Copyright MCMXXVII
THE SAALFIELD PUBLISHING COMPANY
Made in the United States of America

Contents

CHAPTER PAGE

I The Map in the Cave 3

II A Messenger from Headquarters 15

III Scarlet and Gold 24

IV Dick Makes a Suggestion 33

V Dick is Indiscreet 40

VI In the House of the Messenger 50

VII Flight Through the Woods 58

VIII Tracks in the Snow 67

IX The Council of War 79

X Sandy Plays a Lone Hand 90

XI Off for the Mine 98

XII A Mysterious Ten Dollar Bill 110

XIII The Raiding Party 119

XIV A Fateful Crossing 128

XV Within the Barricade 139

XVI A Path Through the Rocks 148

XVII Sandy Explores the Mine 159

XVIII In the Toils of Henderson 167

XIX Hours of Torture 175

XX Henderson’s Plans Miscarry 183

XXI The Red Fury 190

XXII In the Indian Village 201

XXIII Guests of the Chief 209

XXIV The Caribou Herd 221

XXV Reunion 233

XXVI Debts of Gratitude 243

DICK KENT IN THE FAR NORTH

CHAPTER I
THE MAP IN THE CAVE

Three persons plodded along the snow-piled floor of a tiny canyon in the heart of the northern Canadian wilderness. The broad snow-shoes on their feet made their progress like that of so many huge crabs on a sea shore. In the fore was a tall, well-knit young man, whose weather-tanned face was that of Dick Kent, who for more than a year had sought and found adventure in the vast land where the sole guardians of the peace are the Royal North West Mounted Police.

“It can’t be very far from here,” he turned and spoke, his breath puffing out in white vapor.

Sandy MacClaren strained his eyes ahead. His stocky frame, no less hardened than that of his older chum, Dick Kent, seemed to bend forward with a little more eagerness as he replied:

“I hope we don’t pass it by.”

The man in the rear laughed. He was Sandy’s uncle, Walter MacClaren, an old Scotchman, and factor at Fort Good Faith for the Hudson’s Bay Company.

“I hardly think I could miss the cave,” he spoke. “I spent too many unpleasant hours in there without anything to eat.”

Dick Kent was about to respond to this, when he caught sight of what they were seeking, the mouth of a large cave in the wall of the canyon.

“There it is!” he cried, quickening his pace.

“Now for the map!” exulted Sandy.

All three removed their snowshoes at the mouth of the under-ground passage, which seemed to have been formed by the erosion of water in ages gone by, and, in moccasined feet, went along the dark corridor, lighting candles which they had brought with them from Fort Good Faith, not far south.

“Remember it’s the left branch when we get to the fork,” Sandy called to his chum.

“Yes, I guess I won’t forget that.”

Dick recalled a particularly exciting incident in that same cave, which would indelibly impress upon his memory the correct passage to the underground chamber, which was their destination.

The three hurried on down the main passage until ahead, in the dim glow of the candles, they could see where the main cavern branched. Almost there, Dick in the lead, paused.

“Wait,” he whispered.

Sandy and his uncle drew back.

“I thought I heard a sound in the passage to the right,” Dick said in a low voice.

They listened for a few seconds, but heard nothing.

“Probably some animal who has come in here out of the cold,” Sandy’s uncle observed.

“It sounded like footsteps,” Dick replied dubiously. “And you know we’ve plenty of reason to believe we’re not the only ones after what’s in this cave.”

Sandy agreed, but was anxious to go on, and since whatever sound had been detected by Dick’s sharp ears was not repeated, they continued down the passage to the left.

For several minutes they wound downward before they reached the widening of the passage and abruptly entered an underground chamber which seemed to have been fashioned by the tools of man.

“At last,” whispered Dick.

There was no sign of life evident, except those a week or so old, as they hurried to a particular portion of the rock wall and bent over it with their candles. What the light revealed was a confusing tracing of charcoal lines and crosses. It was the map of the location of the lost gold mine, and had been the purpose of their visit.

“I’ll copy it on this sheet of paper I’ve brought, so it will be clear to you boys,” Sandy’s uncle spoke, his voice sounding hollow in the silent, damp place.

He had just placed the paper on a smooth portion of the rock and touched the pencil to it, when a sound brought them to their feet. Somewhere along the passage they had come a stone had fallen. Someone was following them!

