“I don’t believe it. Creel’s the one what’s fooled us. Fooled us in the first place there at his cabin. It’s all your fault, too. Yuh never looked in that poke. An easy mark you are,” he declared scornfully, “lettin’ him put it over yuh like that.”
Burnnel snarled like a bear in a trap. Emery perceived that he had gone too far. His next words were placating, almost a whine.
“Now look o’ here, Bob, yuh don’t need to get huffy. I think you’re wrong an’ I’m goin’ to stick to it. The only reason I said I’d come over here tuh question these brats was all on your account. I wanted yuh to be satisfied, tuh see fer yourself. We’re jus’ wastin’ time. The thing tuh do is tuh go back, pick up that blame’ squaw an’ see if we can’t run that worthless ol’ rat tuh earth.”
Burnnel hated to admit that he was in the wrong, and in order to cover his chagrin and disappointment, he flew into a violent rage and for a period of nearly two minutes cursed wildly and furiously. As he did so, he paced back and forth, huge fists clinched, swinging his arms violently. With a final snarl, he cuffed Dick across the head, sending the young man reeling back dizzily. His large moccasined foot, swinging up, brushed Sandy’s thigh. Then he seized Emery by the shoulder.
“Come on! Let’s get out o’ here!”
The little man’s head jerked back with a snap. He, too, became furious. They were still cursing and storming at each other as they disappeared from view.
The boys could scarcely believe their good fortune. They had not expected to escape from the encounter with so little injury. They had not even been taken prisoners. Their only loss had been that of their money and their revolvers—a thing which troubled them little. Meade, Dick was quite certain, would willingly help them out, as soon as they explained their predicament.
Of course, they couldn’t go back to the road-house until Burnnel, Emery and the woman had taken their leave. Tonight they must remain in the woods, sleeping out under the trees. Also they must find Toma.
Through the blue, enveloping twilight, they wandered hither and thither, calling out his name. For hours they searched in vain. In response to their repeated halloos, no cheery answer came. The deep silence drew in around them.
“He’s gone for help,” Sandy decided, flinging himself down on a soft carpet of moss and pine-needles, and looking up anxiously into Dick’s face.
His chum sighed wearily.
“Yes, he must have gone back to Frischette’s in the hope of meeting Rand. But you may depend upon it, he’ll give a good account of himself.”
“Toma’s a trump,” said Sandy, closing his eyes and speaking drowsily. “I couldn’t help but admire the way he leaped for that thicket at the first sound from Burnnel and Emery. He’s quicker than we are. Pretty hard to catch him off guard.”
“And yet,” answered Dick, “I can’t understand why he didn’t linger in the vicinity. That would have been more like him. Waiting and watching for a chance to get the drop on them, and then rescuing us. Just thrilling enough to suit him. Funny he didn’t do it.”
Sandy sat up, smiling.
“I think he left his gun behind—over there at Meade’s. I’ll bet he was provoked. He must have decided that the best thing to do was to hurry back to Frischette’s and rush Corporal Rand to our assistance.”
Although the days were warm, the nights were invariably cool. It would not be pleasant to sleep out without blankets. Nor was it possible to start a fire. Every article they possessed, including a box of matches, had been taken by the two outlaws.
They slept but ill. Mosquitos buzzed about them in swarms. They kept up an incessant fight with these vicious pests, shivering on their bed of moss, waking every few minutes to wonder if morning would never come.
Somewhere around three o’clock, they rose and made their way back in the direction of the road-house. It was too early yet to think about disturbing any of its occupants. Burnnel and Emery would still be there, and they had no wish to meet them again. Hungry as they were, and sleepy, they realized that it would not be advisable to approach the cabin until after the outlaws had departed.
“When we get something to eat, and borrow a rifle or two from Meade,” said Dick, “I suppose we’ll have to trail on after them.”
Sandy glanced at Dick sharply.
“But don’t you think we ought to wait for Toma and Corporal Rand?”
“If we do, we’ll be apt to lose trace of them, just as we lost trace of Creel. You must remember that we’ll have to follow them on foot. They have horses.”
