“Look here, Toma,” interposed Dick, “three pairs of eyes are better than one.”
Toma scowled. He feigned an angry indifference. “All right. I do what you say. I think you ’fraid mebbe poor Toma get lost.”
Sandy reached up and snapped off the brittle twig from a branch just over his head. He regarded it reflectively.
“Pshaw! Let him have his own way, Dick. If he insists, I don’t mind in the least. I’m going to crawl off this old nag of mine and stretch my legs.”
As if the matter were already settled, Sandy scrambled off his mount and led it over to a thick clump of bushes, which offered better protection from the storm. After a moment’s hesitation, Dick followed his example. The two crouched there while Toma sprang to the ground, tied his horse to a young sapling and then struck off sharply to the right on foot. In a few seconds he became lost to view.
Dick and Sandy brushed away the snow from a small space in front of them and sat down, weary and disheartened. The ponies turned with their backs to the wind. Dick was so sleepy and tired from his long hours of wakefulness that he had scarcely sat down when his head began to nod, and soon after he drowsed off completely. How long he slept he did not know. He was awakened by the hand of his chum, clawing roughly, excitedly at his shoulder. He opened his eyes to look into the startled face of his friend.
“Did you hear it?” gasped Sandy.
Bewildered from sleep, Dick could not imagine what sound Sandy alluded to, when abruptly there came to his ears the faint report of a rifle.
“There it is again!”
The boys jumped to their feet, gazing fearfully out through the storm. They trembled at the thought of what might now have happened. They stood shivering in the teeth of the icy gale, their faces gray with apprehension. After a time, following the first shock, Dick turned to Sandy.
“It frightened me at first,” he confessed. “Thought it was the half-breed. For a moment, I didn’t think about Toma. He probably saw a moose or bear and fired at it.”
Sandy was not so sure. He shook his head doggedly, staring gloomily away in the direction of the river.
“We’d better investigate, Dick,” he trembled. “Even if Toma did see a moose, I doubt very much whether he would have taken a shot at it.”
“The hunting instinct in every Indian is strong,” argued his chum. “Even you or I would have been liable to act the same under similar circumstances.”
Sandy was not convinced. With his moccasined feet he kicked at a drift of freshly fallen snow. Nervously, his hand played with the holster at his belt.
“Perhaps I’m foolish, but I can’t help thinking that something has gone wrong. The sound we just heard, although fainter, was very much like the one we heard this afternoon when Pearly was wounded. Besides, if I remember correctly, Toma has no rifle. All he has in the way of firearms is a small automatic, which could not possibly make as much noise as we heard just now.”
Dick’s face became sober again. He looked at Sandy in alarm.
“But all of us had rifles strapped to our saddles when we set out from Fort Good Faith,” he pointed out.
“You and I—but not Toma! When Toma and I went out on our hunting trip a few days ago, he broke the trigger-spring on his gun, and yesterday, when we returned, he left it at the Indian village to be repaired. When you wakened us last night, I had my rifle in my room. Toma had none. I know I’m right about this, Dick.”
It was the other’s turn to become alarmed. With an excited exclamation he stepped forward, and with fumbling fingers began to remove his own rifle from the saddle. Sandy followed suit. Without further preliminary, they hurried to the rescue.
Shoulders hunched, faces wet with melting snow, they darted forward through the underbrush. Dick’s heart was beating miserably at the thought of this new danger. Had Toma also been waylaid—probably murdered? Desperately, he stared ahead, expecting momentarily to find the crumpled figure of the young guide lying in the snow. They progressed farther and farther away from the trail. Sandy’s breath came in choking gasps.
“Toma! Toma!” he kept repeating.
Presently their hopes mounted. Thus far they had found nothing. Perhaps the young Indian was still alive. Perhaps in some miraculous way he had escaped the half-breed’s death-dealing bullets.
Through the blinding snow-mist directly ahead, they made out the vague outline of Settlement House River. Toma’s tracks had become obliterated here. They had emerged upon an open space across which the wind had full sweep. They would be unable now to track Toma down. If they found him at all, it would be through some lucky chance, rather than through any direct effort on their part. Fifty yards ahead, standing like a huge sentinel, guarding the descent to the river, the boys discerned a large jack-pine.
