A tiny squeak, of the sort a mouse makes under the heel of an enraged householder, and his mittened hands went straight up. He came forward, bellowing for mercy. Tears of terror welled into his eyes. Never before had Dick seen any person more craven, cowardly-weak and utterly disgusting than he. Somehow, it blunted the edge of his own and Toma’s victory to take a man like that. It was too easy.
Startled at first, the onlookers broke into a roar of laughter. They were quick to grasp the situation. In a trice, the two boys and their prisoner were the pivot around which circled and revolved a jeering, highly-amused crowd.
“They ask ’em me to make ’em talk about how it all happen,” Toma shouted in Dick’s ear.
“Tell them that we’ll explain later,” Dick instructed. “Say that we want something to eat. Tell them——”
He broke off as the milling throng unexpectedly drew back, making a path for a white-haired old man, who carried himself with great dignity.
“Chief,” said Toma.
“You talk to him.”
“What I say?”
“Tell the truth, Toma. Nothing else. Explain to him that this man is a thief, that we followed him here to recover valuable mail and medicine for the sick. I’m sure he’ll believe you. Be honest and straightforward, Toma.”
Dick found it utterly impossible to keep his place at his chum’s side. A forward surge of the inquisitive swept him and his prisoner this way and that, while shoulders bumped shoulders and curious eyes peered into his. He was glad when the interview came to an end and the chief motioned for the crowd to disperse. Toma sought him out, smiling with satisfaction.
“Ever’thing all right, Dick. Chief him know this man for very bad fellow. He say him very glad if you leave him to be punish.”
“Does he belong to this tribe?”
“Yes.”
“I’ve a good notion to do it. It will save us a lot of trouble and worry. By the way, did you remember to tell him about the police boots and revolver?”
“Yes, I tell him that too.”
“What did he say?”
“After while I tell you.”
“Why not now, Toma?”
“You understand bye-’n’-bye. You come with me pretty soon to chief’s tepee.”
“All right. Well, they can have this cowardly sneak if they want him. I’m sure I don’t.”
A little later, escorted by one of the headmen of the village, Dick and Toma arrived at the tepee of the chief. On hands and knees, they crawled through the aperture, over which hung a wide strip of tanned moose-hide, soft as chamois. Bear-skins covered the earth floor within, except in the center space, where a wood fire burned cheerfully. It was warm inside the tepee and clean and tidy. A faint odor of wood smoke mingled with the more pungent and appetizing smell of broiling meat.
Dick’s first impression was that it was pleasant to be there in so warm and comfortable a place; his next, a condition accentuated, no doubt, by the boiling kettle, was a feeling of hunger and weariness. Presently curiosity induced him to examine the interior more closely. Looking about, he perceived several persons of both sexes. One was the white-haired chief, who had interviewed Toma. Behind the chief, at a respectful distance, an aged squaw—probably the chief’s wife, and beyond her an individual of such unusual appearance that Dick’s eyes, resting upon him, remained there as if transfixed.
The man was emaciated, worn almost to a skeleton. From the depths of sunken sockets, burned two feverish eyes. A heavy beard-growth covered, but did not conceal, the deep hollows under the protruding cheek bones.
Dick continued to look at the man for several minutes, conscious of a steadily increasing horror. The person’s forehead was ghastly white, curving up to a matted crop of straw-colored hair. Around the drooping shoulders a blanket was held in place with considerable difficulty by a thin, wasted hand.
Dick was about to turn his gaze toward something less pathetic and terrible, when the effort of holding the blanket in place, proved too much for the unfortunate creature, and it slipped down over one thin shoulder, revealing—to Dick’s unutterable amazement—a crimson, tattered garment, the tunic of the royal mounted police.
Reaching out, Dick seized Toma’s arm, holding it in a vice-like grip.
“May God help him! Is that Rand?”
“Yes,” said Toma, his voice seeming to come from a great distance, “it Corporal Rand. All time, before I come here, I knew that. The chief him tell me all about it. Indian hunter find ’em Corporal Rand two days ago, where he lay down in the snow. Half dead, feet froze, no eat, no rifle—nothing. He get much better after while. Bye-’n’-bye mebbe all right. Get his sense back. Jus’ like crazy man now.”
