these prisoners while I hurry on after the pack-train. You, Dick, will return to Sandy and conduct him here. As soon as you do that, Sandy will relieve Toma. In another hour or two, Richardson will be able to sit up. It won’t be long before he recovers completely. You and Toma are to follow and overtake me. I may need your help. Think you’ll be able to follow our tracks, Toma?”
“No trouble do that,” nodded the guide. “We find ’em all right.”
Dick found Sandy without much difficulty. His chum was shivering from the cold. Also he had grown impatient and resentful, as his first words indicated.
“Well, did you finally consent to come back and let me know how things are? I was just getting ready to leave this place. Surely, the corporal didn’t expect me to stay here all night.”
“I’m sorry, Sandy,” placated Dick. “We couldn’t get here any sooner. Too bad you’re cold.” His voice rose animatedly. “And good news! We’ve found Richardson and have taken three prisoners—one of them La Qua. Rand is following the pack-train in the direction of the pass. We must hurry.”
“Whew! Good work! I suppose you’re one of the heroes.”
“No such luck,” Dick replied. “I didn’t do a thing. All the credit is due Rand and Toma. Both were wonderful. I’ll tell you about it sometime. But now we must hurry. Toma and I are to follow Rand. You’re to remain with Richardson and the prisoners in the cabin.”
“Suits me,” Sandy’s teeth chattered. “Hope it’s warm over there. I’ve caught a chill. Anyway, good luck to you, Dick. When do you think you’ll be back?”
“Don’t know. It’s a long way to the coast. Hundreds of miles, I guess.”
“The coast!” almost shrieked Sandy.
“Yes,” returned Dick a little proudly, “we’re going straight through to the Pacific!”
CHAPTER XIII
A SCOUT RETURNS
Contrary to Dick’s expectations, Sandy did not resent being left behind. True, the young Scotchman had experienced a certain amount of regret to learn that he was to be separated from his two chums and miss the excitement and adventure of the western trip, yet this feeling passed quickly. In spite of his occasional rebellious mood and seeming stubbornness, Sandy was really a philosopher. His grumbling and complaining seldom were taken seriously. Under the surface, somewhere deep down within him, were the flowing springs of an unconquerable good nature.
He knew that it was necessary for someone to stay with Sergeant Richardson and the prisoners, and he accepted Rand’s orders unhesitatingly. Even if he couldn’t go along with Dick and Toma, he could at least prove his worth in other ways. He’d see this thing through to the finish.
Shortly after the two boys had left, Sergeant Richardson completely recovered consciousness. It was not long before he sat up and began to ask questions. He smiled a little wanly when he had been informed of Corporal Rand’s successful strategy.
“I’m glad they got La Qua. Tomorrow, Sandy, we’ll take these prisoners back to Wandley’s post. Perhaps we can find a place where we can lock them up. I’ll put a man in charge.”
“Good idea,” approved Sandy. “It isn’t far from here. At the same time, we can find out how Pearly is getting on.”
Later, the policeman walked over, a little unsteadily, to the corner where the prisoners lay.
“Well, La Qua, I’m glad to see you here. Have you anything to say for yourself?”
Apparently, he had. He immediately broke forth in a storm of invective that scorched the already overheated room. Sandy’s ears fairly tingled as he listened to the horrible oaths and scathing denouncement.
“Mebbe yuh got me now,” he snarled, concluding his tirade, “but yuh ain’t finished with me yet. The knock on the head yuh got a while back won’t be nothin’ compared to what’s coming to yuh. Yuh ain’t got no call to meddle in honest men’s business.”
“Honest men!” gasped the sergeant, plainly taken aback. “Honest men,” he repeated, staring in a sort of grim fascination at the row of evil faces in front of him. “Why, my good fellow, I wish you’d explain one or two things to my satisfaction. I wish—”
Sandy’s roar of laughter interrupted him. La Qua seized the opportunity to declare venomously:
“I don’t need to explain nothin’. If one or two o’ your men got hurt, it’s all on account o’ their meddling.”
