“I’ve nothing very tangible to go on, of course, but during the past few hours I’ve given a good deal of thought to this case. I’m convinced of one thing. I’m positive that the fur thieves and Henderson’s gang are one and the same. I believe it was Henderson who sent the messenger last night. Henderson is the author of this strategy or hoax, just as surely as he is the person directly behind the effort to secure possession of your lost gold mine.”
“You really think so?” Dick interrupted.
“Yes.”
For a short interval the mounted policeman sat without speaking. The room had become almost intolerably silent. Turning towards the window, Dick looked out across a vast snow field, dotted here and there with the dark green of spruce and jackpine.
“And now,” suddenly resumed Richardson, “we’ve come to the very serious part of this whole business. I must confess to you that I’m worried and—you may be surprised at this admission—afraid!”
“Afraid!” Dick gasped. “Why, corporal, I can’t believe that anything would ever frighten you.”
“Something has,” confessed Richardson, “and right now I’m frightened so badly that I’m almost inclined to tell you to take off that uniform and go and hunt up your friend, Sandy, for a game of cards.”
Dick started to laugh, but a second look at the brooding, troubled eyes of the man opposite, choked his untimely mirth.
“This is a serious moment for you, my boy, and I’ll tell you why. The message received last night was sent to me for a purpose. For reasons, as yet not quite clear to us, my presence at Fort Good Faith constitutes a hindrance to certain plans of Henderson. Henderson wants me to clear out—to go away. Why?”
“I’m sure I can’t answer that question,” said Dick.
“Neither can I; but I’ve a pretty fair hunch. Fort Good Faith is on the only direct, open, well-travelled trail, leading south to civilization. Henderson, let us say, has a valuable shipment of stolen fur. He wants to dispose of it. He’s in a hurry to get it south before the spring thaw. Every day that he is forced to wait, is time and money lost. He’s anxious to start right away, sending out his fur by dog teams, but he can’t do that because I’m here at Fort Good Faith and will be sure to seize his shipment.”
“Whew!” whistled Dick. “How did you ever contrive to figure that all out? It sounds very plausible.”
“Nevertheless,” said Corporal Richardson, “it’s entirely supposition and may be absolutely wrong. I’m hoping that it’s right, because if it isn’t, the only other motive that I can think of for inducing me to go to Run River is a very sinister one.”
“What is it?” asked Dick.
“A trap for me to fall into. Somewhere between here and Run River an ambush—a slinking half-breed or Indian lying in wait to pop me off. A score of mounted policemen have gone that way. It’s an old trick. That’s why I’m shivering clear down to the bottom of my feet for fear that I may be sending you out to your death. Before God, I wish I had detected that forgery before I ordered Slade to set out in pursuit of the scar-faced Indian.”
Dick caught at the side of his chair, his cheeks deathly pale. The room seemed to be spinning around in a sort of dark haze, through which he could see the distorted face of Corporal Richardson opposite. When he had recovered somewhat, he observed that the mounted policeman had sprung to his feet and was pacing abstractedly back and forth.
“I can’t—I can’t do it, Dick,” he was muttering. “It isn’t fair. No—there must be some other way.”
“But I want to go,” Dick insisted. “I’ll take good care of myself and I’m sure nothing will happen. Anyhow, I’m convinced that your first guess was right, that Henderson and the fur thieves are planning to send that shipment.”
“And, on the other hand,” pointed out Corporal Richardson, “both guesses may be right. It would be a feather in Henderson’s cap if he could dispose of the furs and have me put out of the way at one and the same time.”
For several moments the two stood, facing each other, both deep in thought. Suddenly, Dick’s face lighted and he clapped his hands together gleefully.
“Corporal Richardson, I think possibly I may have hit upon a rather sensible plan,” he cried out enthusiastically. “Why not follow the trail to Run River only a short distance, then strike off in an entirely different direction, make a wide detour, and come back here to the post. Henderson will naturally suppose that I have gone on to Run River. If your first supposition is correct, the dog teams with the fur will start to move down this way at once. If your second guess is right, I won’t run into an ambush because I won’t be travelling where they expect me to go.”
“Good!” exclaimed Richardson. “Dick, you’re a young man after my own heart. Why in the Dickens didn’t I think of that myself.”
“You’ve done well enough for one day as it is,” Dick rejoined. “All I hope is that you won’t have any trouble capturing the men with the fur shipments. Aren’t they apt to put up a fight?”
