“And made a substitution. Put something of no value, whatsoever, in the poke. That will bolster up your theory.”
Sandy’s eyes gleamed.
“You’re right. If we keep at it, Dick, we’ll soon be as proficient as the great Sherlock Holmes himself.”
CHAPTER XII
“RAT” MACGREGOR’S WIFE
Before the lunch hour on the following day, Corporal Rand and his two prisoners returned to Frischette’s road-house, only to discover that Creel and the three boys were gone. However, Fontaine had a letter, which he pressed into the policeman’s hands. It was from Dick, a short note, scrawled hastily over the discolored surface of a torn piece of wrapping paper:
“Dear Corporal:
“Creel disappeared yesterday and we have set out this morning in an effort to find him. If our search is not successful, it is doubtful whether we will return to the road-house before tonight—and it may possibly be sometime tomorrow. Very sorry this had to happen. “Sincerely, “Dick.”
Rand looked up, after perusing the short missive, and pursed his lips. Then he made a swift calculation. If Dick and his two chums had contrived to pick up Creel’s trail, and had travelled steadily in one direction, they were not more than twenty or thirty miles away at that precise moment. They were on foot, while he had the choice of three tough, sturdy horses. It would be possible to overtake them and assist in the search. He wondered if it would be advisable to leave Burnnel and Emery locked up in a room at the road-house, awaiting his return.
He thought the matter over carefully. He hated to risk the chance of losing his prisoners, yet it was very important that Creel should not escape. The recluse, as the boys had ascertained a few days before, had been associated with Frischette in a number of robberies, including that of Dewberry.
Dewberry’s poke had been in the possession of Creel until the coming of Burnnel and Emery. No doubt, Creel knew all about the murder as well. In any case, he was too dangerous a character to be permitted to run at large. The policeman roundly upbraided himself for his negligence in failing to instruct the boys about keeping close watch over the man during his own recent absence.
After much thinking, pro and con, the corporal came to a decision. He would go. Fontaine would watch over the prisoners. Just as soon as he, Rand, could feed and water his horse and get something to eat himself, he would immediately take the trail south—for that undoubtedly was the direction in which the wily old recluse had gone.
Having made his plans, the policeman proceeded to put them into execution. He cared for his horse, had lunch, gave Fontaine final instructions, and, just before starting out, locked Burnnel and Emery in the room, which formerly had been the private chamber of the road-house keeper himself. He led out his horse, saddled and bridled, and was in the very act of mounting, when a sound came from the opposite side of the road-house. It caused him to hesitate, one foot already in the stirrup, then presently, with an exclamation of surprise, to withdraw that foot and place it firmly on the ground again.
A half-breed woman, quite young, sitting gracefully on a pinto pony, guided by a rope bridle, came around the corner of the house and drew up, less than twenty feet from the spot where the corporal stood.
Seeing a woman there, was not what had interested Rand so much as the fact that he had immediately recognized her. It was “Rat” MacGregor’s wife!
If he had suddenly been brought face to face with her like this at any other place except here, at Frischette’s road-house, he would have thought nothing of it, would have continued about his business, untroubled by a single suspicion.
But here it was different. What was the woman doing here? Surely it was for no good purpose. Her coming had induced a perplexing train of thought in the corporal’s mind, and had made necessary a complete revision of his plans.
Shaking his head, he led his horse back into the stable and advanced to question the woman. Removing his hat, he bowed politely.
“Madam is a long way from home,” he remarked. “May I ask which way you are going?”
“Rat” MacGregor’s wife threw back her head haughtily.
“Police! Bah!” she sniffed.
“You have been released on probation,” the policeman reminded her, not unkindly. “Inspector Cameron has asked you to remain at home. What are you doing here?”
The woman sniffed again, but did not answer. She turned her back and began fumbling with the cinches of the saddle.
“You will return home at once,” Rand instructed her, endeavoring to keep his temper.
She turned her head and looked over her shoulder, her face set and determined.
“Why you say where I go?” she broke forth passionately. “What business you have tell me go home? I go, I stay where I like. First, you keel my man, then you put me in jail, then you say I no go where I wish. Police pretty big fool, eh?”