The policeman saw the folly of further argument. He turned back to where Sandy stood.
“Let’s try to find something to eat,” he proposed. “A hot cup of tea would go well right now. I’m famished. After we’ve eaten, you can roll in, Sandy, while I stand guard.”
“That’s mighty kind of you, sergeant, but I don’t think I’ll accept. You need the rest more than I do.”
Richardson smiled and patted Sandy’s thatch of yellow hair.
“All right, if you insist. I’ll agree to take advantage of your offer, but only on one condition.”
“What’s that?” Sandy asked wonderingly.
“That you wake me up in three hours’ time. A sort of compromise, you see. In that way we’ll both get a little rest.”
“I’ll accept your terms,” said Sandy with great solemnity.
A search in the cupboard behind the fireplace was rewarded by the discovery of a small container, full of tea, sugar in an earthen jar, and a stack of doubtful-looking bannock, piled high on a granite plate. A kettle was soon simmering over the fire.
When they had eaten, Richardson arose and, walking over, inquired if any of the prisoners wanted refreshments. La Qua spurned the offer with a hair-burning oath. The others were more tractable. Yes, they were hungry. They would consider it a great favor if monsieur would do as he said.
Without a moment’s hesitation, the policeman unbound the arms of the three men, while Sandy brought tea and bannock. Later, he even permitted one of the half-breeds to smoke. Then he bound them up again.
Long before the coming of daylight, the party started back on the trail to Wandley’s. Arriving there without incident, four hours later, Sandy and Richardson were considerably startled when the door opened and a stalky, well-knit figure emerged.
“As I live,” shouted Sandy, “Malemute Slade! Where did you come from?”
They shook hands with the police scout, beaming over the good fortune that had brought them together.
“Yeh, Sandy, I kind o’ thought it was about time to come mushin’ in. Been up in the foothills fer nearly three weeks. But by the looks o’ it, I’m two days late. Wished I’d been here when that Nitchie took his shot at Pearly.”
He paused as his gaze wandered in the direction of the prisoners.
“Sufferin’ pole-cats! What’s all this scum?”
Malemute Slade’s critical eye ran over them, seeming to measure each in turn.
“Fine specimens, ain’t they?” he rumbled on, half to himself. “Looks like the scourings from Hades. There ain’t a single one o’ them I’d trust any further than I could see. But where did yuh get ’em all, sergeant? An’ why did yuh leave the hungriest wolf of ’em all scot free?”
“You mean Murky?”
“Yeh.”
Richardson smiled.
“As a matter of fact, Slade, we’re not quite ready for him yet. We haven’t a thing thus far we can use as evidence against him. We wouldn’t have taken these men here either, if there had been any way of getting around it. We won’t press charges against any of them until we have secured the fur which was cached over there at Settlement Mountain.”
“So yuh found the cache?”
“Yes,” answered Richardson. “I’ll tell you about it presently. But first, give me a hand to look after these men.”
As he spoke, the policeman jerked his head in the direction of the door. A steady stream of the curious were pouring out. An inquisitive throng soon gathered around them. On every side rose guttural exclamations, accompanied by much chattering and shaking of heads. Attracted by the commotion, Wandley himself appeared presently.
“Why, hello, sergeant!” he hailed the policeman. “What’s up? Bring your men inside.”
Richardson drew the free trader aside and a whispered consultation ensued. At its conclusion, Wandley led the way to a small building, which had previously been used for storing fur, but which, during recent years, had become too small to accommodate the trader’s growing business.
“You can fit up this place to suit yourself. It’s strongly built and will probably serve your purpose. I have a padlock inside for the door.”
It was not long before La Qua and his followers were locked up and a guard, recruited from the crowd, stationed just outside. Then Sandy accompanied Malemute Slade and Richardson to Pearly’s room. The wounded man smiled cheerfully as they entered.
