“Yuh got us licked, Bear, an’ yuh know it,” trembled one of the outlaws. “We didn’t mean no harm jes’ lookin’ at that gold. There ain’t a nugget missin’.”
“No, I suppose not,” snarled their chief. “Couldn’t see nothin’, could I? Empty yer pockets fer I knock yuh all down again!”
Hastily, they complied. In spite of the torture of the rope that bound him, Dick choked back a laugh as each one brought to light handful after handful of the tell-tale nuggets and passed them over to their brutal master.
Returning from his gentle mission, Baptiste La Lond sauntered through the door and made his way unhesitatingly over to the corner where Dick and Sandy lay.
“Ah, ze pretty mounted police boy,” he chortled, prodding Dick with his foot. “Where is ze fine uniform now?”
Dick stared back in defiance, but made no answer.
“Pardon, monsieur!” Mockingly, La Lond bowed low before him. Then he turned to the outlaws with what he considered to be a humorous gesture.
“Ze leetle boy ees feel sick now—so veree sick. He not feel lak talk today.”
One or two of the outlaws guffawed loudly.
“Come out o’ that!” growled Henderson. “Leave that boy alone. We got work to do.”
Baptiste cringed and slunk away from the corner. Turning upon his men, Henderson raised his voice: “Listen tuh me, yuh yellow skunks—I’m boss o’ this party. If yuh don’t believe it, jes’ try some more o’ your funny tricks. None o’ this gold ain’t gonna be divided ’til we get back. The police won’t find much when they come. Do yuh understand?”
“Yes,” came the cowed answer.
“All right!” The outlaw glared about him threateningly before he proceeded: “Now, I’ll tell yuh somethin’: We got jes’ five days to get what we can outta this mine. I’m gonna strip it. These few sacks here ain’t all we’re gonna get.”
“How do yuh figger yer gonna do it?” inquired the man who had previously spoken.
“Work!” boomed Henderson. “We’re gonna work this mine four days an’ four nights like it’s never been worked before. Not countin’ them two boys over there, there’s ten o’ us. Scar-Face’ll bring up a few Indians an’ I’m gonna make them get busy too. I’m plannin’ to run two shifts fer each one o’ the shafts. Any o’ yuh got any objections?” he inquired belligerently.
“Ze more we get, monsieur, ze more we divide,” Baptiste pointed out.
“Sure! That’s what I’m tryin’ to tell yuh. Now, as I said before, the police is comin’. One o’ my Indian runners was here last night with the news. We gotta work fast an’ we gotta work sure. If there’s any way o’ wreckin’ the mine before we go, I’m gonna do it.”
“We ought to be able to stop the police, Bear,” one of the men declared.
“What for? There ain’t no sense to it. If yuh devils is willin’ to work, we can clean up plenty in a few days.”
Greed and avarice was without doubt the only real bond that held the outlaws together. Even the domineering force and brutality of Henderson would have been inadequate to cope for any length of time with so murderous a crew. At thought of the great wealth lying in store for them, the sulky, glowering looks, that were cast in the direction of their leader, faded. The tension slackened. In a very few minutes the room was noisy again—the scene of bustling and excited activity.
The afternoon and evening wore on. In their corner, Dick and Sandy passed through an ordeal of suffering that had sapped even their rugged endurance. They lay now with closed eyes, moaning in their sleep. The lips of each were dry and cracked. Dust choked their nostrils. Ankles and wrists throbbed and pained from the constant friction and pressure of the rope with which the outlaws had bound them.
It was not until the following morning that Henderson deigned to notice them. Nor was it pity that prompted him to bellow out at the top of his voice:
“Baptiste, untie them two young swine an’ put ’em to work. We need ever’ available man. You can take charge of the outfit that’s workin’ outside on that new shaft.”
This was the sort of thing that Baptiste did well. He pounced down upon the benumbed and thirst-crazed pair with a whoop of delight. He untied their bonds and kicked them to their feet, grinning in derision as they swayed there, totally unable to stand. He shook them roughly, leering into their bloodshot eyes.
“Ah, ze pretty boys,” he crooned, “zey will wake up to come with their veree good friend, Baptiste. What you think about that, eh?”
“Stop it!” thundered Henderson, as he turned to go down through the trap. “There ain’t no time to fool. Them boys’ll be all right in a few minutes. Rub their legs. Go an’ fetch ’em some grub.”