Dick gulped down a lump in his throat, and hurried to the side of the mounted policeman. Gently, he placed one hand on the corporal’s head.
“Corporal Rand.”
No answer.
“Corporal Rand.”
Still no answer.
“You know me, corporal. This is Dick Kent. Toma is here, too. Look up at me, corporal. Look up! We’re here to help you. Look up!”
Corporal Rand looked up.
“This is Dick Kent,” beseeched that young man. “Don’t you understand—Dick Kent.”
“Of course,” muttered the mounted policeman, and his eyes burned into Dick’s, “I’ll remember that—certainly. Tomorrow, gentlemen, we’ll divide the flour. Two to Bill, two to Thomas, two to me. That’s all there is. You’re welcome, I’m sure. It was my fault entirely.”
Rand paused, mumbling to himself, wholly unaware that a tear had fallen from somewhere above to the thatch of straw-colored hair. His chin dropped forward until it rested on his chest. His eyes closed wearily. For a moment he seemed to doze. But only for a moment—then——
“Provoking, isn’t it?” he made a pathetic attempt at a smile. “I’d begun to fear I’d lost them.”
“Lost what?” gulped Dick.
“Boots,” came the prompt rejoinder, “a pair of boots.”
“Yes! Yes! But what else?”
The answer was disappointing:
“Three fishhooks and a ball of string. I’m very sorry, gentlemen.”
Two courses of action were open to Dick, yet which one to follow, he did not know. They had found Corporal Rand, but just what were they going to do with him? It was a difficult problem to solve, Dick thought. The corporal was in serious plight and required medical attention. It was a fortunate thing that they had found him. It was a fortunate thing, too, that Dr. Brady was in the vicinity and would be able to attend him. But the problem—and it was not easy to decide—was whether to bring Dr. Brady here to the village, or to take Corporal Rand over to the physician, when he and Toma returned that afternoon.
He decided finally in favor of the latter course. They would take Rand with them. Surely if he were wrapped warmly in blankets and placed in the empty sleigh, he could endure the cold, would be safe and comfortable.
Then suddenly he remembered that he needed that sleigh upon his return. That morning he had unloaded it for the purpose of pursuing the Indian thief. Either he must secure another one here at the village, together with a team of huskies, or abandon his plan.
To his great joy and happiness, therefore, upon making inquiry, he and Toma were informed that not only would the chief gladly sell them a team and sleigh, but also would lend them three of his best drivers, men who could absolutely be depended upon to help them on their journey to Keechewan. More than that—an act of generosity, which struck both boys almost dumb with gratitude—he would present them with caribou meat and a goodly supply of frozen fish for the dogs.
In the end, Dick purchased two dog teams and sledges in place of one. They left the village just as the sun slipped down below the rim of the valley and abrupt Arctic night drew on. Across the lonely face of the hills, they speeded on their way. The Northern Lights hissed and cracked above their heads. About them beat the trembling pulse of a vast and impenetrable silence.
It was after midnight when they reached their destination, shouting and happy, storming down upon the row of chilly white tents. Their furious halloos soon brought Sandy and Dr. Brady shivering outside.
“That you, Dick?” called out Sandy’s anxious voice. “Who’s with you?”
“Friends,” came the jubilant answer. “Stir up the fires, Sandy, we’re almost famished. No!—Come over here, you and Dr. Brady. I have a surprise for you.”
“What’s that?”
Sandy and the physician looked down at the sleeping form, then across at Dick and Toma in perplexity.
“Guess.”
“The Indian with the boots. You’ve half-killed him.”
“Wrong. Guess again.”
“One of our former dog drivers—probably Fontaine,” said Dr. Brady.
“No. You’re not right either. I’ll give you one more chance.”
“Look here,” Sandy growled impatiently. “Enough of this. You’re not a child any more. Who is it?”
“The man who owns the boots.”
“The Indian owns the boots,” exclaimed Sandy triumphantly. “I guessed right after all.”
“No, you didn’t. The Indian don’t own the boots. He stole them.”
“Pshaw! I know now,” sudden light dawned upon the young Scotchman. “It’s—it’s a mounted policeman.”
