“When we came up, he stared at us coldly.
“‘If you two young fools have finished with your celebration,’ he said, ‘you’ll please take charge of these dog teams while the rest of us gentlemen retire to the post.’
“That’s all there is to tell you, I guess, except that Corporal Richardson locked the men up in a big room at Fort Good Faith and that we stored all the stolen fur in the company’s warehouse. Afterwards, when the corporal had cooled off and was a little more friendly towards me, he told me where you had gone and about the plan you had employed to deceive Henderson’s spies.”
“I tell you, Dick,” Sandy went on, “you can’t imagine how much the corporal likes you. He seemed worried stiff for fear that something might happen to you. Finally, after we had bothered him a lot, he gave us permission to go out and try to find you.”
“You found me all right,” Dick was forced to admit, “but I don’t see how you ever managed to do it.”
“It was easy enough—for Toma. He found your tracks where you left the Run River trail and we followed them up to a house.”
“The house of La Lond,” said Dick.
“I don’t know whose house it was. It was almost dark when we got there. My plan was to walk right up, knock at the door and ask for you, but Toma thought differently.”
“Bad men him live there,” interrupted Toma, moving closer to the fire. “I know him Baptiste for bad fellow. Me see that man many times an’ no like at all. I ’fraid mebbe he kill you an’ hide body. So I listen at door. I find out something.”
“What did you find out?” asked Dick.
“Me find out you been there an’ go ’way again. Baptiste very mad an’ talk in loud voice. He say I kill him that fellow bye-’n’-bye. Drink much rum an’ shout all time. No have trouble to listen.”
Sandy started to speak but Dick motioned to him to be silent. He was anxious to learn what the young Indian had found out, and wanted to hear the story from the lips of Toma himself.
“Did he mention the name of Henderson at all?” he inquired.
Toma nodded. “Yes,” he answered, “him talk about Henderson too. Him say he go see Henderson pretty soon. Then get scouting party an’ find you where you hide in the woods. Talk like Henderson no live very far away.”
“That’s exactly what I wanted to make sure of,” Dick explained to Sandy, “and I’m almost certain that I know where the outlaw’s camp is.”
“Did you see the camp?” asked Sandy.
Dick shook his head. “No, I didn’t see it. Baptiste told me where it was.”
“But why did he do that? I should think he’d want to keep its location a secret.”
“He wanted me to go there and directed me to the place because he knew that the moment I walked into the outlaw’s camp Henderson would either kill me at once or make me his prisoner.”
In a few words Dick related his experiences at the house of the Brothers La Lond, of his escape, and, finally, of the accident that had befallen him.
“You’re hurt!” cried Sandy, suddenly jumping up. “Why, Dick, you should have told us before.”
The faces of Sandy and Toma were very grave as they stooped to untie his moccasin and examine the injured foot.
“Very bad sprain,” said Toma, straightening up. “I help you fix him, so after while you feel very much better. Sandy,” he ordered, turning to his still gaping companion, “you start build shelter right away. You, me work all night mebbe to make nice warm place. Dick stay here with bad foot one, two days, I think.”
In less than an hour, his foot properly attended to, Dick was resting more easily. Around him a shelter was being hurriedly constructed. He could hear Sandy and the young Indian guide walking back and forth, gathering huge arm-loads of brush, spruce boughs and moss, occasionally calling out to each other in bantering tones. The fire, which had been replenished, blazed brightly in front of the opening of the shelter. Its welcome heat succeeded in making Dick drowsy and presently he fell asleep.
When he awoke on the following morning, he rubbed his eyes in astonishment. All about him was the green, circular wall of a large tepee, so closely woven together with spruce boughs and moss that it was impossible to see even the faintest shaft of light coming through from the outside. The opening had been hung with a small blanket, but, what astonished Dick more than anything else, was that the fire, which had formerly been outside, was now inside the shelter. Smoke from an arm-load of burning branches rose straight up, escaping through a vent at the top of the tepee.
The shelter was warm and cozy, fragrant with the smell of spruce. Over the fire a small kettle of snow water was bubbling merrily. Dick threw back the four-point Hudson’s Bay blanket, which covered him, and clapped his hands with delight. What a miracle Toma and Sandy had wrought during the night! They had worked like Trojans to make things pleasant and comfortable for him.