“Mrs. MacGregor,” declared the corporal patiently, “we have been more than kind to you. We released you from jail and placed you on probation. All that we have asked is that you remain at home and be good, attend to your own affairs. If you will do that, we will not put you back in jail again.”
“Bah!” snorted MacGregor’s wife, sticking out her tongue and defying him.
“You must promise to go back,” said Rand. “You must be good. You must not try to anger the police. If you will go back this afternoon, I will not mention this matter to the inspector. He shall know nothing about it and will not ask me to put you back in jail.”
For a moment the policeman believed that he had won his point. Her manner changed suddenly.
“My horse he is very tired.”
“I will take him in the stable for you and give him something to eat. He can rest there for a few hours and then you can start back.”
The corporal advanced, pushed her gently aside, loosened the cinches and swung the saddle from the back of the pinto mare. As he did so, MacGregor’s wife withdrew a few paces. The policeman had his back to her, and, therefore, did not see the swift movement of her right hand toward her blouse. But he did see, when next he chanced to turn his head, the small revolver nestling in her hand—pointed straight at his head.
“I didn’t think you’d do a thing like that,” declared Rand, reproachfully. “You’ll only get yourself in more trouble. Put it down.”
“You keel my man,” the young barbarian declared spitefully. “Now I keel you.”
“That’s your privilege,” answered the policeman, quite unmoved. “But if you do, you’ll hang for it. Be reasonable, and put down that gun.”
“Rat” MacGregor’s wife possessed the black, beady eyes of a snake. They were unrelenting, wicked, revengeful. Her staring gaze never left the policeman’s face. Eight feet away—it would not be possible to leap suddenly forward and disarm her. His best chance was to endeavor to get his own gun.
But how could he get his gun, when she was watching him like that? He knew that if he moved his hand a single inch, her weapon would explode in his face. Hers was no idle threat. She really intended to kill him!
There was a chance, very remote, of course, that Fontaine or Le Sueur might come to his assistance. Look out of the window. See him and the woman there.
“Look here,” said Rand, fighting for time, “I think you are making a very serious mistake. You’ll have to answer for it in the end. Inspector Cameron will be sure to get you. You can’t possibly escape. While there is still time, you’d better put down that gun.”
“If I do,” her eyes glinted, “will you promise not put me in jail?”
The corporal did not hesitate.
“A while ago I could have given you my promise. But not now. It is too late, madam.”
The policeman was afraid that he had sounded his own death-knell. Well, he had told the truth, anyway. He had not lied to her. He had not stained his honor or violated the code. He wondered why he could feel so calm with those eyes blazing at him and the knowledge that he was about to die. Calm!—when he could see that the index finger of her right hand was beginning to press slowly but determinedly against the trigger.
“Time’s up!” thought Corporal Rand.
And then—like the sound that comes out of a dream—the opening of a door.
CHAPTER XIII
ON CREEL’S TRAIL
The search for Creel had taken the boys southward. They were not sure that he had gone that way; it merely seemed the most likely direction. He had taken the contents of his money-box and had decamped, leaving no trail. Just before starting, they had found the empty chest in the room which he had occupied.
Being a fugitive from justice, and with a considerable amount of money in his possession, the natural deduction was that he was making his way out to Edmonton. His chance of escaping was good. He had at least six hours’ start. He was not known to be a criminal. Almost anywhere he would have passed unchallenged. As yet, the police had had no opportunity to telegraph ahead in an effort to secure his apprehension.
The boys had discussed his probable route, deciding that he would go by way of Peace River Crossing. Boats of the Hudson’s Bay Company plied up and down the river during the spring and summer months, and it was only reasonable to suppose that he would secure passage on one of these, ascend the river to Peace River Crossing, where he could purchase a ticket to go by rail to Edmonton.
All this, of course, was mere conjecture. They had no real assurance that it was the route that the old recluse would take. For all they knew, he might still be in hiding somewhere in the vicinity of the road-house. The only way to determine whether or not he was on his way south, was to set out along the trail, making inquiries wherever possible.
Dwellings were few and far between. Sixteen miles due south of Frischette’s, they arrived at Meade’s Ferry, where there was a road-house and small trading-post, conducted by Hampton Meade, a kindly veteran of the North. Here Fortune befriended them. They learned that their assumption had been correct. Creel had spent the night there.
