“Good! You come!” cried the fluent one, his face distorted in what probably was intended for a smile.
“All right,” grinned Dick. “I come.”
In high spirits they set out again. In less than twenty minutes they came upon a wide natural clearing, dotted here and there with the tepees of another Indian encampment. A few minutes later, Dick’s heart pounding in his throat, they entered the narrow opening of one of the tepees.
“Dick!” immediately shrieked a voice. “You! You! You!——”
With a cry that sounded like the screech of a calliope, Dick bounded forward and caught his chum in his arms.
“Sandy!” he almost blubbered. “Toma!—Everything’s all right! Gee!—I’ve found you—Don’t worry—Gosh! I’ve been nearly crazy, thinking, thinking——”
Tears were welling in Sandy’s eyes.
“Did you drop from the clouds?” he inquired brokenly. “Say, Dick, we’ve been through hell.”
“Don’t worry any more,” Dick comforted him. “We’re all right now. These Indians have come to release you. Just think of it, Sandy—we’re free. Free! Do you hear me, Sandy?”
“Yes, I hear you. But why——”
“The chief’s son—— We owe our lives to him.”
“Why chief’s son do that?” Toma demanded. “Mebbe they make you like fool.”
Dick turned quickly and grasped the guides drooping shoulder in a friendly grip.
“Listen, Toma. Look at that young Indian standing over there,” he pointed as he spoke. “Ever see him before?”
Toma blinked a number of times, then suddenly started.
“Sure!” he broke forth excitedly. “I know him. Young Indian fellow Baptiste strike ’em hard with revolver that day over at mine.”
“I’m beginning to see light,” Sandy cut in quickly. “We owe our lives to you, Dick. Because you knocked Baptiste down that day, after he’d struck the chief’s son, he—— he——”
“Is showing his gratitude,” Dick completed the sentence.
Then the three boys looked up expectantly. With a slow, measured tread, the subject of their discourse advanced with great solemnity and, bending over each of the prisoners in turn, cut the moose-hide thongs that bound them.
“Hurrah!” shouted Sandy. Then facing about, turning his head slowly, he looked up at Dick. “I was never happier—never quite so happy as I am right now,” he declared fervently.
CHAPTER XXIII
GUESTS OF THE CHIEF
There was much to think about, much to tell during the next few hours. Over and over again, Sandy related the story of his capture, lingering over certain details which lent themselves to dramatic exploitation.
“I was certain that you were dead,” he told Dick for the hundredth time. “I saw them carry your body away and I could have sworn that there wasn’t a breath of life in it. If ever there was a corpse that looked——”
“Forget about it,” Dick hastily interrupted. “I’m pretty much alive now—and that’s all that matters. When you come to think of it, we’ve been more than fortunate. How we’ve managed to get out of this scrape without suffering seriously is a mystery to me. We’ve lost a little weight, a little sleep, a little skin and cuticle here and there, but——”
“And we’ve lost the mine,” Sandy interrupted him.
“To whom?” Dick demanded.
“To Henderson or the Indians—I’m not sure which.”
“Do you mean to tell me that you don’t know where Henderson is?”
“Why should I? I haven’t seen him, have I?”
Dick reached over and laughingly shook his friend.
“Wake up, Sandy. Of course, you have. Baptiste told me that you and Toma, Henderson and he himself all came out here on the same pack-train. He said that you cried all the time like a big baby.”
Sandy sprang to his feet, his face crimson with rage.
“He’s a liar! Maybe they came out with us all right, but if he says that he’s—he’s mistaken. I didn’t! I swear it, Dick. Toma will vouch for me. I was a bit hysterical, of course and—and badly frightened. I might have moaned once or twice. You know how it is. But that’s all—positively!”
“Where Henderson an’ Baptiste now?” Toma asked, smiling furtively.
“Over at the other village. They’re both trussed up, and there’s a sentry guarding them. I’d hate to be in their shoes.”
“Serves ’em right,” growled Sandy.
“So I don’t see why we can’t get complete and undisputed possession of the mine. We’ve won out. Sandy. Just think of it—not a single obstacle in the road.”
“And you think the Indians won’t want it—won’t molest us if we go back there?”