“You’re right. Corporal Rand.”
Breathlessly, Sandy leaned forward over the sledge. A parka concealed the sleeper’s face. Blankets, many thick folds, enwrapped him. None of the features was visible. Yet Sandy had seen enough to convince him that this man was not Rand.
“I don’t see why you should try to deceive me, Dick,” remonstrated Sandy. “That isn’t the corporal at all. Too thin. Don’t attempt to fool me.”
“It is the corporal,” insisted Dick. “But he’s changed a lot. I met him face to face, and at first didn’t even recognize him. He must have had a terrible time. He was picked up two days ago by an Indian hunter, where he’d fallen in the snow. His feet were badly frozen.”
“What did he say to you?”
“Well, not much. You see, Sandy, he didn’t know me. He’s out of his head. I brought him over here so that Dr. Brady can help him. We’ll have to take him along with us.”
“We’d better not disturb him tonight,” Dr. Brady cut in. “I wonder if it will be possible, when you unhitch that team of dogs, to push this sledge inside one of the tents. He might wake up if you attempt to lift him up. In the morning, I’ll make my examination.”
“A good idea,” said Dick, moving forward to unharness the team.
Sandy followed him excitedly and touched his shoulder as he stooped forward. He pointed one arm in the direction of the other sleighs and dog teams, where the forms of men were seen hurrying here and there through the half-light.
“What’s all that?” he demanded. “Two extra teams and more men! I see you’ve recovered the mail sledge. Who are those fellows, Dick?”
“Those,” answered Dick, happily, “are our new drivers. And the teams and sledges I purchased over at the Indian village, where we captured the thief.”
“What Indian village do you mean?”
“It’s up in the hills to the westward, that chain of hills you saw on this side of the Wapiti. They run parallel with the river. We followed the tracks of the thief all the way there, and overtook him just as he pulled up at the village. He’s a renegade member of that tribe and the chief will punish him. He’s the same man who stole Corporal Rand’s boots and revolver.”
Sandy straightened up, glaring about him angrily.
“Too bad we didn’t find that out before.”
“It’s a good thing for that Indian that we didn’t.”
“I think I’d have shot him,” Sandy bristled, “although shooting’s too good for him. He ought to be flayed alive, tortured, the way they used to do.”
Fires were quickly re-kindled, and a lunch prepared. It was nearly two o’clock before everyone finally retired and the camp became hushed in sleep.
On the following morning the sun had already risen, when Toma, the first to awake, crawled wearily from his blankets into the bitter air of forty below and proceeded to arouse his comrades. Immediately there began again the monotonous routine of building fires and preparing breakfast, assembling the dogs, and making ready for the day’s journey. But on this occasion, there was in evidence much more spirit and enthusiasm than at any time during the preceding two weeks. Dick was reminded of the day they had left the Mackenzie. Now and again one might hear the cheery whistle or laugh of one of the drivers. During breakfast, conversation flourished, and, after the meal, there took place a keen rivalry as to who would be the first to harness his team and take his place at the head of the column.
By mutual arrangement, it fell to the lot of Sandy to drive the team which conveyed Corporal Rand. Dr. Brady had completed his examination earlier in the morning.
“It is a pitiable case,” he told the boys. “Rand’s condition was caused by hardships, privations, hunger and exposure. He has a wonderful constitution, or he would never have been able to endure the half of it. I don’t wonder that his mind has become unhinged. Yet, I haven’t the least doubt but he’ll recover his memory and his reasoning powers as his health improves.”
“So you really think he’ll get better?”
“Yes. I don’t believe there is any question about that. But he’ll never be able to take his place again in the ranks of the mounted.”
A deep silence followed this statement. Both Dick’s and Sandy’s face fell.
“What’s that? You really mean that, doctor? Will have to give up his duties—— Won’t——”
Dick left the sentence incompleted as he turned beseechingly to the physician.
“No, he’ll never be able to resume his duties,” Brady answered gravely.