For the benefit of those readers who did not follow the adventures of Dick Kent and his chum, Sandy MacClaren, in the first volume of this series, a few explanations may clear up many obscure points. Several months before, they had with the aid of the mounted police, rescued Walter MacClaren from the control of Bear Henderson, an unprincipled enemy of the Hudson’s Bay Company, who had tried and failed to gain control of all the far north trading posts. In the incidents leading to the rescue they had met a particularly mysterious enemy, whom they called the Scar-Faced Indian.

At Fort Good Faith—when as a reward for their help during the Henderson trouble, Sandy’s uncle had consented to let them hunt for the lost mine—the scar-faced Indian had been detected eavesdropping at the door by Toma, a young Indian guide, who had accompanied the boys on many of their adventures. Toma had sworn vengeance against Scar-Face, since he believed his brother, Big John Toma, had been killed by the Indian. But, with his usual elusiveness, Scar-Face had escaped Toma, and the boys were left to wonder just what steps the Indian would take to thwart them in their attempt to find the mine.

The sound that had startled the three in the cavern chamber immediately brought before the minds of Dick and Sandy a vision of the evil face of the Indian.

“Shall we go back and chase whoever it is out of the cave?” Sandy queried tensely.

“I wouldn’t do anything like that,” Dick shook his head. “If it’s the scar-faced Indian he’ll have a trap set for us. We’ll just watch the entrance while your uncle copies the map. When that’s done, all three of us will be ready for trouble.”

Factor MacClaren considered Dick’s plan wise and went ahead with his work, while Dick and Sandy turned their attention to the entrance of the chamber.

Fearfully they waited, wondering just what might appear. It was very nearly an hour before Walter MacClaren finished copying the map, yet no one had come. Out of the corner of their eyes, Dick and Sandy watched the factor erase the charcoal tracings on the rock and turn to them.

“We’re ready to go back to the fort now,” he said.

“If we ever get back,” Sandy rejoined.

“Oh, I don’t think there’s much danger with the three of us,” Dick encouraged.

“Yes, but that scar-faced Indian is apt to have some one with him, and if they jump down on our heads from one of the ledges in this cave, we’ll have small chance of getting away.”

“Well, we’ve got to hope for the best and be prepared to fight with all there is in us,” Dick responded grimly, gripping his rifle, a 45.70 Winchester, and starting into the cavern.

Tensely Sandy followed, the factor taking up the rear with the precious map stuffed under his heavy bearskin overcoat.

Slowly they progressed back along the dark passage, scanning the shadows ahead and overhead for a sign of whatever had made the noise. A hundred feet from the chamber, a pair of eyes glowed out of the darkness. Dick raised his rifle, aiming at the gleaming points ahead. His sights came into line squarely and he fired.

The crack of his rifle was almost deafening.

“I got him!” shouted Dick, hurrying forward. “A bear!”

Sandy and his uncle had joined Dick over his kill. The large black body quivered under the candle light.

“I hated to do it,” Dick was sorry. “Poor old fellow!”

“He was probably wintering here somewhere,” Sandy’s uncle put in. “I wonder if he made that rock fall which we heard.”

“Probably did,” said Sandy.

“Well, I hope so,” the factor declared earnestly. “My old bones won’t stand much excitement. I’m not the tough customer I used to be when I was your age.”

All three went on, a little more confident that no danger lay ahead. Dick alone, had his suspicions of what lay before them, and he was about to advise the factor to walk between him and Sandy, when of a sudden, there sounded the fall of a body directly behind them. There came a grunting shout and Sandy’s candle was knocked from his hand, and the cavern plunged in darkness.

“Hey!” Dick whirled, his gun clubbed. The sound of scuffling was heard, and blindly he plunged back.

“Here he is,” Sandy’s muffled shout directed him. “He’s got Uncle Walter down, trying to take the map away from him.”

Sandy’s voice died away with a sudden umph! Dick’s rearward leap was stopped by a heavy body. The shock almost knocked the breath out of him, but he clung on to the person he had collided with, feeling that it was neither Sandy nor the factor.

“Here, here! I’ve got him!” cried Dick, panting. Then he was overpowered and thrown heavily down. The sound of retreating footsteps sounded along the cavern in the darkness. Sandy’s candle flared up under a match.

“Are you all right, Dick?” was Sandy’s question.

