Malemute Slade was waiting at headquarters when the boys reported as instructed. His dog team of six huge huskies stood in front of the Inspector’s office, harnessed to the sled, ready for the trail.
Dick and Sandy were pleased to find that Malemute Slade remembered them. His dark, wind-hardened face lighted up pleasantly, as he shook hands with his future trail mates.
“Wal, I swan,” he exclaimed, “I guess we’ll do some tall fightin’ now.”
Dick and Sandy assured him they were with him with all they had to offer, and after Inspector Dawson had wished them good luck, they mushed across the parade square to the stockade gate, which swung slowly open for them.
Hour after hour the relief detachment from the post traveled northward. Malemute Slade would not permit the boys to sleep longer than five hours. Long before dawn they were up, had eaten a hasty breakfast, while the dogs wolfed their daily frozen fish, and had hit the trail again. Dick and Sandy had grown almost as trail hardened as Toma on their long trip from Fort du Lac to Fort Dunwoody, and they did not complain at the terrific pace set by Malemute Slade.
On the afternoon of the third day, more than a hundred miles north of Fort Dunwoody, they saw from the top of a ridge the white, level expanse of Gray Goose Lake. They had not been molested along the way and they decided that Govereau was doing all his fighting at Gray Goose Lake.
Around the lake they broke into rough and serrated country, through which they proceeded cautiously. Soon they heard the faint report of rifles, by which they located the scene of combat.
Malemute Slade led the way up a long ravine where they left the dog team in charge of Toma and went on under cover of whatever they found.
“Follow me, lads, an’ don’t fire till I give the word,” Malemute Slade ordered.
“Look! There they are!” whispered Dick a moment later as they reached the top of the ravine.
On a rocky knoll, overlooking Gray Goose Lake, they could see the occasional puff of two rifles. All around the bottom of the little hill were hidden Govereau’s men, flanked by a deep gorge on their left.
“Now, lads, we’ll take ’em on the run. Shoot an’ holler all you can,” Malemute Slade’s drawling voice calmed them.
Dick and Sandy tensed for the coming skirmish, tightening their grips of their rifles.
“Ready,” called Malemute Slade. “Here we go.”
They broke from cover and ran yelling like an army across the space that separated them from Govereau’s party. The Indians turned and shouted, seeming paralyzed with surprise. The besieged policemen, on the hill, seeing reinforcements, also charged, leaping from their hiding place and firing as they came.
Attacked from two sides, Govereau’s band broke and fled.
“There’s Govereau!” cried Dick.
“An’ here’s where one dirty skunk cashes in,” shouted Malemute Slade, raising his high-powered rifle. At the report of the rifle, Govereau fell, Dick and Sandy rushing past his body in pursuit of the others.
Dick barely had witnessed the fall of Govereau before he caught sight of Toma stalking an Indian, who was trying to crawl away among the bushes.
“Halt, in the king’s name!” commanded Dick, as he recognized the skulker to be no other than Many-Scar Jackson.
But the scar faced Indian did not halt. He broke into a run toward the deep gorge on the left, Toma in hot pursuit, and Dick and Sandy close behind.
Suddenly Dick stopped dead in his tracks, Sandy almost falling over him. “Toma!” he called, but the guide did not seem to hear.
“He’s going to avenge his brother’s death,” Sandy exclaimed, pushing ahead.
“Stop!” Dick hauled his chum back. “Toma doesn’t want us to interfere. It’s his fight. If we see he’s getting the worst of it, then we’ll help.”
Sandy drew back and with pale faces they watched the two Indians come together and draw their knives in a duel to the death.
Around and around they circled before Toma darted in like a flash and drew blood. But Many-Scar made a stab in return, and they saw Toma reel a little. Then the two clinched, staggered this way, then that, their knife blades locked.
“Many-Scar has him!” Sandy suddenly exclaimed, raising his rifle.
“Wait!” Dick cried.
For a moment it had seemed as if the scar faced Indian would plunge his knife into Toma’s breast, but the agile young guide twisted suddenly, like a snake, and Many-Scar was tripped to his knees.
Then as Toma leaped in to follow up his advantage, Many-Scar whirled away, leaped to his feet and once more they circled.
