He negotiated the distance without mishap. Heart in his throat, he stood with his back toward the fire. Immediately in front of him lay the two unsuspecting outlaws. Burnnel snored peacefully, while Emery, lying on his right side, one arm flung out, might have been dead, for all the sound he made resting quietly there.
Dick, preparing to shout out to awaken them, checked himself in time. A cold sweat broke out upon his body. An obstacle had presented itself. When he aroused Burnnel and Emery, he would awaken the woman too, and he was too far away from MacGregor’s wife to prevent her escape. Or, what would be more disconcerting or fatal still, she might suddenly determine to come to the outlaws’ rescue. No doubt she was armed. Dick’s heart beat wildly against his ribs and a lump rose in his throat, choking him. What was he going to do?
He considered waking the woman first, being as quiet as possible, then coming back for the two prospectors. But he dismissed this idea almost as quickly as it had come. Better, far better to start with the outlaws. He dismissed his original plan of shouting out. That would never do. No; he would prod them quietly with his foot until they woke up.
A distance of several feet separated the two sleepers. He stepped between them. Burnnel lay flat on his back. Dick stooped over and jerked the big prospector’s gun from its holster, expecting of course, that the man would awake. To his surprise Burnnel slept on. So he turned his attention to Emery.
Dick now had a gun in either hand. It gave him more confidence. Emery stirred, as he prodded him with his foot. He continued until the wiry little man sat up, rubbing his eyes.
“A word out of you,” said Dick softly, “and I’ll blow your brains out. Hand over your gun, butt forward.”
Emery obeyed. Dick thrust the revolver in his own holster, an awkward proceeding because he was compelled to keep his opponent covered.
“Now,” said Dick, “wake up Burnnel and do it quietly. Get busy!”
Emery, who evidently was thoroughly frightened, rolled over and shook his partner. The big fellow half-awoke, perceived who was shaking him, thrust out one huge arm petulantly and pushed the little man back with considerable violence.
“Shoot me or not,” snarled Emery, “yuh kin wake him yourself.”
“Wake him up!” Dick’s voice carried a menace.
This time Emery succeeded. But the big man was noisy and profane, even after his sleep-stained eyes had caught the glint of Dick’s weapon.
“Keep quiet!” ordered Dick, almost beside himself with fear. “Keep quiet! If you don’t I’ll drill you through and through. Give me the contents of that poke!”
The campfire glowed an angry red. In its ghostly light the two prospectors turned out their pockets, defiantly. Dick recovered his own money, watch and the huge roll of bills, belonging to Creel, Toma’s jack-knife, Sandy’s pocket-compass, and two keys on a ring. The articles were so many and varied that he soon perceived that he would not have room for them about his person. So he compelled Emery to tie them up in a bundle, flung over his own coat for the purpose. But where was the treasure? Nonplussed, Dick stared from one to the other.
“Where’s the contents of Dewberry’s poke?” Emery gave Dick a look of unutterable surprise—and almost choked. Burnnel laughed scornfully.
“We ain’t got it.”
“What have you done with it?”
“Ain’t never had it,” said Emery, choking with laughter.
“You lie!” exclaimed Dick hotly. “Creel told me that you took it away from him.”
“No, you’re wrong, pardner. If Creel told yuh that, he was spoofin’ yuh. We ain’t never even seen him.”
“If that’s true,” said Dick, white to the lips, “how did you manage to get Creel’s roll?”
Neither of the outlaws attempted to reply. Emery hung his head guiltily. Burnnel’s face was averted. Further questioning proved futile. Both men persisted that they had taken nothing from Creel except his money. Angrily, Dick drove them ahead of him to where the woman lay, still sleeping, and aroused her. Then, forcing the three to saddle and lead their ponies, they made their way back to Dick and Sandy’s camp.
On his way back, Dick felt that he had been robbed of a complete victory. His achievement in capturing the outlaws single-handed was darkened by the knowledge that in some unaccountable way Burnnel and Emery had contrived to hide Dewberry’s much-sought treasure. He decided that when morning came he would make a more careful search. It was possible that he had overlooked its hiding place. It occurred to him that it might be in one of the saddle-packs, or sewed up in the outlaws’ garments. At any rate, he would leave no stone unturned until he had fully satisfied himself that Creel had lied to him.