“But why?” argued Sandy. “You just said that he’d recover, would get well again. You said——”
“But I never said that he’d ever walk again,” the doctor reminded him. “His feet—terrible! Frozen, bruised and cut. I may possibly have to amputate them. Even if I don’t, they’ll never be right again. But,” and the doctor looked from one grave face to the other, “we can be mighty thankful that his life has been spared, that with proper care and attention, he’ll soon recover his full mental and physical powers.”
Dick turned his head to hide the tears that had come unbidden to his eyes. Sandy kicked disconsolately into a drift of snow, his gaze searching the ground. Both boys left immediately to take their places within the line of waiting teams and sledges.
“I still insist that we ought to go back and string up that Indian who stole Corporal Rand’s boots,” Sandy declared savagely as he and Dick parted, the former to go to the invalid’s side, the latter to the mail sledge. “The way I feel now, I could gladly tear that sneaking thief limb from limb.”
“Mush! Mush!” The words floated down along the waiting line. “Mush, boys, mush!”
A creaking of sledges, the cracking of whips, a shout here and there—and they were away, an orderly column which, after the first forty or fifty yards, gathered momentum until it had gained its maximum of speed, then settled down to a steady, unchanging pace.
Whatever enjoyment the others might have had at the commencement of that exhilarating ride, it was not shared by Dick. For him the day, which had begun so propitiously, was entirely spoiled. Dr. Brady’s assertion had wrung his heart. Time and time again, he turned his head and glanced back at Sandy’s sledge to the helpless form lying there, and sighed bitterly.
“He may never walk again,” the sentence haunted him. “A pitiable case! He’ll never be able to take his place again in the ranks of the mounted.”
He wondered what Cameron would say when the news had been brought to him. And Sergeant Richardson—what would he say? Rand! One of the noblest, bravest spirits that had ever come into that land of noble and brave spirits. No longer a policeman? That seemed incomprehensible. Rand in civilian clothes? Dick snorted at the mere suggestion. To think of the service at all, was to think of Rand. Rand might have his feet frozen, yea, and his arms too, and his body hopelessly crushed; yet, notwithstanding this, in spirit, in reality, in fact, he would still be a policeman, and nothing else. A mounted policeman. A scarlet-coated, high-booted, undaunted and courageous soul.
He was still brooding over this when they pulled up at the noon hour, hilarious and joyful. They had made a record run that morning, in spite of the late start. Drivers shouted at each other as they stepped from the back of their sledges and dropped their whips. Dick moved automatically, and he, too, dropped his whip. But he did not shout. He did not even smile.
“Hello, Dick.”
“Hello.”
“We made good time, didn’t we?” The voice was that of Dr. Brady.
“I guess we did.”
“Hope this keeps up.”
“Yes.”
“Good gracious, boy,” exclaimed Brady in alarm, “you look—why you look positively ill.”
“I—I guess I’m tired,” said Dick.
“Well, a good sleep for you tonight. I’ll prescribe it. You’ve been worrying too much lately. It isn’t good for you. Yet here I’ve come, blundering ass that I am, to sprinkle a few more gray hairs in your young head.”
“I thrive on responsibility,” Dick smiled a little, “so you’d better trot it out. What’s wrong? Did you lose your medicine case?”
Dr. Brady laughed.
“Sometimes I almost wish that I could lose it. No, this worry isn’t related to so trivial a thing as a mere medicine case. It’s more important than that. I’m not fooling now, Dick. I’m in earnest. I’ve been thinking——”
“And the more you think, the worse you feel,” interrupted Dick, a little bitterly.
“Come now, that’s not very kind of you.”
“I didn’t mean it that way,” Dick flushed. “I was referring to—to—— Oh, hang it all, doctor, I’m all upset about Rand.”
Dr. Brady regarded Dick for a moment thoughtfully. There was, Dick observed, a certain hesitation about his manner.
“Before we left Fort Mackenzie,” the physician began, “your Inspector Cameron called me to his office. He told me about the epidemic. I remember that there was a large map that hung on the wall behind his desk, and to this map he frequently referred. The districts affected by smallpox he had encircled in red ink. All of these were north of the Mackenzie: one straight north, several northwest, but the largest area of all northeast, in a district which he called Keechewan.”
Brady paused to help Dick unharness one of his dogs, then continued:
“The circle on the map which he called Keechewan was, he explained to me, the country most dangerously affected by smallpox and contained the greatest number of people.