By the time Baptiste had returned, the blood had commenced to circulate in Dick’s and Sandy’s swollen limbs, but it was nearly two hours before they were able to stagger forth to join the party of Indian workers, who were engaged at that particular moment in bailing water from the shaft situated about one hundred yards from the cabin.
In the group, very much to the boys’ surprise, was Toma. Their guide stood turning the handle of the windlass as they approached, and, except for a faint flicker in his eyes, one might have thought that the tall, lithe Indian lad looked upon the two newcomers for the first time in his life. Impassively he went on with his work when Dick and Sandy took their places with the rest and were given instructions by Baptiste.
“I’ll be here to watch you veree close,” he warned them. “Et ees a good thing for you ef you move veree quick when I say.”
Concluding this threatening speech, he pushed them roughly in the direction of two wooden buckets, and bade them commence at once. Dick was raging with suppressed anger; Sandy was furious. They picked up the buckets, nevertheless, and walked back to the shaft. Greatly pleased with himself, Baptiste sat down on a flat rock and puffed contentedly on his pipe.
In the very next moment, the boys were given their first opportunity to look directly into the eyes of Toma, and were rewarded with a sly wink. Pretending to brush the perspiration from his face, Toma’s finger stole to his lips.
Either Dick or Sandy would have given a good deal just then to have been able to speak to their guide. But they realized that this was impossible. Baptiste’s duty it was to see that the work progressed rapidly and Henderson had given strict orders that there was to be no talking. To disobey this ironclad rule would result in swift punishment, either at the hands of La Lond or some other person equally as brutal.
It did not take the boys long to discover that Baptiste was a hard taskmaster. He was continually among them, exhorting them to redouble their efforts and speed up the work, bullying and tormenting them in every way possible. On one occasion he jabbed Toma in the ribs with the muzzle of his revolver and threatened to throw him down the shaft if he didn’t step more lively.
Toma blinked, but held his peace. In a few minutes his face was as inscrutable as ever.
The work party at the new shaft consisted of four persons besides Dick, Toma and Sandy. These four were Indians recruited for the purpose from the tribe with whom Scar-Face had aligned himself. They were all tall, swarthy young men of about Dick’s own age. They had entered upon their duties with a good deal of enthusiasm, but at the end of an hour or two, the uninteresting, monotonous work palled upon them. Shortly after Dick’s and Sandy’s arrival, they had begun to regret their promises to Scar-Face and slackened down on the job.
This action on their part placed Baptiste in a rather peculiar position. Neither could he speak their language, nor dare to employ the brutal methods he did not hesitate to use in the case of the three prisoners. Time and time again, he strode forward with grim purpose in his eyes, only to check himself, growl out a burning oath and return sullenly to his seat on the rock. A climax was reached finally when Henderson, on his regular round of inspection, paused to peep down in the shaft.
His sudden, violent verbal explosive caused every member of the work party, including Baptiste, to jump.
“This water ain’t goin’ down a danged inch,” he snarled. “What’s wrong?”
“Ah, monsieur——” La Lond wrung his hands in desperation. “Ah, monsieur, zer ees a veree great trouble. Ze Indians, ze Indians, monsieur!”
“Well, what about ’em?”
“Zey will not hurry one leetle bit. Zey are veree slow, veree slow, monsieur.”
Henderson flung himself away with a torrent of oaths.
“Make ’em work!” he bellowed over his shoulder. “If there ain’t more done when I come back next time—look out! I’m holdin’ yuh responsible, La Lond. Get busy!”
Baptiste proceeded to get busy with a vengeance. Smarting under the rebuke, he advanced savagely upon his unsuspecting workmen, brandishing his gun. Before his furious advance, three of the Indians scrambled back to their buckets in alarm. The fourth, Dick observed, was not so easily frightened. He stood his ground calmly, drew himself to his full height and folded his arms. Dick’s heart beat with admiration—but only for a moment; for La Lond’s hand went back, revolver clubbed, then forward with a sickening thud.
The blow had caught the Indian squarely on the side of the head, knocking him flat. At sight of such inexcusable brutality, something within Dick seemed to snap. Leaping across the space that separated him from the outlaw, he struck out with all the force of his right arm. Baptiste sat down with a grunt.