“I expect that,” answered the corporal, “but I’ll have Sandy, young Toma and Mr. MacClaren to give me a hand if necessary.”
Breakfast, a few minutes more of preparation, and Dick and the mounted policeman, the latter now clothed in ordinary civilian garb, slipped quietly out of the room and hurried down a long hall in the direction of the side entrance. As they went, the corporal was speaking in hushed undertones:
“It’s just as well that Sandy doesn’t see you before you go. We haven’t time now for explanations or further delays. Good luck, and God be with you.”
They paused for a single hand-clasp before Dick turned to close the door after him, which action Corporal Richardson prevented by sticking out his foot.
“Straight ahead until you cross the river, then take the first trail to your right,” he called out. “Be careful!”
“Good-bye,” said Dick without turning his head.
His eyes were moist and a sticky lump reposed in his throat. Chin out, arms swinging at his side, who, indeed, might detect anything amiss here? The trail was ahead, a glimmering stretch of snow, dazzling in the early morning light. Behind him were friends, comfort and a good fire.
Dick plodded on.
CHAPTER V
DICK IS INDISCREET
Three hours after he had left Fort Good Faith, Dick Kent, still on the Run River trail, had become conscious of an increasing nervousness. The section of country through which he now passed was densely wooded, rugged and broken, a treacherous, uninviting prospect. Dick estimated that he had travelled about twelve miles from the post. To continue much farther might prove to be a dangerous business. Even now, as he went cautiously forward, he could almost persuade himself that behind every clump of bushes, behind almost every tree, there crouched the leering, skulking form of one of Henderson’s men.
If he followed his original plan, the thing to do presently was to strike off, either to the right or left, and proceed on his way back by a circuitous route. Tonight he would camp somewhere in the open, building himself a shelter of spruce boughs. Tomorrow morning he would set out again, moving slowly, making a wide detour, always bearing in mind that he must not, under any circumstances, return to Fort Good Faith before two days had elapsed. The fur thieves, both he and Corporal Richardson had conjectured, would be sure not to delay more than two days before commencing the trek southward with their valuable loot. So Dick had a good deal of time to waste, before he might hope to rejoin his friends.
A hundred yards farther on, a turn in the trail brought Dick to a small creek. Frozen, and covered deeply with snow, it traced its way through the dark green of the forest. From where he stood, Dick thought that it looked very much like a white snake, twisting through the trees. It would be great fun, he decided, to leave the trail at this point and follow the creek on a little voyage of exploration, later leaving it, if he found that the general course of the stream ran too far in the wrong direction.
Also, by following the creek, there would be a certain advantage to himself, well worth considering. It offered a smooth, hard trail to his feet, with no obstruction from rocks, bramble and bush, as the case would be if he chose to strike out in a more haphazardly course through the forest.
Turning to the left, Dick slid down the small embankment and commenced leisurely to walk along the creek bottom. The snow-crust was so heavy that he paused, kicked off his snowshoes and went forward again, whistling happily. It was a great relief to leave the Run River trail. He would have no fear now of a deadly ambuscade. His heart had ceased its disconcerting flip-flops every time he went past a dark screen of brush or a heavy clump of trees. It now functioned in a more healthy manner.
The weather was mild, a stream of warm sunshine lighting the open forest spaces with a dazzling radiance. The glare of snow was hard on the eyes, but by keeping in the shadow of the large trees, bordering the creek, Dick contrived to overcome this difficulty.
In another hour or two he would pause for his midday meal. The long walk had given him an appetite. He was sorry that Sandy hadn’t come along to enjoy the fun. On a day like this it was good to be alive. He grinned as a rabbit whisked across his path, boy-fashion stooping to pick up a chunk of ice to hurl after it. As he straightened up, eyes on the trail ahead, he was startled by the sight of a thin, white spiral of smoke curling up from the trees, not more than two hundred yards distant.
Dick stopped dead in his tracks, scarcely believing the reality of the thing he saw. He was totally unprepared in the emergency and for a moment stood, with bated breath, debating whether he ought to go on or turn tail, like a frightened husky, and scamper for cover.
Corporal Richardson had warned him to keep away from all human kind. Before the experienced eyes of the average frontiersman Dick’s masquerade would be useless. And once the deception had been laid bare, no one might tell how soon the news would reach Bear Henderson and his gang of outlaws.