Dick picked himself up and replied that he was. “Quick, find out if he got the map from your uncle!”

Factor MacClaren himself replied: “Luckily he didn’t, though he thinks he did. He got an old letter out of my inside breast pocket. The map is safe. Wonder who it was?”

“It must have been the scar-faced Indian,” Dick guessed the identity of their unknown assailant. “Say, he didn’t work slow, did he?”

“I’ll say he didn’t,” rejoined Sandy, rubbing one eye, which was already commencing to blacken from a blow received at the hands of the man in the dark.

“Let’s hurry and get out of this hole and back to the fort,” said Dick hastily.

All three hurried on and reached the blinding sunlight of the canyon without further mishap. An hour later they were in the big log house of the factor, gathered around the map, listening to Walter MacClaren’s directions regarding it. Toma, the young Indian guide who was to accompany them on the trail to the lost mine, had joined them. His dark, immobile face was over the table with the rest, when a tall, long-haired man entered. They looked up.

“Hello, Malemute,” Dick greeted the newcomer. “What’s the news?”

“Reckon we’re goin’ to have company on this here trip,” said the big man. “A constable of the mounted from Fort Dunwoody has just come in with instructions to capture a party of fur thieves, hidin’ in the territory you’re goin’ into.”

“Good! We may need him badly before we get through,” Dick replied.

Malemute Slade, an official scout for the mounted police, who through the effort of the factor had been detailed to accompany the boys on their trip northward, agreed with Dick, and ushered in a scarlet-coated, brisk-looking officer, at sight of whom both Dick and Sandy emitted exclamations of delight. It was no less than Corporal Richardson, an old friend, whom they had aided when he was wounded on the trail from Fort du Lac to Fort Dunwoody.

Corporal Richardson was as pleased as they at this reunion, and, at their invitation, joined them around the big table in the post living room.

That night, after a brain-taxing afternoon, following the factor’s instruction regarding the location of the lost mine, Dick lay wide awake until very late, thinking over the happenings of the day. He had a bunk curtained from the living room, not far from the entrance to MacClaren’s private sleeping room. He realized that Sandy’s uncle had taken the map with him, and half that kept him awake was a fear that another effort might be made to steal it. Lying there, looking up into the impenetrable darkness, it seemed that a hundred suspicious sounds were audible. But at last he fell fitfully asleep.

It seemed to Dick that he had slumbered for only a moment, when suddenly he was wide awake, his skin prickling as if some unknown presence were in the room. Quietly he lay there, listening in the darkness, forcing the dullness of sleep from his senses. What had awakened him?

Then his hand crept slowly to the head of his bunk where a rifle leaned. Some one was fumbling at Factor MacClaren’s door. As he strained his eyes in the dark, he could distinguish a shadowy figure crouching there.

CHAPTER II
A MESSENGER FROM HEADQUARTERS

In the breathless interval that followed, Dick Kent was unable to decide upon a definite course of action. The figure of the man still crouched before Factor MacClaren’s door but Dick, rifle in hand, felt that under no circumstances could he bring himself to fire point-blank at the shadowy form, even if the entire success of their expedition depended upon it. He could hear the slight rattle of the door, and the faint shuffle of the intruder’s moccasined feet. Momentarily, he awaited the crash that would follow the man’s efforts to break in.

The rifle lay like a dead weight in Dick’s hands. The suspense and excitement of the moment seemed unendurable. His limbs had commenced under the strain to shake and quiver, as if afflicted by some deadly malady. If he fired, he would kill the man, and if he cried out, as he very much wanted to do, the man would probably kill him. It was the sort of predicament with which Dick had no desire to cope, and yet here he was, in spite of himself, at the very beginning of their adventures, placed in a position that might have daunted a much older person.

While he still hesitated, there fell suddenly across the deep quiet of the room the smashing sound of the door breaking in, and through the dark shadows Dick perceived, as he sat there, wide-eyed with apprehension, the intruder thrown into Factor MacClaren’s room with a force that carried him half way to the sleeping man’s bed. He knew immediately what had happened. Shoulders hunched, the man had employed what, in school circles, would have been called football tactics. From a position about ten feet from the door, he had charged forward, breaking through the heavy obstruction and gaining access to the room.