Sandy’s joy and astonishment over the safe and successful return of his chum were unbounded. He clapped Dick on the back, shouting out his approval.
“If we’re only careful now,” he cried, “we’ll soon reach the end of our adventures. We’ve won. Won’t Corporal Rand and Toma be pleased when we return with all these prisoners.”
For the remainder of that night neither of the two boys slept. They took turn in replenishing the fire and guarding the prisoners. Dick had become more cheerful and was confident that when morning came they would find the mysterious treasure, which had been responsible for so much trouble and tragedy and waste of human life.
Yet, when morning came, they were destined to be disappointed again. They found nothing. Burnnel and Emery watching them, sneered openly. Creel seemed perplexed. Noticing his expression, Sandy questioned him.
“Why did you lie to us about the contents of that poke?”
“I didn’t lie to you,” Creel retorted. “They’ve done something with it, you may depend upon that.”
“Don’t bother, Sandy,” Dick exclaimed in exasperation, “you’re just wasting time. We might as well start back. Corporal Rand will know what to do.”
So, a few minutes later, they set out on their return journey. They were forced to travel more slowly than they had come, owing to the fact that, on the previous day, while attempting to evade the police, Creel had abandoned his horse. The boys forced the outlaws to take turn and turn about walking.
On the evening of the first day they were treated to a pleasant surprise. Sitting around the campfire, enjoying their evening meal, the party was suddenly made aware of the presence of a stranger. He had come up silently and unnoticed. Presently he stood before them, a trim, natty figure, the bright crimson of his police tunic contrasting sharply with the deep green around him. The policeman smiled at their quick start.
“I’m Constable Wyatt, of the Peace River Detachment,” he announced.
The boys sprang to their feet and hurried forward to greet the constable.
“I’m Dick Kent and this is Sandy MacClaren,” Dick explained to him. “We have been helping Corporal Rand, who has been working on the Dewberry case.”
The policeman smiled.
“Well, you’ve been more lucky or clever than I have. From all appearances, you’ve made a coup. I see you have Creel, the man they wired about.”
“I sent the telegram for Corporal Rand,” said Dick a trifle proudly.
“I almost had my hands on him on several different occasions. Perhaps I would have taken him eventually if you hadn’t. Who are these others?”
“Burnnel and Emery, two prospectors, and she,” Dick pointed, “is ‘Rat’ MacGregor’s wife. All of them are mixed up in the case, constable. We had reason to believe that Creel had Dewberry’s treasure. Creel claims that Burnnel and Emery took it away from him. Whether or not this is true, we have been unable to determine. We can’t find it.”
And in a few words Dick related their experience of the previous night.
“You say you’ve made a very careful search?” asked Wyatt.
“Yes.”
“The only thing that I can think of,” hazarded the police constable, “is that Burnnel and Emery hid the treasure somewhere near their camp before they retired for the night.”
“That’s possible,” said Dick. “It didn’t occur to me. Of course, they wouldn’t tell us if they had.”
“Naturally not,” Wyatt smiled grimly.
On the following morning they reached the trail and the first habitation they had seen for many, many miles. Here they were able to procure another horse, and thereafter they moved forward more quickly. The next day, threading their way along through the cool forest spaces, a turn in the trail revealed two approaching horsemen. Dick and Sandy rose in their stirrups and waved their hats wildly.
The two horsemen were Corporal Rand and Toma.
CHAPTER XXI
THE KEY TO THE MYSTERY
Two days later, on its way north to the Mackenzie River barracks, the party stopped for the night at Meade’s Ferry. After supper Toma, Sandy and Frederick Meade went over to the river for an evening’s fishing. The two policemen and Dick remained behind. Sitting in the large trading-room, they conversed quietly.
“There’s only one thing that I regret,” said Corporal Rand, “and that is that we have been unable to recover Dewberry’s treasure.”
“What is this treasure?” Wyatt asked, then turned his head as someone came to the doorway. “You—Mr. Meade. Step right in. You don’t need to hesitate. This isn’t a private conference.” As soon as the free-trader had taken a seat beside him, Wyatt repeated his question:
“What is this treasure?”