“Exactly.”
Dick gazed dreamily through the tepee opening. The late afternoon sunlight fell radiantly across the earth. Through the trees at the far side of the meadow he caught sight of the rippling, blue waters of the lake.
“Do you know,” he spoke earnestly, “there’s a certain thing I’d like to do, if you fellows are willing.”
“What is it?”
“Show our appreciation and gratitude to the Indians in some definite way,” responded Dick. “I guess we all realize the extent of our indebtedness. We owe them everything—our lives, the mine, the right to go and come unmolested. We’ve gained their friendship and their respect; we have them on our side to help us. I’m confident that they’ll prove to be as loyal friends as anyone could expect.”
“I’d rather have them our friends than our enemies,” shivered Sandy.
“So would I. And I’m going to make a proposal. Let’s divide our ownership in the mine with them, all of us sharing equally in the profits.”
“But they don’t care for money,” protested Sandy. “Gold! What does it mean to them? Nothing! It would be a whole lot more sensible to stake them to a winter’s grub-stake. I think they’d appreciate it more.”
“That’s exactly what I’m coming to,” declared Dick. “My proposal is to divide the property in this way: We’ll own a half interest, the Indians the other half. It will be necessary to appoint a guardian for the Indians. This guardian will look after their interest and——”
“Spend their money!” laughed Sandy.
“Sure. Buy them the things they really need and can enjoy—food, guns, knives, traps, clothing. As long as the mine continues to produce, they’ll never, never want for any of these things.”
“It sounds all right. It would work out all right, too, if only we could find an honest, absolutely trustworthy guardian.”
“What about the Royal North West Mounted,” suggested Dick.
“By George! You have it. They’ll be the guardians!” Sandy rose in his enthusiasm and smote Toma a resounding whack. “What do you think of it, old sober-face? We haven’t heard from you yet.”
“I think ’em mighty fine idea,” their guide responded quickly.
The chief’s son appeared at this juncture and smiled at them through the opening.
“Come,” he requested gutturally.
“I think he wants us to accompany him back to his own village,” said Dick, when they had hurried outside.
This proved to be the case. Through the brilliant, warm sunshine of late afternoon they followed the lithe young native along the path that led back to the first and larger village. Arriving there, the boys were escorted directly to the chief’s tepee, where a large crowd had gathered. The chief himself, now fully arrayed in resplendant regal garb, awaited their coming. As the small party drew up before him, he advanced solemnly, raised one arm in a commanding gesture and everyone sat down, including the chief’s son and the three boys.
“What’s the old beggar going to do now?” Sandy whispered.
“I don’t know,” Dick scratched his head in perplexity. “It’s probably a meeting of some sort.”
Toma leaned over and nudged Dick in the ribs.
“Indians make ready for big feast. Look!”
A corpulent, kindly-looking squaw, closely followed by four Indian girls, appeared suddenly in their midst, carrying huge trays or platters, which were heaped high with what looked like roasted venison. The first tray was placed on the ground in front of the chief, the next before the boys, while the remaining three were deposited at different points of vantage amongst the assembly. The hostess with her four comely helpers disappeared, only to return a moment later, bearing other trays piled with food.
Altogether it was a novel experience. It was the first time that the boys had ever attended a regal function of this kind, and they thoroughly enjoyed it. At the conclusion of the feast, the crowd fell back, forming itself in a wide circle. Within the unoccupied center space strode three grotesquely-attired braves, carrying a short section of a hollow log, over one end of which moose-hide had been tightly stretched.
The booming notes of the crude, home-made drum trembled forth its invitation to the dance. A weird, unearthly yowling was struck up. Warrior after warrior leaped into the cleared space and began spinning about, to the accompaniment of a yip-yip-yihing that reminded Dick of the howling of wolves.
Through the long evening and late into the night the dance continued, growing more hideous and noisy with each passing hour. So violently did a number of the participants disport themselves that they dropped to the ground in utter exhaustion, but leaping up again as soon as they had recovered sufficiently to make such an effort possible.
Dick and Sandy had grown weary of watching long before the dance broke up, yet as guests of honor they hesitated about making known their wish to retire for the night.