He had picked himself up from the floor, as Dick sprang to the assistance of the factor, shouting as he went. By the time Dick had entered the chamber itself, a furious struggle was in progress—a wild tossing and tumbling about of two scarcely distinguishable forms. A chair crashed to the floor. Some heavy object whirled past Dick’s head, striking the wall with a thudding impact, before it dropped clattering almost at his heels. No sooner had he started forward to give his assistance to Factor MacClaren in the unequal struggle, when he was thrown back again violently, as the two men, locked in each other’s arms, swayed into him. Dick sat down with a thump, the corner of the heavy table cutting the back of his head.

The fall had dazed him and his recovery was slow. From this point on Dick was unaware of the events that followed in rapid succession. His first really clear impression was that of a blinding glare of light in his eyes, and the voice of Malemute Slade raised in alarm.

“This boy’s hurt a’right. Bad cut on the back of his head. Move back, corporal, while I lift him up.”

The mounted police scout stooped forward and Dick felt himself being raised bodily, swung up in the powerful arms of his friend. Then Richardson spoke:

“I’ll attend to MacClaren’s bruises while you put this lad to bed. We’re lucky in one way that no one was seriously hurt. Mighty lucky!”

“Except for that map, I’d call this night’s business more than lucky,” affirmed Malemute Slade. “But it’s too blamed bad he got that. MacClaren’ll feel worse about the loss of the map than the trummeling he got. Still as you say, corporal, we’re all of us mighty fortunate that nothin’ worse happened. Ol’ Scar-Face ain’t usually so keerful ’bout things.”

The scout continued talking to himself as he carried his bewildered burden into the adjoining room.

“So the map’s gone,” Dick quavered a moment later. “Are you sure, Slade?”

“You sit here an’ keep your trap shut,” Slade ordered, not as gruffly as his manner indicated. “You’re hurt, boy, an I’m goin’ to fix you up. I’ll fetch some bandages right quick.”

“But the map——” Dick sat straight up, not in the least heeding Slade’s command. “Did he really get it? I tell you, I must know.”

“He sure did. Broke the window an’ made good his escape. I don’t want to discourage nobody, but you an’ Sandy had better say good-bye to your chances of ever finding that mine. Jes’ forget it.” An interval of silence ensued. The mounted police scout stroked Dick’s hand.

“Plucky little savage—you!” he grinned. “But you better forget it. Sandy an’ you can have lots of fun anyway. Couldn’t keep you out of mischief very long, I guess. Not you two, I reckon!”

“I don’t care so much about losing the map or our chance of finding the mine,” declared Dick manfully, smothering what sounded very much like a sob, “but I hate to give up before we’re really licked—especially by that—that——” He paused, searching for the word that would most aptly describe the person he had in mind, “by that tripe,” he concluded.

“Yeah, it does seem bad,” Slade reflected. “’Course, we’ll try to get the map back again. I didn’t mean to sit with our arms folded, or anything like that. Scar-Face ain’t through with us yet, an’ the mounted police’ll have a nice string of crimes chalked up to his credit when we do get him. But this here map is a different matter, if you can follow me, son. They’ll be sure to hide or destroy it when they are in danger of being captured. It stands to reason that if they can’t have the pesky mine themselves, they won’t let you have it.”

“You’re right,” admitted Dick.

“’Course I am. An’ now for those bandages. No sense in sittin’ here yapping like this anyway. We can’t help ourselves by talking, can we? The thing to do is get goin’—quick!”

“You mean follow Scar-Face?”

“Yep. That’s exactly what I do mean. A light snow has fallen an’ he won’t be so hard to track. Corporal Richardson an’ I’ll be on the trail in less than an hour. How does that strike you?”

“Splendid!” exclaimed Dick, unable to conceal his enthusiasm. “Sandy and I will follow along in the morning. We’ll catch up to you, won’t we, Slade?”

The mounted police scout laughed as he strode away. When he had returned a short time later with his first-aid emergency kit tucked under one arm, a basin of water in one hand and a pair of scissors in the other, he was still grinning broadly.

For several minutes Slade was too busily occupied with his task of dressing Dick’s wound, to find time to talk. Having finished, however, he sat down on the bed beside his young charge and playfully poked that young man in the ribs.

“So you an’ Sandy are goin’ to catch up to us,” he chuckled. “Son, I like your spirit. It’s boys like you that grow up to be men like—well, say like Corporal Richardson.”

“Or Malemute Slade,” suggested Dick.