“Many-Scar is getting the worst of it,” Dick breathed a few moments later.
“He sure is,” agreed Sandy exultingly.
Toma’s enemy plainly was weakening. Dick and Sandy prepared to see the final thrust, when of a sudden the scar faced Indian broke away and ran like the wind straight toward the gorge.
“They’ll fall into the gorge!” Dick cried, starting to run toward them.
But Many-Scar Jackson and Toma, too, seemed uncognizant of any immediate danger from a fall. Many-Scar ran like a deer, and as he reached the edge, he leaped into the air. Like a bird he soared across the space between the two cliffs, landing safely on the other side, where he vanished into the bushes.
“What a jump!” exclaimed Dick.
“I can’t believe it,” Sandy said amazedly. “Why, it was a broad jump record. It’s nearly thirty feet between the cliffs.”
Toma had halted on the brink of the cliff and the boys saw him raise clinched fists to the sky. Toma had failed this time, but, somehow, the boys felt sure there was another time coming.
Behind them Malemute Slade was calling. They rejoined the victorious mounted police, Toma tardily returning.
Presently they were behind the dogs on the trail to Fort Good Faith, their party now increased to five with Sergeant Brewster and Constable Marden.
“I hope Uncle Walter has been able to hold out this long,” Sandy whispered to himself as he ran after the waving tails of the huskies.
CHAPTER XXIV
CHIEF BLACK DOG’S SCHEME
“We’re coming into an Indian village,” Dick called to Sandy, when the party reached the top of a long ridge.
Sandy, who was some distance in the rear, hurried up and joined Dick. A village of nearly a score of tepees lay ahead, the smoke of a number of campfires rising here and there.
Sergeant Brewster, who had taken command, explained that he was about to enlist the tribe’s aid in an effort at retaking Fort Good Faith.
“Chief Black Dog is a good friend of the mounted,” said Sergeant Brewster, “and he’ll let us have a few warriors. I suppose Henderson has tried to get the old fellow on his side, but chief is loyal.”
They entered the village, and had some trouble with the numberless Indian dogs that rushed out savagely from behind the tepees and attacked the huskies. Presently several Indians came and called off the dogs, throwing stones and sticks at them.
Sergeant Brewster addressed one of the braves: “Tell Chief Black Dog a man from the Great White Father has come to see him.”
The buck hurried away, and soon returned, saying the chief would be glad to see him, in fact had invited them all to his council tepee.
Leaving Toma to look after the dogs, Dick and Sandy followed Malemute Slade and the policemen to a tepee much larger than the rest. The entrance was so high that even Malemute Slade entered erect.
“Gosh, it’s dark,” whispered Sandy, when the tepee flap closed behind them.
The only light in the tepee was a tiny fire glowing in the center. Before this Dick and Sandy could make out three shadowy figures. The one in the center was an aged Indian with snow white hair. He was Chief Black Dog.
“The white brother comes from the Great White Father. It is good. Peace with white brother,” the old chief spoke.
“We bring presents from the great chief to the big chief,” Sergeant Brewster announced, drawing from his mackinaw pockets a fine pocket knife and a shining tobacco box.
Dick and Sandy could see the old chief’s eyes glitter as they fell upon the gifts.
“It is good,” said Chief Black Dog, accepting the presents.
The sergeant also gave something to each of the two chiefs seated on either side of Chief Black Dog, for which they muttered thanks.
“What will the white brother have?” the chief spoke again.
“We wish help to fight the bad outlaw, Bear Henderson,” answered the sergeant. “He has taken Fort Good Faith from the good factor Walter MacClaren.”
“It is good. My warriors are brave. They go with you.”
Sergeant Brewster thanked the old chief, then waited for dismissal. Chief Black Dog sat looking into the fire for a time, his deep eyes meditative. The boys watched curiously. The chief seemed to be thinking. At length he spoke:
“The red man would know how many braves the bad chief Henderson fights with. Some my warriors, young and foolish, with Henderson. I send warrior in night. He go make believe join Henderson. He find his brothers there. He find out how many braves hold fort. Come tell me. He find where big chief MacClaren in prison. We know how to fight better then.”