“I’m so sleepy I can’t hold my head up much longer,” Sandy declared. “But just look at Toma—he’s enjoying every minute of it. I honestly believe the old boy is anxious to get out there himself.”
Hearing the remark, the guide turned a flushed, excited face toward Sandy and grinned good-naturedly.
“You bet! I like go there myself. Mebbe sometime I show you how good I make ’em like that dance.”
“I’ll take your word for it,” answered Sandy.
Squaws and children kept adding fresh fuel to the three huge campfires that had been kindled within the dancing space. In their bright glare there came presently a group of Indians, attired in complete war regalia, and closely following them, still another group, half-carrying, half-dragging two pitiable, quaking forms.
Dick’s heart seemed to stand still when he had recognized the identity of the two victims—no other than Henderson and Baptiste La Lond! With a shaking finger, he pointed them out to Sandy and Toma.
“Great Caesar! I hope the Indians are not going to torture them right here in front of our eyes,” Sandy exclaimed.
The approach of the group of warriors had been the signal for the dance to cease, although the drum still kept up a low, muffled roll. Dick turned to Toma.
“What do you think they’re about to do, Toma?” he quavered.
“Me not sure yet.”
“But will they kill them?”
The guide shook his head.
“Mebbe tomorrow morning—but not tonight. Tonight I think chief an’ brave fighting men hold big meeting to decide what they do. Pretty sure, Baptiste, Henderson no get killed tonight.”
“Yes, it’s a meeting,” cried Sandy. “See—they’re all sitting down. Look, Dick, the chief is rising to his feet. Toma—run over and find out what they’re going to do.”
When Toma returned, nearly an hour later, the meeting had ended and the two prisoners were being dragged back to their former prison.
“I no find out very much,” he greeted them. “Indians make different talk from my people. I hear only few words I understand. I find out just enough know that they take ’em Baptiste, Henderson long way off tomorrow.”
“What did the chief do when he walked over and stood in front of them?” asked Sandy. “From here it looked as if he had stooped over to cut or untie their ropes.”
“I not understand that part,” replied Toma. “Chief stoop down all right but he no untie. He give Baptiste, Henderson each one little canoe small like my hand. Then he walk away again an’ pretty soon Indians take them bad fellow back to tepee.”
“The canoes must signify something,” mused Dick. “They’re symbols of some kind. It would be interesting to know.”
That night the boys slept in a large tepee that had been pitched near the shore of the lake. It was late when they awoke. Dick scrambled out of his rabbit-robe and hurried outside. A loud clamor, coming from the center of the village, increased in volume as he stood there shading his eyes with his hand.
Toma and Sandy came bustling out a short time later and the three boys stood watching the dense throng, milling about the space where the feast and dance had taken place on the previous night.
“Wonder what’s up?” said Sandy. “They’re making more noise than a house full of huskies. I’ll bet everybody forgot to go to bed last night.”
“Perhaps the village executioner is getting ready to sharpen his hatchet,” guessed Dick.
“Ugh!” shivered Sandy. “I’d almost forgotten about that. It’s one event that I don’t intend to witness. You fellows can go if you like—but please count me out. My father went to a ‘hanging’ once in England, and he used to wake up nights for months afterward and would lay there thinking about it.”
The approach of the chief’s son cut short any further comment on the impending tragedy. The young Indian greeted them cordially, pointed to the glistening waters of the lake, and proceeded to disrobe. With a whoop of delight, Sandy commenced to follow his example.
“Come on, Toma!” Dick cried. “We’ll join them. I haven’t had a decent bath for—let’s see—how long is it?”
“For years!” jibed Sandy. “I reckon you’re about the dirtiest prospector that ever struck these parts.” Dick repaid Sandy for the insult by bouncing a small pebble off his defamer’s head. A moment later they were engaged in a friendly scuffle, when a warning shout from Toma drew their attention.
“Henderson!”
Less than eighty yards behind them the outlaw, a heavy club in each hand, battled his way through the crowd. His towering form plunged this way and that in an effort to shake himself free of the two or three swarthy figures that still clung to him. Like a madman he fought forward fifteen or twenty yards, then went down suddenly before a concerted rush that literally tramped him in the sand under the infuriated feet of the mob.