He wondered where they were now. Except for the crackling of the fire and the sound of the water boiling in the kettle, there was nothing whatsoever to break the deep hush of that winter morning. He sat up and endeavored to examine his ankle. It felt better, he thought. There was no pain worth mentioning, and he was quite sure the swelling had gone down.
“I don’t mind staying here in the least,” he informed himself, twisting around and making his way over to the inviting blaze. “It will be great sport to live in a green wigwam like this with Sandy and Toma for company.”
A dull tramping in the snow outside, caused him to raise his head and turn his eyes toward the opening. The blanket was pushed aside and Sandy appeared, crawling on hands and knees, trailing his rifle and a large rabbit. Toma, who entered immediately behind, had two rabbits and a ptarmigan. The eyes of the two youthful hunters glowed from the excitement and pleasure of their successful foray.
“We eat good breakfast,” Toma announced, holding out the rabbits and ptarmigan for Dick’s inspection.
“When did you wake up?” Sandy wanted to know. “Thought you’d sleep for an hour yet.”
“It’s wonderful!” Dick voiced his appreciation and nearly choked in the effort. “You fellows are certainly two good pals. When I woke up I could scarcely believe my eyes.”
“It took us nearly all night,” said Sandy. “I don’t suppose I could ever have done it alone. Of course, I don’t need to tell you that Toma was the architect.”
“My people build ’em like that many times,” Toma modestly explained. “Plenty warm even when weather very cold. See many like that on Indian trap-line.”
“How long were you away hunting?” Dick asked.
“About an hour, I think. Game seems to be fairly plentiful around here. And, O Dick!——” Sandy paused as he turned somewhat eagerly toward his friend, “a mile from here, just across a narrow ravine, Toma came across snowshoe tracks. He says they were made by a white man.”
“Baptiste or Phillip,” guessed Dick, shivering a little.
Toma shook his head.
“Me no think so. Tracks at least two days old. Some white man he go by here day before yesterday.”
“But how,” sceptically inquired Dick, “do you know it was a white man? Surely you’re not able to tell that. Are the tracks so very much different?”
The Indian guide laughed as he nodded his head in the affirmative.
“Easy to tell. White man no use ’em snow shoes same like Indian. Tracks turn out. Indian tracks go straight ahead.”
“I think there’s something in it,” Sandy volunteered, “because after Toma had told me, while we were still out there on the trail, I noticed that Toma’s tracks were different from mine.”
Although still a little sceptical, Dick was sufficiently well acquainted with Toma and his ability and prowess, not to doubt that the Indian lad might be correct in his surmise. Very rarely, indeed, did Toma err in matters of this kind. A natural-born tracker and scout, versed in the ways of the wilderness, he had often startled his two young friends by his almost unlimited knowledge of wood-lore.
“And that isn’t all,” Sandy’s voice broke the lull in their conversation. “We discovered something else besides those tracks. I almost hate to tell you, Dick.”
“What was it?” his friend asked wonderingly.
“Blood stains!” Sandy enlightened him. “The man’s tracks were sprinkled here and there with tiny red spots. He must have been hurt or wounded, Dick. It makes me shiver to think about it.”
“Perhaps he was carrying some animal he had killed,” suggested Dick.
Again Toma shook his head.
“No,” he stated with conviction, “man hurt very bad. Him not go many miles like that. Toma feel plenty sorry for that man.”
In alarm, Dick looked from one to the other of his two friends. A hurt or wounded man out there on the trail alone—it made him feel weak and sick himself. He recalled his own helplessness and horror on the previous night, when he had fallen and sprained his ankle.
“Isn’t there something we can do?” he finally blurted out. “Just think what it may mean, Sandy.”
Sandy did not answer. Neither did Toma. The three boys were looking at each other now in a gloomy silence.
“You mustn’t forget your own condition, Dick,” Sandy reminded him. “We can’t leave you here alone, can we?”
“One of you could go after we’ve had breakfast. Why couldn’t you, Toma?” He turned appealingly to the Indian guide. “What do you say?”