He was still sitting there when Henderson, drawn by the commotion and the loud screech from Sandy, came hurrying up.
“What’s wrong here?” he thundered.
Baptiste was too dazed just then to make a very satisfactory reply. Holding his chin in his hands, he mumbled incoherently. Dick looked up squarely into the eyes of Henderson.
“I struck Baptiste myself,” he acknowledged.
“What fer?”
“Because he clubbed the Indian with his gun.”
“I’ll settle with yuh later,” Henderson scowled, making a sudden swipe at Dick with his open hand. “Get back to work. Get back to work all o’ yuh. Hereafter, I’m runnin’ this little show.”
It was several minutes before the Indian recovered consciousness and staggered to his feet, his three comrades gathered about him. The four of them glared at Baptiste, who stood cowering in front of Henderson.
“Baptiste,” roared the outlaw, “go and fetch Scar-Face. Tell him I want to see him. Tell him that I want to see him blamed quick. Either these Indians is gonna start to work or I’ll know the reason why. Yuh shore made a pretty mess o’ things, ain’t yuh?”
“Et ees impossible, monsieur. Scar-Face has gone to ze Indian village.”
“Find some other breed then what can talk to these Nitchies. Get!”
Baptiste had no sooner slunk out of sight, than the four Indians, favoring Henderson with a few chilling glances, started off across the rugged slope toward the footpath, supporting their injured companion. In vain did Henderson call out, entreating them to return. The four figures did not hesitate, did not once look back until they had gained the more even ground on the slope beyond. Then one of them turned, waving his arms defiantly in the air.
A flood of abusive oaths broke forth from the lips of the exasperated outlaw.
“Go on! Go on!” he screeched after them. “Yuh, ain’t no good anyway. Yuh ain’t no good fer nothin’, yuh yellow scum!”
With a final livid oath, he turned quickly and strode away in the direction of the cabin.
“He doesn’t seem to care whether we run away or not,” observed Sandy, when the outlaw had passed out of hearing. “Shall we make a try, Dick?”
Dick shook his head.
“We wouldn’t go far. I’d rather stay here and take my chances.”
Toma dropped the handle of the windlass and walked over to his two friends. His eyes were shining.
“You think I play mean trick when I drop trap yesterday,” he began. “I think mebbe you feel mad at Toma.”
“No,” protested Dick, “but tell us how it all happened. What did they do, Toma?”
“I stand look out door mebbe not more than ten minutes, when I see plenty men come along ridge. No time to do much. Henderson close already. No good shoot; no good run away. First thing I think about you an’ Sandy. I try shout down hole, but you no hear. Men come closer all time. I run to door then back to hole. I shout once more, but you no hear. Pretty soon I have good idea. I think mebbe I close trap and scrape dust over it. Henderson him not find where you, Sandy are. By time I pull up rope and close hole bad fellows just outside cabin. When they come in, I give up. Fellows take our guns. Henderson speak out:
“‘Where other fellow go?’
“I tell him lie. I say you, Sandy run away. He no believe that. He see you, Sandy gun an’ shoulder-pack. He ask me many, many times where you go, but always I tell him same thing. Bye-’n’-bye one bad fellow pull knife an’ prick me three, four, five times so it hurt very much. He keep on until I stand it no longer, so I tell him where you, Sandy go, an’ where he find ’em plenty sacks of gold.”
As proof of the truth of his story, Toma opened his shirt, exhibiting his bare, scarred breast. Sandy turned away, a mist filming his eyes. Here indeed was conclusive proof of the terrible ordeal through which Toma had passed.
“They’ll pay for this all some day,” Dick prophesied. “They can’t keep on doing these awful things and expect never to be punished for them.”
It was late that night before they were relieved from their arduous labors and were permitted to eat or rest. Accompanied by one of the outlaws, they were sent back to an opening among the rocks, where a camp had been erected during the afternoon. At one side of the camp was a large tepee, which served as a sort of mess-hall for the men, while on the opposite side, flanked by rocks and somewhat sheltered by them, was a level strip of ground which afforded ample room for sleeping.
They ate supper in the tepee with several of the other men and when they had finished their guide led them over to the space reserved for sleeping quarters.