“He was a fool to try it,” said Sandy. “How in the dickens did he ever manage to free himself of the rope in the first place? Whew! He’s a regular human tornado!”
“They were getting ready to take the prisoners away somewhere, by the looks of it. Probably he was untied for a moment, and he saw his chance,” Dick replied.
“He’ll never have another one,” Sandy prophesied. “I’ll bet they’ll watch him so closely from now on, they’ll all need glasses for their worn-out eyes. I hope he didn’t kill any of them.”
A splash in the water near at hand recalled their forgotten swim, and the two boys looked up just as the chief’s son came blowing to the surface a few feet from shore.
“He’s a cool one,” admired Dick. “He didn’t pay any more attention to the struggle back there just now than he would to a dog fight.”
Sandy kicked off his moccasins and socks and paused to wriggle his toes in the sand.
“I’m very anxious to know what they intend to do with Baptiste and Henderson. Toma, don’t you suppose you could find out. You said last night that you could understand a few words of what they said at the meeting. Why don’t you try to question the chief’s son?”
“Bye-’n’-bye I speak to him,” promised Toma. “But why you worry so much ’bout them?”
CHAPTER XXIV
THE CARIBOU HERD
A belated breakfast followed the swim. Greatly refreshed, both in mind and body, Dick and Sandy repaired to the shade of an ancient spruce to discuss the plans for the day. Toma, who had struck up a close friendship with the young Indian, had betaken himself to the village in an effort to gather the information that Sandy’s morbid curiosity seemed to require.
“We ought to go back to the mine as soon as possible,” said Dick. “I’m anxious to see how things are, and especially to find out about the moose-hide sacks. I doubt very much whether they’re still stored in the main shaft. The chances are that Henderson and his men attempted to take them with them when they were driven from the mine.”
“I hope we’ll be able to find them,” Sandy responded. “If they’re not buried under the charred remains of the cabin that must now be littering the main shaft, we may have to search the entire north side of the plateau.”
“Another reason why we ought to hasten back to the mine,” Dick pointed out, “is because your Uncle Walter and the mounted police are scheduled to arrive there in the next day or two.”
“But what makes you think that?” asked Sandy.
“Henderson himself said so. One of his Indian runners came in with the news the night before we were captured by the outlaws. That was the reason why Henderson was in such a hurry to strip the mine, as he called it, and make his ‘get-away’.”
Sandy nodded and lapsed into a short silence.
“You’re right, Dick. We ought to hurry back,” he finally broke forth. “If Uncle Walter and Corporal Richardson arrive at the mine during our absence, they’ll be terribly alarmed. Everything there is in an awful mess. The cabin’s burned. Here and there, they’ll come across signs of the Indian attack. They may possibly find a few dead bodies of the outlaws. You can guess what they’ll think has become of us.”
“Yes,” shuddered Dick, “I know what they’ll think. It wouldn’t occur to them that we’d been taken by the Indians.”
“Why not return today?” suggested Sandy.
“We’ll try to, Sandy. I only wish that there was some way that we could talk to the chief’s son and explain matters to him. If we hurry away he may think that we don’t appreciate his kindness.”
Sandy gazed thoughtfully at his chum for a few moments, then rose decisively to his feet.
“Well, it can’t be helped. Let’s go over to the village and see if we can find Toma. He’s right in his element now. It would tickle him pink if we would decide to remain here for the rest of the summer.”
Dick laughed as he swung into step beside his friend.
“You’re wrong there. Toma may enjoy a day or two of this, but the novelty would soon wear off. He’s on the job day and night. Besides, he’s troubled with a secret ambition.”
“What is it?”
“He hopes some day to become a mounted police scout like Malemute Slade. It’s about all he lives for. He’ll be the proudest mortal in seven kingdoms and fourteen republics if they ever decide to give him a chance.”
“And he’d make good, too,” said Sandy.
“I know it. In some respects he’s almost as clever as Malemute Slade right now. Corporal Richardson and Inspector Cameron are keeping an eye on him. It’s hard to get good scouts for the mounted.”