Sandy was overjoyed at the remarkable change in Pearly’s appearance. Although still running a high fever, he had taken a turn for the better. The greatest danger had passed. Sergeant Richardson stood near the bed but did not speak. A deep hush had fallen over the room. Suddenly the grizzled veteran of a hundred trails put out one hand and permitted it to rest for one brief moment upon the wounded man’s head. That was all. But many of the harsh lines in the face of the police sergeant had softened. Silently he turned away, motioning to Slade and Sandy to follow him. They repaired to the room, which had been placed at their disposal. Closing the door after him, Richardson lost no time in getting down to business.
“You asked me, Slade, where we got our prisoners. Over at Murky’s cache. We had a little trouble there. If you’ll listen closely I’ll give you full particulars of the affair.”
When the policeman had finished his narrative, Sandy noted the impression it had made upon the scout. Malemute’s eyes were shining with excitement.
“So that’s where Murky had his cache. Yuh can believe it or not, sergeant, but I passed that place not more than two days ago. I didn’t see nothin’ that looked suspicious. Mebbe it was a good thing I didn’t stop to investigate. It might o’ spoiled ever’thing. So Rand is followin’ the pack-train through Blind Man’s Pass? Can yuh beat that? Here I’ve been searchin’ fer nearly a month an’ couldn’t find it.”
Sergeant Richardson drummed softly on the table. He looked up and smiled.
“Unless I’m badly mistaken, the exact location of the pass will soon be public property. Perhaps tomorrow by this time, Rand and the two boys will have entered it.”
“Wish I was with them, sergeant.”
“You can go later. Just now I have other work for you.”
“You mean the prisoners?”
“Yes.”
“Want me to take ’em back to Mackenzie barracks?”
“They’ll be safer there,” nodded the sergeant.
“You’re goin’ out after Murky then, eh?”
“No. Rand may have more to do than he’s bargained for. I think I’ll take Sandy here and set out after them. Murky will have to wait. I don’t believe he’ll attempt to escape. He’ll probably stay over at Good Faith for a few weeks longer.”
“Few weeks!” sputtered Malemute. “Why, he ain’t there right now!”
“Isn’t there!”
“No. When I come in a while ago, Wandley told me he’d seen Murky again jes’ a few hours before.”
“Great Scott! Then he didn’t go back to Fort Good Faith after all.”
“Don’t see how he could.”
“But which way did he go? Did you hear?”
“Wandley didn’t seem to know. If anyone was to ask me fer an opinion, I’d say he’s out scouting fer more fur.”
Richardson rose thoughtfully to his feet and walked over to the window. The bleak, cheerless landscape met his gaze. Sandy, who had a good view of the policeman’s face, saw the jaw set grimly.
“I may be able to pick up a trace of him somewhere during the next few days. Of course, that means that my trip through the pass must be postponed for a short time.”
He turned and smiled at Sandy.
“While I’m out making my investigations, you’d better stay right here. If you wish, upon my return, you can accompany me on the journey.”
“I’ll wait for you, sergeant. I’m anxious to go through Blind Man’s Pass and join Dick and Toma.” Then more plaintively: “You won’t change your mind, will you?”
Both Richardson and Malemute Slade laughed at the young man’s earnestness.
“No, Sandy, a promise is a promise. I’ll not go back on my word.” Richardson turned and addressed Slade. “You’d better make arrangements to take the prisoners over to barracks as quickly as possible. I’d suggest that you start tomorrow.”
“I’ll start this afternoon if you say the word, sergeant.”
“No. You need a few hours in which to rest up. Tomorrow will do almost as well.”
With a nod and a smile for both of them, the policeman turned quickly and strode out of the room.
CHAPTER XIV
FOLLOWING THE PACK-TRAIN
Through an opaque darkness filled with the oppressive silence of Arctic night, Dick and Toma made their way. A few stars had come out like wayward wanderers. On every side were gray, unfamiliar shapes. Objects were shadowy and indistinct. Wolves and coyotes made the only sound heard across that weird and mysterious wilderness.