“We don’t know,” replied Rand. “However, it is an established fact that on the night he was murdered Dewberry had a roll of bills in his pocket and a small poke, suspended from a cord tied around his neck.”
Rand paused, reached in his pocket and brought to light a diminutive moosehide pouch or leather sack, which he passed over to his fellow policeman.
“There it is. That’s the poke. You see how small it is. Nevertheless, at one time it contained something of great value. MacGregor risked his life to get it. Frischette or Creel—as I now have reason to believe—surprised MacGregor in the very act of committing his crime, and took it forcibly from him. Since that night the poke has had an interesting history. Creel kept it in his cabin, but one night he was visited by Emery and Burnnel, who secured possession of it. A few minutes later Dick, Toma and Sandy took it away from them. But in the end Frischette got it and escaped. The next day his body was found by Burnnel and Emery, who reported the news to me.”
“They murdered him.”
“No, it was suicide. I’m almost sure of that. You see, I found a note in the inner pocket of Frischette’s coat. This note was in Frischette’s hand-writing and mentions that he is about to take his own life.”
“Burnnel and Emery might have forced him to write that note. It might be a case of murder after all.”
“I’ve considered that too, Wyatt, but—well, to be frank, I have a theory. My theory is that although this is the poke originally carried by Dewberry, its contents were tampered with and a substitution made by Creel at his cabin before Burnnel and Emery came. To make my theory more clear to you, I’d like to say that I believe that this poke had been filled with something of no value whatsoever. A clever deception on Creel’s part. Not only did it fool Emery and Burnnel, but it fooled Frischette himself. When Frischette opened the poke, you can imagine his rage and disappointment. The treasure was not there. He was a coward at heart and dared not return. Hopeless and despondent, he shot himself.”
Corporal Rand paused to light his pipe.
“My theory is strengthened by Creel’s subsequent actions,” the corporal continued. “While I was out on the trail investigating the cause of Frischette’s death, he took the opportunity to slip away unnoticed. The assumption was that he had started out for Edmonton, or some other point, with Dewberry’s treasure. Burnnel, Emery and ‘Rat’ MacGregor’s wife evidently came to the same conclusion for, after locking me up at Frischette’s road-house,” the corporal flushed at the memory, “they set out to follow Creel. If they didn’t suspect him of having the treasure, why did they follow him? How are you going to answer that question?”
“Your theory must be correct,” said Wyatt.
“It must be,” Meade agreed.
“It isn’t my theory particularly. Young Sandy MacClaren came to the same conclusion. You have the facts. I needn’t go further into detail. You know what happened over there by the river.”
“They cached the treasure somewhere,” declared Wyatt.
Corporal Rand nodded.
“It seems to be the only solution.”
Conversation wandered to other things, and Dick soon lost interest. He yawned, rose from his chair and went outside. It was a lovely evening, cool and exhilarating. There came to his ears the drowsy sound of the forest. Birds peeped, preparing to nestle down for the night. The pine trees droned their incessant chant. Here and there, rabbits scampered into the open, their curious little muzzles twitching inquisitively.
Dick yawned again and stretched his arms above his head. It was about time the boys were coming back. He wondered if their fishing expedition had been successful. Bored with the inactivity, he decided to stroll down toward the river to meet them.
He was twenty yards from the cabin when a voice called him back—the voice of Corporal Rand. Quickly he retraced his steps.
“Sorry to trouble you, Dick,” Corporal Rand met him at the door, “but Wyatt and I would like to see that bundle of stuff you secured that night from Burnnel and Emery. Where is it?”
“In my bunk,” Dick answered, “rolled up in my coat. I’ll get it for you.”
A moment later he secured the bundle, carried it to the table and opened it. Wyatt, Rand and Meade gathered in a little circle around him. He took up the objects, one by one, very much after the manner of a person taking inventory.
“This is Creel’s roll of money. This is mine. These bills and coins belong to the outlaws. This is my jack-knife and here is Sandy’s compass. This is my watch and this is Emery’s revolver.”
There remained a pocket-comb and mirror, a pipe—its bowl somewhat battered—two hunting knives and the ring with the two keys. As Dick picked up the last named object, Meade gave vent to a startled cry and jumped forward.
“Let’s see it! Let’s see it! Give it to me!”
Dick handed it over.