Sandy said no more, lapsing into a moody silence. The mosquitos continued to buzz around their heads. But no longer was it cool. The sun, an hour high, shed its warm rays to every part of the land. The moisture, caused by the dew, was soon evaporated. Day had commenced.
Yet they waited a long time before they were rewarded for their patience. Smoke curled upward from the rough mud-chimney at the road-house. Now and again, they could see someone walking about outside. Another long wait, and they breathed a sigh of relief. Three mounted ponies came out around one end of the cabin and headed down the trail. A few minutes more, and they were out of sight.
“Thank goodness!” Sandy breathed thankfully, parting the screen of brush in front of him and stepping out into the open. “I thought they’d never go. Come on, Dick—breakfast!”
Dick hurried after Sandy, and it was not long before they pushed open the door of the cabin and entered. Meade was there, and at sight of them, sprang to his feet. He came forward quickly.
“Where in the name of Old Harry have you boys been? We missed you last night; looked everywhere. I wondered if you hadn’t gone suddenly crazy.”
“We didn’t want to meet Burnnel and Emery,” explained Sandy.
“You mean those two men, who stopped here last night?”
“Yes.”
Meade whistled. “Why not?”
Stammering out something, Sandy looked at Dick. His chum returned the gaze, then stared straight into the eyes of the pleasant-faced free trader.
“Well, I guess it won’t do any harm to tell you. Those two men, who stopped here last night, are in some way implicated in the Dewberry case. Corporal Rand went out with them yesterday to the place where Frischette was found. They were under police surveillance. Apparently, they have escaped. Those two ponies that they were riding belong to us. We had met Burnnel and Emery before and thought there might be trouble if they saw us. So we left.”
“And it was a good thing we did,” Sandy cut in. “As it was, they followed us, shortly after their arrival here, and came upon us unexpectedly. They took our revolvers and all the money we had. Toma escaped. Then they came back here.”
“And you’ve been out there in the woods all night?” Meade inquired softly.
“Yes, we have, Mr. Meade,” replied Dick, “and we’re mighty tired and hungry.”
CHAPTER XVII
A POLICEMAN’S HORSE
Toma had never seen Corporal Rand in a rage before. The corporal’s face was flushed with anger and his expressive blue eyes snapped. As yet the young Indian had received no explanation of how the policeman and his two friends had been made prisoners. He had been too busy to question them. Besides they had been in no condition to talk. The first intelligible word from any of them had been:
“Water!”
None of the three could stand. Locked in that hot stifling room, their suffering had been terrible. For more than an hour Toma had administered to them, chafing their limbs, bringing them water, making them more comfortable. After that, he had been compelled to hurry back to the kitchen to prepare a meal for them. Cared for in this fashion, their recovery had been rapid. Soon all, except Le Sueur, were able to stand and to limp about the room.
It was then that Toma noticed the policeman’s anger. His lips were pressed together tightly, his hands were clinched. The nails of his fingers dug into his palms.
“How it happen you get tie up in that room?” Toma asked, his sober dark eyes gravely regarding the policeman.
“Burnnel and Emery.” The answer came short and terse, with no attempt at elaboration.
“How they do that?”
“I had them locked up here,” Rand pointed to the room, “when that woman came.” He paused, while a slow flush of shame mounted to his bronzed forehead. “It was she, MacGregor’s wife, who did it, Toma. Came riding into the corral, just as I was preparing to start. I led my horse back into the stable and went over to question her. You see,” Rand explained, “I knew her—‘Rat’ MacGregor’s wife. Wondered why she had come here, Toma. Surmised, of course, that she was up to some mischief. But I was wholly unprepared for her treachery.”
The corporal paused again and the flush deepened.
“What she do?” inquired Toma.
The policeman’s mouth set in a straight hard line.
“Pulled a gun on me without warning and without provocation. I didn’t have a chance. I knew she’d use it. Fontaine and Le Sueur came out of the house and she got the drop on them too. Marched us back to the road-house and forced us to release Emery and Burnnel.