“And he left early this morning,” Meade’s son, a handsome young man of about Dick’s own age, informed them. “Queer old beggar, isn’t he?”
Dick nodded.
“Did he leave here on foot?”
“Yes.”
Dick considered for a moment thoughtfully.
“Would it be possible to obtain a horse or two? Are there any here? We had our own ponies when we arrived at Frischette’s stopping-place. We turned them out to graze and they have disappeared. If you have any, I will pay you handsomely.”
“There are two ponies,” answered the young man,“—one of them mine, the other, father’s. You may have the use of them.”
The boys were overjoyed at this unexpected stroke of luck. It would be necessary, of course, for one of them to remain at Meade’s, while the other two went on after Creel. They drew straws. It fell to Sandy’s lot to wait at the road-house until his two chums returned.
“I don’t expect we’ll be away very long,” declared Dick a short time later, as he and Toma mounted the two borrowed steeds. “We ought to be back before night.”
Creel had a few hours start of them, but he was walking. With light hearts, feeling confident of success, the boys cantered away. Soon the miles wound away behind them. They pressed their ponies forward, urging them to their greatest speed. Time passed quickly. They had now begun to scan the trail ahead, in the expectation of seeing the queer, shambling figure of the old recluse. They galloped past a party of Indians, then two prospectors, trudging along, weighted down by heavy shoulder-packs, and finally drew up at a wayside cabin, inhabited by a half-breed trapper. Dick questioned him:
“Did an old man stop here not so very long ago? Walked with a stoop, face covered with a heavy beard, hair straggling in his eyes. Did you see him?”
“Oui, m’sieur. I see him two, three hour ago. Him ver’ fine fellow. Plenty money. I have nice horse. He buy et.”
Dick had not expected this. The news had come as a shock. He blinked.
“Rotten luck!” he exclaimed irritably.
“What you say, m’sieur?”
Dick did not answer. He was making a rough calculation. They had already come fifteen or sixteen miles at top speed. No longer were their ponies fresh. Creel had the advantage. It would be absolutely impossible to overtake him now. Apparently, Toma held the same opinion.
“No use go on now,” he declared grimly.
Dick turned to the half-breed.
“You haven’t any more fresh horses?”
The half-breed looked surprised.
“Know where we can get any?” Dick persisted.
“Not many ponies ’round here,” explained the trapper. “Why you no like those pony there?”
“Tired out,” answered Dick. “And we want to go fast.”
He relaxed in the saddle, and just then an idea came to him.
“How far is it from here to Fort Wonderly?”
“’Bout twelve mile.”
Dick thanked the half-breed, motioned to Toma, and they set off again.
“Well,” announced Dick, “we’re going over to the fort.”
“Why you go there?” Toma stared blankly. “Fort Wonderly off trail. Creel him no go that way. I no understand why you do that.”
“I’ll tell you, Toma,” Dick spoke despondently. “We haven’t a chance now to overtake Creel. But at Fort Wonderly there’s a government telegraph office, and I’ll give a message to the operator, warning everybody along the route. There is another detachment of the mounted police at Peace River Crossing, and they’ll send out a man to intercept him.”
So it was late that night when Dick and Toma returned to Meade’s Ferry and reported the outcome of their journey.
“It’s too bad,” Sandy commented, “I was sure that when you got back you’d have Creel with you. But you showed a lot of good sense when you sent that message. If Creel manages to slip through the police lines farther south, he’ll be a wizard.”
“I’ve been thinking about Creel all day,” said Dick. “I’ve been blaming myself continually for my negligence. We should never have permitted him to escape. I’m positive now that your theory is correct, and that he’s going south, not only with the money that was in that box, but the contents of Dewberry’s poke as well. I really believe that if we had our hands upon him now, and searched him, we’d find everything.”
“No doubt, you’re right. Well, I suppose there’s only one thing to do now: Return to Frischette’s road-house. Corporal Rand must be back by now. He’ll know what to do next.”
The two boys were joined later by Toma, Meade and his son. The free-trader, a tall, imposing figure, complacently smoked a pipe and now and again engaged the boys in conversation.