A tiny scowl flickered between Slade’s eyes.

“No—not me. I’m nobody. I ain’t ever had a chance. I can’t even read or write. A good mounted policeman has education, brains and nerve. I ain’t got nothin’ except nerve.”

“And a heart as big as a house,” added Dick. “Not to mention other things like woodcraft and knowledge of birds and animals and men. You know the location of most of the trails, lakes and portages in this country. Corporal Richardson told me that you were a crack shot. He said that you could shoot faster and hit oftener than any person he had ever known. You’re the best marksman in northwestern Canada.”

Malemute Slade flushed to the roots of his hair.

“Look here,” he began gruffly, “you keep your trap closed.”

“I know now why you laughed when I said Sandy and I would overtake you and Corporal Richardson on the trail,” grinned Dick. “What I meant, of course, was that we’d follow along and join you later.”

“You’ll stay right here until we get back,” ordered Slade. “That’s final. There’s goin’ to be some trouble up the line. We’re risking our own lives—not yours.”

“He’s right, Dick,” broke in the heavy, though not unmusical voice of Corporal Richardson. “Neither you nor Sandy can come along this time. You must wait here until we return.”

Dick choked back his disappointment, looking up at the stalwart figure of Corporal Richardson through a blur of tears. He turned his head and stared miserably across at the room which had almost been wrecked in the recent encounter between Factor MacClaren and the scar-faced Indian. A whirl of conflicting thoughts flashed through his mind.

“All right,” he said dully, “but——”

He was interrupted by the appearance of an Indian servant, upon the heels of whom came a tall young man with flashing eyes, clad in a heavy fur coat and parka. For a brief moment the young man stood, surveying the three occupants of the room. Then, without further preliminary, he advanced shyly toward Corporal Richardson, fumbling in the pocket of his coat.

“For ze mounted police,” he said, presenting Richardson with a long official-looking envelope. “Inspector Cameron he tell me take eet to you. To be queek. To be very careful. I have been on the trail eight, ten hours, monsieur.”

“Thank you,” said Corporal Richardson simply. He tore open the envelope, produced the letter and read its contents. Except for a slight pucker on his brow, there was no change in his expression.

“It will be necessary,” he said, turning to Slade, “to change our plans completely. I must ask you to go on alone in pursuit of the scar-faced Indian. It will be my duty to proceed elsewhere. I’m sorry, Slade.”

“Don’t you worry about that, Corporal. Orders is orders. I’ll go alone.” A moment of silence, then: “When do you think I’d better start?”

“Right away,” answered Corporal Richardson.

Dick grunted and rolled back into bed, thoroughly disgusted with the whole world in general, but particularly with a certain body of men known as the Royal North West Mounted Police. They had commanded him to remain at the post, while glorious adventure stalked valiantly along the snow-white trail just beyond. He and Sandy were not babies to be petted and pampered in this manner. He’d show ’em. He——

With rebellion in his heart, Dick rolled over presently, thumped down his pillow, and, in a very short time, fell fast asleep.

CHAPTER III
SCARLET AND GOLD

Dick awoke on the following morning to find Sandy stooping over him, regarding him silently with eyes from which shone sympathy and deep concern. As a matter of fact, Sandy was seriously alarmed over his friend’s appearance. Dick’s bandaged head and somewhat pallid face gave him the look of one who hovers close to death’s door. There was an unmistakable catch in the young Scotchman’s voice as he leaned forward still closer to the recumbent form and inquired solicitously:

“Are you feeling any better, Dick?”

“I’m feeling fine,” came the surprising answer, “and I’m going to get up in about three minutes and fight it out with Corporal Richardson. I have no intention of being treated like a child.”

The angry wave of color that swept into Dick’s cheeks, coupled with the dark frown and resentful eyes, so astonished Sandy that he sat down on the edge of the bed and gasped weakly:

“You don’t really mean that. Why, Dick, you’re no match for Corporal Richardson. Besides, it’s a criminal offense to assault a mounted policeman.”

“I’m not going to assault a mounted policeman,” Dick petulantly explained. “I think too much of Corporal Richardson for that. What I intend to do is to find out why he intends to keep us here until Malemute Slade returns. My contention is that as long as we obey the laws and conduct ourselves like honest citizens, no person has the right to interfere in our business.”