“We ought to find him pretty soon, Toma,” Dick broke forth. “We’ve been travelling for an hour now, and I’m sure we’ve been making better progress than the pack-train.”
They came to the foot of a slope and started up, side by side, their moccasined feet swishing through the freshly fallen snow. Gaining the summit of the hill, they paused for breath. Then the quick ears of the guide, straining always for some sound that might be significant, detected a faint rustling ahead.
“I hear him. We go careful now. Mebbe him Corporal Rand. But no take chances. Not always be too sure.”
Rand it was. He stood waiting for them, one hand on his hip, the other raised in a warning gesture.
“They’re ahead—not more than a few rods. Listen, and you can hear them.”
“Yes, I can hear something,” whispered Dick. “Did you think we were never coming, corporal?”
“As a matter of fact,” Rand answered him, “I didn’t expect you for another half hour. You’ve made good time.”
The three started forward slowly, keeping always within sound of the cavalcade in front. Sometimes they approached so closely that they could hear the voices of the packers and occasionally the snarling of the dogs. Soon they had learned something of importance: La Qua’s pack-train consisted both of ponies and dog teams. There were seven or eight horses, in addition to four teams of huskies.
“You see,” explained Rand, “La Qua was in a predicament. The snow storm interfered with his plans. His original intention, evidently, was to take only pack-horses. The heavy snow made this inadvisable. But he didn’t have as many dog teams as he required to move away the cache. So he was forced to use the ponies as well.”
Just before daybreak, the pack-train halted in the lee of a small mountain. From a position a few hundred yards away, concealed by rocks, Rand and the two boys watched it. Breakfast was soon in progress. Smoke curled up from several campfires. It was not an altogether unpleasant scene and Dick’s mouth watered at the thought of the nourishing meal, piping hot, the outlaws would presently sit down to. He even imagined he could smell the appetizing odor of frying bacon and the pungent aroma of coffee. A little crestfallen, he nibbled at his own emergency rations, huddling down against a flat surface of rock.
Later, Dick looked out again, eyes bleared and bloodshot. Every muscle in his body ached. Lack of sleep had induced a strange condition—an overpowering lassitude he could not shake off. The rustling of a pine tree near by had become a sing-song, half-musical chant, which momentarily grew louder. His vision played him false. Objects around him were distorted, sometimes grotesque. His mind had lost its function. Nothing was real. Nothing mattered. He fell asleep, sitting up—a sleep so sound, so intense, so deep that Rand saw the uselessness of attempting to wake him.
When he recovered consciousness, he heard the corporal speaking:
“He’s coming to, Toma. Give him another shake.”
Dick stared about him guiltily. He surmised that he had slept only a few minutes but the sight of the round orb of the sun, high above the horizon, quickly disillusioned him.
“Why—why didn’t you wake me?” he gasped. “How long have I been here? What time is it, corporal?”
“Nine o’clock. You’ve slept four hours.”
“I did?” Dick’s eyes were wide with dismay.
“Yes, you did. But don’t think I blame you,” Rand laughed. “You couldn’t help it. It was inevitable. No person can manage without sleep. I had a little doze myself. We can’t lose the pack-train now. It will be easy to follow their tracks in broad daylight. We’ll catch up to them again before nightfall.”
All day they travelled, passing through a country of hills and rocks, with mountain peaks towering above them. The summits of the mountains were lost in an enveloping, vaporous mist. Shaggy heights were resplendent in rainbow garb. The deep brown of rock surfaces was a decided contrast to the scintillating white of the trail.
Late in the afternoon the tracks led them across a wind-swept plateau, thence down to a narrow defile which ran uninterruptedly westward for a distance of four or five miles. As they approached its end, Corporal Rand was surprised into a quick ejaculation.
“Can’t see how we can get out of this. Surely they didn’t climb those slippery rocks.”
A few yards further on, they found the solution to the mystery. On the left they saw an opening in the rocks, scarcely more than four feet wide—in reality a wide crack that split the immense formation of rock from top to bottom. Passing through it, they emerged into what appeared to be a wide valley, stretching far ahead. The corporal gasped in amazement. Dick stood bewildered. Even Toma so far forgot himself as to cry out in wonder.