Toward it they made their way, reached it after a short interval, and glanced down along the slope expectantly. But there was no sign of anyone. The storm now had reached its height. Snow and sleet lashed across the earth. Trees bent their heads before the furious blast. Both Dick and Sandy had seen many blizzards, but never such a one as this.
Sandy took Dick’s arm and shouted above the roar of the storm.
“No use in standing here, Dick. We may miss Toma altogether. If he’s alive, he’s probably back to the trail by this time. Come on! Let’s hurry over there ourselves.”
With a last look along the slope, Dick was about to turn, when he saw the dim outline of something just ahead. Straining his eyes, one hand shielding his face from the driving snow, he made out, at length, what was unmistakably the figure of a man. Could it be Toma? The man was afoot. Quickly, Dick started back, overcome by sudden fear. It was the half-breed—and he carried a rifle!
Springing forward down the slope, Dick pulled Sandy after him. Just ahead, a thick screen of bushes—now weighted down with snow—would hide them from view. Yet here it would still be possible to watch the movements of the figure proceeding toward them on the level ground above the slope.
Sandy removed his parka and glared back toward the spot Dick had indicated.
“The half-breed!” he whispered hoarsely. “The same man who shot Constable Pearly. What do you suppose has happened to Toma?”
Rifle in hand, the half-breed came on, looking furtively to the right and left. He seemed oblivious to the storm. In a few moments he had approached to within fifty feet of the place where the boys lay concealed.
Instinctively, Dick and Sandy reached for their revolvers. But before they could be drawn from their holsters, the half-breed accomplished an incredible and surprising movement. His head went back with a jerk—so suddenly that he nearly lost his balance. For a moment he stood stock still, then leaped for the protecting trunk of a poplar. Above the roaring of the wind and storm, the boys heard distinctly the sound of a muffled report.
The boys rose to their feet with a cry of joy. Well they knew the meaning of the half-breed’s actions and the sound they had heard. Toma was still alive! Not only that—he was carrying on a sort of running fight with the outlaw. Sandy flourished his own gun, and, had Dick not prevented it, would have fired point-blank at the figure, which, though sheltered from Toma’s fire by the poplar, offered a splendid target for the boys.
“Here, Sandy!” remonstrated Dick. “Don’t do that. Stop!”
“I haven’t forgotten Constable Pearly,” Sandy retorted angrily. “The fellow deserves it.”
“Possibly he does. But it’s not your place to retaliate. Toma is well able to look after himself. If I’m not mistaken the outlaw will be ready and willing to take to his heels before long.”
“But Toma may be wounded,” argued Sandy.
“I doubt it. If he is, it’s only slightly. Our best plan is to stay here and await developments.”
A few more shots from Toma’s automatic drove the half-breed from his inadequate barricade. The stocky figure suddenly lurched backward, one hand grasping his arm. His rifle dropped to the ground. For a split-second his face was distorted with pain. Then, turning swiftly, he retrieved his weapon and sped toward the slope, gaining its shelter without sustaining further injury. The boys watched him as he scrambled down through the trees and underbrush in the direction of the river.
“Come on, Dick!” Sandy shouted excitedly. “We’ll go over and see Toma. That’s what I call marksmanship!”
“You’re taking a chance if you do. In this storm Toma wouldn’t be able to tell whether it was you or the half-breed. Good way to commit suicide.”
“Guess I won’t take a chance,” grinned Sandy. “But how are we going to join him?”
“I think we’d better slip along the slope for a few hundred yards, then circle back to the trail where the ponies are,” was Dick’s suggestion.
The two friends proceeded to put this plan into execution. In high spirits again, now that they knew that the guide was safe, they hurried along, and in less than twenty minutes were back at the same place they had left but a short time before. They had scarcely taken up their former position beside the ponies, when a sharp crackling in the underbrush close at hand, told them that Toma had returned. He sauntered up as if nothing had happened, his face as inscrutable and expressionless as ever.
Secretly, Sandy poked Dick in the ribs. Then he turned upon the newcomer scowling.