To add to Dick’s discomfiture, there emerged unexpectedly in plain view ahead the figure of a man. Half way across the creek the man paused, perceiving Dick, and one arm went up in a gesture of friendly salutation.
In chagrin, Dick bit his lips. His chance now to get away undetected had been lost. In less than four hours from the time he had left Fort Good Faith, he had committed a most unpardonable blunder. All very well for spying eyes to follow his progress along the Run River trail, and Indian messengers to report the news later to Henderson—that was playing the game correctly; but to be discovered here, four miles off the prescribed route, calmly throwing chunks of ice after scurrying rabbits, was an entirely different matter. If word of it ever reached the suspicious outlaw, Corporal Richardson’s chances of capturing the fur thieves was very slim indeed.
“The only thing about me worthy of the name of a mounted policeman is this uniform,” Dick lamented to himself. “I’ve messed up everything. I’ll be ashamed to go back and look Corporal Richardson in the face. Hang the luck!”
With a snort of disgust, he strode forward again to meet the waiting figure. There was no turning back now. The thing to do was to swallow his disappointment and endeavor to make the best of it.
In a few minutes more he had approached to within twenty feet of the man. His moccasins crunched lightly over the snow, but the blinding glare of sun in his eyes, together with the dazzling reflection of millions of white crystals underfoot, made it difficult to see. He heard a voice announce:
“Ah, et eez ze Corporal Richardson himself. I bid you ze welcome, monsieur. You come to ze house. You come——”
The words trailed off suddenly, culminating in an exclamation of surprise. Dick stopped.
“My mistake. Et ees not ze good Corporal Richardson at all. Mon Dieu! A boy!”
A prickling sensation ran up and down Dick’s spine. He could see more clearly now, and one good look at the man in front of him was more than sufficient. Who could mistake those snapping eyes, or that tall, lithe, athletic figure? It was the messenger of the night before—the man who had brought the forged letter to Corporal Richardson!
During the first few minutes of bewilderment and surprise, Dick found it impossible to think clearly, but as this feeling wore off, there flashed through his mind the thought that perhaps this messenger of Henderson had not yet discovered his true identity. The man had seen him only once. Dick presented an entirely different appearance now than he had on the evening before in the poorly lighted room at the post.
“What ees your name, monsieur?” demanded the Frenchman.
“Corporal Rand,” Dick lied deliberately. “Recently from the mounted police training school at Regina. This is the first time I’ve ever been sent out on actual service. I arrived at Fort Good Faith a few hours ago to relieve Corporal Richardson, but I discovered he had left under instructions just a few minutes before for a place called Run River.”
The Frenchman, to judge from the relieved expression on his face, actually believed the story.
“And so you already start on ze friendly patrol?” he inquired politely.
“No,” answered the quaking young counterfeit, “at first that really wasn’t my intention. I had hoped to overtake Corporal Richardson before he had gone very far, but I guess I wasn’t swift enough. There is no catching him!”
The messenger grinned at this admission. He surveyed the lanky young tenderfoot, bethought him of the prowess of Corporal Richardson on the trail, and doubled up in a paroxysm of mirth. Dick joined willingly in the laugh on himself.
“Monsieur will become swift himself if he continue to stay in zis countree,” came the encouraging assertion.
“Conditions here are much different than they were in the south,” explained Dick, “but I imagine that in time I’ll get used to them.”
“True, monsieur, an’ now you are veree tired, I expect.” The messenger’s gestures were expressive. “So you will come with me to my house. You will honor me, monsieur. You will stay an’ rest an’ forget about ze hardness of ze trail. Baptiste La Lond ees a veree good friend to ze mounted police.”
Dick guessed at the motive underlying the messenger’s efforts at hospitality. La Lond was afraid that Dick might decide to return at once to Fort Good Faith. It would never do, of course, after getting rid of one policeman, to have all their plans spoiled by the sudden advent of a second.
“I really must return to Fort Good Faith at once,” stated Dick, by way of a feeler. “I’ll be stationed there for several days, I imagine.”
“No! No! No!” protested La Lond, throwing up his hands in protest. “Et ees unthinkable. Monsieur is tired after ze hard trek. He must rest an’ eat at my house.” He paused, a smile of eagerness lighting his face. The dark eyes snapped. “An’ now I will tell you ze beeg news, monsieur. Tonight my veree good friend, Pierre Chapelle, ees hold a dance at hees house. We will go. What you say, monsieur?”