“Keys,” said Rand. “Who owns them?”
“I think they belong to one of the outlaws,” answered Dick.
“Outlaws!” shrieked Meade, his face distorted. “I should say not! They’re Dewberry’s keys. I’d know them anywhere.”
A hush came over the room. An old-fashioned clock ticked loudly. Presently Meade’s feet shuffled away from the table and he went over and sat down. His head dropped in his hands. For several minutes he sat there in deep abstraction. He was thinking deeply. Then, with unexpected suddenness, he bounded to his feet.
“I’ve solved your mystery!” he shouted.
The three other occupants of the room surrounded him in a body.
“Tell us,” cried Rand.
The free-trader waved them to their chairs.
“Sit down,” he commanded, “and I’ll tell you all about it. But I must begin at the beginning, so that it will all be clear to you.”
“Yes, yes,” breathed Rand.
“Dewberry was my friend. I was his guest one time at Peace River Crossing. You know where his place is?” He turned to Wyatt.
“A little cottage on a hill. Overlooks the Hart River,” answered the policeman.
“Have you ever been inside of it?”
“No.”
“Were you acquainted with Dewberry?”
“I knew him slightly,” said Wyatt. “But I’ve seen him often enough. An unusual character.”
“Exactly. He was queer—queer in many ways. He loved books—scores of them in his book-cases. A violinist and pianist too! But the most peculiar thing of all about him was his aversion to human companionship. He had no real friends. He was shy and reserved. Kept to himself. For months at a time, he would be away somewhere in the foothills prospecting. Then he’d return again to Peace River Crossing and become absorbed in his books; or else he’d go out to Edmonton.”
Meade paused to light his pipe. He puffed reflectively. It was several moments before he resumed:
“The minute I laid my eyes on that key-ring with its two keys, I knew it. I’d seen it many times before.”
As he spoke, Meade exhibited the ring and selected the larger of the two keys.
“This,” he informed them, “is the key to the front door of Dewberry’s cottage.”
“And the second?” Rand interrupted, unable to check his curiosity.
“This key, gentlemen,” Meade held it up and announced dramatically, “is, I think, the key to your mystery, the cause of all your trouble. It was the thing that MacGregor wanted when he murdered its owner, that Frischette died for, that Creel, Emery, Burnnel and the squaw fought over. In other words, unless I am very badly mistaken—and I don’t think I am—this key unlocks a large iron chest that stands in the front room of Dewberry’s cottage.”
CHAPTER XXII
DEWBERRY’S TREASURE
Peace River Crossing is a growing, bustling town that nestles in the broad, deep valley of one of the North Country’s largest rivers. Until a few years ago, it was a trading post merely, the stamping ground and meeting place of trappers, prospectors and adventurers, who, from various points along the river, and from the wilderness to the east and west, came here to transact their business or find companionship and entertainment.
At the time of this story, the Edmonton, Dunvegan & British Columbia Railway only recently had been built. Just a few months before his death, Dewberry had seen the miracle of two lines of steel, supported by a marvelous system of trestlework, creep slowly into the village.
Soon after that Dewberry decided that he would go north. Turning his back upon his cherished books, he went out, locking the door after him for the last time. The cabin looked very lonely in his absence. Perched on a hill, overlooking the Hart River, it stood day after day, a sort of bleak landmark among the other houses in the village. When the sun was bright, and happened to be shining from the right direction, the two front windows blinked and glistened like two large human eyes. Indian and half-breed children, playing in the level fields below, would look up at them in fear. They were afraid of the house. They were afraid of the man who lived there. Nothing whatsoever could have induced them to climb the rocky path and enter the yard, which just now was overgrown with tall weeds and grass.
This fear on the children’s part was shared to some extent by their parents. They shunned the cabin. In all the time Dewberry was away on this last trip, probably not more than three persons passed by the house, and then only because it was necessary to do so. Not until late in midsummer, did anyone actually cross the yard and deliberately walk up to the door with the intention of entering.
That person was Constable Wyatt, of the Peace River Detachment of the Royal North West Mounted Police. He was not alone. Another policeman and three boys accompanied him. The constable strode forward, erect and graceful, jingling a keyring. He selected one key and fitted it into the lock. Then he turned, before proceeding further, and smiled at his companions.