“I understand that you’ve come from Fort Good Faith,” he said.
“Well, not exactly,” Dick replied. “We live there. Factor MacClaren is Sandy’s uncle; but for the last few days we’ve been stopping at Frischette’s roadhouse.”
Meade’s clear blue eyes shadowed.
“Friend of his?”
“Not exactly,” answered Dick evasively.
“Queer character,” commented Meade.
“He’s dead,” said Sandy.
“Dead!” The free-trader straightened in his chair, removed the pipe from his mouth and stared. “What happened to him?”
“Took his own life.”
Meade received this information with a slight raising of his eyebrows.
“Queer! That road-house will soon have an evil name. First Dewberry and now Frischette.”
For a time conversation languished. Everyone seemed to be occupied with his own thoughts.
“I was interested in the Dewberry case,” Meade finally broke the silence. “You see, I knew him; knew him better probably than most folks. Sort of unusual fellow, Dewberry was. One of the quietest, queerest men I have ever met.”
Dick locked across at Meade sharply.
“Not very many people really knew Dewberry,” he stated.
“I knew him,” said Meade, “and I was sorry to hear of his death.”
“Where do you suppose Dewberry was going?” Sandy spoke up. “I mean just before the tragedy. No one seems to know.”
Meade smiled. “There’s no secret there. Dewberry often passed along the trail, and sometimes remained here for several days at a time. He was a queer duffer. But once you got to know him, his eccentricities passed unnoticed. Not many folks knew it, but Dewberry’s time was divided between this country and Peace River Crossing. Usually, about six months of the year, he lived at the Crossing. He owns property there. Has a little house, overlooking the Hart River, and for weeks at a time he’d shut himself up in it. A lot of folks couldn’t understand why he chose to do that. Neither could I, until one time, when I happened to be in Peace River Crossing, I met him on the street.”
For a time Meade lapsed into silence, gazing reminiscently away in the direction of the river.
“He invited me up to the house,” he continued. “Tidy little place, I found it. Nicely furnished. Piano, violin, books. Books!—there were rows upon rows of books. Special bindings, shelf upon shelf, I tell you, and strange old volumes, musty with age. He loved them. That’s where he spent most of his time. Read from morning ’til night, and when he wasn’t reading, he was fiddling away on the violin or thumping on that piano. I stayed there two days, and I want to tell you that I’ve never enjoyed anything more. His company. His talk about the books. The music he made on that piano.”
“Too bad he’s gone,” said Sandy.
The free-trader nodded.
“He was reputed to be very wealthy,” said Dick.
“I guess that is true,” Meade answered thoughtfully. “You see, he was one of the best prospectors that ever came into the North. There are some folks who say that his luck was phenomenal. At any rate, he had no occasion to worry. In recent years, it was more for the love and excitement he got out of the game than the necessity of making more money that induced him to take those long, lonely treks out there in the foothills.”
“After what you have told us about him,” puzzled Sandy, “there is one thing rather difficult to understand. Why did a person of his intelligence carry so much wealth about his person.”
“I don’t think he did,” declared Meade.
“If that is so,” persisted Sandy, “why did they follow him and plan the robbery and murder at Frischette’s?”
“Well, there is no doubt that he had a considerable amount of money and gold with him, but no more, probably, than the average prospector. I am positive that he didn’t carry his entire wealth with him. ‘Rat’ MacGregor, or whoever it was that committed the robbery, merely suspected that such was the case.”
Sandy abandoned the issue. Yet neither he nor Dick was convinced. There was that tell-tale poke.
As they sat there, watching the shadows steal out from the darkening woodland beyond, they were presently made aware of a newcomer.
An Indian pony, a pinto mare, left the turn of the trail near the fringe of trees, bordering the river, and came slowly forward. A woman sat astride the pony—a young woman, unmistakably an Indian or half-breed. Meade rose as she reined up in front of the cabin and slowly dismounted. The boys were not particularly interested. They had never seen the woman before.
“Who is that?” Sandy inquired listlessly.
Both boys started at the unexpected answer.
“Heaven help me,” growled Meade, “if it isn’t ‘Rat’ MacGregor’s wife!”