“I’ll think about that later,” Dick answered, deciding to play into the other’s hands. “I’ll stay here for a while, if you insist. I really am very tired.”
La Lond kept up a continuous chatter as he quickly led the way to the house—a small cabin, nestling in the woods. His host threw open the door to permit him to enter a tidy room, at one side of which Dick perceived a young man of about his own age.
“My brother, Phellep,” explained the messenger, pushing his way in and closing the door. “We live here together. Phellep, take monsieur’s coat.”
Phillip La Lond rose stiffly, a look of fear on his face. Evidently he was not accustomed to entertaining members of the Royal Mounted and was probably trying to figure out the reason for Dick’s unexpected visit.
But if Phillip experienced fear, he was not without company. Dick also was afraid. It had just occurred to him that perhaps the wily messenger had not been in the least deceived by the story, which he, Dick, had related. Perhaps La Lond had recognized him at the very beginning and was now planning some devilish method of getting rid of him.
During the preparation of the midday meal and for several hours afterward, Dick sat, shivering with apprehension. La Lond’s continuous flow of conversation fell on unheeding ears. The pressure of the revolver in its holster at Dick’s side was somewhat reassuring, yet what match was he, a single inexperienced youth, against a seasoned criminal like La Lond. He had probably made a serious mistake in coming here. No doubt, he would be made to pay dearly for his blundering. But in any event, it was up to him now to play the game in a way that would be a credit to the faith imposed in him.
And so with this grim resolve, Dick straightened in his chair, endeavoring to conquer the quailing spirit within. La Lond was still speaking:
“Perhaps monsieur ees veree tired an’ would like to lie down an’ rest,” he inquired solicitously. “While you have your leetle nap, Phellep will take ze run out to ze trap-line.”
“What you mean, you deceiving scoundrel,” Dick thought to himself, “is that you are sending Phillip over to Henderson’s camp with the news of my coming.” Then aloud:
“No, I’m not as tired as you think. Let’s sit here and rest for a few minutes more, then all three of us will go out to examine your traps.”
The appearance of animation and the smile of good fellowship suddenly and inexplicably disappeared. In their place a dark frown settled over the face of the messenger. For one brief moment he glared at Dick.
“All right, eet will be as you wish,” he snapped. Then his eyes met Dick’s in a look that could not possibly be misunderstood.
Unconsciously, Dick stiffened in his chair as he read the challenge.
CHAPTER VI
IN THE HOUSE OF THE MESSENGER
It was a trying ordeal. Never before, in all Dick’s experience, had time seemed to pass so slowly as it did upon that fateful afternoon. The messenger had thrown aside all further attempts at conversation. Head bent forward, fingers locked, he feigned a drowsiness, which did not fool Dick in the least. Phillip, on the other hand, had grown restless, continually fidgeting about, or pacing up and down the room like a caged lion.
Occasionally Dick would catch a glimpse of a furtive, frightened glance cast in his direction. The younger La Lond, less adept in the school of deception, could not conceal his real feelings.
“Have you many traps out this winter?” Dick inquired, looking across at Phillip.
The other mumbled something in reply and went on with his pacing. Evidently, he had no desire to commit himself. In the cabin were no evidences of traps or trapping, and Dick would have been willing to swear on oath that the brothers La Lond not only did not possess such a thing as a trap-line, but had other and more profitable ways of making a living.
To all appearances, the two brothers lived a life of ease and indulgence. The room was nicely furnished, the cupboards were stocked with food, two bottles of Hudson’s Bay Company’s rum peeped from behind an inadequate curtain. But the thing which struck Dick’s gaze most forcibly of all, was a queer-looking object which stood near the fireplace. It was a sort of rack, cleverly constructed out of wood, upon which fairly bristled a miniature arsenal of guns, rifles, knives and belts—the last bulging with cartridges.
Time and time again, Dick’s eyes returned to a fascinated scrutiny of that rack. There were weapons enough here to supply a small army. Deadly looking revolvers and automatics, shot-guns, 45 and 30-30 caliber repeating rifles, with here and there a long-bladed knife to add interest to the general effect.
On the floor, close to the rack, were several packing cases, as yet unopened, which probably contained a more complete supply of ammunition. The brothers La Lond might boast of possessing a different weapon for almost every day of the month. So complete were their requirements in this respect, that Dick very quickly jumped to the conclusion that no two men could possibly find use for them all. It was much more reasonable to believe that others, beside the two brothers, had an interest in them, and that this cabin was used as a meeting place—if not for Henderson’s gang itself—for another band equally as bad.