“The right one. It will work, I think.”
“Open the door,” instructed the other policeman, who stood close behind him, and appeared to be either eager or impatient.
The key grated in the lock and the door creaked, as Wyatt turned the knob and pressed his weight against it. Five pairs of eyes stared into the room. One of the boys—the youngest of the three—drew in his breath sharply.
“Great Scott! Books! Look at ’em—just look at ’em, Dick! A thousand or more!”
“A piano too,” said Dick. “But where’s the chest?”
The small party crowded into the room. A heavy odor assailed their nostrils. The place was stuffy and close. The blinds, which hung over the closed windows, shut out most of the light. Not until these blinds were raised and a window or two flung up, did any of the party do more than to give the room a curious inspection.
“According to Meade,” Rand spoke calmly, “the chest ought to be somewhere in this room.”
No chest was visible. Eyes darted here and there, questioningly. Wyatt, Sandy and Dick hurried into the adjoining room to continue the search there. Corporal Rand sat down, while Toma still remained in almost the identical position he had taken up when he had first entered the house.
At one side of the room a heavy fur overcoat lay in a wrinkled heap upon the floor. Four feet above it, a long wooden peg projected from the scored surface of a log. The inference was that the coat had slipped off the peg at some time or other and that Dewberry, either through oversight or neglect, had failed to hang it back in its accustomed place.
For a short space the young Indian gazed at the garment and then at the peg. His eyes lit perceptibly. Something told him that the overcoat had not fallen to the floor from that sturdy peg, and, besides, there was a suspicious bulge—something underneath. With an amused chuckle, he darted forward and lifted up the coat. The chuckle died in his throat. He stepped back.
The chest was there!
Corporal Rand’s sharp exclamation drew the others quickly. They were crowded around him and Toma, looking down with bated breath at an iron box, covered with fantastic scrolls and figures, embellished and ornamented with metal rosettes and a fret-work of bronze. Neither Dick nor Sandy had ever seen anything quite like it. It was not an ordinary chest. It looked old—hundreds of years old—yet it was neither battered nor broken, nor in any way scarred or defaced. Beautiful though it was, its beauty produced a strange effect upon them. A malevolent influence seemed to emanate there.
Two feet high, three feet in length, approximately twenty in breadth—the iron box stood there and seemed to defy them. Its workmanship was superb. Dick guessed that it was of foreign origin, probably Oriental. He shivered a little as Wyatt gave the key-ring to Corporal Rand and motioned to him to stoop down and open the chest.
Rand’s fingers fumbled with the ring. A hollow scraping sound followed the insertion of the key, and, having turned it, the cover—fitted with a hidden, powerful spring—sprang open so quickly that its outer edge caught the policeman on the point of the chin and threw him back amongst his astonished companions.
Dazed, the corporal scrambled back to a position on his knees and stared in bewilderment at the chest. There was not a great deal to see. Within, the chest was fitted with a thin metal lid, which completely hid everything below. On the inside of the cover, however, was pasted a heavy label, upon which was the following writing:
“TREASURE CHEST.—Exhumed in September 1843 from the ruins of an ancient temple discovered by Sir George Pettibone, English explorer, near Kaifeng, in the province of Honan, China. Believed to date back to the Mongol or Ming Dynasty, (A. D. 1260-1368), (A. D. 1368-1644).”
“Wonderful!” exclaimed Dick, when Corporal Rand had finished reading.
“It is wonderful,” breathed Wyatt. “It would be interesting to know how it came into Dewberry’s possession.”
Sandy was impatient. He had pushed closer to Corporal Rand and was looking down at the chest over the policeman’s shoulder.
“I can hardly wait until you remove that lid,” he broke forth. “Why don’t you lift it up, corporal?”
Gingerly, Rand placed a thumb and finger in two round holes in the lid and tugged gently. Slowly, an inch or two at a time, it came up, revealing an interior space taken up by six square trays of sandalwood—any one of which contained a fortune.
Gold! Treasure! The boys caught their breath. There came a concerted rush around the box. Exclamations of amazement. Not only gold here—but precious stones. Diamonds! Sapphires! Blood-red rubies! Platinum in rings and bars. Gold dust! Curios! Priceless antiques! Nuggets!