“The red man’s words are wise,” replied the sergeant.
“It is good,” the chief said, turning to the chief on his left and speaking swiftly in his native tongue.
The other chief rose and quietly left the tepee.
“White brother’s men stay, wait for spy, when he come back. One night maybe. Then we know all.” He waved a withered hand in dismissal.
Dick and Sandy welcomed the open air, when once again they stepped into the sunlight. At the sergeant’s orders they helped Toma unharness the dogs.
Chief Black Dog assigned two tepees to the party from Fort Dunwoody. Dick, Sandy and Toma took one, the mounted policemen the other. An hour later the boys watched the spy leave for Fort Good Faith, while the war drums of the tribe summoned the braves to battle.
It was an exciting evening the boys passed, watching the warriors in their fantastic dances. When at last they went to their tepee to rest, they were tired, but could not sleep. The wait for news from Fort Good Faith was proving to be a trying one. So near Sandy’s uncle, yet under orders to remain idle, the boys chafed and worried.
“I can’t stand it,” Sandy cried. “I want to get there and have it over with.”
“I know just how you feel,” sympathized Dick. “I want to smell powder too. But I believe the chief made a wise move, at that. What do you think, Toma?”
Toma’s dark face, lighted by the fire, brightened. “Him wise chief,” said Toma. “My father know him long ago when they hunt on Saskatchewan River.”
“Tell us a story about the old days, Toma,” Dick pleaded, as he squatted by the fire, “—an Indian story.”
“Yes, do,” Sandy chimed in.
The young guide seemed to be looking far away as he stared into the glowing coals. Outside, the war drums and the cries of the dancing warriors echoed in the forest aisles.
“I tell story my father tell me long ago, when I little boy,” Toma began. “Big medicine man tell my father. It is story of Saskatchewan River and Great Bear, mighty hunter of the Crees.
“Long ago, by Saskatchewan live big tribe. One hunter, one Great Bear, he mightier than all big hunters. Him not like Saskatchewan country. Him want travel far, far—where sun goes down.
“Big medicine man, one Two-Horns-in-the-Bone not want lose Great Bear, great hunter. Him try keep Great Bear home. But Great Bear don’t care. He go anyway, he say.
“Then Great Bear get ready go far away. When start, Two-Horns-in-the-Bone go ’long little way with Great Bear, so Great Spirit be with him in far lands. They stop on bank of Saskatchewan, mighty river. Great Bear, lie thirsty. He kneel down, fill up with water. Two-Horns-in-the-Bone make sign over him, big medicine sign. When Great Bear get up, medicine man say:
“‘They who drink waters of Saskatchewan shall return before they die.’
“Great Bear, him laugh. Him think Two-Horns-in-the-Bone make fun. Great Bear young, strong; he laugh at Great Spirit, like him laugh at grizzly. Him leap in Saskatchewan an’ swim across. Him wave spear goodbye to medicine man, an’ turn back on Saskatchewan.
“Two-Horns-in-the-Bone go back to tepee. Say nothing. Him very wise.
“Many moons pass. Great Bear go far, far away—to Big Sea, to desert, to other side of sunset. He fight many battles, always win.
“Medicine man by Saskatchewan, him wait an’ smoke long pipe. Twenty winters gone by, then spring come. Two-Horns-in-the-Bone walk down to Saskatchewan. He wait all day. When sunset come he see old man walking. Old man all bent over, white hair, hobble on stick. Two-Horns-in-the-Bone watch. Old man come down to edge of water. Him kneel down and drink. Then he go back and lay down.
“Two-Horns-in-the-Bone go to old man. Him speak, him look in face. Old Indian, him Great Bear. Old medicine man raise face to sky. ‘The Great Spirit has spoken,’ say Two-Horns-in-the-Bone. ‘They who drink waters of Saskatchewan shall return before they die.’”
Toma’s voice died out. The young Indian seemed to be in another land, as he thought of his father’s people. Dick and Sandy sat spell-bound.
“It is the Legend of the Saskatchewan,” Dick said in a hushed voice.
“It sure was a good story,” said Sandy. “Tell us another one, Toma.”