“I’m about as safe here,” Dick grimaced to himself, “as I would be sitting on a case of nitroglycerine. The best thing for me is to get away from here as quickly as possible.”
From under his lowered brows, Baptiste La Lond, still feigning sleep, was secretly watching him. Dick felt the scrutiny through some intuitive sense, and became more and more uncomfortable. Another worry was caused by the younger La Lond, who, during his restless pacing to and fro, often passed behind Dick’s chair. It would be very easy, Dick thought, for Phillip to spring forward and pinion his arms behind him. In fact, chancing to look across at the former messenger he intercepted a signal, a sly wink which might, had Dick been less on guard, easily have passed unnoticed. Dick turned almost completely around, just as Phillip came stealthily forward, preparing for a spring.
“When are we going to visit the trap-line, Phillip?” Dick inquired mockingly.
Phillip stopped suddenly, his face red with anger and embarrassment. He turned and beat a hasty retreat, glowering from his corner as Dick rose and moved back his chair.
Then, as never before, Dick realized fully the seriousness of his position. Not for one moment could he relax his vigilance. His life itself depended upon extreme caution and, when it became necessary, swift action. But even by exercising the utmost care, sooner or later a little slip on his part might give the treacherous brothers the advantage they craved.
Dick rose to his feet, finally, and addressed the still drowsing messenger.
“La Lond,” he stated in a clear, steady voice, “I’ve decided to go at once. I’m afraid it will be impossible for me to neglect my duty. It is too late in the afternoon to go back to Fort Good Faith, but I think I’ll continue on my patrol, returning to the post late tomorrow afternoon or the morning following.”
Baptiste, apparently, was sleeping with one ear open. Almost immediately he sprang to an upright position.
“No! No, monsieur!” he protested, waving his arms wildly about. “You must not go, I beg of you. Stop here for a time longer, monsieur.”
But Dick shook his head.
“I must go,” he declared firmly.
“But think, monsieur, eet will be veree late by ze time you get back to Fort Good Faith.”
“I’ll not go there tonight, as I just explained to you, and probably not tomorrow. I must finish my patrol.”
La Lond’s eyes blinked.
“Where do you go then?” he asked, evidently much relieved.
“That is a matter I have not yet decided,” answered Dick. “I’m not very well acquainted with the country hereabouts, and I’ve been wondering if you’ll be kind enough to direct me to the nearest dwelling.”
“Yes, certainly, monsieur, I will be veree glad.”
His sudden great eagerness to assist him did not escape Dick’s attention. He knew very well what Baptiste would say, and he had no intention of following any suggestions of the bandit as to where he should go. It was easy to guess where the wily messenger would send him—to Henderson’s camp probably, or, if not there, to the house of some other crook in the outlaw’s employ.
“I have a friend who live seex miles from here,” said La Lond. “Ze trail ees veree easy to his house. You must go zere.”
“All right, I’ll do as you say,” agreed Dick, “but first you must be very careful in directing me so that I do not get lost.”
“Et ees easy to tell, monsieur. You will not get lost,” the messenger shrugged his shoulders expressively. “Two mile down ze leetle creek to ze first turn to ze right, zen four mile straight ahead to my friend’s house. Not possibly can you miss et, monsieur.”
“So that is where Henderson is camped,” exulted Dick to himself. “The information may be valuable to Corporal Richardson.”
“Thank you very much,” he said to Baptiste.
“Et ees nothing,” La Lond blinked wickedly.
Phillip had suddenly come to life again and was treading soft-footed across the floor. From the corner of one eye, Dick watched him. Then Baptiste shuffled farther to one side, probably with the intention of preventing Dick from observing his brother’s sly movements. Not to be outdone in this clumsy fashion, Dick took a step in the opposite direction, just in time to see Phillip approach the fireplace and the rack of guns close by.
“You will find ze place without difficulty,” declared Baptiste in a loud voice, attempting to attract attention to himself. “I tell you, monsieur, my friend he ees veree good host. So joll-ee, so kind, monsieur. You will not regret.”
Dick whipped his revolver from his holster and sprang back just in time.
“Put down that gun,” he shouted to Phillip. “Put it down, I say!”