To Dick’s surprise, Toma drew back and raised one arm in a gesture of protest.
“What you think poor Toma make crazy altogether?” he inquired. “Sandy an’ me both stay here to fight ’em Henderson’s men when they come. What good you think just one against two, three, four—mebbe six, ten men?” he demanded hotly.
It was, indeed, a poser. Dick sat with his head in his hands and Sandy turned wearily away to commence the preparation of breakfast.
CHAPTER IX
THE COUNCIL OF WAR
Breakfast was over and three very sober young men sat down to what Sandy described as a council of war.
“We must make some sort of a plan right away,” he stated. “First thing we know Henderson will be here to catch us napping.”
Sandy’s brow wrinkled at the very unpleasant thought.
“Now my proposal is that each one of us make a suggestion. Then the three of us will consider these suggestions one by one and try to pick flaws in them. Maybe out of the three suggestions we can build some sort of working plan.”
“All right, you’re number one,” smiled Dick. “What is your plan?”
Sandy flushed with embarrassment.
“Look here, Dick, not so fast. Give me a little time please. You know blamed well that I haven’t had an opportunity to think yet.”
“What about you, Toma?”
The Indian guide stirred uneasily and licked his dry lips. From his look of detachment, it was quite evident that he had been deeply engrossed in his own thoughts for quite a long time. He stared blankly at Dick.
“What you mean?” he asked.
“We’re trying to think of some way to fool Henderson,” Dick patiently explained. “What are we going to do, Toma? We can’t sit here all day just waiting for something to happen.”
“Only way I think of is for me go down trail in direction La Lond’s house. Bye-’n’-bye when Henderson come, I hide in bush and shoot rifle. Henderson stop. He not know what to do. Mebbe he think man in bush is you, Dick. He come after me an’ I keep shoot all time, but all time me I run very fast. No can catch. I keep lead him away more all time from this camp.”
Dick and Sandy clapped their hands enthusiastically.
“Very good,” Dick complimented Toma. “Your plan’s so original that I don’t think we can improve on it.”
“I can improve on it,” boasted Sandy. “You see, Dick there is one weak spot in his plan. Henderson will be sure to catch sight of Toma, no matter how careful he is about hiding and shooting from cover. And once he sees him, he’ll know right away that it isn’t you—because you’re wearing the uniform of the mounted police.”
“You right,” admitted Toma. “I never thought of that.”
“And so you think that Henderson will realize right away that Toma isn’t the man he wants, and will keep right on coming?” asked Dick.
“That’s it,” Sandy answered. “Toma may check him, but he won’t stop him. Henderson will very likely divide his force, sending part of his men after Toma and the rest down here. It won’t be very difficult for him to follow the trail the three of us have made.”
“No, of course, it won’t,” agreed Dick.
“There’s only one way to make Toma’s plan absolutely water-tight and fool-proof,” continued Sandy, “and it’s as simple as A, B, C.”
“Prove it,” challenged Dick. “I guess I don’t understand you.”
“Easy enough,” Sandy enlightened him. “Put your uniform on Toma. That little trick will work just as well now as it did in the case of the fur thieves.”
“Whew!” Dick whistled. “Honestly, Sandy, there are moments when you show indications of real genius. At other times you’re so hopelessly imbecile that it makes me tremble to think what will become of you.”
“Easy there!” ordered the person both complimented and accused, throwing a chip at Dick’s head. “You and Toma are nearly the same size. The uniform will fit well enough for our purposes. If there aren’t any more suggestions, we’d better get busy.”
In a few minutes more the uniform had again changed hands. Toma put it on with a feeling of awe and reverence, that was only natural in one who, since infancy, had been taught to respect and revere the men who wore it.
“You look fine, Toma,” said Dick, “and I haven’t the least doubt but that you’ll make a much better mounted policeman than I did.”
“I try be better,” Toma stated simply, which assertion brought a laugh from Sandy.
“Before you go,” smiled Dick, “I think we’d better have some sort of an understanding. How far are you going down the trail before you stop to wait for Henderson, and how long will you wait there if he doesn’t come along right away?”
“I go down trail about four miles,” answered the guide, “an’ wait until dark. Him no come at all if no come by dark, I think.”