But Toma shook his head. Dick and Sandy saw a certain sadness in his face, that the legend had aroused, and they did not urge him. Presently they rolled into their blankets. Once asleep, they did not awaken until summoned by Sergeant Brewster.
As they hurried from the tepee on the morning of that day which was to mean so much, an inspiring sight greeted their eyes.
CHAPTER XXV
THE ATTACK ON THE FORT
The tepees of the Indian village were arranged in a hollow square, and in the midst of this were gathered more than fifty warriors, arrayed for battle.
“Isn’t it a fearful sight!” exclaimed Sandy.
“I’d hate to have them catch me alone in the forest,” Dick responded.
“They’ll help us do for Henderson,” Sergeant Brewster remarked at their elbow. “The spy came in an hour ago. He reports that Henderson has about ten half-breeds and thirty Indians holding the fort. They don’t dream of an attack. Henderson thinks Govereau is taking care of the police.”
“Did the spy find out anything about Uncle Walter?” Sandy queried anxiously.
“I was coming to that,” continued the sergeant. “It seems that Henderson has imprisoned him in a cave about a mile from the fort. The spy believes he can find the cave from what he overheard while inside the stockade. I’ll detail you fellows to go after the factor. But don’t leave until we’re sure we’ve taken the fort—that comes first. Toma and Malemute Slade will accompany, with the spy as a guide.”
They were interrupted by Malemute Slade and Constable Marden driving up with the dog team.
“Wal, boys,” grinned Malemute Slade, “we’re off for another tussle. As f’r me I can’t get to it too soon.”
Dick and Sandy laughed and fell into line. The band of Indians already had started out. They left the village amid the lamentations of Indian women and the loud barking of the dogs.
They traveled slowly, Sergeant Brewster explaining that they must not reach Fort Good Faith until nightfall, if they were to surprise Henderson. Scouts were sent on ahead to report any appearance of Henderson’s men.
Just before dark the war party came to a halt on the slope of a hill, from the top of which they could see Fort Good Faith not far away. Dick and Sandy gazed upon the stockade in awe. They had traveled more than six hundred miles since leaving Fort du Lac, and at last within sight of the post, they felt rewarded for all the hardships they had gone through in an effort to rescue Sandy’s uncle.
“We’ll have to keep out of sight till after dark—that’s all that bothers me,” chafed Sandy. “I wish we were climbing the stockade right now.”
Sergeant Brewster called to them just then. “Here’s the spy,” he presented a somber Indian. “He’ll stay close by you until it’s time for you to go after your uncle. Take your orders from Malemute Slade.”
Worked up to a frenzy by their war dances, the warriors were eager to attack, and it was all the policemen and the chiefs could do to hold them back until nightfall.
The minutes seemed like hours. But darkness slowly fell, and the hour of the attack approached. The Indians grew quieter then. At a word from the sergeant the war party started on toward the fort.
All was silent until they were under the very walls of the stockade, then the Indians gave vent to a horrible war cry, and like so many chipmunks clambered over the stockade. The first inside rushed the guard at the gate and swung it open for the rest of the party. Rifles and revolvers flashed in the darkness everywhere, and combined with the cries of the Indians, made a deafening racket.
Dick dropped down from the top of the palisades on the heels of Malemute Slade, Sandy and Toma following him. Suddenly he heard Sandy cry out:
“Help, Dick!”
Dick turned and ran toward the sound, his rifle clubbed in his hands. In the gloom he could see Sandy struggling in the grip of a brawny half-breed, Dick’s gun stock swept down, and Sandy’s adversary rolled over and lay still.
“Come on, Sandy. Let’s not lose Malemute,” Dick called.
They could see the policemen concentrating their attack on the door of the post residence, which had been hastily barricaded.
“Up an’ at ’em,” Malemute bellowed as he rushed to join the mounted police. Three half-breeds leaped out of the shadows and barred the big scout’s way. Malemute fired once, swung his fists twice, and the half-breeds were trampled underfoot.
The surprise attack was over as quickly as it had begun. Dick and Sandy saw a huge, long-haired man come to the door in answer to the sergeant’s demand for surrender, and watched the handcuffs snapped upon the outlaw’s wrists. It was the first look at the man behind all the trouble. Henderson’s name fitted him, they decided. He looked much like a grizzly in man’s clothing.