Phillip’s weapon clattered to the floor, and his hands clawed at the empty air above his head. At that particular moment he was a very much frightened and surprised young man. His cheeks were white as the drifts of snow outside. Baptiste turned, his face crimson with fury.
“Fool! Fool!” he screamed, rushing forward and cuffing the shivering culprit about the face and head. Then he turned apologetically to Dick.
“Pardon, monsieur,” he whimpered. “Mon Dieu! I am stricken! Ze boy ees mad. Perhaps you notice et before, monsieur. I intend to tell you ze truth when first you came, but there ees always ze shame an’ ze pride. You understand me, monsieur.”
“Yes, I understand you,” Dick replied coldly. “Believe me, I’ll know exactly what to expect from you in future. One false move from either one of you, and I won’t hesitate about using this nice little plaything here in my hands. Stand aside!”
Baptiste obeyed quickly as Dick backed slowly to the door, opened it and went quickly out. His pulses were pounding and his hand trembled as he returned the gun to its holster.
“Close shave!” he muttered to himself. “I guess I was pretty lucky that time.”
At a dog trot, he hurried along the foot-path, leading to the creek.
CHAPTER VII
FLIGHT THROUGH THE WOODS
A very alert and still somewhat frightened young man in the person of Dick Kent hurried across the small creek he had commenced following a few hours before, and struck off through the heavy forest of spruce and poplar, which lay between him and Fort Good Faith.
In spite of the fact that travelling was now more difficult, Dick made remarkably good time. The thought uppermost in his mind was to put as many miles between him and the treacherous Baptiste as possible, to go on with undiminished speed until darkness came to prevent further progress.
Pursuit would be almost certain, Dick reasoned. The two brothers, smarting under their recent thwarted attempt to take Dick prisoner, would be anxious to even the score.
“They’ll be wild,” Dick grinned to himself, “and angry enough to boil me in oil if ever I fall in their hands again.”
He chuckled as he visualized the picture of Baptiste and Phillip, quarreling amongst themselves over the miscarriage of their plans. By the time they had fought out the verbal battle and had got down to the real business of recapturing their slippery guest, Dick hoped he would have several miles to his credit, and would be able to retain the lead.
He had been unwise in accepting the hospitality offered by Baptiste, yet in so doing he had made several important discoveries. One was that the cabin, occupied by the two brothers, afforded a meeting place for the band of criminals, then infesting the country, and a second, that either Henderson himself or other members of the band could be found in the place to which Baptiste had directed him.
Dick pondered over this information as he hurried on. He recalled what Corporal Richardson had told him regarding the operations of a large criminal organization there in the North, and he was quite sure the mounted police would welcome any news of their movements or places of abode. He remembered also what Richardson had said about the connection between the fur thieves and Henderson’s outlaws. The corporal believed that they were one and the same—all under the leadership of Henderson. If this supposition were correct, then the La Lond cabin was just as apt to be a meeting place or rendezvous for the men who had stolen the map of the lost mine, as for the fur thieves themselves.
Sooner or later, reasoned Dick, the scar-faced Indian would show up at one or the other of the two places of which he, Dick, had knowledge. Probably right now the possessor of the map was somewhere in that very neighborhood. Having escaped Malemute Slade, what would be more natural than that he should immediately proceed to Henderson’s camp to report his good fortune.
Dick paused abruptly at the thought, his pulses pounding with excitement. In a high state of tension he strode forward, brushed the snow from a small, broken stump, and sat down to think it all out.
“I’ve a good notion to throw caution to the winds,” he confided to himself, gulping a handful of snow, “and go right back at once. They won’t be expecting me. Anyway, it’ll be dark by the time I return to the La Lond cabin. It will be comparatively safe then. I’ll reconnoitre a bit, find out if Baptiste and Phillip are still there, and, if they’re not, I’ll slip over to Henderson’s. I’ve just got a hunch that the scar-faced Indian has returned.”
Dick had never been placed in a similar position, and found it very difficult to decide. Reason told him that it would be the height of folly to embark upon any such enterprise. But in Dick’s veins was the hot, adventurous blood of youth. Here was a chance in a thousand to win back the ground which had been lost. He would find the scar-faced Indian and endeavor to recover the map.
He had risen to his feet for the express purpose of proceeding to carry out his foolhardy plan, when quite unexpectedly there rang in his ears a former statement of Corporal Richardson:
“You’d make a mighty poor soldier, Dick.... A soldier’s first duty is obedience.”