“As soon as Emery and Burnnel were released, they took charge. We were thrown into the room, bound, gagged, and the door was locked.”
The corporal paused again, moistening his dry lips.
“But that isn’t all, Toma. I have still to tell you about—about Inverness. My horse! In my position, lying on the floor, I had a view through the window, and those fiends,” Corporal Rand choked, “brought Inverness around and shot him before my very eyes. After that I saw them drag him away. They came back again and I caught a glimpse of them as they rode off: Burnnel astride Sandy’s horse, and Emery riding Dick’s, the woman bringing up the rear on her own pony.”
Toma’s face had grown dark with suppressed emotion.
“Bad thing they shoot your horse, corporal.”
The deep lines about the policeman’s mouth tightened. The pupils of his eyes were like two steel points, hard, glittering. It was not difficult to see what most aroused his ire. Rand could accept, without complaining, the indignities offered to his own person. Not so, regarding his horse. He loved the animal. Through weary, lonesome days on patrol, it had been his only friend and companion. A strange attachment had grown up between them. Almost any time, Rand would gladly have sacrificed his own life to save that of the fiery little steed.
The wilful, deliberate shooting of this horse was the cause of the corporal’s anger. In his heart, he had sworn revenge.
“You see, Toma,” his voice was strangely calm, “he meant a lot to me—Inverness. I—I hated to see him go. Poor old fellow! I could see his pleading look, when they brought him over opposite the window, and he looked in and saw me.”
Unbidden, a tear came into the corporal’s steely eye and trickled down his cheek. He rose from his chair and strode to the door.
“Why they shoot your horse like that?” Toma wanted to know.
“To insure their escape,” the policeman answered, not turning his head. “If I were released, it would be necessary to follow on foot.”
He turned quickly upon Toma.
“How did it happen,” he asked, “that you came on alone? Where are Dick and Sandy?”
“Burnnel and Emery get them jus’ like they get you. Almost get me, too, but I jump away from them. I come on here because I think mebbe you go back an’ help.”
“You did well, Toma. Where did this happen?”
“Near the place where keep ’em house that free trader.”
“Meade?”
The Indian nodded.
“That isn’t far from here,” said Rand. “We’ll start at once.”
In admiration, Toma drew in his breath. Well he knew the agony the policeman must endure from his limbs, still swollen, as the result of that terrible ordeal. Notwithstanding this, he proposed to start out as if nothing had happened. It was nearly twenty miles back along the trail to Meade’s Ferry. Twenty miles with legs like that! Twenty miles through the stifling heat of that summer’s day—and over a rough trail!
“You think you do that?” he asked, his mouth agape.
“I can do it,” declared Rand simply.
And not long afterward they were on the trail, the policeman walking with a pronounced limp, yet keeping abreast of his more agile companion. Mosquitos drove around them in clouds. The hot breath of the sun-steeped earth rose up about them. It was tedious work, a gruelling, unpleasant experience.
Yet the corporal did not complain. When he spoke at all, it was to joke or jest, to comment lightly upon some phase of their journey. And with each passing minute, his limp grew more pronounced. He was hobbling now upon swollen, blistered feet.
“We better stop rest,” Toma advised him.
“No,” said Rand, clenching his teeth, “we’ll go on. It can’t be much farther now. Just a few miles more.”
So they went on again, a weary, perspiring pair. Though Toma suffered no particular physical discomfort, he endured mental torture as he watched the policeman keep pace with him. He could have cried out with thankfulness, when at last, through an opening in the trees, he discerned the low, rambling structure, which served the double purpose of store and road-house.
A short time later they entered the building itself and were greeted by the kindly free trader.
“Glad to see you, corporal. The boys were expecting you.”
“Where are they now?”
“They’ve gone on.”
“And Burnnel and Emery?”
“The boys are camping on their trail.”
Corporal Rand looked very much surprised and turned upon Toma.
“I thought you said that the boys had been taken prisoners?”
“Yes,” nodded Toma.
“Well, how can that be?”