“Blind Man’s Pass!” exclaimed the two boys.
“Blind Man’s Pass,” replied the policeman. “At last a reality! Wonderful! I can scarcely credit my senses. Beautiful, isn’t it, Dick?”
Dick nodded. “I was never more astonished in my life. No wonder the entrance to the pass is so hard to find. Even now I doubt if I could go back eight or ten miles and find my way here again.”
A strange far-away look flecked the eyes of the policeman. He glanced up at the receding walls of the valley. Up, up, up, hundreds, thousands of feet through an amber haze of sunlight, streaked here and there with bright tints and shades. Magic seemed to touch everything. Dick was obsessed with a sense of unreality, of majestic heights, of vague distances.
Along the comparatively level floor of the valley lay only a few inches of snow. The tracks of the pack-train could easily be seen. They were not difficult to follow. There was no danger now of wandering afield and losing their bearings. The mountains shut them in—completely encompassed them. Neither they nor the outlaws could clamber up the unscalable heights.
Their onward trek had assumed something of the nature of an outing, a mysterious adventure through unfamiliar scenes. In the hours that passed never once did Dick lose interest in his surroundings. Sleep had revived him and his spirits had risen accordingly. He and his two companions hurried on, conversing as gaily as if they were going to a holiday festival.
Day ended with startling suddenness. But the gloomy, threatening darkness of the preceding night did not come. It was more radiant, softly nocturnal—a half-moon riding across a bedecked, star-sprinkled sky. Crackling northern lights. Clear, crisp, exhilarating air. The only obscurities lay along the shadowed walls of the valley, in the deep recesses and fissures of the rocks.
Day after day, they fared westward amid scenes of grandeur and magnificence. Never did they approach closer than a mile or two to the outlaws. At night very often they could see twinkling campfires ahead. Frequently, on clear days, they perceived the pack-train itself—tiny black dots, crawling like ants over sugar or white sand. Once, climbing to the commanding position of a huge crag, for nearly an hour Dick watched the progress of the cavalcade.
Outside of these minor incidents, there was little of importance to distinguish one day from another. Fortunately, there had been no marked change in the weather. They were forced to conserve their supplies, but now and again ptarmigan were secured, making a much appreciated change in the monotony of their diet. On the morning of the tenth day the valley widened out and by evening they had made their way out of the pass into a country of rugged and broken contours. Soon the forest encroached. Then the topography of the land became less undulating, less forbidding. In the breath of the wind they could smell the unmistakable tang of the Pacific. It was shortly after this that a most mysterious incident occurred.
It was afternoon, of a calm, sunshiny day, and only a few hours previous they had picked up a well-marked trail, leading to the westward. The pack-train—they had good reason to believe—was less than a mile ahead; and Dick and his two companions were moving along slowly, when, unexpectedly to their right, scarcely a hundred yards back from the trail, they perceived a log cabin. Upon closer approach, they saw that the place was inhabited. A thin spiral of smoke curled up from the mud chimney. Outside, stretched on convenient drying-frames, were pelts of various wild animals.
Invariably cautious, Rand decided not to go in, even though his visit might have been rewarded by a goodly supply of fresh meat.
“I hate to risk it,” he informed the boys. “No telling who lives there. I’ve no desire to advertise my presence. We’d better conquer our curiosity and our appetites and keep right on.”
They were now directly opposite the cabin. Dick and Toma turned longing eyes in its direction.
“Look! Ponies!” exclaimed Toma.
“Where?” sharply demanded Rand.
The guide pointed. Back in the heavy underbrush, near the edge of a natural clearing, were three ponies staked out in the snow. The policeman’s face instantly became serious, though for what reason Dick could not decide. From that moment, he grew more and more thoughtful. Once or twice, as Dick looked his way, he saw Rand shake his head. But in the interest of new scenes, Dick quickly forgot the incident. It was fully an hour later before it was brought again to his attention.