“‘This is to be your territory,’ he told me. ‘I’m giving you a most difficult task indeed. Not only will you experience difficulty in reaching your destination, but when you do reach it, you may have trouble with the natives there. There has been an uprising among several of the Indian tribes. Relations between the white people and the Indians are strained. There has been some bloodshed. Your work will not be easy. It is sure to be dangerous, and possibly, doctor, you may never come back.’
“I asked him if anything had been done to relieve the situation. He said that he had sent one of his men, a Corporal Rand, up to that region a few days before to take charge. He was to place the district under police rule.”
Dr. Brady cleared his throat.
“I guess that’s about all, Dick, but you can see what I’m driving at.”
“Yes,” Dick answered, “I think I know what you’re trying to tell me. Corporal Rand never reached his destination. Misfortune overtook him with the result that the uprising at Keechewan has never been put down.”
“Exactly. The district, when we reach it, will not be under police surveillance. We can expect trouble.”
During the trip from Mackenzie River barracks, Dick had learned to admire and respect the genial man whom he was conducting to Keechewan. Never had he occasion to doubt the doctor’s courage. In every emergency, he had not been found wanting. Yet in the present instance he seemed much worried. Was he really afraid? Dick decided to try him out.
“We may be risking our lives by going to Keechewan now,” he said. “Do you realize that, Dr. Brady?”
“Yes, I realize it.”
“I sometimes wonder,” Dick evaded the other’s eyes. “—I sometimes wonder if it is all worth while. Most of them are only Indians. They not only do not appreciate what we’re doing for them, but more than that, they resent and scorn our help. Why not,” Dick’s gaze was fixed on some object on the distant horizon, “leave them to their own devices, let them suffer the consequences?”
If Dick had struck Brady in the face, the good doctor could not have been more surprised. For a moment he actually sputtered.
“Richard Kent! Do you mean that? Do you really mean to say that you contemplate such a thing—would leave those poor devils in the lurch?”
Dick raised one hand and grinned mischievously.
“There, there, doctor! Such a thought hadn’t entered my mind, I assure you.”
“You rascal! So you were trying me out?”
Dick laughed as he turned the dogs loose And straightened up to take Brady’s arm.
“Well, what do you propose to do?”
“That’s just the question I want to ask you.”
“There’s only one thing that I can see: Do our work and Corporal Rand’s too.”
“Yes, that’s what I was thinking, why I came to you just now. I wondered if you had considered the situation.”
“To tell you the truth, I hadn’t. I’ve had so many other things to worry me.”
“We can’t be far from Keechewan mission now,” stated the doctor.
“Only a few more days. Those hills you see over there in the distance must be the divide Inspector Cameron spoke of. From there it is not very far to Keechewan, provided, of course, that we don’t get lost again, that our Indians know the way. We’ll soon enter the barren lands.”
For the time being, the subject was dropped. But Dick did not forget that interview. Often, during the next three or four days, he found himself contemplating the future with worried, thoughtful gaze. He took inventory of his munitions and his provisions. Not counting Corporal Rand, there were eight men in the party, really not a very strong force, yet he comforted himself with the thought that Corporal Rand had gone forth alone to cope with the situation.
One evening, after they had crossed the divide and had pitched their tents on a hill, dark with the shadows of approaching night, a driver drew attention to an unusual phenomenon. Far away, faint, yet plainly discernible, was the glimmering of many tiny lights. These lights blinked and beckoned to them—and a cry of elation went up from every member of the party.
“The mission!” boomed Sandy, throwing his parka high in the air. “Keechewan Mission!”
“Not more than eight miles away,” adjudged Dick.
“More than that,” said Toma.
“We’ll arrive there tomorrow forenoon sometime,” exulted the doctor.
That night, so elated were they, that they could hardly sleep. Dick and Sandy lay awake until a late hour, talking and planning. On the following morning, they rose early to waken the camp. Breakfast was hurried through, and they were on the trail nearly an hour before sunrise.
It was eleven o’clock by Dick’s watch, when they entered the mission village, their eyes feasting on the row of snow-roofed cabins that fronted the winding, narrow street.