“Yuh can roll out your blankets here,” he said gruffly. “But yuh better keep your traps closed if yuh don’t want to get in trouble.”
Although it was not yet dark, Dick’s watch showed that it was after eleven o’clock. Northern twilight, brooding across the land, lent a certain weirdness and eeriness to the camp. Here and there, beyond the sleeping forms of Henderson’s first shift, blinked the red embers of several campfires. Around one of these were three outlaws, drinking from a large bottle. Their coarse voices and loud disputes could be plainly heard by the boys. As Dick lay watching them, unable to sleep, he observed the approach of two other men, whose figures seemed somehow vaguely familiar. Passing by, on their way over to the three tipplers, he recognized them immediately. They were Lee and Pierre, the two packers, who had deserted his own party less than a week before.
Dick was on the verge of waking Sandy to inform him of this discovery, when a third person, no other than Henderson himself, made his way hastily forward and paused just a few feet away from where the three boys lay.
“Are yuh there, Brennan?” he called out.
“Yep,” one of the men answered from the campfire.
“Come here!”
Brennan lost no time in obeying the summons.
“Yes, Bear, what is it?”
“Scar-Face jes’ got back to camp from the river,” Henderson informed him. “He tells me that we’d better watch out fer the Indians tonight. They’re gettin’ dangerous. The hull outfit is buzzin’ around like a swarm of mad hornets. He thinks they’re comin’ over.”
“What fer?”
Henderson cleared his throat.
“All on account o’ that Indian kid La Lond cracked over the head this afternoon. He’s the chief’s son.
Brennan laughed. Alcohol had given him unlimited courage—of a sort. Just then he was worried more about the diminishing contents of the bottle than the chance possibility of an attack by Indians.
“Let ’em come,” he declared drunkenly. “What do we care? You ain’t afraid of a few Nitchies with bows an’ arrers, are yuh, Bear?”
“There’s close to two hundred of ’em, not countin’ a few strays they may be able to pick up. We ain’t got fifteen men.”
“Well, what do yuh think we’d better do?”
“I don’t think—I know. That’s what I came all the way over here fer. Wake up all the men, except them three kids, an’ give ’em rifles. Tell ’em to be ready an’ waitin’ in case the Indians decide to come over. I gotta supply of guns an’ ammunition over at the cabin, an’ I’ll look after that end if you’ll look after this.”
“I don’t think there’s no danger,” argued Brennan. “Why don’t you send Scar-Face back to sorta quiet ’em down?”
“Scar-Face has got a broken arrow in him already. He won’t live ’til mornin’.”
Brennan considered this startling news for a brief space.
“All right, I’ll do as you say, Bear.”
When Brennan and Henderson had left, Dick lay quietly, pondering over the information. Were the Indians really planning an attack? Would they dare to do such a thing, fearful as they were of the white man’s guns? He sat up, blankets tucked around him, and listened intently, half expecting to hear the sound of the invaders prowling around in the rocks above. Brennan had returned to his cronies and regaled them with the conversation he had had with Henderson. Loud bursts of drunken laughter followed the recital.
“The ol’ man’s gettin’ so he’s afeared of his own shadow,” chortled one of them. “’Magine them Nitchies tryin’ to attack us. It don’t make sense. Why I ain’t a bit scairt to fight the hull blamed outfit alone. Pah!”
“He told me to wake up ever’body an’ give ’em guns,” giggled Brennan.
Another roar of laughter greeted this remark. When it had subsided, Pierre, amid wild shouts of approval, produced a second bottle from somewhere about his person, took a long draught himself, and passed it around.
It was the beginning of a mad debauch. In disgust, Dick turned his head and silently regarded the forms of his two sleeping companions. Should he awaken them? For a moment he hesitated. He put out one hand toward Sandy, gently touching the face of his chum, smoothing back the lock of hair that had fallen over the tired forehead.
An outlandish yowl sounded from the direction of the campfire. The noise had disturbed Toma, for he stirred restlessly and finally sat up.
“What I hear?” he demanded sleepily.
“A few drunken fools——” began Dick.
He did not complete the sentence. A concerted, nerve-wracking screech broke across the area above them. Its echo trembled for a moment in the still air, then suddenly the camp filled, as if by a miracle, with scores of hideous forms, darting here and there through the gathering darkness.
It was an avenging red fury that swept down upon them.