“Queer thing about those ponies,” Rand mused aloud. “Seldom that these trappers keep any around. It puzzles me.”
“It does seem strange,” agreed Dick. “Can’t imagine what use a trapper would have for them.”
A few miles farther on they passed a second cabin, almost identical to the first. Here too was the same phenomenon—except that at this place there were two ponies instead of three. So amazed was Rand that he stopped short and scratched his head in perplexity.
“This is a new one on me,” he scowled. “I’ve travelled thousands of miles through the North, met every type of trapper, both Indians and white men, but this is the first time I have ever witnessed this incongruity. Trappers with ponies! Dog teams—yes! But ponies never! Can you explain it, Toma?”
“No. I not understand, corporal.”
Twice, during the next two days, the incident was repeated. They passed other trappers’ shacks where there were ponies. However, now the thing had become such a commonplace occurrence that they ceased to marvel at it. New interests occupied their attention. The trail had widened and had become almost a road. Indian villages were passed. They saw totem poles. They crossed a river. Obliterated now were the tracks of the pack-train. More and more traffic with each succeeding day. One morning Dick made a suggestion.
“Don’t you think we ought to hurry along and catch up to them, corporal? They may be travelling faster now and may give us the slip. We can slow down again as soon as we catch sight of them.”
“Good idea,” responded Rand.
There ensued a long period of forced marching, during which the little party hardly took time to eat or sleep. Hour after hour, they hurried on. The pace began to tell. Nearly fifty-four hours later, climbing to a height of land, they saw stretching out before them, perhaps not more than ten miles away, the huge, broad expanse of the ocean. But nowhere along the trail ahead was there a sign of the pack-train. Corporal Rand’s face shadowed with apprehension.
“Something mighty queer about this,” he pronounced. “I can’t understand it. I’m beginning to feel like a fool.”
“But what do you mean, corporal?”
“The pack-train—” the policeman’s voice caught.
“Yes. Yes,” persisted Dick. “What about it?”
Rand rubbed a hand across his troubled forehead.
“Just this, Dick: I can’t believe that the outlaws have been able to gain so quickly on us. I wonder what has happened.”
“They must be ahead somewhere. We’ve followed them all the way. They couldn’t just disappear in thin air.”
Before replying, the corporal brushed the snow from a flat rock and sat down.
“That’s the natural hypothesis. But the facts don’t seem to bear it out.”
“You mean—”
“I mean,” said the policeman, “that we’ve been hoodwinked. They’ve contrived somehow to give us the slip. I’m positive we won’t find them ahead. Do you suppose we passed their camp during the night?”
CHAPTER XV
THE CORPORAL UPBRAIDS HIMSELF
During the ensuing consultation there appeared to be a diversity of opinion. Toma thought that they ought to retrace their steps in an attempt to find out where the outlaws had turned off the trail, while Dick still held to the belief that the pack-train must be somewhere ahead. As for Rand, he did not immediately declare himself. Sitting on the rock, his chin resting in his hands, he was immersed in deep thought. Nearly ten minutes elapsed before he looked up and addressed his two companions.
“I might as well be perfectly frank. I’m stuck. I must confess that I don’t know where the pack-train is. It may be behind or it may be ahead. If they—the outlaws—are ahead, I will say they’ve been moving faster than at any time since we left Settlement Mountain.”
Dick stood impatiently, hands on hips, one moccasined foot tracing patterns and queer hieroglyphics in the soft snow at the side of the trail. Toma’s face was inscrutable. What lay behind his mask-like features no one might guess. Another interval of silence—of inactivity. Finally Rand rose to his feet.
“We’ll go on,” came his decision. “I doubt if we’ll find them ahead, but we can search for the cabin in which the furs are stored. The cache must be there somewhere.”
Later in the day, they came out upon a tree-covered plain close to the Pacific. They camped within a thick shelter of pines, rolled in their blankets, and on the following morning inaugurated a careful, painstaking search.