Here and there, a face appeared at a window. Now and again, some incurious form opened a door and watched them go by. But no one was abroad on the single narrow street. Had it not been for the sight of smoke, circling upward from mud chimneys, one might have thought that the village was practically deserted. There hovered about it an atmosphere of loneliness. There was something ominous about it, too, something eerie and unnatural. Dick felt somehow as if he were proceeding through a village of the dead. This feeling was accentuated by the sight of many red flags, draped over windows, hanging from doors—mute tokens of a terrible visitation.
It was a mournful little party that drew up in front of the small but picturesque Catholic Church at the far end of the winding street. They stood there as if in doubt and perplexity, looking at each other, no one volunteering to be the first to move or make a suggestion. Finally, Dick called to Dr. Brady and the two strode across to a more or less pretentious two-storey dwelling, immediately beyond the church.
A little man, dressed in the flowing robes of a monk, answered Dick’s timorous knock. The priest started in surprise as he perceived who his visitors were, then his face brightened and, with a friendly gesture, he motioned them within.
“Ah!” he said, a slight but unmistakable catch in his voice. “White men! How do you do. You honor me, monsieurs. May I not bid you welcome?”
“Inspector Cameron of the mounted police sent us here to help you,” explained Dick. “This gentleman here,” indicating Dr. Brady, “is an Edmonton physician. I am Dick Kent.”
The priest nodded understandingly and led the way to a small but nicely furnished room, standing aside as his visitors entered. At one end of the room, a spruce log burned brightly in the mud fireplace. There were several comfortable chairs and a large bookcase, filled with row upon row of books. Near the bookcase was a desk, fitted with drawers, and on its smooth, highly-polished surface were papers, ink, and a small bronze statue of the Christ.
The atmosphere of the room was cheerful and inviting, and Dick and Dr. Brady immediately felt at ease. They took the chairs their host indicated, waiting for him to speak.
“I sent a message to Inspector Cameron,” the priest began fluently, “about six weeks ago. I am glad to see that he is sending help to my stricken people. You, doctor, are especially welcome. We have done all that we possibly can to check the course of the terrible disease, but our efforts, I am sorry to inform you, have not been very successful. Many, many deaths have taken place. The villagers are almost without hope. There are many bereaved, monsieurs, much suffering and,” he hesitated for a brief moment, “much complaining.”
“Inspector Cameron,” said Dr. Brady, “told us about an uprising of some sort. Has the mission been attacked?”
“It has,” the priest nodded. “Twice there has been a general attack, which we repulsed. Since then we have not been left in peace. Skulkers come here at night and attempt to fire our dwellings. One man, a loyal and true friend of mine, was shot down in the street. We live in apprehension. Daily, there is some new outrage to add to the complexity of our other troubles.”
Dick looked across at the grave but patient face.
“We will do all in our power to help you,” he encouraged him. “We will attempt to deal with these skulkers and prevent an uprising. Does most of your trouble come from outside the village?”
“For the most part, yes. There are several Indian tribes in the vicinity. At first we went among them, caring for their sick, but lately we have not been able to do this because of their warlike attitude. On the last occasion one of us went there, Father Levereaux was treated most shamefully, subjected to many indignities, and finally left outside their village. He was hurt and unconscious when we found him. He has now, I am glad to inform you, recovered from his injuries, but I fear that he has contracted smallpox. Last night, when I went to his room, he was very ill.”
“I will attend him,” said Dr. Brady, while Dick rose to his feet.
“There are nine men in our party,” Dick said. “Perhaps there is an empty dwelling somewhere where we can stay.”
“There are several places,” the priest answered, “any one of which I can place at your disposal.”
He, too, arose. “I will lead you there. You must rest after your journey. I can see that you are very tired. I must find you something to eat.”
“No,” objected Dr. Brady, “we must start to work at once.”
“What do you propose to do first?” asked the priest.
“Vaccinate every person in the village. After that I’ll attend to those who already have the disease.”
“Have you plenty of medicines and supplies?”
“Yes.”
The other’s face wreathed in a smile.