“I don’t think so either,” Sandy cut in. “You’d better not stay out too late, Toma. Return as quickly as you can after night comes.”
“Another thing,” Dick spoke again, “I wouldn’t fire at Henderson’s men until after they had fired at you. Show yourself from a safe distance and let them do most of the shooting. Besides, you know as well as I do, Toma, that a real mounted policeman never fires from ambush.”
With the words of his friends still ringing in his ears, Toma crawled through the narrow opening and a moment later was gone. Dick and Sandy sat motionless.
“I’d like to be in his shoes,” Sandy finally broke forth, “and I’m sorry now that I didn’t go along.”
“That would be foolish. Toma can look after himself.”
“But I feel like a fool sitting here and doing nothing.”
“Go out and hunt for some more rabbits,” suggested Dick. “You don’t need to bother about me. I feel that I am perfectly safe here now. I have a lot of confidence in Toma and the plan he and you so cleverly worked out. Why don’t you go, Sandy?”
Sandy opened his clasp-knife and commenced to whittle on a stick.
“I would, only I hate to leave you here alone. It would be pretty lonesome for you just sitting or lying here with nothing to occupy your mind.”
“I have plenty of things to think about,” Dick replied. “So don’t let that worry you. Why don’t you go?” he repeated.
“If I do go, it won’t be on a hunting trip.”
“Why?”
Sandy threw down the stick and put away his hunting knife. He rose to his feet.
“Do you know, Dick, I keep thinking about that man out there—the one who was hurt. Do you suppose that—that something has happened to him?”
“I’ve been thinking about him too,” Dick confessed. “It’s terrible, isn’t it, Sandy?” He paused as he drew himself to a more upright position. “But I imagine,” he continued hopelessly, “that he’s beyond help now. Toma said that he wouldn’t go very far.”
Sandy strode forward and put one hand on Dick’s head.
“Do you suppose, Dick——” he began, then paused abruptly.
Smiling, Dick looked up.
“I know what you are going to say, Sandy. You feel that it’s our duty to try and do something. But you are hesitating on my account. You’d like to follow those tracks and see if you can find the man.” Dick seized Sandy’s hand and gave it a re-assuring squeeze. “It’s exactly what I hoped you’d want to do. Hop to it, Sandy.”
“I’ll return before dark,” promised the other, his face lighting up with pleasure.
“Don’t get lost,” cautioned Dick.
“Of course, I won’t. I have a better sense of direction than I used to have, and I’m a lot more careful too.”
Sandy stooped down and picked up his shoulder-pack. He was eager now and worked hurriedly assembling his kit.
“Take two or three days’ rations with you,” Dick ordered. “You never can tell what will happen.”
Sandy complied willingly enough. He turned to bid Dick good-bye.
“Don’t worry about me,” he said cheerfully. “I’ll be all right. I’ll return safe and sound, depend on that.”
Then, almost before he realized it, Dick was alone. He sat staring at the green, thatched walls of his little prison, disconsolately kicking, with his uninjured foot, at the tangled mat of moss and dead leaves at the side of his bed. Hours would pass before either of his two friends would return. The day would drag itself along, seeming never to come to an end. If there was only something he could do to make time slip away more quickly.
For an hour or more, he cleaned and polished his rifle, pausing now and again to crawl over and put a stick of wood on the fire. By carefully conserving the wood, which Toma and Sandy had gathered on the previous night, there would be sufficient to last for quite a long time.
A little later, putting down his rifle, his gaze fell upon the two rabbits and ptarmigan Toma had brought in. The one rabbit, which Sandy had killed, they had eaten for breakfast. Securing his hunting knife, Dick worked his way across the tepee and commenced to skin and dress the game they had been so fortunate in obtaining.
Having completed this task, Dick went to the opening for snow, which he melted in a kettle over the fire. It was necessary to make many of these trips before he had sufficient water for drinking purposes and for the rabbit-stew he had decided upon. Thus occupied, he contrived to keep himself in a cheerful frame of mind. Staying here alone was not really as monotonous as he had expected.