Was this obedience? He had been warned to keep away from all human habitation, to be careful not to expose himself needlessly—to shun men! And now—— A slow flush of shame mounted to his forehead. Hang it all, what an imbecile he was. So far he had obeyed none of the commands of his superior. He had—or very nearly had—violated them all. At every turn, instead of doing the right thing, he had done the wrong thing. He was not worthy of Corporal Richardson’s or any other man’s trust. Even Sandy, younger than he, nor half as strong physically, would never have been guilty of such willful disobedience.
It was a more sober and earnest young man who faced resolutely about and continued the trek eastward towards Fort Good Faith. The silence of the great forest lay about him. Shadows had lengthened, the sun had slipped down out of sight, the cooler breath of evening stung color in his cheeks and tickled his nostrils with tiny particles of frost.
“I’ll go on for an hour before stopping to make camp for the night,” he decided.
He felt more tired now as he resumed his lonely and monotonous journey. Crossing a narrow valley, thickly studded with clumps of red willow and saskatoon, he commenced scrambling up a sharp incline, until finally he reached a wide plateau. Here, except for an occasional stunted jack-pine, there were no trees. Huge boulders and queer looking rocks, most of them covered thickly with snow, gave a weird appearance to the place.
The wind had full sweep across the plateau. It was bitterly cold here, so cold indeed that even the heavy fur jacket and parka, worn by the mounted police, failed to keep out the insidious penetrating frost. Dick beat his arms against his shivering body and stumbled on across that desolate plain, anxiously scanning the darkening prospect ahead. He hoped that he would come soon to the more friendly forest, where, when a stop became necessary, he could gather wood and kindle a fire. But out there ahead he could see nothing except a long and weary stretch of country covered with snow and bristling with rocks, a land indescribably lonely and terrible just then in the rapidly gathering darkness.
Fully an hour passed before he had traversed the plateau and had come again to the welcome woodland. Breathing a sigh of relief, he started down the slope, faintly outlined in the gloom ahead. It was so steep here that Dick had difficulty in keeping his balance. He slid, stumbled, now and again reaching out for a young sapling to aid him in his somewhat precipitous descent. He had almost reached the bottom when he felt himself being thrown violently forward, falling in a crumpled heap at the foot of a large spruce. A stab of pain in his right ankle, and Dick momentarily lost consciousness.
He realized presently what had happened. The thong of the snowshoe on his right foot had become caught in a snag of brush and had tripped him. His fall had been heavy, but Dick did not become aware of the full extent of his injury until he attempted to rise.
It was useless. His right ankle throbbed with a sickening pain. A bad fracture or torn ligaments—he was not sure which—made it absolutely impossible for him to put any weight at all upon that foot.
A sudden, horrible fear overcame him. In the first moment of weakness, a terror-stricken sob broke from his lips. Here he was absolutely helpless, without wood, water or fire, without shelter of any kind, in weather so bitterly cold that in a few hours time, lying there inactive, he would be frozen as stiff as a block of ice.
Not entirely to Dick’s discredit, he cried like a child, one arm flung out, the other pillowed under him. He lay there, his body shaking with ill-suppressed grief. Face blanched with terror, he sat up finally staring about him with tragic eyes. Everywhere around was deep and utter silence. To all appearances, there was no life anywhere in that dead waste of snow, in that land of bitter, penetrating cold.
And then, suddenly, far away, he heard the familiar wolf-cry. Long and mournful it was, and Dick shivered, remembering a former occasion when he, Sandy and Corporal Richardson and Toma had very nearly given their lives to a hungry pack in the vicinity of the Big Smoky. If there was anything on earth which Dick feared, hated and despised, it was a wolf. Whenever he heard the eerie cry of this species of human hunters in the North, his hair fairly bristled from panic and indignation. In his present predicament, it was the very thing required to put strength and determination in his heart. Groaning in the effort, he rose dizzily to his knees and commenced to scoop away the snow with his hands.
By dint of hard work, he had soon cleared a fairly wide space around him. The exercise had warmed his body and kept his mind from dwelling too much on the seriousness of his plight. From a bush nearby, he gathered an armful of twigs, and from a dead, fallen tree, just beyond the big spruce, sufficient dry bark and moss to start his fire. In an hour’s time, considerably cheered and comforted, he was brewing tea over a roaring blaze.