“That is wonderful, monsieur. It was very kind of you to come. In my heart I thank the noble Inspector of Police. Praise God, I think we have come to the end of our trouble. I am very happy, monsieurs.”
And tears of gladness slowly trickled down his cheeks.
Dick and his party were billeted a few doors beyond the mission school in two houses, built of logs—warm and comfortable quarters. They found plenty to occupy their attention for the remainder of the day. They assisted Dr. Brady, gathered wood, delivered the mail, and in many other ways made themselves helpful and useful.
The trouble which the priest, Father Bleriot had spoken of—the impending danger of attack, the fear from the Indians in the hostile villages, not far from the mission—did not seem very imminent to them just then. But as night drew on and the villagers locked and bolted their doors and native sentinels commenced to patrol the streets, rifles in hand, the thing began to take on a different aspect.
Nearly every night, so they were informed, some depredation had been committed. A home was broken into and looted, a cabin fired, or a bullet sent crashing through one of the many darkened windows. Every morning the sentries, who seemed powerless to prevent it, reported the night’s happenings to one of the three priests, then went away with sorrowful, wagging heads, only to repeat the same performance twenty-four hours later.
Hearing of these things, the three boys and one of the Indian drivers decided to stay up that night to keep the sentinels company. Dick and the driver took up a position at the south end of the village, while Sandy and Toma patrolled the northern section, in the vicinity of the billet.
The first part of the night, from eight o’clock until midnight, passed without incident. Shortly before one, Dick and an Indian sentry entered the latter’s home for a cup of tea and a bite to eat before resuming their lonely vigil. Scarcely had they seated themselves around the rough board table, when the crash of a rifle brought them to their feet. They stormed outside, looking away in the direction from which the sound had come.
The bright moonlight revealed nothing at first, but presently, less than a block away, they perceived an angry red glare and a black funnel of smoke ascending from one of the cabins.
Outside in the snow were the shivering forms of women and children, while here and there, householders rushed frantically about attempting to put out the blaze. The incendiaries had escaped. It galled Dick to realize that they had crept up right under his nose unobserved. The shot they had heard, he soon learned, had not been fired by the invaders at all, but by one of the occupants of the burning cabin in an effort to bring help.
The cabin was doomed. Efforts to save it proved futile. The native sentry took the women and children in tow and conducted them along the street to the shelter of other cabins. Slowly, resentfully, the, crowd dispersed. The sentry returned, accompanied by Sandy and Toma and the dog driver. Together they repaired to the sentry’s home, where in gloomy silence they drank their delayed cup of tea and ate the hot biscuit their host set before them.
“You fellows’d better go back now,” said Dick finally, rising to his feet. “Nothing else may happen tonight, but it’s wise to be on our guard.”
Sandy grinned as he pushed his empty cup back from the edge of the table.
“I don’t want to rub it in, Dick,” he remarked, “but that was a good joke on you. The cabin that is burning down isn’t more than a block from here. Whoever set fire to it must have slipped right past you. What were you doing, Dick?”
Dick flushed, but did not reply.
“Didn’t you see anyone?” persisted Sandy.
“No. They caught us napping all right. But be mighty sure, Sandy, that they don’t come in on your side before the night’s over. Well, good luck to you. I’ll be along before daybreak.”
Sandy and Toma departed, and again Dick and his two companions took up their lonely patrol. This time, however, at Dick’s suggestion, they separated, each having under his surveillance a certain definite section of the village. Up and down, forth and back, through that cold and stilly night, their moccasined feet beat across the snow.
Then, suddenly, for the second time that night, a shot rang out. There came the sound of crashing glass and a woman’s startled scream.
It had all happened right in Dick’s beat, scarcely fifty yards away. Instantly he was alert and ready. This time instead of rushing away toward the cabin which had been fired on he cut obliquely across the street in the direction the invader would have taken in making his get-away. He fairly flew across the snow, dodged between two low buildings and came out on the farther side, panting for breath.
In the path of moonlight in the cleared space ahead, he saw a fleeting form, and, without even pausing for breath, started forward in swift pursuit.