CHAPTER XIV
A MEETING IN THE WOODS
Scarcely had the boys recovered from their astonishment, when they were treated to a still greater and more breath-taking surprise. Meade’s son was the first to draw their attention. In their interest in the newcomer, they had entirely overlooked the approach of two others.
These two were Burnnel and Emery. They rode up to the accompanying thump, thump, thump of three wildly beating hearts. Astride two horses! Stolen horses! In his agitation, Dick rose and gripped the back of his chair. He recognized the wiry little ponies, and rubbed his eyes. Less than twenty-four hours before he had ridden one of them himself. The other belonged to Sandy.
In truth, Dick had become so excited that for the next few moments he was barely aware of what was taking place. He was confused and befuddled. He saw Sandy and Toma shoot to their feet in sudden dismay and shrink back toward the open doorway. Not knowing that anything was wrong, Meade and his son had gone forward to bid the new arrivals a hearty welcome. And it was probably well that they did, for it gave the three boys time to slip within the log building, hurriedly cross the room and pass out of the door at the opposite side.
All three were trembling with excitement. Below his shock of bright yellow hair, Sandy’s forehead was ashen. The boys hoped that they had not been recognized. Undoubtedly, while making their approach, Burnnel and Emery had seen them, but Dick recalled that in the position in which they sat out there on the front porch, they had been hid somewhat by the figures of Meade and his son.
The coming of the two malevolent prospectors had placed them in a rather awkward, if not dangerous position. It would be impossible for them to remain at the road-house while the partners were there. Burnnel and Emery had not forgotten the encounter of two days before in front of Creel’s cabin. No doubt, they would take a great deal of pleasure in evening the score. Both were remorseless, savage, vindictive. Neither would hesitate for a moment to take any advantage offered, any opportunity for reprisal.
“No, it will never do for us to remain,” Sandy trembled. “You and Toma can stay here if you like, Dick—not I. If we stay here, we’ll be compelled to fight it out.”
“I willing fight,” Toma announced darkly.
“It wouldn’t be fair to Meade,” Dick objected. “There’s sure to be trouble. Anyway, there’s nothing to be gained by remaining here.”
“The thing to do,” said Sandy emphatically, “is to get out—go somewhere and make camp for the night. Either that, or start back at once for Frischette’s road-house, which we had planned to do tomorrow anyway. I’ll repeat that I don’t care to show my face around here—at least, not until Burnnel and Emery have gone.”
They were standing just outside the door on the side of the cabin opposite to the one, where they had previously been sitting talking to the free-trader and his son. They were safe from detection here only for a few moments. As soon as Burnnel and Emery and “Rat” MacGregor’s wife put up their horses, they would enter the cabin. Then the boys would be seen, for not only the door but one window overlooked the space there on the west side of the house, where they were now standing.
Toma pointed to a line of brush two or three hundred yards away, and they proceeded hurriedly toward it. In leaving thus surreptitiously, they had been forced to abandon part of their equipment—their rifles and shoulder-packs, and a small roll of Hudson’s Bay blankets.
“What will Meade think?” Dick inquired anxiously, as they plunged into the dense thicket and commenced picking their way ahead. “He won’t understand our sudden disappearance. I’m afraid he’ll be anxious about us.”
“Worse than that,” Sandy struck out at a branch directly in front of him before taking his next step. “He’ll be sure to give us away. Emery and Burnnel, if they don’t know it already, will learn from him that we were at the road-house when they arrived.”
“It can’t be helped. I don’t think they’ll follow us.”
“What beats me,” Sandy stopped altogether and turned to face his two companions soberly, “is how they managed to get away from Corporal Rand. You don’t suppose he turned them loose again, do you?”
“It seems hardly likely, yet—” Dick paused.
“Yet they’re here,” the young Scotchman finished the sentence for him. “Either they escaped, or he gave them their freedom. If he gave them their freedom, Rand has proved to his own satisfaction that Frischette really committed suicide. Then, of course, he wouldn’t have any reason for detaining them any longer.”
“Perfectly true. But that doesn’t explain about the ponies. Rand may be kind-hearted and all that, yet he wouldn’t deliberately lend them the ponies, would he? We need them ourselves.”