The subject of this short but complimentary appraisement came suddenly in view, accompanied by the chief’s son. Both were smiling in great good humor as they approached.
“I make ’em pretty good talk,” Toma proudly announced. “I find out where Indian take Baptiste an’ Henderson. Where you think?”
“I can’t imagine,” replied Dick.
“Thunder River.”
“Thunder River!” exclaimed Sandy. “What for?”
“I suppose,” said Dick, “they intend to drown them or else throw them over a cliff.”
“No,” said Toma, shaking his head, “Indian do better thing than that. Big men an’ chief decide about that last night. You remember ’bout little canoes chief gave to Baptiste and Henderson?”
“Yes, I remember you mentioned it.”
“When he give ’em Baptiste, Henderson little canoes he mean by that a certain thing. He mean they take voyage on river. He send ’em down river.”
“How kind of the dear old chief,” said Sandy sarcastically.
“Not so kind you think,” retorted Toma. “Indians take Baptiste, Henderson to bad place in river. Put each one in different canoe, then push canoe away from shore. No paddle! Nothing! God swim along under the water——”
“What!” shouted Dick and Sandy in unison. “What did you say?”
“God swim along under the water,” calmly repeated Toma, “an’ if he see man in canoe very bad he tip it over. Mebbe man not very bad, so he no tip.”
“What makes you think that God swims in the water?” Dick inquired, suppressing a smile.
“Indians see him many times—they tell me that.”
“A river manitou,” said Sandy, winking slyly at Dick. “I’ve heard of him before. Do you suppose he’ll permit Henderson and Baptiste to pass safely through the rapids?”
“No can tell.” Toma shook his head gravely. “Sometimes bad fellow from tribe get through, but not very often. This afternoon we find out about Baptiste, Henderson. You see for yourself. Indian get ready go Thunder River pretty soon. Chief’s son he like it we go along.”
“But we ought to return to the mine, Toma. Factor MacClaren and the mounted police are almost due now, and we’d hate to miss them.”
The guide’s face clouded with disappointment. From his expression and actions it was evident that he looked forward to the ordeal at the river with considerable anticipation.
“Chief’s son feel bad you no go,” he declared disconsolately.
“It can’t be helped,” Sandy interjected. “You must explain to him somehow. Tell him we’d like to stay and would gladly go with him to the river if we weren’t expecting the arrival of friends at the mine.”
Toma performed the unpleasant task with his usual willingness. He had some difficulty, however. At the first attempt the chief’s son stared blankly at the perspiring interpreter, unable to translate the confusing jumble of words, signs and gestures the guide showered upon him. Toma had nearly exhausted his supply of ideas before he succeeded in making himself understood. Dawning comprehension showed itself in the quickly brightening features, then suddenly a smile rewarded Toma for his efforts.
With a good-natured grunt he turned, motioning to the boys to follow, and led the way to a small clearing in the woods, where a herd of Indian ponies, picketed in the long grass, raised their heads and snorted in affright.
Dick and Sandy paused in wonder.
“Can you beat that!” gleefully shouted the latter. “He’s going to lend us ponies, Dick. If that isn’t the last word in kindness and generosity, I’ll eat Toma for dinner.”
“If that is really his intention, we’ll get back to the mine in a hurry,” chuckled Dick.
“You bet!” grinned Toma. “We ride fast. What you say if Toma tell him thank you.”
“You can fall on his neck and kiss him if you like,” said Sandy, jumping about and clapping his hands in delight. “By George, he’s a true sport if there ever was one. Just for this I’m going to give him my jack-knife and pocket mirror.”
The suggestion seemed a good one and the three boys turned out their pockets and took inventory of the contents. Sandy handed over the mirror and knife with an elaborate bow; Dick parted with his pocket-compass without a single sigh of regret, while Toma’s contribution consisted of a much-prized mouth-organ, two steel fish-hooks and a string of glass beads.
The young Indian was so overcome by this liberality that his hands shook as he examined each object in turn. The harmonica especially enthralled him. He listened to Toma’s expert piping on this, the most favored of all musical instruments among the Indians in the North, with eyes that grew bright with pleasure, and broke forth at the conclusion of the short concert with an awed expression of approval.