“Things are not as bad as I thought,” Dick was forced to admit to himself a few minutes later as he gulped down a cup of hot tea and ate sparingly from his supply of emergency rations. “As long as I can crawl around on my hands and knees, I can manage somehow to gather enough wood to keep myself from freezing. By eating very little and drinking plenty of snow water, I can stay here for a week if necessary. After that——”
What would happen after that, Dick did not dare even to conjecture. The thought was too appalling. But surely his ankle would become strong again before a week had elapsed.
“It’s only a bad sprain,” he endeavored to reassure himself. “Perhaps even by tomorrow I’ll be able to hobble around.”
He settled back with a smile on his face and stretched out full length before the blaze. Worn out, mentally and physically, he soon drowsed lightly, only to be awakened by the wolf-cry again, a bloodcurdling howl, which pierced the deep silence in the forest space around him.
“Great Caesar!” sputtered Dick, sitting bolt upright and staring out balefully in the intense darkness. “Troubles never come singly. If I had my hands on the neck of that brute, I’d choke him into silence and insensibility.”
For a brief space he stared, then abruptly his eyes opened wide in astonishment. Out of the velvety blackness, beyond the circle of light made by his campfire, there emerged two fur-coated figures carrying rifles. Slowly, confidently, they came on—in their approach exercising not even the slightest caution.
Dick turned his head indifferently and gazed quietly into the fire. What did he care for the brothers La Lond now? As well die at their hands as to stay here to be eaten by wolves. He did not even look up as the treacherous pair stepped forward within the narrow space he had cleared with his own hands.
“Dick!” shouted a familiar voice.
In wonderment, almost in a stupor, Dick looked up into the smiling, joyful faces of Sandy and Toma.
CHAPTER VIII
TRACKS IN THE SNOW
“How,” inquired Dick in bewilderment, “did you ever manage to find me here?”
Sandy sat down and put one arm around Dick’s shoulders.
“You miserable, deceiving old rascal,” he threatened, “if I could have got my hands on you this morning, when I discovered the scurvy trick you and Corporal Richardson had played upon me, you’d never be able to walk over another trail again. I really mean it, Dick. I think it was the most unfriendly act you have ever committed. If I wasn’t just naturally patient and forgiving by nature, you and I would never have seen each other again.”
“What would have happened to you?” grinned Dick.
Before replying, Sandy winked broadly and good-humoredly at Toma.
“I had a blamed good notion to go right out and join forces with the Henderson gang. They need a lot of new blood now that Corporal Richardson has taken so many of ’em into camp. Four dog teams and eight men! Just think of it, Dick! He captured the whole outfit—lock, stock and barrel—single-handed.”
“And the stolen fur?” Dick questioned breathlessly.
“He got that too,” answered Sandy, glad of the chance to tell the story. “But first of all, I’m going to start at the beginning. Three hours after you set out over the Run River trail, Toma and I, who were looking out of the window and suspecting nothing, saw the four dog teams coming into view. There is nothing unusual about a dog team up here in this country, so we weren’t much interested. I had just turned away from the window to start another search for you and the corporal—somehow, I hadn’t gotten over the idea that you were skulking somewhere about the place—when Toma poked me in the ribs. Dick, I wish you could have seen it. It all happened so suddenly that no one knew just what was up.”
“Yes! Yes!” said Dick a little impatiently. “Go on, Sandy. What happened?”
“They were just opposite us, travelling along merrily, when a man slipped out of the brush on the far side of the trail, holding something in each hand. They must have been startled all right. Corporal Richardson told me afterward that they were taken completely by surprise. At any rate,” Sandy went on, “the dog teams stopped and eight men stepped forward with their arms in the air. It was a regular hold-up.”
Sandy paused for breath.
“Both Toma and I very naturally jumped to the conclusion that the person who had committed the hold-up was a bandit, probably in the employ of Henderson. So we grabbed our rifles and hurried out to help. We ran straight over in the direction of the dog teams, firing our rifles as we went and yelling like mad.”
“You see,” explained Sandy, “we thought that the bandit would become frightened and start running away. But,” admitted the young Scotchman, a little shamefacedly, “he didn’t run. He stood right there like a statue, keeping those men covered. All the time we kept getting closer and closer, until finally Toma poked me in the ribs again and told me to stop firing—that the bandit was Corporal Richardson himself.”
In spite of the discomfort and pain he endured, Dick roared with laughter.
“What did Corporal Richardson say?” he asked.
Sandy smiled at the recollection.