“I can explain it all,” Meade laughed. “Dick and Sandy were taken prisoners, all right, but were released a few minutes later. They slept out last night in the open, returning here shortly after the three set out—Burnnel, Emery and the squaw.”
“How did the boys travel?” Rand asked.
“I lent them two ponies.”
“Got any more?”
“Not another one, corporal. I have only the two. One is mine and the other belongs to my son, Frederick. But where is your own horse, corporal?”
Thus reminded of his loss, Rand’s face became grim again.
“They shot it. Back at Frenchie’s road-house. That’s why I’ve come on foot.”
“And you’re almost crippled,” said Meade, who had observed the policeman’s limp.
“I can manage somehow.”
“Not until you’ve doctored up those feet,” Meade declared kindly.
Rand flung himself down in an easy chair, motioning to Toma also to be seated.
“You’d better rest while you can, Toma. We’ll go on again in a few minutes.”
Meade had grown thoughtful.
“I’ve an idea,” he announced at length, “that I can get two horses for you over at Bonner’s Lake from a half-breed there. This man has a herd of ponies he keeps for Spring and Autumn freighting. They’re feeding on the range now and I’m sure he’ll accommodate me.”
Meade smiled, puffing stoutly on his pipe.
“I’ll send my son, Frederick, over there,” he resumed. “In the meantime, you can rest here. He won’t be long.”
The kind offer was accepted. In truth, the corporal’s limbs were so badly swollen from the effects of the thongs and the hard trek immediately after being released by Toma, that he doubted very much whether he could walk more than a few miles more, anyway.
“I won’t forget your kindness,” the policeman thanked him. “It’s very good of you.”
“Not at all! Not at all!” Meade hastened to assure him. “I’d do that much for the Royal Mounted any time. I’ve heard about the case you’re working on, corporal, and I’m anxious to have you succeed. Dewberry was a friend of mine.”
Rand looked up quickly.
“That’s interesting. So few men really knew Dewberry. Queer character, from what I’ve heard.”
“A splendid man,” Meade declared reverently. “A generous and fine man!”
“While your son, Frederick, is away after the horses, I wonder if you’ll tell me what you know of him. It has been very difficult to gather any information concerning him. It might help a lot in this case if you’d give me a clear insight into his character. There are a number of things I can’t explain.”
Frederick was called and sent after the ponies. Then Meade sat down and began telling about his friend, the mysterious Dewberry. It was a story very similar to the one he had told Dick and Sandy. Rand listened without once interrupting, and Toma also paid close attention until, growing drowsy, he fell asleep in his chair. When he awoke again, Meade was still talking, but now occasionally the policeman plied him with a question.
Toma yawned, rose to his feet and stalked over to a window. Looking out, he was surprised to see the free trader’s son already returning with the horses.
“They come,” announced Toma. “The ponies are here.”
Corporal Rand smiled and nodded at Toma, but—a thing the young Indian could not understand—seemed more interested in the conversation than in the arrival of the ponies. Nevertheless, a moment later Rand rose and hobbled to the door. Meade followed him. They went out ahead of Toma, and, as they did so, the policeman remarked:
“Your talk has been a revelation. I’m beginning to see a little light.”
Long afterward, when he and the corporal were out on the trail, Toma studied over that statement. What did Rand mean by that? Hadn’t he always seen the light?
Then he shook his head and gave up in despair. For Corporal Rand, as Toma was well aware, had never had trouble with his vision.
CHAPTER XVIII
A RED BLOB
Burnnel, Emery and Rat MacGregor’s wife set a hard pace. They led Dick and Sandy far afield and it was seldom that the boys ever came in sight of them. It was plain that the prospectors intended to force their horses to the limit in an attempt to overtake the fleeing recluse.
The trail led south. It was a well known trail, much travelled, especially in the Spring and Fall of the year. Then, to the boys’ amazement, the outlaws suddenly left it, striking off southeastward through a country infrequently visited. For a long time Dick and Sandy could find no reasonable explanation for this, but, finally, the younger of the two boys, brooding over the strange conduct of the outlaws, offered an opinion.