After he had prepared a light lunch and had drunk several cups of tea, he retired to his bunk and soon fell asleep. When he awoke, it was with the consciousness of being chilly and uncomfortable. Turning his head, he perceived, with a start, that the fire had gone out. It was now quite dark inside the tepee, and looking up he was astonished to see several stars peeping down at him through the smoke-vent.
“I must have slept a long time,” thought Dick, scrambling to a sitting position and preparing to crawl over to rekindle the fire.
In a few minutes a bright blaze sprang up under his hand and in a few minutes more, piling on brush and sticks, he had driven the chill from the room. He was in the act of placing the rabbit-stew over the fire, when the blanket, covering the opening, was pushed unceremoniously aside and Toma entered.
“Hello, you old rascal!” shouted Dick. “This is luck. You made a quick trip of it.”
Toma grinned broadly as he approached the fire and commenced to remove his parka and coat.
“Plan work fine,” he informed him. “Me fool Henderson good an’ plenty, I guess. Make ’em run all through woods try and catch me. Shoot plenty of rifles an’ make big noise. Bye-’n’-bye I give ’em slip an’ come back here.”
“You’re a trump!” exulted his hearer. “I knew you could do it.”
“Henderson him plenty sick by now,” chuckled Toma. “Go home like mad grizzly ’cause he no find mounted police.”
The Indian guide stood for a moment, warming his hands over the fire.
“Where Sandy go?” he suddenly asked.
Dick flushed slightly under the direct, searching scrutiny. The truth was, he felt a little guilty about Sandy. After all, perhaps, he should not have permitted his friend to go.
“I’ll tell you about it,” said Dick, which he proceeded to do, wondering what Toma would say.
When Dick had concluded, the guide stood for several minutes silently contemplating the leaping flames at his feet. His face was expressionless—neither sober nor gay.
“No like,” he declared finally, shaking his head. “No like Sandy go away alone. Him more young me an’ you. Him little fellow. No stand much. Mebbe get lost.”
“No,” said Dick, endeavoring to reassure the young Indian and likewise himself, “Sandy will be perfectly all right. We don’t need to worry.”
But, as a matter of fact, both of them did worry. They ate supper in a gloomy mood, straining their ears for the sound of a familiar step. The hours passed, and still Sandy did not appear. When midnight came, Dick, nearly frantic, raised his head from his pillow, deciding to sit up.
“He no come yet,” said Toma in a hushed voice.
Somewhere, fairly close at hand, they heard the howling of a wolf.
It was the only sound which, for many long hours, had broken the deep silence of the forest.
CHAPTER X
SANDY PLAYS A LONE HAND
“Wake up! Wake up!”
A light was shining in Dick’s face and he was being shaken roughly by the shoulders. Something had fallen near the bed—a dull clatter of some sort. Then a voice raised slightly, then more voices, and, presently, as Dick half-sat, half-reclined on his spruce couch, endeavoring to rub the sleep from his eyes and collect his befuddled senses, he perceived what seemed to be at first a miracle.
The tepee was full of people. It seemed incredible, but true it was. The narrow confines of the room, in which he had spent the previous thirty-six hours, most of them alone, now fairly bustled with life. To his great amazement, he saw Sandy, Toma, Corporal Richardson, Factor MacClaren and two half-breeds, employed as servants at Fort Good Faith. They were all standing or sitting about, everyone, apparently, talking at once.
Dick made another quick dab at his eyes to make sure that his vision had not suddenly played him false. Was he suffering from some sort of a delusion? Was he seeing and hearing things? What did it all mean?
“That boy could sleep through an earthquake,” Sandy’s uncle declared, detaching himself from the little group and walking over beside Dick. “My boy,” he inquired, placing a solicitous hand on Dick’s head, “how are you feeling? Sandy tells me that you have been quite seriously hurt.”
For the third time, Dick rubbed at his eyes.
“What has happened?” he cried in a hollow, unnatural voice.
A general laugh followed this plaintive inquiry.
“It means,” Corporal Richardson enlightened him, “that everything is all right, Dick. We’ve come to take you back to the post.”
“But how——” began Dick.
“Sandy brought the news to us last night.”
Dick turned reproachful eyes in the direction of his chum.