“They might have stolen the ponies,” reasoned Sandy.
“That seems more probable.”
“Well, what we do now?” Toma had grown impatient. “I think it be foolish to stay here in brush all night. Better we start right back an’ see if we find ’em Corporal Rand.”
“But suppose the corporal didn’t release Burnnel and Emery?” Dick asked perplexed. “We’d be foolish to run away then. The least we could do, would be to keep in sight of them. Remember, Creel has already escaped.”
In exasperation, Sandy strode over to a fallen tree trunk and sat down, moping his perspiring forehead with short, angry jabs, a scowl on his face.
“O pshaw! What’s the use? Everything’s turning out all wrong. We’re getting deeper and deeper and deeper into trouble every minute. I’m through! I’ll never become a policeman or a good detective—I know I won’t. I’m growing tired of all this, Dick. It’s wearing on my nerves. It is, I tell you.”
Dick and Toma both laughed.
“Nonsense, Sandy! This is a game of wits. I like it.” Dick made a comical gesture with his hands. “All you have to do is to out-guess the other fellow. We’ll win in the end. We’re bound to.”
“Oh, is that so. A guessing contest!” The other’s tones were deeply sarcastic. “Well, if that’s the case, we’re at the losing end right now. How many of your guesses have been correct?”
Boy-fashion, Dick strode over and placed a hand on his chum’s indignant shoulder.
“Forget it, Sandy. This isn’t a bit like you. Come on!”
“Come on where?”
Thus put to it, Dick found himself in somewhat of a predicament. The question required an answer.
“Why—why—well—” he began. “You see, Sandy—”
“It’s a contest,” Sandy reminded him scornfully. “All you have to do is to outwit the other fellow. You like it. Now tell me, please, what is your guess?”
Dick flushed, but contrived to keep his temper.
“I haven’t quite decided yet. There are two courses open to us. We can stay here and keep an eye on Burnnel and Emery, or go back to meet Corporal Rand.”
In such a mood, Sandy got a good deal of enjoyment in tantalizing his friend.
“All right. I’m waiting. Why don’t you guess?”
Dick looked about him in desperation. Then gradually out of his perplexity there sprang a solution to his difficulty. It came like the sudden glimmer of inspiration.
“We’ll have to do both,” he stated positively.
“How?”
“Separate.”
“I don’t quite understand.”
“One of us can go back to meet Corporal Rand, the other two remain here to watch Burnnel and Emery.”
Sandy rose from his place on the fallen tree, grinning a little sheepishly.
“Now you’re talking. Why didn’t you think of that before? Which one of us will go to meet the corporal?”
“You can go if you like, Sandy,” said Dick with great magnanimity.
“No, no; I wasn’t thinking about that. You’d better go, Dick. You’re the one that thought of it.”
Dick shook his head.
“I think I’d rather stay here, if you don’t mind.”
“Just as you say.”
Sandy was really pleased.
“It’s a bargain, then, unless Toma—”
“I like stay here, too,” declared Toma.
The three boys were grouped together, facing each other. For the time being, they were off guard. Not that they had felt at any time during the past few moments that danger really threatened them. Although still fairly close to Meade’s road-house, they weren’t troubled about Burnnel and Emery just then. Even if the two prospectors had seen them when they rode up, it was extremely unlikely that they would attempt anything until they had fully rested. Immediate pursuit was a thing that had not entered the boys’ calculations, and yet—
Dick’s first intimation of an attack, or even of the presence of an enemy, came when he beheld Toma—apparently for no reason at all—leap straight back, like a deer surprised in its forest haunt, and plunge headlong into a willow thicket. Sandy’s behavior was equally puzzling. Sandy sat down. He sat down on the seat he had just vacated and stared wildly past Dick, both eyes and mouth open wide. Whirling about, Dick blinked and caught his breath. A familiar pair confronted him.
“Don’t move,” said a heavy voice. “We got yuh!”
CHAPTER XV
A DESERTED ROAD-HOUSE
Frischette’s road-house was quiet. A casual passer-by, threading his way along the shadowy forest trail, a trail arched by the branches of tall poplar trees, might have thought that the place was deserted. There was no sign of life anywhere, although a door and several windows stood partially open. A young Indian, who approached the familiar landmark, was struck by an overwhelming feeling of presentiment.