“That wasn’t half a fight,” Malemute Slade complained. “Now if that pesky spy would show up we’d skip out for the prisoner.”
“There he is!” Dick exclaimed.
The Indian spy and Toma both were approaching at a run.
“Lead on there,” Malemute sang out to the spy. “We’ll be a’ter the factor now—double quick.”
Led by the spy, the five left the stockade in the hands of the mounted police, and hurried off into the night.
It was hard going through the deep snow, but the spy seemed to be sure of the way. Only once did the Indian seem confused. Then he paused while the rest waited impatiently. Then they were off again.
Presently they came to a narrow canyon. Dick, Sandy and Toma were running close together. Malemute Slade and the Indian spy were slightly in the lead.
Suddenly the spy stopped dead, emitting a guttural exclamation.
“Down!” cried Malemute.
Scarcely had all five dropped flat when a hoarse voice sounded, seemingly out of the wall of the canyon:
“Who’s there?”
“You’ll shore find out in a minute,” retorted Malemute boldly. “Jest come out where we can see the color o’ y’r whiskers.”
“If you think much of y’r hide you better skidaddle,” replied the voice, threateningly.
“Haw, haw,” called Malemute. “You’ll be the one to do the skidaddlin’ when we finish with yuh.”
Silence followed, while Dick strained his eyes to see from whence the voice came.
“It’s from the cave,” Sandy whispered.
Nerves at snapping pitch, the young adventurers awaited the orders of the scout, who was mumbling to himself. Malemute was about to order a blind advance, when four dark forms leaped out of the rocks behind them. Dick Kent had a momentary vision of Malemute Slade pinned under two men, then something crashed down upon his head and all went black.
CHAPTER XXVI
LOST UNDERGROUND
Dick Kent regained consciousness slowly. His head pained severely, and as he passed his hand through his hair his fingers encountered something warm and sticky. All was silent in the canyon. He sat up with a start, all coming back to him—the mysterious voice from the canyon wall, the surprise attack, the blow that had felled him.
“Sandy! Sandy!” he shouted hoarsely. But the dark canyon gave back his voice in a hollow echo. There was no answer.
“Where have they gone?” Dick wondered. “Have they been killed or captured?”
He got dizzily to his feet and stumbled along the canyon, feeling his way. Almost immediately, he felt a depression in the rock. In the starlight a dark hole yawned in the wall.
“The cave!” he exulted.
Just then he stumbled over something solid, yet yielding. Groping about his feet, he recoiled in horror. It was the face of a man! In the starlight he finally made out the body, and saw that it was not one of his party.
Again Dick called out Sandy’s name, but only the echo of his voice from the yawning cavern answered him.
Dick’s head was clearing now. He thought swiftly and concluded his companions must have gone into the cavern in search of Walter MacClaren. He turned in and groped his way along, calling every now and then. Once he thought he heard a shout and stopped, but all was silent.
He had a few matches in his pocket and he drew one out and lighted it. He found himself in a large cave, evidently formed by the erosion of water. The roof of the cavern was some six feet higher than his head. Where he was standing there seemed but one passage.
“Well, I can’t get lost if there’s only the main passage,” Dick decided, and started on boldly, feeling his way in the blackness.
The cavern slanted downward slightly, and leading forward fairly straight, Dick made good time, though he tested every bit of footing to make certain he did not step off into a hole, or run into an obstruction.
Presently he could hear running water, and as the sound grew louder, he lighted another match. There was no disturbance of air and the flame burned steadily. Dick could see that the cavern branched at this point. Down one passage a swift stream of dark water flowed; the other was dry.
About to take to the cavern that was dry underfoot, Dick heard a shout somewhere in the cave before him. He thrilled as he recognized Sandy’s voice.
“Sandy, Sandy, here I am!” he answered at the top of his lungs, hurrying down the cavern from which he believed the voice had come. Once more he heard Sandy’s shout, but this time it was fainter. Then he heard it no longer.
“There must be tracks if anyone has passed here,” Dick thought, and striking a match, stooped down. Plainly, in the moist floor of the cavern, were the tracks of moccasins. But they were directed both forward and back, and meant very little.