“Where have you been all this time?” he demanded hotly. “Did it take you nearly an hour to walk over to the river? We’ve been sitting here so long that we’re nearly frozen.”
Toma offered no explanation. He strode over and pulled the blanket from his pony.
“Mebbe we find bend little farther on. Me no think it very far now.”
Dick and Sandy winked at each other as they got once more into the saddle and followed Toma along the drifting trail. For a time they rode on in silence, once more conscious of the fury of the storm. Abruptly, the trail swung to the south and very soon they could see the broken, snow-covered valley of the river—so close that it seemed as if the trail ran into it. Here was the bend at last!
Dick recalled that Corporal Rand had instructed him to descend to the floor of the valley and make camp close to the river. They proceeded to do this, first dismounting and leading the ponies after them.
A short time later they had gained their objective. The ground was level here, densely overgrown with trees and shrubs. The river had not yet frozen over. Slush ice choked the current, making a grinding, roaring sound as it floated swiftly past. Here and there on the sandbars, large piles of ice and driftwood had been shoved ashore. In another twenty-four hours, with the steadily falling temperature, the stream would be frozen over, although it would be many days before it would be safe to cross on foot.
As he gathered driftwood for the fire, Dick’s gaze returned again and again to the ice-choked current. A thought suddenly came to him. Sergeant Richardson and Corporal Rand were to meet them here at nightfall. The two were travelling westward, and it would be necessary for them to cross the river here before they could go on to the cabin of the outlaws at Settlement Mountain.
Would they be able to do it? He looked out again across the grinding, grating field of ice and slowly shook his head. It was a feat he had no desire to attempt himself. It seemed foolhardy even to think of it. Not only would a raft be in imminent danger of being broken to pieces by the drifting chunks of ice in the whirling current, but there was also the possibility of its occupants being shaken or thrown precipitately into the river.
He consulted his watch. It was now nearly four o’clock. The short afternoon would soon be terminated by the approach of darkness. Night would descend, and he shuddered to think of any attempt on the part of the police party to cross.
When the flames from their campfire had commenced to leap up, radiating warmth and comfort in a wide circle around them, he broached the subject to Sandy and Toma.
“I don’t see how they’ll ever manage to get over. It’s getting late now. By the time they’ve built a raft, it will be so dark that it will be out of the question to think of crossing.”
“Mebbe him Corporal Rand know about raft somewhere on other side of river,” said Toma.
“He never mentioned it to me.”
Sandy, who had been sitting on the end of a fallen tree, gazing thoughtfully into the fire, looked up with a smile.
“You can trust Rand and Richardson to do the impossible,” he pointed out. “I’d like to lay you a wager that if they reach the opposite side of the river tonight, they’ll manage somehow to find a way to get across. Perhaps they’ll come floating over on one of those huge cakes of ice.”
“I won’t take your bet, Sandy,” Dick laughed. “Just the same I’d hate to be in their shoes.”
Toma rose and walked down to the edge of the river, returning a moment later with water for tea. Huddled around the blaze, they ate from the supplies that had been purchased at Wandley’s post. Darkness was quickly descending. As is frequently the case in the North, the wind subsided as night approached; but the snow continued to fall. If possible, it came down thicker than ever. About them was one all-enveloping mantle of white. Even the trees and underbrush bent under the weight of their snowy burden.
The three ponies, warmly blanketed, each one tied to a long picket-rope, pawed away the snow in order to browse at the dead grass and moss underneath. Dick felt sorry for the little beasts, almost wishing that he had left them with Constable Pearly’s horse at Wandley’s. While he was watching them, Toma broke forth abruptly:
“Did you hear that?”
The three rose swiftly to their feet and rushed down to the shore of the river. Again came the sound—a faint halloo which trembled across the valley. The boys cupped their hands to their mouths and sent back an answering shout.
“The police party! What did I tell you, Dick? They’ll make it yet!”
As he spoke, Sandy reached out and slapped Dick excitedly on the shoulder.
Swinging their arms against their bodies, and walking up and down along the river bank, from time to time the boys shouted out words of encouragement. Time dragged monotonously. Hours seemed to have passed before they heard again from the mounted policemen.