The morning was well advanced and yet there was no evidence of life here. No smoke issued from the tall mud-chimney, which rose like a bleak sentinel at one side of the building. Sitting on the projecting end of the center ridge-pole, a hawk basked in the sun. Intense quiet reigned, a funereal silence, that was broken only by the faint rustling of the leaves and the nervous stirring of the tall grass, which encroached up to the door of the cabin itself.
Toma rubbed one hand across his brow wearily. For four hours he had walked steadily with this place as his objective, and in the hope of finding his friend, the mounted police corporal. He knew that Rand ought to be here. That had been their agreement, the understanding between the policeman and the three boys.
When he had approached to within thirty or forty yards of the house, Toma’s spirits fell. He was sure now that the road-house was untenanted. No occupied dwelling, he reasoned, could be wrapped so deeply in that tragic, sombre silence. The door stood invitingly open, yet Toma knew before entering that no person recently had left it thus. He paused on the threshold, staring into the room. It seemed to mock him. Except for the few bare furnishings, it was entirely empty. With a quaking heart and a trembling step, he passed through the main front room to the kitchen at the back.
No one was about. In the kitchen there had been stacked up, on a long work-table opposite the stove, a pile of dirty, unwashed dishes. He glanced at them casually, then passed on out of the back door and made his way over to the stable. Like the cabin, the stable was unoccupied. Disconsolately, Toma walked over and, climbing up, sat down on the top rail of the six-foot-high corral fence.
He didn’t know what to make of it all. The absence of Corporal Rand might, of course, be accounted for. But what about Fontaine and Le Sueur, his two friends? Since the death of Frischette, these two last named young men had taken over the management of the road-house. They had entered upon their duties with a good deal of enthusiasm, and it seemed unusual that they should both be away now, neglecting their business.
It was true, of course, that summer visitors were few. The bulk of Frischette’s trade had come during the early fall and winter and just before the spring break-up. However, even if there were no guests at the road-house, there was always the chance that one might come—an occasional straggler—and it was not reasonable to suppose that both Fontaine and Le Sueur would leave the place for any length of time.
Yet, that was exactly what they had done. They were neglecting their business. Toma scowled at the ground, and one moccasined foot beat an impatient tattoo along the surface of the rail beneath him. He decided after a time that, low on supplies, they had gone over to Fort Good Faith to replenish their larder. But the absence of Rand was not so easily explained, unless he was out searching for Burnnel and Emery.
Shaking his head, Toma hopped down off the corral fence and strode back in the direction of the house. This time he had a purpose in mind. He would enter the kitchen and prepare himself a belated breakfast. He had not eaten since early the night before and was tremendously hungry. He entered the kitchen, kindled a fire in the large iron cook stove and methodically set about his task.
In the middle of his preparations he paused, pricking up his ears. Had he heard something—a slight scraping sound? He stood perfectly still, listening patiently. Then, as the sound was not repeated, he decided that he had been mistaken. He returned to his task, and in a short time breakfast was ready. He set a place for himself on the table in the adjoining room, and was returning to the kitchen for his rasher of bacon and pot of coffee, when he heard the sound again.
This time there was no doubt in his mind. He had heard aright. The sound issued from the room which had formerly been used by Frischette for his office and private sleeping apartment. It was the only room in the house that he had not explored. He bounded quickly forward, seizing the knob of the door. He bent his weight against it.
He stood back, scratching his head in perplexity. It was locked. Something or someone was inside there. He called out softly. But, although he imagined he heard the faint, scraping sound again, no voice answered him.
Toma was not long in deciding upon his course of action. He hurried into the kitchen, passed through the door at the back, picked up a small log, about four feet in length and six inches in diameter and, returning with it, he applied himself to the door.
At the first blow from his heavy battering-ram, the lock gave way. A splintering and cracking of wood, and the door swung back. Looking inside, Toma dropped his battering-ram.
Closest to the door, lay Rand, gagged, bound hand and foot. A few feet farther on, sprawled the youthful figures of his two friends, Fontaine and Le Sueur.