“I like your nerve,” he said coldly, “and that’s no joke either. You said you’d come back before dark, and all the time you were scheming and planning to sneak back to the post. I suppose it didn’t matter to you how much Toma and I worried.”
“No such thing,” Sandy retorted hotly. “I wouldn’t have gone back to the post at all if I hadn’t come across Malemute Slade. I thought he was dying.”
“Malemute Slade!” Dick stared incredulously.
“I think,” Factor MacClaren broke in, “that you’d better let me straighten out this tangle.”
“No, Uncle Walter,” Sandy protested, “I can do that better myself.” He walked over and sat down on the bed beside Dick.
“When I left here,” he commenced, “you know what my intention was: to follow the tracks of the man who had been hurt and, if possible, to find him. Well, I had no difficulty in getting back to the place where Toma and I had been. The trail wasn’t very hard to follow. There were blood-stains in the snow, and here and there, I could tell where the man had sat down to rest.
“I had been out on the trail—well, it couldn’t have been much more than an hour—when the tracks led me to an old dilapidated-looking cabin. Right away, I had a feeling that the man would be there, and I had a horrible suspicion that I would find him dead.
“I knocked at the door,” Sandy continued breathlessly, “but there was no answer. So I went in. I couldn’t see anything at first, it was so dark inside. There was only one small window. But pretty soon my eyes became accustomed to the light. There was a bunk, stove and two wooden benches in the room. A man was lying in the bunk with some blankets pulled around him.
“The wounded man had started a fire, but it had gone out and it was quite cold in the room. At first, I just stood there looking around, almost too frightened to move. When I walked over to the bunk, I was trembling all over. I had scarcely strength enough to pull down the blankets, which were tucked around the man’s head.”
Sandy paused and looked around him. His face was gray and drawn. Evidently, the memory was not a very pleasant one.
“The man,” he resumed in a low voice, “was Malemute Slade.”
Dick jumped.
“Sandy!” he cried in a stricken voice. “Don’t tell me he’s dead!”
“Of course not,” smiled the speaker. “We wouldn’t all be so blamed cheerful if he was. But when I found him, he was delirious, and I don’t mind telling you that I was nearly frightened stiff.
“I was so excited, that I don’t know exactly what I did. I remember starting the fire and trying to bathe his wound in some warm snow-water. He was wounded in his right arm, which was badly swollen and almost black from infection.”
“Did Malemute Slade recognize you?” Dick asked.
“No, he was too sick for that. But he kept asking for water, sometimes sitting up and staring wildly about him. I gave him all the water he would drink, and late in the afternoon his fever subsided and he fell in a deep sleep.
“You can bet,” Sandy went on, “that I had been doing a lot of thinking. I couldn’t let him stay there like that. I was afraid he was going to die. I decided that the best thing I could do was to go back to the fort for help before it was too late.
“Shortly before dark, I banked my fire and started out. I knew I couldn’t be very far from the Run River trail, probably not more than two miles west of it. I found the trail, after a good deal of trouble, and reached Fort Good Faith soon after midnight.”
“Where is Malemute Slade now?” Dick wanted to know.
“He ought to be at the post by this time,” Corporal Richardson replied. “As soon as Sandy appeared and told us the news, I called for a little party of volunteers and we started out. The cabin, where Malemute Slade lay wounded, is between here and the Run River trail, so, of course, we stopped there first, bundled him up and sent him back in a hurry. Then we came on here for you, Dick. There is a dog team and sleigh waiting for you outside.”
“I wonder how Slade happened to get wounded?” came Dick’s next question.
“I don’t know,” the corporal replied. “We won’t be able to find that out until Slade is sufficiently recovered to tell us. However, I know this: It’s a bullet wound, and the weapon his assailant used was fired at close range. The hole in his arm is a large one. I’m afraid the bone is shattered.”
“Will he get well again?” Dick asked.
“Yes; I think so. With proper care and attention, he’ll be around again in a few weeks, although I doubt very much whether he’ll be able to use his right arm for a long, long time.”
“I’d like to get my hands on the man who shot him,” Sandy stated belligerently.
Everybody laughed at this assertion except Toma, who had good cause to remember a certain experience only a few months before, when he had been somewhat roughly treated by the young Scotchman.