Less than an hour later, loaded down with fresh meat and fish, a gift from the Indians, and with the shouts and plaudits of a large crowd that had gathered to see them off, the young adventurers turned the heads of their ponies southward and cantered away. The chief’s son accompanied them for several miles before he waved his final farewell. As the horse and rider disappeared in a turn of the forest path, Dick heaved a sigh of regret.
“I hated to see him go,” he confided to Sandy, “I wonder if he’ll ever come over and visit us at the mine.”
“I sincerely hope so.”
“He come all right,” Toma assured them. “He tell me mebbe he ride over tomorrow to see how we get along.”
A few miles farther on the forest thinned out and presently they rode forth across an open prairie. To the south lay the plateau. Far to the westward, a chain of purple-belted hills extended back to meet the rugged slope of Dominion Range. In this direction, above the horizon’s broken rim, they could discern plainly many snowy mountain peaks.
“It take about three hours to get back to mine,” guessed Toma.
Dick, gazing away in the direction of the plateau, nodded his head.
“Yes, it shouldn’t take much longer than that.”
He paused, squinting in the bright morning sunlight.
“I wonder if my eyes are deceiving me,” he suddenly broke forth. “What are those dark spots a little west and south of here? Looks to me like a band of horsemen.”
“Unless it’s a whole tribe of Indians on the march—it couldn’t be that,” Sandy interposed, reining up his pony. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say it was a big herd of cattle.”
“Caribou!” trilled Toma, becoming suddenly tremendously excited, and almost falling off his mount as he craned his neck in order to get a better view. “Pretty soon you see something mebbe you never forget. Only one time before I watch ’em big caribou herd.”
Dick and Sandy had often been told about but had never witnessed one of the most interesting and marvelous sights to be seen in the far North—a migrating herd of caribou! Almost as numerous as the bison or American buffalo that once roamed over the western plains of the United States, twice a year—south in the autumn, north in the spring—these sleek, antlered beasts, that very much resemble the reindeer of northeastern Europe, formed themselves into vast herds and started forth on the inevitable trek to new grazing grounds.
Dick’s breath caught with excitement as he followed their slow, unhurried course. On and on they came in a dense, black wave, pouring out over the prairie in one long, seemingly endless column. Their thundering hooves shook the earth. Had the boys possessed rifles and been less kind-hearted, they might easily have slaughtered hundreds of the mild-eyed, forward-surging animals without leaving a single gap in the line.
“In all my life I’ve never seen anything so wonderful!” Sandy gasped.
“Neither have I,” admired Dick. “I can believe now the story that Malemute Slade told me one time. He and a mounted policeman, named Corporal Casserley, were proceeding north through the first heavy snow of early winter when they met a huge herd of caribou travelling south. For three hours they stood shivering in the cold, waiting for the herd to go by. Finally, they were forced to build a campfire and erect a shelter. It was not until noon of the following day that the last of the herd passed and Slade and Casserley were permitted to proceed on their journey.”
“I’d hate to ride out in the path of the caribou,” Sandy declared, as he turned his pony’s head. “It might cause them to stampede.”
“It would be very apt to,” Dick replied. “Personally, I haven’t any desire to be trampled under their hooves. In preference to being chopped into mince-meat, I think I’ll steer my course more to the east and avoid them.”
“I think like that too,” smiled Toma. “What you say we hurry along now an’ get back to mine. Pretty soon we get hungry an’ no like to stop an’ build campfire then. Much better we travel fast an’ cook ’em big dinner soon we get there.”
“And I want to get there before Uncle Walter arrives,” remembered Sandy.
“I don’t think we’ll find them at the mine,” said Dick. “They’ll be in exactly the same boat that we were. They won’t know where the mine is. During the last hour or two I’ve been turning things over in my mind, and I’ve just about come to the conclusion that our best plan is to go right on past the plateau to Thunder River, where we made the crossing. I’m sure we’ll meet them sooner by doing that.”
“Of course we will. Funny I never thought about it But that means, Dick, that we have a longer ride ahead of us than we first expected. Even by forced travelling, we won’t reach the river much before night.”
“Yes, that’s true.”