Sandy and Dick were shouting and exclaiming like maniacs. Wyatt and Corporal Rand were talking in excited tones. Toma, less interested than any of them, after a curious, puzzled glance into the interior of the chest, backed away, grunting out something under his breath.
It was Sandy, who presently discovered that the trays were removable, that underneath them was a shallow compartment, three or four inches in depth, completely filled with letters and papers and documents of various kinds.
“Here!” he shouted, holding it up. “A book! Must be very valuable or Dewberry wouldn’t keep it in here.”
He passed it on to Corporal Rand, then turned again and, with Dick’s assistance, began replacing the trays. The contents of these were, to the boys, of far more importance and interest than anything else confined within that ancient, mysterious receptacle. Again they fell to examining the treasure.
They were so absorbed in this delightful pastime, that they were wholly unaware of what was taking place in the room behind them. The two policemen had drawn up chairs and were sitting opposite each other, their faces alight. Wyatt, who leaned forward eagerly, was listening to Rand. Rand flipped the pages and read out of the book:
“November 20, 1908.—This is my second trip out to Edmonton this year. Today I met Professor B—, of the University of Alberta, who promised to secure for me a first edition of Thackeray’s Vanity Fair. Will send to Vincent’s at Montreal. Ought to have it here next time I come down. Professor B— is generous and kindly. Knowing of my interest in antiques, he sent me, with a letter of introduction to a Mr. Lipton, a private collector, who occupies a suite of rooms at the King Edward. I enjoyed this visit and induced Mr. Lipton to part with a very valuable cameo.”
“Interesting,” remarked Wyatt. “Go on!”
Corporal Rand flipped several pages and resumed:
“May 6, 1909.—Spent the better part of this week around the head-waters of the Finley. Gruelling work, but I love it. The mosquitos are savage, persistent little brutes, and only the fine mesh of my new net, with the addition of a pair of gloves, saves me from being sucked dry. I’ll need what blood and energy I have to complete my work here. Have been looking for the famous Crystal Lode, which old Dave Crystal found somewhere near here in 1890 and subsequently sold, ‘unsight, unseen,’ to Ben and Gordan Wilson, who have never been heard from since.”
A slight pause while Rand cleared his throat and turned more of the pages.
“December 2, 1911.—I’m happy tonight. This afternoon Lipton agreed to sell me that wonderful Chinese chest. I paid him two thousand dollars for it without once blinking an eye. At that, I’m lucky to get it. Lipton wouldn’t have parted with it for twice that sum eight months ago. I’m afraid he’s been buying so much real estate that he’s short of cash. Whatever his motive, I’m exceedingly grateful to him.”
Wyatt slid forward in his chair.
“Yes! Yes!” he exclaimed excitedly. “Read on.”
CHAPTER XXIII
LEAVES FROM AN OLD DIARY
Dick and Sandy turned from their inspection of the treasure.
“What’s that you’ve been reading?” Sandy demanded.
“Dewberry’s diary.”
“Is that the book I handed you a few moments ago?”
“Yes,” the answer came from Corporal Rand. “I believe it will prove of invaluable assistance to us in this case.”
The corporal still held the book in his lap, and seemed loath to discontinue its perusal. The excerpts he had read aloud to Wyatt had still further excited his curiosity, a curiosity which was shared by the other policeman. The man from the Peace River Detachment consulted his watch.
“It’s only three o’clock, Rand,” he pointed out. “We still have plenty of time at our disposal. I’d enjoy hearing more from that book. Why not continue, corporal?”
Rand turned the pages at random, his keen blue eyes glancing over the contents. In a clear, musical voice he continued:
“November 12, 1912.—Why is it that my chest from Honan continues to fascinate me? Sitting here at home this evening, my thoughts dwelt upon it. Twice I opened it and removed the trays, one by one, with the rapt interest of a child; removed them and placed them on the floor beside me. How indescribably bare it looks. I’m sure it wasn’t like that during the Ming dynasty.