They were crossing a broad meadow at the time, exerting their ponies to renewed effort. Through the thick, waving grass ahead, almost waist high, was the faint track made by Burnnel’s party.
“I know now,” Sandy’s voice was excited. “I’ve solved the mystery.”
“What mystery?”
“The reason why they went this way. It’s a shortcut, Dick. The main trail, if you happen to remember, turns straight east about fifty miles south of here. Burnnel and Emery figure that they can head Creel off by coming this way.”
“You must be right, Sandy. But I wonder if they’ve stopped to consider that they have a river to cross. It’s a wide one, too, nearly a quarter of a mile, I should say. Do you suppose they can swim the horses?”
“Dangerous, but they must intend to try it. It will be interesting to watch them. If they can make it, so can we.”
“We ought to arrive at the river some time this afternoon. Hope they don’t see us coming. We must be fairly close to them right now.”
Crossing the meadow, they entered a grove of poplar, through which they made their way more slowly, emerging, at length, to another meadow, somewhat smaller than the one they had previously crossed. Here they paused. On the far side, several miles away, they saw three tiny specks, which they knew was Burnnel’s party. Not wishing to approach any closer, they rode back to the poplars again, dismounted, staked out their horses and prepared their midday meal. At the end of an hour, when they resumed their journey, they knew there would be little danger of drawing within sight of the outlaws.
So they pushed on steadily. They left the meadow behind and entered a woodland, which grew thicker as they advanced. The dim trail ahead became more difficult to follow. Finally, they lost it altogether, but a few hours later the trees thinned out and straight ahead of them, a shining, glistening ribbon in the sun, they saw the broad expanse of the Hay River.
They staked out their ponies, and set out on foot to reconnoitre. For several hundred yards they followed the course of the valley, but could find no trace of the outlaws. However, continuing eastward, they were rewarded by the sight of a thin column of smoke, drifting lazily up through the trees. The outlaws had made camp a few hundred yards below on the bank of the river. Just now they were engaged, so the boys surmised, in the preparation of a meal.
Dick and Sandy crept closer. Nerves taut, they wormed their way ahead. Then Dick touched Sandy’s arm.
“Look!” he whispered.
Burnnel and Emery were squatting in front of the fire, indolently smoking their pipes, while MacGregor’s wife busied herself in gathering wood, laying out the camp utensils and in other ways making herself generally useful.
“Lazy brutes!” sneered Sandy. “They don’t seem to be in much of a hurry. Do you suppose they’ll attempt to ford the river this afternoon?”
“Yes, I think so. In spite of their indolence now, they’re anxious to get on.”
“No use staying here,” Sandy spoke again. “We’d better get back to our ponies. We’ll bring them over to the top of the ridge, where I think they’ll be safe enough. There’s little danger that those lazy beggars will climb the slope again.”
In returning to their horses, they chose to circle around the outlaws’ camp, went down to the bank of the river and moved slowly along, conscious of a cool breeze and the close proximity of the water. They were hot and tired and the water looked inviting. Close to the bank it was clear as liquid glass. Here and there were the shadows of whitefish and Northern trout. At the bottom of the river was white sand. Every few yards or so, projecting up through this white sand, were smooth, brownish-colored rocks that were surrounded by innumerable tiny eddies.
In the interest of the moment, the boys almost forgot the grim business in which they were engaged. Both had an overwhelming desire to linger here. It was a peaceful, quiet spot. Sandy turned and smiled upon his chum.
“That water,” he remarked, “looks cool.”
He wiped his perspiring brow.
“I know what you’re thinking,” laughed Dick. “You’d like to strip and plunge in, wouldn’t you? I wish we could.”
Sandy stopped and commenced fanning himself with his hat.
“Why not? It will do us both good. We’d be safe enough, I’m sure. They can’t possibly see us from here.”
Dick was tempted. He looked down at the water. A trout flashed up from the cold, clear stream. Only for a moment did he hesitate.
“All right. Come on.”