“Well, there’s no use of wasting any more time here,” said Factor MacClaren. “I suggest that we roll our friend, Dick, up in a nice little bundle and proceed on our way. Averse to a sleigh-ride, Dick?”
“Not at all.”
“You may change your mind before we reach the Run River trail,” the factor warned him. “It’s pretty rough in places.”
“My foot’s better, and I won’t mind it at all,” said Dick cheerfully.
The sun had just slipped up over the horizon when the small cavalcade, with Corporal Richardson in the lead, set out. In a short while, a brilliant flood of sunshine lay over the land. Out of the west came a warm chinook, stirring the spruce and pine branches over their heads.
“Spring is coming,” rejoiced Sandy, sniffing the air and prancing about Dick’s sleigh like a young colt. “Won’t it be glorious, Dick, when the grass and flowers start to grow?”
“And the rivers and streams commence running again,” Dick added. “We’ll go fishing then, won’t we, Sandy?”
“You bet!”
Sandy appeared to be so happy, indeed, that it occurred to Dick presently, watching him gamboling about, that there must be some other explanation for his friend’s high spirits than the mere fact that Spring was approaching.
“What’s up, Sandy?” he inquired a moment later as the young man came cavorting back to the sleigh. “Anyone would think that you’d just been elected King of Scotland.”
“Nothing like that, Dick, on my word. I’m just feeling fine.”
“Sandy, you’re lying to me.”
“Not I.”
“You might as well tell me,” persisted Dick, “because I’ll be sure to find out anyway. I can tell by the way you act and by the expression on your face that something out of the ordinary has happened. Out with it!”
Sandy hesitated, then moved closer to his friend.
“It’s not exactly a secret, but we thought we wouldn’t tell you until we got back to the post. However, now that you’ve become so suspicious, I don’t see any harm in it. Are you prepared for a shock?”
“Certainly. Go right ahead.”
Sandy looked about him to make sure that they were not overheard, then leaned forward, as he walked beside the sleigh, and fairly hissed the words in Dick’s ear:
“We’ve got back the map of the lost mine!”
“No!” shouted Dick.
“It’s a fact. Corporal Richardson found it this morning on the body of Malemute Slade.”
For a brief second, Dick stared incredulously, wonderingly at his friend, then removed his parka and threw it high in the air.
CHAPTER XI
OFF FOR THE MINE
On a bright Spring morning, nearly a month after the recovery of the map, a small but enthusiastic party of young prospectors left Fort Good Faith, and started north on its exciting quest. In the lead went Toma, the young Indian guide, and Dick Kent, now fully recovered from his recent injury. Sandy MacClaren and two Indian packers, Lee and Pierre, brought up the rear.
Three pack-horses, carrying supplies, blankets and equipment, trudged along behind the packers. They were heavily laden and, considering the fact that they had but recently come off the winter range, were in excellent condition.
The route Dick and his friends followed was a narrow trail, which threaded its way north by a little west through a practically unexplored and uninhabited country. By following the trail, the party would, in a few days, cross a low range of hills and emerge upon a trackless, broken plain. This plain, according to the map, sloped away in a northwesterly direction to Thunder River.
Thunder River, although not the boys’ final objective, was yet not very far away from the location, presumed or real, of the lost mine. The map was not very clear on this point. The small “X,” indicating the position of the mine, had been placed the fractional part of an inch on the west side of Thunder River. Whether the distance between the river and the mine was one mile or ten, there was no way of ascertaining.
The boys conversed animatedly as they proceeded slowly along the trail. The weather was mild. Here and there, were a few discolored patches of snow. The ground was moist and cold, dotted with pools of water or streaked with tiny rivulets that trickled audibly away to join other streams in the steaming forest spaces beyond.
At exactly twelve o’clock by Dick’s watch, the party came to a halt for its midday meal. After consulting the two packers, Dick had chosen a small bluff, thickly covered with dry grass and almost devoid of trees, as the best spot for the picketing out of the ponies. They could feed and rest here for an hour.
“I’ve an appetite myself,” Sandy declared. He stood, watching the two Indian boys, Pierre and Lee, remove the packs from the hungry little steeds and stake them out near the top of the bluff.