“November 17, 1912.—Today I finished reading Marco Polo’s wonderful narrative. Very naturally, it turned my thoughts to the chest. I’m obsessed with a whimsical fancy. My chest, I am quite sure, was at one time the depository for the jewels and wealth of the great Ming himself. I visualize all those mysterious compartments overflowing with the treasure from seven seas. This one contained diamonds; this one rubies; this one sapphires and emeralds. In the remaining trays there are quantities of silver and gold. Just to heighten the illusion, I have placed the contents of three pokes in one of the trays. Then I locked it up. I, too, shall have my treasure.”
Corporal Rand ceased reading. Dick and Sandy laughed.
“Queer old duck, wasn’t he?” Dick commented. “Well, I don’t know as I blame him any. It is mysterious.”
Corporal Rand did not reply. He turned a few pages idly, then read again:
“June 2, 1913.—I have found the Crystal Lode. Could scarcely believe my good fortune. Came upon it more by accident than design. Tremendously rich. Here and there, I found evidences of the workings of old Dave Crystal. Will be compelled to keep this a secret. Took out over a thousand dollars yesterday.”
“Whew!” gasped Sandy.
Rand was excited too. He turned the pages more quickly.
“October 1, 1914.—I’m back at the Crossing earlier than usual this year. Brought a good deal of gold with me. Raced it in the chest. It will soon be filled to overflowing. The depository of the great Ming has come into its own.
“November 10, 1914.—Lipton would smile if he knew what I was up to. Today—the third since my arrival in Edmonton—I converted nearly eight thousand dollars worth of gold from the Crystal Lode into precious stones. The jewelers here must think I am mad. Almost overnight, I have changed my vocation. In place of being a collector of rare old books and antiques, I have become a connoisseur of gems.
“November 12, 1914.—Professor B— of the University of Alberta, had lunch with me at the Cecil Hotel. Our talk was on various subjects but finally I led him, rather adroitly, I think, to a topic which, at present, is my all-absorbing passion. Did Professor B— know anything about jewelry, precious stones? He did. I have yet to touch upon a subject he is not interested in. During our conversation, he happened to mention casually that the Dalton’s, who are very wealthy people here, possess what is undoubtedly the most valuable sapphire in this country. I think I must have pricked up my ears at this information. During the rest of the day, I could think of nothing else. Perhaps tomorrow I shall pluck up enough courage to go and see Dalton.
“November 13, 1914.—The Dalton sapphire is mine. Paid forty thousand for it. Dalton is not an agreeable person to deal with. I almost came away without it. Was forced to draw on my account at the Bank of Montreal. Dalton demanded a certified check and made a number of pertinent inquiries over the telephone. In spite of his haughty manner, he must need the money. Didn’t even offer to shake hands with me at parting.”
Rand closed the book, pointing at the chest.
“It’s easy to see now where he got those things. For years he’s been converting the gold from the Crystal Lode into precious stones.”
“Merely to satisfy a whim,” smiled Wyatt.
A moment later Rand resumed reading:
“August 8, 1915.—What an inconceivable ass I am. Yesterday in some unaccountable manner, I lost my note-book. I have been in the habit, while away on these prospecting trips, of writing each day’s events in a note-book, and later copying them in my diary at home. Hope no one ever finds it. ‘My thoughts are precious things’ and I wouldn’t care to have some fool laughing over them. Also, I fear that in the book I made mention of the chest. Worse luck!”
A sudden silence followed the reading of this last excerpt. Then Wyatt rose to his feet and began pacing up and down the floor.
“That has a direct bearing on this case,” he announced suddenly. “MacGregor must have found that note-book—or Creel or Frischette.... Any of those scoundrels. It’s the only possible way they could have learned of the existence of this chest and the two keys Dewberry carried with him. I am as sure of that as I am that I am standing here.”
“Extremely likely,” admitted Rand.
“Of course. And if we can determine which one of those men found the note-book, we’ll have some valuable evidence.”
“It may force a confession from them,” said Rand. “Just before we came down here, as you remember, Inspector Cameron endeavored to cross-examine them. It was useless. Well, I haven’t lost hope that we may succeed next time. I’ll take this diary with me.”
“May I look at it?” requested Sandy, holding out his hands.
“What about the treasure?” asked Dick. “What will we do with the chest?”
“Our inspector will attend to that,” answered Wyatt. “Probably will be removed to the new Bank of Commerce, just recently established here.”
“There are two likely places, where one might find that note-book,” mused Rand, “—at Creel’s and Frischette’s.”