Huddled in his blankets, Dick beheld a sight that caused him to shrink back in mute terror. The camp was alive with invaders. Hideous shouts rose on all sides. Rifles crashed. Through the gray twilight, appearing like scurrying phantoms from another world, the attacking party had hurled itself upon the outlaws’ encampment.
Brennan and his four companions had been among the first to attempt flight. In desperation, reeling drunkenly as they hurried along, they struck out in the direction of the cabin three hundred yards away. As they passed opposite the three boys, four grisly forms leaped out from the rocks just ahead and darted towards them. Dick could hear the courageous Brennan squeaking like a rat before he turned again to make off. Without thought of the possible consequences, they had swung about and raced wildly back, screaming at the top of their lungs.
The din and commotion increased. Over at the mine a furious fusillade of rifle shots attested to the fact that Henderson and the other outlaws, who occupied the cabin, were resisting stubbornly every effort on the part of the Indians to storm the stronghold. The shouting had become deafening. Pine torches in the hands of scores of the besiegers began fluttering across the slope, thence up to the cabin. In an incredibly short space of time a dense cloud of smoke enveloped the low structure. Wide tongues of flame leaped up, mounting quickly to every part of the building.
Since the beginning of the attack, the three boys had made no effort to escape. Sandy, weak with terror, clung to Dick while Dick himself, nearly as badly frightened, sat shivering close to Toma. On several occasions Indians had passed within a few feet of them, but had gone on. It occurred to Dick that the reason their presence had not yet been discovered was because they had pitched their blankets at the very foot of the cliff, where the shadows were deepest. This thought gave birth to an inspiration. A ray of hope flashed into Dick’s mind. Would it not be possible, keeping within the dark shadow of the cliff, to creep along to the far side of the encampment undetected, thence make their way up through the sheltering rocks to the top of the plateau? It was perhaps a forlorn hope, yet it offered possibilities.
In a low whisper, Dick told of his plan. A moment later the three boys crept stealthily forth with wildly beating hearts. Inch by inch, they wormed their way over the uneven ground. It required a full half hour of ceaseless, uninterrupted crawling to negotiate the eastern side of the wide, natural opening among the rocks. Scarcely daring to breathe, they commenced the ascent. It was darker now, but the glaring reflection from the burning cabin fell across their path directly above.
“They’ll see us up there,” Sandy panted. “We can’t make it.”
“Our only chance,” returned Dick. “Come on!”
They reached the top of the plateau in a panic of fear. Had they been seen? Dick put one shaking hand on Sandy’s shoulder and pointed to a low barrier of rocks.
“Make for it!” he quavered, gulping at the lump in his throat.
They broke into a run. Thirty, forty, fifty yards—they were tearing along now at top speed, hurdling the low obstructions, darting around the higher slabs of sandstone that stood in their road. Madly they raced for another twenty yards—and stopped!
They had run straight into the arms of two powerful Indians. It had been impossible to see them coming. Dick checked himself so suddenly that he nearly fell. Sandy emitted a startled, agonized shriek, while Toma, unable to stop, plunged ahead, colliding with the foremost of their adversaries and sent him reeling back with crushing force against a rock.
Dick and the second Indian came to grips a moment later. A murderous-looking knife flashed down in a short half-circle, but Sandy seized the hand that held it and clung grimly there until Dick had contrived to tear himself away from the smothering embrace. He was gasping for breath as he drew back. Encumbered with Sandy, the Indian shook himself like a huge mastiff, but Dick’s clinched fist drove forward with telling effect. Seeing their temporary advantage, the boys were away again in a rush, Toma—somewhat dazed by the collision—bringing up the rear.
As they raced farther and farther away from the encampment, hope mounted in their breasts.
“We’ll get away yet,” Dick puffed. “We’ll make it, Sandy. Don’t lose heart.”
They crossed a narrow swale, still running at top speed, and, continuing eastward, came at length to a small meadow which extended to one side of the plateau. The thickening dusk had become darkness. Far behind them they could hear only faintly the noise of the attack. The red glow of the burning cabin had almost subsided. The three boys tumbled in the grass and lay still. Their breath came in choking gasps. Perspiration oozed out from every pore in their bodies.