Thinking to catch Sandy before he was too far away, Dick hastened forward with less caution. He had advanced some fifty yards, when of a sudden the earth gave way under him. His cry of terror was drowned by the sound of falling stones and gravel, as he pitched downward. His clutching hands encountered a rim of solid rock. With a painful jerk he stopped his fall, dangling there by his fingers over a chasm he knew not how deep.
Once he regained his breath and sense, he endeavored to pull himself up. But he could not quite make it. The hole bulged outward under his feet and, kick and thresh as he would, he could not get a foothold anywhere. The rim he was clinging to was so narrow that it was impossible for him to hold his body up on it even if he pulled himself up by the hands. He realized that he was part way down the hole, hanging to the conical wall.
Dick’s struggles slowly weakened. His head was paining him severely. He realized that he could not hang on much longer, yet gritting his teeth, he clung on while his muscles burned and his fingers grew numb.
With his last remaining strength, he shouted. But it seemed that his voice was deadened by the formation of the hole, as if he had shouted into a barrel. But again and again he raised his voice, though it grew weaker and weaker.
He did not know whether he imagined it or not, but he thought his last outcry received an answer. Slowly he was losing consciousness. It seemed that he could hear the pad, pad of moccasins and more voices. A hand grasped his wrists, then he gave out.
When once more Dick awakened he found himself in a dimly lighted underground room. Some one was pouring something hot between his teeth.
“Sandy!” he started up, looking into his chum’s happy face.
“Greetin’s, lad,” called Malemute Slade, smiling down from the other side of him, “you’ve had a tough time of it.”
“I thought it was all over with as far as I was concerned,” replied Dick.
“Uncle Walter is here, but he’s pretty sick,” Sandy was telling him. “We found him in this room, almost dead from starvation. He seems to be a little better since we fed him some hot broth.”
Dick raised up, his aching head swimming. Across the room, watched over by Toma, on a heap of balsam boughs, he saw a bearded man, haggard of face. It was Walter MacClaren.
“I guess I can stand on my pins now,” declared Dick. “But where did you all go right after I was knocked out?”
“The devils drove us right into the cave,” volunteered Malemute Slade. “It was a running fight till I climbed on a shelf of rock an’ dropped down on the beans of a couple of ’em. I cracked their pates, then we choked the other one till he told us where the lad’s uncle was. Me—I guess I’ve got about all I want of fightin’ for today.”
“I heard you shouting,” Sandy explained, “but you were in the wrong branch of the cavern. I had to go clear down to the fork before I found where you were. You had just about let go of the rock. I was scared to death when I had pulled you out. I struck a match—and say!—that hole didn’t seem to have any bottom.”
Dick shuddered, but smiled grimly. He had had a close shave—they had all had a close shave—but things had come out right in the end.
Malemute Slade had located the store of food kept by MacClaren’s guards, and they sat down and had a bite to eat. Then, they all gathered anxiously around Walter MacClaren. With eyes shining, Sandy stooped forward and patted his uncle’s hand.
“Everything is all right now,” the youth muttered happily. “I’m sure that Uncle Walt will get better.”
For several minutes they stood there in the half-light, looking down at the recumbent figure of the man, whose life they had saved barely in the nick of time. Except for their quiet breathing and the low trickle of water in an alcove close at hand, the deep hush remained unbroken. Then, unexpectedly, MacClaren stirred, muttering in his sleep. His eyes blinked open.
His gaze wavered from one to the other of the little company gathered around him, and slowly a smile played across his lips.
“Up in a few days,” he managed to articulate weakly. “Thanks—everyone of you! I’ll be feeling fine in the morning.”
Then, with another smile, he rolled over on his side and went back to sleep. In a surge of new-found happiness, Dick nodded significantly at Sandy, and, arm-in-arm, they turned quietly and tip-toed out of the room.
THE END
Transcriber’s Notes
- Copyright notice provided as in the original—this e-text is public domain in the country of publication.
- Silently corrected palpable typos; left non-standard spellings and dialect unchanged.
- Added a Table of Contents based on chapter headings.
- In the text versions, delimited italics text in _underscores_ (the HTML version reproduces the font form of the printed book.)