They threw off their clothes, racing with each other to see who would be the first to dive in. Sandy won. Both boys commenced swimming about, diving, floating, frolicking in the water to their hearts’ content. So absorbed were they in the refreshing sport, that they became oblivious of the passing of time. Had not Sandy chanced to glance across the river, it is probable that they might have forgotten about their responsibilities for at least another hour or two.
But in that glance, the young Scotchman had seen something that quickly brought him back to the world of realities. He sprang ashore, calling to Dick excitedly.
“Look, Dick! What do you make of that?” One glistening wet arm was flung out in front of him.
On the opposite side, a few rods up from the water, Dick saw a blob of red—something that looked very much like a large strip of flannel, caught against the darker background of green.
“A red cloth,” answered Dick, only slightly interested. “Wonder who left it there?”
“It moves! It moves!”
In spite of the nearness of Burnnel’s party, Sandy almost shouted out the words.
Both boys stared, as if under some queer mesmeric spell. They watched the red blob move along the line of brush and disappear with magic abruptness. It came back again, however, in a very few minutes—only in a different place. Again it remained perfectly stationary, then fluttered behind a rock. In its second re-appearance, it moved toward the brink of the river and, suddenly, instead of being merely a red blob, mysteriously it formed itself into the unmistakable outline of a human figure.
“Some one in a red mackinaw,” declared Sandy, laughing.
“In a police tunic, you mean,” Dick corrected him, commencing to hurry into his clothes.
“What! A mounted policeman?”
“Exactly that. Why, you can see his broad-rimmed hat and heavy top-boots.”
CHAPTER XIX
ACROSS HAY RIVER
“I’d like to go over there,” said Dick, “but if we do, Burnnel and Emery will be sure to see us. We don’t want that to happen. Our best plan is to wait until after we ford the river. Then, if he hasn’t already left the vicinity, we’ll find out who he is.”
“I know one thing,” Sandy declared confidently, “and that is he’s not from the Mackenzie River detachment.”
“I’m not so sure. It may be our old friend, Sergeant Richardson.”
“But that territory, over there across the Hay, is patrolled by men from the Peace River Detachment,” Sandy objected.
Dick rose quickly to his feet, hugging himself in sheer ecstasy.
“I have it! I have it!” he cried. “You’re right! He’s from the Peace River Detachment. They received my wire. I’m willing to bet on it. It’s someone after Creel.”
For a time Sandy caught the infection of the other’s enthusiasm but, after mature deliberation, he became more serious again.
“No; you’re wrong. The police haven’t had time to come up from Peace River Crossing since you wired them.”
“This man might have been on patrol somewhere between here and the Crossing. They probably got in touch with him; wired back, I mean. Sent him out on Creel’s trail.”
“A possibility, of course. I wonder if we couldn’t signal to him?”
The suggestion interested Dick for a time. Then caution warned him that it was not a very good plan after all. It might lead to complications.
“No, we’d better let things remain as they are. Whatever we do, we mustn’t let Emery and Burnnel know that we are here.”
“Very well, then,” Sandy agreed, “we’ll go back to our ponies. It shouldn’t be long now before the outlaws commence to ford the river.”
Cheered and invigorated, they made their way up the slope, and not long afterward came to the place where they had picketed the ponies. Saddling and bridling their rugged little mounts, they rode slowly along the ridge to a point above the outlaws’ camp. Again they tethered out their horses and sat down to wait. It was more than an hour later before the outlaws attempted to cross. The sound of splashing came up from below, punctuated now and again by sharp voices of the two men.
The boys bounded to their feet and scrambled down the steep embankment. Arriving at the abandoned camp, they observed that Burnnel’s party were already more than a quarter of the distance across the stream. The ponies were swimming bravely, while the two prospectors and “Rat” MacGregor’s wife could be seen in the water beside them, clinging to the pommels of the saddles. It was an exciting ordeal and the boys watched the progress of the party breathlessly. Soon they had reached the center of the river, fighting valiantly. Now they were being carried along by the swift central current. Gradually, however, they neared the opposite shore. They made their landing safely, a few minutes later, nearly a mile downstream. They clambered up the slippery bank, shook then like rats, and soon afterward disappeared from view.