Pausing only for a short rest, they hurried on again, turning more to the northward. Once or twice Dick or Sandy stopped to listen, fearful lest the two Indians they had encountered might be following them.
“I can’t believe we’ve managed to get away so easily,” Dick declared.
“It doesn’t seem possible,” replied Sandy. “They’ll be sure to follow us.”
They struggled on. It was difficult now to pick their way without stumbling into ruts and slipping over rocks. They had left the meadow behind. On every hand, boulders, stones, tall jagged cliffs surrounded them. Their brisk walk had changed to a mere snail’s pace.
“We no get on very fast,” complained Toma at the end of another half hour. “I think mebbe we made mistake come this way. Take all night to go one, two miles.”
“Let’s turn more to the left,” suggested Dick. “That may lead us out of here.”
Toma’s keen sense of hearing was responsible for their next full stop a few minutes later. Groping out with his two arms he caught Dick by the sleeve and Sandy by the back of his coat. Frantically, he pulled them back.
“I think I hear someone.” His whispered warning was scarcely audible. “Don’t move unless want to die. Somebody come.”
A small stone rattled down the sharp incline immediately ahead of them. A guttural voice broke across the stillness.
“Indians!” breathed Sandy. “Quick!”
With alacrity, the three quaking refugees pivoted about. For a few paces they hurried forward. Another stone rattled down almost at their feet. In dismay, they came to a sudden halt.
“Trapped!” gurgled Dick.
His legs were growing limp under him. Fearfully, his eyes endeavored to pierce the surrounding darkness. Was it illusion, or did he actually see something?
Vague shapes took human form. Dick had barely time to reach out and draw his two companions closer to him, to squeeze Sandy’s hand, and brace himself for the final shock—when the blow fell. One long, piercing, fiendish scream cut the silence. A wild scramble, hideous faces leering out of the dark, the sensation of being pummelled, struck, thrown back; the faint memory of a strangled sob—then complete oblivion!
When he woke to consciousness, Dick was being bounced and jerked about in a most unusual and disconcerting way. He tried to raise his arms above his head, but the effort proved futile. His wrists were bound. Across his chest and around his legs he could feel the pressure of tightly drawn rope. By turning his head slightly and squinting down along the curved surface of the object under him—to which he had been tied—he discovered the cause of his trouble.
He was strapped to a horse. The horse was slipping and sliding over treacherous underfooting, and was one in a long string of similar pack animals. The pack-train was advancing through the uncertain light of early morning, moving very slowly to the accompaniment of hoarse, guttural shouts.
In a sudden flash, the memory of the events of the preceding night came back. Up to a certain point he retained a vivid, clear-cut impression of everything that had passed—the Indian attack at Henderson’s encampment, the flight across the plateau and finally the harrowing experience among the rocks. What had happened afterwards he did not know. Had Sandy and Toma been killed? Why had the Indians taken him prisoner? Where were they going now, and what did they purpose to do with him, when they got there?
But whatever fate lay in store for him—it mattered little. Just then Dick was not particularly concerned with worry over himself. His mental images had taken a gruesome and awful shape. Before his eyes he could see the bruised and lifeless bodies of his two chums—Sandy and Toma. A burning sob escaped him. He turned his head again, gazing up in the gray, shadowy vault of the sky.
With the coming of the morning light Dick saw that the country around no longer possessed the aspect of grim, forbidding desolation. The plateau had been left far behind. They were now winding their way over a beautiful rolling woodland, whose varied scenic effects were pleasing to the eye. At one place the ponies forded a shallow creek and a little farther on skirted the shore of a lovely lake. This lake was narrow and long, sparkling like an emerald in the slanting rays of the morning sun.
And then Dick perceived, with a sigh of relief, the Indian village. Scores of brown tepees nestled among the trees on the north side of the lake. Blue pinions of smoke floated lazily through the still air above the pines.
Dick could scarcely believe that the howling demons of the night before could in any way be associated with this pastoral scene. A drowsy peace lay over the village. Men and women sauntered here and there. Children played in the white belt of sand that sloped gently away toward the lake.
The pack-train turned quickly to the right and threaded its way along a narrow path through the trees and a few minutes later drew up in a cleared space at one end of the village. Their approach had been heralded by an ear-splitting yowling of dogs and the noisy clamor of a small regiment of half-naked children. During the general excitement following their arrival, Dick began to believe that his own existence had been entirely overlooked. Did they intend to leave him strapped to the pony all day? Was it some new brand of torture devised for his particular case?