Following a little gasp of amazement, Toma strode into the room.
CHAPTER XVI
TRAPPED!
Burnnel and Emery had appeared so unexpectedly before the boys, opposite Meade’s road-house, that resistance was useless. Dick and Sandy had no chance, whatever, to raise a hand in their defense. Of the three, Toma had been the only one at all fortunate. His sudden leap backward into the brush made possible his escape, but Dick and Sandy were powerless. The young Scotchman, shrinking with terror, still sat on the fallen tree, while Dick, no less overcome with fear, stood motionless, as the two men drew closer, flourishing their guns. Emery’s face was malignant but triumphant.
“So you thought you’d bust into our little game, eh?” he snarled, as he relieved Dick and Sandy of their revolvers. “Yuh thought yuh was pretty smart back there at Creel’s a few days ago, didn’t yuh? Well, yuh can pay fer that now. Time we get through with yuh, yuh won’t be so willin’ to meddle in somebody else’s business.”
Dick found his voice.
“We didn’t harm you.”
Emery’s scowl darkened. He was on the point of making some sarcastic reply, but Burnnel cut in sharply:
“Save your gab, both o’ yuh. Too bad that other feller got away.”
Dick hoped that their captors would take them back to Meade’s road-house. It would be the best thing for him and Sandy. Their chance of getting away would be better. They would feel safer there. Meade, no doubt, would interfere and gain their release.
Sandy had sunk into deep and utter dejection. He recalled, with little shivers of apprehension, the treatment which had been meted out to Creel a few days before. He was not buoyed up by any false hopes. He could see in Burnnel and Emery’s actions only an effort at reprisal—revenge for their previous humiliation. Unlike Dick, he did not believe that they would be taken back to Meade’s road-house. In fact, such a thought had never entered his mind. The partners were too shrewd for that. No, he and Dick would be mistreated and tortured merely to satisfy their craving for revenge. Besides, it would not suit Burnnel and Emery’s purpose to be encumbered with two prisoners. They had other business to attend to.
And, in a way, Sandy was right. Shortly after the boys had been relieved of their guns, Burnnel straightened up, his mouth twisted in a venomous leer.
“Turn out your pockets,” he ordered.
The boys obeyed hastily, their hands nervous and trembling. Emery stood over them, watching like a hawk, seizing from one or the other the miscellaneous assortment of things that were brought to light. Dick, who had acted as treasurer for the three boys, was relieved of a roll of bills and a handful of silver. Burnnel’s eyes lighted with satisfaction at sight of the money, but his partner only grunted. Soon the boys had completed their task. Their pockets had all been emptied.
“Where’s the poke?”
Dick stared incredulously.
“Poke? Why—why—what do you mean?”
“Don’t yuh try tuh look so blame’ innocent. Yuh got it, one o’ yuh.”
“Look here,” said Dick hotly, “you know where that poke is—in Corporal Rand’s possession. You had it yourself on two different occasions. Why didn’t you keep it?”
Burnnel advanced threateningly.
“Enough o’ that! Yuh know what I mean, a’ right. We want what was in that poke an’ we want it quick.”
“But see here,” protested Dick, “we haven’t anything. I tell you, we haven’t. We don’t even know what was in the poke in the first place.”
Burnnel and Emery exchanged glances. Then, indignantly, the little man addressed the other:
“There, what’d I tell yuh. It’s plain they ain’t got it. I was right. It’s Creel!”
The huge bulk of Burnnel stood like a statue. Since questioning Dick, he had not moved, except to turn his head in his partner’s direction. Now his chin was bent forward, resting upon his expansive, barrel-like chest. To all appearances, his partner’s assertion had given him food for thought, required deliberate and careful consideration. In a moment he raised his eyes again, glancing at Emery. With the fingers of one hand he scratched the stubble on his pocked, scarred face.
“How do yuh know that? You’re jus’ guessin’. I’d as soon think these boys had it as Creel. Fact is, it’s a hull lot more likely. How do we know that this here young tomcat didn’t empty the poke t’other night right after we left an’ afore Frischette comes along an’ grabs it?”
Emery darted a quick, insolent, sarcastic glance at his huge confederate.