Weary and discouraged, almost out of food, at the end of the second day they found themselves on the south side of a tiny inlet.
“We seem to be getting nowhere,” Rand confessed. “I believe now that if there is a cache, it’s farther back from the coast. We’ll skirt this inlet and then return inland to see if by any chance we can find a trace of the pack-train.”
Doggedly, in silence, the boys trailed along after Rand. Half an hour later they broke through a tangle of underbrush to a clearing beyond. Their hearts leaped with joy. Built out from the shore was a crudely constructed landing wharf, fashioned entirely from pine and spruce timbers with a covering of hewed poles. Close to the wharf—and what struck their attention still more forcibly—stood a large log building without windows—and with only one door. It was a warehouse—nothing else! Probably the cache itself!
“Hurray!” shouted Dick, as he broke into a run. “We’ve found it!”
They brought up before the door of the building, panting breathlessly. The door was padlocked. In feverish haste, Toma secured a couple of sharp rocks and commenced hammering upon the clasp. Rand was smiling now for the first time in many hours. When the efforts of Toma had been rewarded, he stepped forward and yanked open the barrier.
“Murky Nichols has been storing fur in here for the past three or four years,” he told the boys. “This will be the largest cache of stolen fur ever seized by the police. It will mark the end of a series of lawless depredations by the cleverest gang of crooks that has ever operated in the North.”
When he had ceased speaking, the corporal stepped inside. The place was dank, dark, evil-smelling. It was impossible to see anything. Standing just behind him, Toma struck a match. The tiny flame flared up, but failed to light the mysterious, dark recesses of the room. Dick and Toma alternated in lighting matches. They pushed their way farther into the darkness, groping about like ghouls in some subterranean passage.
Moisture had sprung out upon Dick’s forehead. He was trembling and hot. Each tiny taper carried them farther and farther on their round of exploration. Finally, Corporal Rand stopped short and threw up his hands in an exasperated gesture.
“Shades of a purple skunk!” he cried out angrily. “There’s nothing here! Pshaw! The place is as clean and bare as Mother Hubbard’s cupboard.”
The disappointment succeeding this announcement was keen. Dick’s shoulders slumped and his head drooped as he turned dejectedly and made his way back to the door. Toma was the only one who had anything to say.
“I tell you something, corporal. Mebbe no fur here now, but all same Murky Nichols use this place to make ’em cache. I know that.”
“How do you know it?” growled Dick.
“I tell by smell,” answered the guide.
“He’s right,” broke forth the corporal. “Fur has been stored here. I can detect a familiar odor myself.”
“But how do you explain it?” asked Dick. “You were under the impression that Nichols had a two-year supply of stolen fur here. What has become of it?”
“Unfortunately, I’m no wizard,” Rand answered a little testily, “or I might be able to answer your question. All I know is that Nichols has been shipping fur for the last three or four years. As I told you once before, we believe that a large shipment was taken from here to Seattle by someone, who either purchased the fur in good faith or who is a confederate of Murky’s. Perhaps this person comes up here oftener than we surmised. It may be that he has just recently cleaned out this cache and will return later for the fur now being brought here by pack-train. Of only one thing am I reasonably sure, and that is that this is the place where Nichols sends his shipments.”
“If we wait here, pretty soon pack-train will come. What you think?” Toma raised questioning eyes to the mounted policeman.
“Yes,” said Rand, “the pack-train will come here. We can’t miss it.”
“But what I don’t understand,” Dick spoke hesitatingly, “is why the outlaws haven’t arrived days ago. They were ahead of us when we started. Now we’re ahead of them. How do you explain it, corporal?”
“I can think of only one explanation. The boat from Seattle may not be due here for a week or two. In the interim, the outlaws are putting up somewhere along the trail, where there are better facilities for feeding the men and caring for the dogs and ponies. We must have passed them in the dark.”
“What will we do?” asked Dick. “Go back and try to find them or stay here?”