Dick was a fast runner, as he had proved to his satisfaction many times before. In the present instance, he put all his heart and strength in the race. He exerted every ounce of energy. But if he was fleet of foot, excelling in this particular line of physical endeavor, so was his opponent. Try as he would, Dick seemed unable to gain upon him. Between buildings, across fields, over a narrow footbridge that crossed a brook, then along a trail that threaded its way south from the village, the two forms flew.
After a time Dick began to gain slowly upon his quarry. Foot at a time, he drew closer. He saw the Indian, tall and lithe like himself, cast one worried glance over his shoulder, see that he was being overtaken, then hurl his rifle to the snow, free from which encumbrance, he quickly regained his former advantage.
Somewhat reluctantly, Dick followed suit. He still carried his revolver at his belt. He puffed as he ran. The blood throbbed in his ears. The continued exertion had begun to tell. On and on he raced, slowly shortening the distance that separated them. Thirty yards! Twenty yards! He was only a rod or two behind him now, gaining at every leap. But with every leap his heart felt as if it would burst within his body. Finally, in despair, he had commenced to slacken his pace, when he saw the runner ahead stumble over some obstruction in the path and fall heavily.
When the Indian rose choking to his knees, Dick stood over him, revolver in hand.
“I’ve got you, you human greyhound,” he panted. “You can come back with me now. The race is over.”
The Indian, of course, did not understand a word of English. He rose, brushing the snow from his garments.
“Come back with me, brother of the deer,” ordered Dick in Cree. “Come over on the path here and start back toward the village.”
His captive obeyed. They marched back, puffing like two locomotives, one a little shamefacedly, the other exultantly.
“You run very fast,” said Dick admiringly, as he drove the other on, feeling very magnanimous in his victory.
The other grunted.
“You have feet more swift than a wolf,” Dick went on. “It was unfortunate for you that you fell.”
Again the Indian grunted.
“Why do you come bothering these people?” Dick took a new tack. “They have done nothing to hurt you. They are your friends. Why do you attack them and set fire to their homes and send bullets crashing through their windows?”
For the third time the Indian grunted. Dick gave up. He could learn nothing from this sullen fellow. Very well then, he could go back and cool his heels behind the guarded door of some village dwelling.
They reached the place where Dick had thrown down his gun, and, farther on, he also picked up the weapon belonging to his prisoner. Not long afterward they made their appearance in the village, where they were met by a number of people, including Sandy and Toma.
Ordinarily Sandy would have come forward to compliment Dick upon his achievement, but this time, for some reason, he refrained. And Sandy’s appearance and behavior were strange. He stood and stared at Dick almost dully. Toma’s attitude was equally peculiar and inexplicable.
“Well,” said Dick, “I’ve brought him back.”
No one replied.
“Sandy,” stated Dick, “this is the Indian who fired that shot a while ago. I ran him down. What do you think we’d better do with him?”
“I don’t know,” Sandy muttered, in a voice that might have come from the depths of some subterranean vault. “I don’t know, Dick. This is terrible. What will we do?”
Dick flushed angrily.
“Do,” he snapped out testily, “why we’ll do what we’ve been doing for the last two months—the best we can. What makes Toma stand there like a lump on a log, eyeing me so queerly? What have I done? Why, you all act as if I had committed a crime, instead of bringing this man back to answer for his misdeeds.”
Sandy emerged from his despondency at this unexpected verbal attack, the light of battle in his eyes.
“What have you done?” he demanded sharply. “What have you done? Well, I’ll tell you. You’ve done just what the rest of us have done. Made a fool out of yourself. Permitted yourself to become a dupe—a-sucker.”
“A sucker! See here. I’ve had about enough of this. I——”
But Sandy went inexorably on:
“Father Bleriot and Dr. Brady have been captured.”
“But, Sandy!——” gasped Dick.
“They’ve been captured, I tell you.”
“But look here, Sandy——”
“Keep quiet, will you, and let me finish. Do you know why this Indian fired that shot?”
“No.”
“To draw all the guards to this end of the village so that another attacking party could swoop down from the other side and play general havoc They got Brady and Father Bleriot and two of the Indian servants. No one was there to stop them. They had plenty of time to get away. Toma and I and the other guards came down here, while you were chasing away across country after your friend. Now, I ask you, what are we to do about it?”