He was still brooding, when three particularly ferocious-looking warriors drew away from the noisy hubbub and approached. Without a moment’s hesitation, they proceeded to untie the moose-hide thongs and drag him down from his perch. In an incredibly short time, he was lying in the grass at their feet, the cynosure of hundreds of curious eyes.
Dick sat up and rubbed his wrists and ankles. He wriggled his toes. He made an unsuccessful effort to rise. His legs were as numb and useless as those of a paralytic.
Two of the Indians who had released him helped him to his feet and, thus supported, he was taken through the gaping crowd to a tepee nearby. Here he was given food and water, one of the Indians remaining behind to guard him.
“I suppose they’ll keep me confined here for the rest of the day,” thought Dick. “They’re probably holding a council of war right now to decide what’s to be done with me.”
As the hours passed, Dick’s guard sat stoically watching him. There was no expression in the calm, deeply-lined face. Except for an occasional flutter of his eye-lids, one might have thought that the silent, tranquil figure had been carved out of stone.
When the numbness had left his legs, Dick rose to his feet, and, as the inactivity was unendurable, he began pacing back and forth across the narrow, confining space. The exercise succeeded in restoring his sluggish circulation. He felt so much better that he wished he might be permitted to go out and walk along the shore of the lake. The flap of the tepee had been pulled back, revealing an inviting prospect of cool blue water and green trees.
From time to time, visitors came to glance in at the prisoner. Occasionally these were women and children, but more often dark-visaged warriors, clad in moose-hide jackets and trousers that had been beautifully embroidered in some kind of brightly-dyed fiber thread. Dick became greatly absorbed in noting the various designs. There were totem poles, bears, caribou, and animals of all descriptions. One Indian had a picture of the sun emblazoned across his wide chest.
He was occupied on one occasion in admiring a particularly interesting sample of this native handiwork when he was startled by an explosive grunt. When he looked up quickly, it was to meet the gaze of a young Indian, whom he had seen somewhere before. He was probably one of the men who had conducted the pack-train, Dick thought. Then, suddenly, he remembered. An involuntary cry of recognition escaped from his lips. It was the son of the chief—the victim of Baptiste’s brutal attack.
Dick’s heart was beating joyfully as he sprang forward to grasp the outstretched hand.
The young Indian’s first act was to dismiss the guard and wave aside the inquisitive group that had gathered outside the tepee. Then he turned towards Dick, jabbering excitedly, his face wreathed with smiles. He patted the prisoner on the back and laughed uproariously.
His manner indicated plainly his surprise and joy at the unexpected meeting.
“This is a huge joke,” he seemed to be trying to say. “Please don’t worry any more—O fair-skinned stranger. I am the chief’s son. I have unlimited authority. No one shall harm you.”
He went through an amusing pantomime for a few moments, then clutched Dick by the arm and drew him quickly outside, making a sign for him to follow. He led the way to a large tepee, kicked aside the flap and motioned Dick to enter.
The chief, sitting cross-legged just opposite the entrance, was startled into sudden wakefulness by the unexpected interruption. He had, it was quite apparent, been indulging in an early morning nap. His manner was not especially cordial, Dick thought, yet this impression vanished a moment later when, at the conclusion of his son’s brief explanation, he rose with great dignity, crossed over and placed a reassuring hand on Dick’s head.
This ceremony over, the young Indian smiled, took his charge in tow again and they were off—this time to the far end of the village. Tepee after tepee they visited, going through the same monotonous performance. Then Dick received a shock. The last tepee they had entered did not contain the usual swarthy, dignified inmate. The atmosphere was wholly different here. Dick drew back with a startled cry, while a feeling of revulsion swept over him. Baptiste La Lond, a shivering white-faced wreck, sat with his back propped against a small pile of firewood and, close by, snoring as contentedly as if nothing had ever happened, sprawled the huge bulk of Bear Henderson.
“Ah, monsieur,” whimpered the abject, cowering wretch, “so you too haf suffered ze terrible misfortune. Veree soon we die. Zees barbarians haf no heart. Zey thirst for our veree blood. O monsieur, I am stricken. I feel ze so terrible, terrible position.”