Sandy sat for a long time before answering. Here was a problem that required a good deal of careful thought and attention. On the face of it, Dick’s grievance seemed pardonable, and yet common sense told him that Corporal Richardson was fair and just, not at all the sort of person to take advantage of his authority. If the mounted policeman insisted upon Dick and him staying here, there must be a good reason for it.

“Didn’t Corporal Richardson tell you why he wanted us to stay here?” Sandy asked.

“He and Malemute Slade thought we would be risking our lives if we followed Scar-Face.”

“Well, perhaps they’re right.”

Dick sat up and put one hand on his friend’s shoulder.

“Listen to me, Sandy. Listen to me and then, if you wish, form your own opinion. The mounted police insist upon our remaining here at the post because if we undertake to follow old Scar-Face we may be risking our lives. They may be right. I haven’t the least doubt but that we’ll encounter certain dangers. Possibly we’ll be risking our lives but,” Dick paused and waved one hand dramatically, “what else have we been doing except just that: Risking our lives every day, running into dangers and difficulties with the consent of everybody, including the mounted police. Now, suddenly, for no reason at all, we’re asked to be good little boys, to remain indoors for fear we may catch a bad cold. I tell you, Sandy, it sounds fishy to me.”

“Dick, I think you’d make a great orator,” said Sandy admiringly.

“And a poor soldier,” chimed in a voice. “Pardon me for eavesdropping, gentlemen, but the fact is I couldn’t help overhearing a part of your conversation.”

Faces red with shame, the two boys turned in the direction of the newcomer, Corporal Richardson himself, who stood just inside the door. Dick could have bit out his tongue or, better still, hid his head under the pillow while some friendly magician transported him—bed, blankets and all—to some remote place, thousands and thousands of miles distant. For the first time he realized what a fool he had been—a miserable young fool with a wagging tongue in his head. He hadn’t the courage to look Corporal Richardson in the face.

“You’d make a poor soldier,” continued the corporal, calmly surveying the two culprits. “You see, Dick, a soldier’s first duty is obedience. What do you suppose would happen to me if I questioned my superior’s commands, if I didn’t do what I was told to do even if, deep down in my heart, I believed or knew that my superior was in the wrong?”

“You’d be placed under arrest,” surmised Sandy.

“Right! That’s exactly what would happen to me. And I’d deserve the punishment I got.”

Corporal Richardson ceased speaking for a moment, strode forward and placed a kindly hand on Dick’s bandaged head.

“Now don’t feel badly about this, Dick, and when I go out of the room I want you to try and forget the reprimand. Dismiss the whole incident, just as I propose to dismiss it. We’re all friends, I owe you boys a debt of gratitude. I admire you both very much. As a general thing, I’m not usually one to hand out compliments or bestow praise, but I’ll say this: You and Sandy are as rough a pair of young vagabonds as it has ever been my experience to meet.”

A roar of laughter greeted this amusing sally, and for a moment Dick entirely forgot his discomfiture.

“Seriously now,” Corporal Richardson continued, “I want both of you to understand my position in this matter. Remember this: It is one thing to risk your life, but quite another to risk your life needlessly. That’s exactly what you’d be doing if you went out on the trail with Malemute Slade. Your chance of stopping a bullet would be exceedingly good. Scar-Face would lead you into a trap before you had gone thirty miles. I tell you Henderson’s gang of cut-throats and ruffians has become a terrible menace to the entire western portion of this north country. Conditions have never been worse since the Riel Rebellion. If things do not improve shortly, I’m afraid the Royal Mounted will be compelled to call in outside aid.”

“But what will happen to Malemute Slade?” questioned Sandy in awed tones.

“To be perfectly frank, I’ll be worried about him and won’t know a single moment’s peace until he returns. However, Slade can look after himself much better than he could if you boys went with him. He’s the best scout in the mounted police service.”

“Do you think he has any chance of recovering the map?” Dick asked.

Corporal Richardson shook his head.

“I doubt it very much. I do not believe any of us will ever see the map again. But that does not mean that you need give up hope altogether. Your chance of finding the mine and eventually getting it into your possession is almost as good now as it ever was.”

“What do you mean?” both boys shouted out in unison.

“Henderson and his gang will be apt to find it, won’t they? Well if they do, we’ll take it away from them. Could anything be simpler? It sounds easy but, of course, it isn’t. Just the same, I really do think the thing could be managed.”