The boys waited for nearly an hour, before they made any effort to follow. Then, leading their horses down, they, too, plunged into the icy stream. Exultant and happy, ten minutes later they waded ashore and paused to dry their dripping garments in the hot sun, near the edge of the river.
“Now,” grinned Dick, “we’ll look for that policeman.”
They mounted their horses and proceeded on their way. But, although they kept the river within view, they could find no trace of the red-coated figure they had seen only two hours before. He had vanished mysteriously. Fearing that they had proceeded too far down along the course of the stream, they turned back, mounting the slope. Twilight had fallen. The boys were baffled and discouraged. When they made camp for the night, neither had much to say. After supper they sat gloomily, looking out across the valley.
“I’m afraid we’ve lost out all around,” complained Dick. “We may have some difficulty in finding Burnnel’s party now. I wish we had left the policeman to his own devices and had gone on after them.”
Sandy struck irritably at the mosquitos swarming about him.
“Think I’ll start a smudge,” he growled.
Dick rose to his feet.
“While you kindle the fire, I’ll go along the slope and get an arm-load of moss.”
Suiting the action to the word, he started away, walking leisurely. He had gone less than fifty yards, when he drew back, startled. Unless his eyes had deceived him, he had seen something—a movement in the brush. Trembling, he took up a position in the deep shadows, close to a willow copse, straining his eyes through the obscurity.
“Might be a deer,” he thought.
He had really not expected to see a man. Yet a man it was. Creel! Dick blinked. The old recluse stood limned in the darkening twilight, scarcely twenty feet away. His attitude was that of a hunted beast. His long hair fell over his eyes in straggly disorder, giving him the appearance of a madman. His long beard fluttered lightly in the breeze.
Dick’s heart leaped. Creel was coming straight toward him. Cold sweat beaded Dick’s brow. He was shaking as if from the ague. Nearer and nearer came Creel. Only a few feet away now—almost upon him!
Then, suddenly, for no apparent reason, the recluse paused. Dick could hear his labored breathing. Some intuitive sense had warned the man of impending danger. For a full minute he remained perfectly still, his gaze darting from right to left. He took one step forward cautiously. A second step. Again he paused. He was so close now, that Dick could almost reach out his hand and touch him. The young man’s mind was awhirl, dizzy with conflicting impulses. His quarry within his grasp, and yet he hesitated. Why, he did not know.
The recluse took one more step and in that instant caught sight of the crouching form. He attempted to turn, one hand struggling at his belt. Dick lunged forward, catching Creel around the knees, bearing him down. The struggle was short but spirited.
“No use,” panted Dick, “I’ve got you!”
Creel’s struggles subsided.
“What do you want with me?” choked the captive, as Dick pinioned his arms.
“The police are looking for you, Creel,” the other breathed in his ear. “The game’s up. You’ll have to come along with me.”
Securing the other’s revolver, Dick rose to his feet.
“Come on now,” he ordered, “Get up!”
He drove Creel ahead of him to the place where he and Sandy had made camp. In the dim light, Sandy saw the approaching shadows, but as yet was unaware of the presence of a third person.
“Did you bring the moss?” he inquired petulantly. “What kept you so long?”
“Sandy,” Dick’s voice quavered, “come here!” The young Scotchman put down the branch, which he had been breaking into short lengths, and strode forward. His astonishment was unbounded.
“Creel!” he exclaimed. “Where did you find him, Dick?”
“Out there,” Dick pointed. Then, turning upon the old recluse: “Hand over the contents of that poke,” he ordered, pressing his revolver close to the man’s chest.
Creel backed away.
“I haven’t it,” he whined. “It’s gone—gone! Release me, I tell you. I haven’t it.”
“You had it,” said Dick. “What did you do with it?”
“They took it,” answered Creel, his voice rising almost to a scream.
“Who?”
“Burnnel and Emery. That woman.”
“Where did you meet them?”
“Back there,” the recluse waved one arm. “I came on them unexpectedly.” He shook in his agitation. “Wasn’t even thinking about them. I—I— The policeman— He was following me. Ever since last night.”