“You look it!” Dick growled at him.
Dick felt that he should have been sorry for the unhappy Frenchman, but for various reasons he could not. Sympathy would have been wasted upon him. To a certain extent both Henderson and this cringing outlaw deserved the fate that most assuredly awaited them.
The chief’s son nudged his arm and they had turned away, when Baptiste again broke forth:
“Where ees ze rope?”
“What rope?”
“Why are you not bound, monsieur?”
“They took the rope off,” answered Dick noncommittally.
“An’ your two friends—are zey too without ze rope?”
“I haven’t seen either one of them since the attack. I think they are dead,” Dick choked.
“Et ees not so, monsieur. With my own eyes I see them both. Zey come along on ze same pack-train. Ze leetle fellow cry most ze way like beeg baby. Somewhere, I tell you, zey are here.”
With that startling information ringing in his ears, Dick was led outside. The young Indian scowlingly shook his head and pointed back at the tepee which sheltered the outlaws. Still scowling, he plucked two broad leaves from a weed growing at his feet, squatted on his haunches, placed the two leaves on the ground in front of him and, with a cry of rage, drove his long-bladed hunting knife through each in turn.
It was not difficult to comprehend that sort of sign language, and Dick signified that he understood. Well he knew that it was a mock murder—with Henderson and La Lond as the victims.
Watching his rescuer, suddenly Dick had an inspiration. Might it not be possible to learn the whereabouts of Sandy and Toma through the medium of this sign language. If Baptiste’s statement had been correct, his two chums were imprisoned somewhere in the village. If only he could make the young Indian understand.
With that purpose in view, Dick selected two smaller leaves growing on the same weed. Speaking sharply to his new friend in order to make sure that he had gained his strict attention, he stroked the leaves against his face, coddled them in his hands, brushed them against his lips, and in other ways attempted to show his love for them. That the leaves represented two persons, the Indian knew, of course; but Dick’s efforts apparently had overshot their mark. He had hit the wrong target The chief’s son evidently believed, judging from the sudden savage scowl on his face, that Dick was attempting to make known his friendship for the two outlaws.
Dick pointed to the outlaw’s tent and then at the two leaves he still held in the palm of his hand and shook his head vigorously. The scowl disappeared. With a small twig, he drew in the sand a crude likeness of two tepees. Within one of the tepees he placed the remnants of the leaves which had been mutilated by the Indian’s knife and in the other the two leaves he had himself selected, first being, very careful to wind long blades of grass around each of them. The blades of grass, he hoped, would carry to the Indian’s mind the suggestion he wished to convey—rope wound around the ankles and wrists of his chums.
There followed a few more explanatory gestures—and Dick gazed eagerly across to his benefactor. Had the young Indian grasped the message? The minutes seemed interminable as the two squatted there in the sand.
To Dick’s great disappointment, the chief’s son shook his head as if in doubt. Evidently he knew nothing of Sandy and Toma. However, he rose quickly to his feet and with a grunt to his eager companion hurried away through the trees, returning a few minutes afterward accompanied by three men. As he approached Dick he smiled and gesticulated excitedly.
“Come!” said one of the Indians.
Dick started in surprise.
“You speak English!” he shouted joyfully.
“Come!” solemnly repeated the Indian.
Motioning to Dick, the four struck off sharply to the right. They passed a few tepees, the last at that end of the village, and plunged straight on through a thicket of saskatoon, very much to Dick’s bewilderment. At the opposite side of the thicket a path, evidently used as a pack-trail, threaded its way through a dense growth of underbrush. Where were they taking him? A few hundred yards farther on, Dick stopped short, resolved not to take another step until he had satisfied himself that the party was not leading him astray.
“Where are we going?” he demanded of the Indian who had spoken the one word of English.
There ensued an interval of silence, in which the four Indians stared at Dick in mild disapproval. Then a wild chattering broke forth. They surrounded their dazed and discomfited protege, gesticulating almost savagely. Before their well-intended onslaught Dick shrank back in dismay.
Perceiving the uselessness of such tactics, the chief’s son approached the now thoroughly alarmed young man, smiling affably. He patted Dick’s arm reassuringly and pointed to the trail ahead.
“Come!” he said in a soothing voice, imitating the Indian who spoke English so fluently.