Dick and Toma had already started a fire. The latter was carrying an armful of brush, considerably larger than himself, and Dick, squatting on his haunches, hunting knife in hand, was carving thick slices of steak from a hind-quarter of moose he had fetched from the unloaded packs. He looked up at Sandy’s approach.
“Here you, old lazybones, get a stir on if you expect to eat with the rest of us. Just now I require two frying-pans, salt, kettle and a liberal supply of water from that creek over yonder. You’ll find bannock in the large canvas bag, tied with the yellow string.”
“I was just planning to put myself to work when you mentioned it,” Sandy retorted. “Gee, but I’m hungry. I know blamed well from the way I feel that our four-months’ supplies won’t last us more than a week.”
He trotted away without waiting to hear what Dick’s answer might be, and in considerably less than half an hour the boys were seated around the camp fire, eating their savory meal. At its conclusion, Dick stretched himself out at full length, basking in the warm noonday sun.
“Well, Sandy,” he exulted, “we’re away to a start at last. Aren’t you glad?”
“You bet I am,” came the hearty answer as the youngest member of the expedition sprawled down beside his friend. “The only thing I’m sorry about is that Uncle Walter couldn’t come along with us. He’s taking inventory at the store, and it’ll be several weeks before he’ll be ready to start.”
“A good thing in one way,” commented Dick. “When he comes he’ll bring another string of packhorses and more supplies.”
“Corporal Richardson and Malemute Slade promised to pay us a visit too,” Sandy reminded him. “What were you three doing together last night?” he suddenly demanded, sitting up and glowering down at the other.
“You think I’m secretive and selfish, I suppose,” Dick replied, “but really there wasn’t anything so very mysterious about our little meeting. You could have come into the room where we were if you had cared to. I motioned to you when you passed down the hallway, but you pretended not to see. You’re terribly stubborn at times, Sandy.”
“Not at all,” Sandy protested. “But I feel like this: I wouldn’t for the world attempt to intrude where I’m not wanted. You and Corporal Richardson and Malemute Slade went into that room without saying a word to me. Not a word!”
The aggrieved young man carefully broke off the brown stem of a withered pea-vine and crumpled it between the palms of his hands.
“As usual you weren’t around when we wanted you,” explained Dick. “I looked everywhere. But as I said before, there was no particular secret between us except—” Dick lowered his voice—“except that, at Corporal Richardson’s suggestion, we made a second copy of the map. He took the copy and put it in the inside pocket of his coat. In a day or two, when he returns to headquarters, he’s going to hand it over to the Inspector for safe-keeping.
“You can see for yourself,” Dick resumed, “that it was a wise precaution. If the map we have with us should be lost or stolen, we’ll still be able to find the mine.”
“Yes,” agreed Sandy, now fully recovered from his pique, “the plan was a good one. The Inspector will give us the other copy if we lose ours. A little delay, that’s all.”
“Just the same, I hope we don’t lose the map again. I’ll be pleased if nothing happens this time. I’d like to make good time getting over to the mine.”
That Dick’s wish gave every promise of being fulfilled, became more and more apparent as the days passed. So far the little cavalcade had not been molested. Through deep forests and across broad, seemingly endless meadows they plodded hopefully, making very good progress. It seemed to Dick that one rare and glorious day followed another. The sun shone almost incessantly—a great, yellow, burning disc,—that had begun to work miracles in the land, which only a few weeks before had been gripped in the mighty hand of an implacable winter.
Continuing north and west, the country through which they passed became more rugged and difficult. The trail they had followed came to an end. There was no track, no outstanding landmark of any kind to guide them. For five dismal days, consulting their compass from time to time, the three boys with their packers and ponies struggled on over the scarred and battered face of a land of utter desolation. Gray, towering, misshapen rocks, rising up on every side, seemed to offer them mute defiance.
“It’s as if they dared us to go on,” Sandy remarked. “I’m getting so I hate the sight of them. I wonder, Dick, if we’ll ever manage to get through?”
“Of course, we will,” Dick replied cheerily enough, although at heart he was troubled. They could get through all right, they themselves, but the packhorses——