“A sort of roundabout way of gaining possession,” laughed Dick.

“Any way is a good way, especially in their case,” grinned Sandy. “But if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to see Uncle Walter. He’s covered with bruises from head to foot. Painful, of course, but not serious. I can’t imagine how I managed to sleep through all that uproar last night.”

“I’m not at all surprised,” rejoined Dick, who well knew his friend’s propensity in this regard, and never lost an opportunity of chiding him about it.

When Sandy had hurried away, Corporal Richardson turned to Dick.

“We’re friends, aren’t we?”

“You bet!” came the answer unhesitatingly. “Corporal, I owe you an apology. I can see now what a fool I was.” Impulsively he extended his hand.

“Now that that’s settled,” said Richardson, “I have a job for you. Do you happen to remember the messenger, who came last night?”

“Yes.”

“If you saw him again would you know him?”

“Yes,” stated Dick positively.

“How did he impress you?”

“Why, favorably, I guess.” Dick wondered what the policeman was driving at.

“That was my first impression too,” Corporal Richardson resumed, “but I have since had occasion to alter it considerably. I don’t mind telling you that I nearly made a very fatal error of judgment. That French-Canadian messenger was a fake, and he brought me a fake message, supposed to be from Inspector Cameron. I was fooled last night and permitted my man to escape. This morning a careful scrutiny of the message proved that the signature affixed was a forgery. In other words, the letter did not come from headquarters at all, although the stationery upon which it had been penned must have been stolen from the Inspector’s office.”

“What did the letter say?” Dick asked.

“It instructed me to proceed, not later than the morning of March 2nd—which is today—to a place called Little Run River and there place a certain person under arrest for the theft of valuable furs.”

“But what would be the purpose of such a hoax?” Dick wanted to know.

“Simply to get me out of the way. For some reason, not yet quite apparent, my presence here at Fort Good Faith is not wanted. For some reason, my presence here interferes with the carrying out of important plans of certain unscrupulous persons; which, of course, makes it all the more necessary why I should remain and why you should go on to Run River in my place.”

Dick would not have jumped to his feet any quicker if he had been pricked by a pin.

“In your place!” he gasped. “Why, corporal, I don’t understand! No one could mistake me for you!”

“When I get through with you,” calmly smiled the mounted policeman, “anyone will be very apt to be fooled by the resemblance. The main thing is, you’re about my height.”

At that moment Dick was too excited to grasp fully what the corporal was telling him. Presently, however, he was enlightened.

“For the first time in your life, Dick,” declared Corporal Richardson, still smiling, “you’re going to don the uniform of his majesty’s Royal North West Mounted Police.”

CHAPTER IV
DICK MAKES A SUGGESTION

A very serious but elated young man, no other than Dick himself, strode into the room occupied by Corporal Richardson and proceeded to put on the scarlet and gold uniform of the Royal North West Mounted Police. At that particular moment his mind was in a whirl of conflicting emotions. He still possessed a somewhat hazy idea of what was expected of him, although he knew that when the time came Richardson would give him complete and painstaking instructions.

That he was embarking upon an important and mysterious errand, there could be no doubt, and it thrilled him to know that the mounted policeman had sufficient confidence in his ability to give him this chance to be of real service. As he pulled on the blue breeches with the wide yellow stripe and later the scarlet tunic, resplendent with braid and shining brass buttons, he made a solemn resolution to be worthy of the trust imposed in him.

“Sandy will laugh when he sees me,” he told Corporal Richardson, “and I must say that I feel awkward and out of place.”

“It fits you remarkably well,” smiled the corporal, “considering how much heavier I am. I think I’m inclined to be proud of your appearance, and perhaps just a little bit jealous.”

“When do you want me to start?” Dick asked. “In about an hour. But first, there are a number of things I want to discuss with you. So, if you’ll just sit down in that chair over there and listen attentively, I’m sure there’ll be no question about the ultimate success of our plan.”

“As I explained to you before,” continued Corporal Richardson, “the French-Canadian messenger, who came here last night with the forged letter, is an agent or emissary of a band of crooks. Who these crooks are, I’m not altogether sure. My belief is that they’re the fur thieves Malemute Slade and I have been trailing for the last three weeks.”

Sitting very still and rigid in his chair, Dick followed closely every word spoken. Richardson’s face had become serious, even stern in its expression.