“We can stop at both places on our way back,” suggested Dick.
“A good idea. Then there’s MacGregor’s shack too, I—”
“Listen to this,” interrupted Sandy, waving one arm about excitedly.
In his haste to open it, the diary slipped from his trembling fingers and fell to the floor. Picking it up, he experienced some difficulty in finding the right page again. The others waited impatiently. Finally, Sandy read:
“September 28, 1915.—The first heavy snow of the season has come early this year. Imagine my surprise this morning to wake in a blinding snow storm. It is driving me away from the Crystal Lode. After breakfast, I made haste to set out with my two pack-ponies, and arrived at Carson’s cabin shortly after two. I have always made it a point to stop at Carson’s whenever possible. They are friendly people. Mrs. Carson is an Indian, but exceedingly pleasant and well educated. A cook too! I can’t understand why a couple like that should be afflicted with such hopeless offspring. Their daughter, about fifteen, is vicious, while their son, Reynold, two years older, is a young cutthroat, if ever there was one. This afternoon I found him in my room, quite brazenly going through my things. It caused me to wonder if, after all, Reynold doesn’t know something about that lost note-book. I recall that I stopped here just the day before I discovered it was gone.
“September 29, 1915.—I am almost sure that Reynold has it. Today he was copying something out of a book—a black leather note-book—that looked suspiciously like mine. He rose when he saw me and beat a hasty retreat. I can’t accuse him openly just yet, but when I come back this way in the spring, I intend to lay a trap for him. That young scoundrel really ought to be put in jail, although I am afraid I never would have the courage to do it myself. It would break both Mr. and Mrs. Carson’s hearts.”
Sandy paused.
“Have you finished? Is that all?”
In his eagerness, Corporal Rand stepped over behind the young Scotchman and looked down at the open book.
“No,” answered Sandy, “it is not all. Here is another paragraph, dated September 30—just a day later.”
“I purposely remained at Carson’s one more day. Thought I might be able to keep an eye on Reynold, catch him again with the book and this time positively identify it. Unfortunately for me, nothing happened. Carson sent his son out with an armload of traps in the forenoon, and after lunch, two prospectors, Emery and MacGregor, stopped for an hour or two on their way east to Fort Good Faith. Carson introduced both men and we conversed for a few minutes. Can’t say I liked either one. If I were forced to choose a person to hang me, I think I’d name MacGregor. Emery’s face is too vile—even for a hangman’s.”
“Ugh!” Dick’s voice trembled. “If only he had known!”
“October 1, 1915,” Sandy read on. “I can scarcely believe it yet. Perhaps there is a redeeming trait in the boy after all. At any rate, Reynold came to me this morning, as I was preparing to leave, and gave me my book. I was so astounded that I simply stood staring at him. According to his story—which, of course, I accepted, although I knew it was a lie, ‘trembling unto heaven’—he had found the book after my last visit here. He found it in my room, he explained, ‘just where I had dropped it.’ I breathed a sigh of relief that was almost a gasp, thrust the accursed thing hastily into my pocket and departed thence—sans two nuggets (worth about twenty dollars) which I had given him as a reward for his honesty.”
“The brat!” choked Wyatt.
“Yes,” stormed Rand, “that young scoundrel concocted a devil’s mess indeed. He’s the one that ought to be hanged for Dewberry’s murder.”
“But why?” Dick asked innocently.
“Why? Can’t you see. It’s as plain as the nose on your face. He copied the contents of the note-book and gave it to Emery and MacGregor.”
CHAPTER XXIV
CARSON’S SON
Several weeks had passed. They were back in the North Country again—all except Wyatt. Outside the door of the trading room at Fort Good Faith, Sandy and Toma were bidding Corporal Rand and Dick good-bye, and wishing devoutly that they too might have been permitted to accompany the policeman on this—the last stage of a memorable journey.
Dick had been more than fortunate, they considered, in receiving official sanction to be in at the finish. He had earned this privilege, to be sure, but for that matter, hadn’t they? For weeks now they had been pursuing what had at first appeared to be a phantom. The phantom had taken form. The mystery had been uncovered. Step by step, day by day, slowly and inexorably events had moved to an ultimate end. The guilty were about to be punished. A few more things to do, then—