The story seemed plausible, yet in order to make sure that their captive spoke the truth, they searched his pockets, which proved to be almost as bare as their own.
“Did they take your money too?” Dick demanded.
“Yes.”
“Where are they camped now?”
“About a mile from here. They turned me loose less than an hour ago.”
“Creel,” said Sandy, “there’s one thing I wish you’d explain. What are you doing here so far from the trail?”
“Trying to get away from that policeman,” came the answer. “I was on my way south to Peace River Crossing, when I met him on the trail. He had me cornered. He was sitting there on his horse, waiting for me. I could see that. But I gave him the slip. I dropped off my horse and ducked into the thick timber on the left side of the trail. I ran. I was sure that I could get away from him. I knew that no horse could follow me there. But he kept on my trail, and several times that night and today, I caught sight of him following me.”
Sandy’s voice broke the next interval of silence. “What’s to be done now?”
“I’m going over to the outlaws’ camp,” declared Dick with grim decision.
“But what will we do with Creel?”
“You can stay here and watch him.”
Sandy caught his breath.
“Do you mean to say you’d tackle ’em all alone, Dick? A terrible risk! They’d be sure to get you.”
“No, they’ll be too surprised to do anything. They won’t expect me.”
Sandy put one trembling hand to his face.
“I—I hate to think of it. You’d be all right if only Toma were with you. But alone—”
He paused, choking.
“I’ll set out right away,” said Dick, “and you needn’t worry, Sandy. I’ll promise to be careful. I won’t take any more chances than necessary. Perhaps I’ll find them asleep.”
He turned to go. Sandy sprang after him, seizing his arm.
“If anything happens to you, Dick, I’ll—I’ll feel that it’s all my fault. But don’t forget that I’m with you. If—if they should happen to take you prisoner, I’ll manage your release somehow.”
“I know you will, Sandy,”—in a smothered voice.
“Good-bye, Dick.”
“Good-bye.”
Dick stumbled forward through the shadows, his heart beating wildly. A mile to Burnnel’s camp. Not far! He’d move cautiously. He mustn’t fail now. Victory was in their hands.
The shadows were very dark along the ridge, and far below came the murmur of the river. From its darkened perch, an owl hooted dismally.
CHAPTER XX
A THRILLING EXPERIENCE
Though only a short distance away, Burnnel’s camp proved to be hard to find. It was darker than usual that night, owing to the fact that the sky was overcast. It is doubtful if Dick would have discovered the camp at all, had he not, after nearly an hour of beating futilely about in the underbrush, been attracted by the dull red glow of a dying campfire.
Stealing upon his enemies with a quaking heart, he had soon advanced within the circle of light made by the glowing red embers. Near the fire were stretched the forms of the two prospectors, while thirty or forty feet away lay the woman.
The camp slumbered. Conditions could not have been more favorable for Dick’s project. It would be easy to walk over, gun in hand, and awaken the sleepers. Neither of them would have the least opportunity to offer resistance.
“It’s dead easy,” Dick argued with himself. “I can’t fail. It’s all as easy as A, B, C.”
Yet he hesitated. He had planned his approach and knew exactly what he was going to do and say. But, somehow, it was easier to think about it than to act. Once or twice he started determinedly forward, but as quickly checked himself.
“I don’t know what’s the matter with me,” he breathed. “Any minute they may awake, and yet I’m standing here.”
He was nervous and shaky; his cheeks and hands were deathly cold. His right hand gripped his revolver so tightly that the bones in his fingers ached. A stricture in his throat made breathing difficult. For the second time, he took a step forward. The fire was slowly dying out. Its subdued glow was less bright than when he had arrived. If he didn’t act promptly he’d be forced to accomplish his purpose in the darkness and run the risk of failure.
He was less than twenty paces from the sleeping forms. Moving very slowly, it would take less than two minutes to reach the sleeping men. He realized that to hurry over might be fatal to his plans. The faintest sound might betray him. He mustn’t snap a single dry twig or brush too hurriedly through the tall grass. He couldn’t afford to fail now.