“And we’ll have to stop to graze the ponies, not to mention preparing our own lunch.”
“Yes.”
“Then, let’s hurry!”
With a last look at caribou, they dug their heels into their impatient mounts and sped southward, whooping like three cowboys.
CHAPTER XXV
REUNION
Sandy sat with his chin in his hands, his brooding, disconsolate eyes fixed on the opposite shore of Thunder River.
“They aren’t coming tonight,” he finally exploded. “Not a sign of them. We’ve been sitting here for hours just wasting our time. I’m beginning to believe that Henderson lied about that Indian messenger. If Uncle Walter and the mounted police were really coming, they ought to be here now.”
“Don’t be so impatient, Sandy,” Dick laughed. “If you keep on worrying like that, you’ll be a nervous wreck by the time they do get here. Of course, they’re coming. If not tonight—tomorrow or the next day. I see no reason to doubt Henderson’s statement.”
“Tomorrow or the next day!” groaned the other. “Mighty cheering, aren’t you? If I actually thought they wouldn’t arrive before then, I’d cross the river and go on to meet them.”
“You foolish fellow if you do that,” stated Toma, throwing a handful of pebbles into the swiftly-flowing stream. “You easy pass by each other by mistake an’ not know thing about it. Bye-’n’-bye you find you hit trail for Fort Good Faith an’ factor an’ mounted police same time hit trail close to mine. How you like that?”
“I wouldn’t like it,” responded Sandy, “and I haven’t the least intention of pulling a crazy stunt like that. What I would do if I crossed, would be to search for them along the river. You remember the trouble we had in finding a place where the current wasn’t too swift for a raft. It is only natural to suppose that they may be having the same trouble.”
“True enough,” agreed Dick. “But eventually they’d be forced to come down here. It’s the only safe crossing.”
“I’m not so sure about that.”
“Another thing, you can’t cross over without a raft,” Dick went on. “It would be more difficult to build a raft on this side of the river than on the other. The trees are all on the other side.”
“There’s plenty of driftwood,” Sandy pointed out.
“I think mebbe it good idea if we do build raft,” Toma suddenly spoke up. “It save time for mounted police. First thing they have to do when they come is make ready chop down trees. Mebbe pretty tired an’ no like do that. Factor MacClaren him be glad when he find raft all ready—only wait for him to cross.”
“You said a mouthful!” approved Sandy. “We can have one ready in two or three hours. Then we’ll slip over to the other side and wait until they come.”
Dick acquiesced willingly, not only because the suggestion seemed a good one, but also because the work entailed would cause them to forget the slow, monotonous passing of time. Sandy became cheerful again almost immediately. He and Toma hurried away to select the logs from the large piles of driftwood, while Dick sauntered over to the three ponies and returned a moment later with an axe and a coil of rope.
When twilight descended, their task was nearly completed. Toma and Dick were tying the last log in place when a fervid, reverberating halloo sounded across the canyon. Dropping everything, the three boys darted to their feet.
“Yih! Yip!” screamed Sandy. “Who’s there?”
“Mounted police!” came the answering shout. “Is that you, Sandy?”
Sandy’s hysterical reply took the form of a screech that might have been heard for miles. Dick’s own contributing whoop was scarcely less powerful.
“Coming over?” Sandy’s question stirred up another battery of echoes.
“No raft! Everybody safe?”
“Yes, we’re all here. Wait just a few minutes. Own raft almost finished. Stand by, we’ll soon be there.”
Twenty minutes later they had made the crossing in safety and were joyfully helped ashore by the three men, Corporal Richardson, Factor MacClaren and Malemute Slade. Vocal confusion ensued. Everybody talked at once. With a strangled cry, Sandy threw himself in the outspread arms of Walter MacClaren. Malemute Slade and Corporal Richardson took turns in pounding Dick and Toma on the back.
“Thank God, we got here in time,” Corporal Richardson declared fervently. “We hardly expected to find you alive.”
“Why not?” asked Dick.
“Why not!” Corporal Richardson repeated Dick’s question sharply. “Why not! Because every member of Henderson’s murderous gang followed you out here. They’re here—right in this vicinity now. We’ve been right on the jump ever since we heard the news.”
“What news?”
“Why—the news that they had followed you.”
“If you ain’t seen ’em, you’re liable to before long,” Malemute Slade hinted darkly. “Did you fellers find the mine?”
“Yes, we found it,” answered Dick.
“Any good?”
“It’s a peach!”
“Funny Henderson didn’t take it away from you.”
“Why, he did,” shouted Sandy. “He took it away from us the very same day we found it.”
“Well, that sure is tough luck. Never mind,” Malemute Slade patted Sandy’s arm comfortingly, “mebbe we can get it back fer yuh. Mebbe we——”
“But we’ve already got it back,” Dick interrupted him.
“Got it back? What do yuh mean? See here, young feller—you’re not spoofin’ me. I think not!”
Bit by bit the story came out. Sandy, Dick and even Toma took turns in the telling. Eagerly, the three men gathered around them and listened, often interrupting the narrator to ply him with questions. Often Corporal Richardson, unable to follow the broken thread of the story’s sequence, threw up his hands in despair:
“Hold on there, Dick! Not so fast! Wait a moment, Sandy, you forgot to tell us what happened before that. Toma, why don’t you speak in Cree. We’ll understand you better. You’re too excited to talk ’em English tonight.”
It was so late when the tale was concluded, that by common consent the party decided not to cross the river that night.
“It will be perfectly safe to leave the ponies on the other side,” said Dick. “There’s plenty of grass where we have them picketed. I don’t believe anything will come to disturb them.”
“We have our own pack-horses on this side,” laughed Factor MacClaren. “We left them in charge of three half-breeds up there on the level ground above the canyon. I thought it would be better not to make the descent with the horses until we had looked around a bit.”
“Did you have much difficulty in following our trail?” Dick enquired.
“No, not very much. Malemute Slade is a good tracker and we found many of your campfires. Once we picked up an old pair of moccasins that we thought had been discarded by Sandy. They were small—about the size he usually wears.”
The camp was astir early on the following morning. When Dick and Sandy tumbled out of the blankets they had borrowed from Factor MacClaren, a pan of bacon sizzled over the fire and the odor of strong black coffee blended with the smell of spruce and balsam. Malemute Slade and Corporal Richardson nodded a cheery greeting as the two young adventurers, still rubbing their eyes, stumbled down to the river for an icy-cold plunge.
Shivering for a moment in anticipation, Dick raised his arms above his head, darted for a few paces over the smooth white sand and shot straight out into the gurgling current. Sandy hit the water almost simultaneously. As the two boys came blowing to the surface, Dick made a playful swipe at his chum’s head. Instinctively Sandy ducked.
“I’ll race you down to that big rock, you big, overgrown puppy,” he called out mockingly. “I’m in my natural element now. Try to catch me!”
They plowed through the water. An expert swimmer, Sandy won the race by a wide margin. He was sitting on the rock, feet dangling above the surface of the stream, when Dick came puffing up. But instead of the look of triumph on his face that Dick had expected, Sandy’s countenance was distorted painfully.
“Why, Sandy—what’s the matter? Did you get cramps?”
The other did not reply. He was staring at Dick now with eyes that were wide with horror. He slipped from the rock in a sort of panic and struck out for shore. Hastily, Dick followed him.
Wading out, Dick approached the trembling figure.
“You’re frightened,” he declared. “Or are you sick, Sandy? Was the water too cold for you?”
“Dick—I saw it! A body floated past! A man!”
“A what——” gasped Dick.
“I was crawling on the rock. I could see it plainly. I tried to call out.”
Sandy’s voice choked. He reached out and gripped Dick by the arm. His lips were blue from fright and cold.
“It was Henderson!” he whispered.
Perceiving that something was wrong, Malemute Slade and Corporal Richardson hurried over.
“The boy’s sick!” exclaimed Slade. He turned his head: “MacClaren, fetch a blanket. Hurry!”
A moment later they were chafing his limbs, and had wrapped him up in heavy folds of the thick, woollen blanket.
“You boys ought to know better than this,” Corporal Richardson scolded them. “Thunder River is a glacier-fed stream and its water is like ice. Don’t go swimming in it again. No wonder Sandy got cramps.”