Faintly at first, then louder as it approached, they heard the scraping of the raft. Human voices sounded eerily out of the gloom. A thrill of excitement coursed along Dick’s spine. The suspense was nerve-breaking. He had become almost as limp as a rag, when finally he discerned a dark shape ahead and the raft pushed in closer to shore. A few minutes later, using the long poles which had served them so well in crossing, Sergeant Richardson and Corporal Rand vaulted across the intervening space separating them from the beach.
It was a happy re-union. The three boys had not seen Sergeant Richardson for months. They wrung the policeman’s hand, then escorted him and his companion back to the campfire.
“Where’s Pearly?” demanded Corporal Rand, looking about him.
“Wounded,” replied Dick. “We’ve had a terrible time, corporal. Murky Nichols followed us to Wandley’s post, where he conferred with La Qua. La Qua went on to Settlement Mountain alone, first sending ahead the two half-breeds who were with him. While Pearly and the three of us were journeying along the trail on the way here, Pearly was shot down from ambush. We were compelled to take him back to Wandley’s. The man who shot him was the same person you arrested yesterday—the one who attempted to stab Nichols. He’s in this vicinity right now. Less than two hours ago, when Toma was reconnoitering in an effort to find this place, he fired at him several times. Toma managed to escape injury and made things so hot for him that he was compelled to seek shelter along the slope of the river.”
The young guide’s eyes had widened perceptibly and he stared unbelievingly at his chum.
“How you find out about that?” he blurted.
Sergeant Richardson ignored the interruption.
“Did Murky Nichols see you when you left Fort Good Faith?”
Dick flushed under the searching scrutiny.
“I don’t think he saw us, but he found out about our departure right after we left.” Then Dick turned to Corporal Rand. “It wasn’t altogether my fault, corporal. In less than ten minutes after you went out of my room, the door opened and Murky Nichols came in. He seemed suspicious and asked me what I was doing up at that hour. I pleaded a toothache and was finally forced to ask him to leave. He took up a position in the hall outside. It was easy to see that he did not believe my story and intended to watch me. I was compelled to slip out of the window and go around and wake Sandy and Toma. We were very quiet and I do not believe that he had any intimation of the trick we had played upon him until an hour or two after we’d gone.”
Neither Richardson nor Rand had anything to say. Dick felt that their silence was in itself condemnatory.
“I did the very best I could.” His voice shook a little. “Corporal Rand, I endeavored to follow out your instructions. If I have spoiled your plan, I’m sorry.”
Dick turned his head to hide the tears which had suddenly welled into his eyes. Then he felt a strong comforting hand on his shoulder.
“Forget it, Dick. It’s not your fault,” Corporal Rand declared consolingly.
“You have all done remarkably well,” Sergeant Richardson congratulated them. “I’m proud of you. In the person of Murky Nichols we have one of the cleverest, shrewdest outlaws in this North country. He was your opponent today. You must remember that. He’s not very easily outwitted.”
“How badly is Pearly wounded?” asked Rand.
“Quite seriously, I think,” Sandy answered. “He was unconscious and lost a good deal of blood before we could get him back to the post. Wandley is doing all that is possible for him.”
“Are you going to push on to Settlement Mountain tonight?” Dick inquired, addressing Sergeant Richardson. “Or do you think that no attempt will be made to start for the pass?”
“It’s hard to say. Personally, I’m inclined to believe that they will.”
“But this storm!” gasped Sandy.
“I doubt if that will make a great deal of difference. I’m convinced now that they have a huge cache in their cabin at Settlement Mountain. They’ll be compelled to do one of two things—either remove their fur to another place of safety, or follow their original plan to take it through Blind Man’s Pass. They’ll be forced to act quickly. They’re in a difficult predicament and know it. From what you have already told me, it is easy to see what has happened.”
The others were hanging upon the sergeant’s words. He had ceased speaking for a moment and had stepped closer to the fire, his handsome upright figure outlined clearly against the background beyond. Corporal Rand addressed his superior:
“Exactly what do you mean, sergeant?”
“It is all clear enough,” Richardson spoke again. “Nichols’ suspicions have become aroused. When he found out that you three boys had left Fort Good Faith and had started north for Wandley’s, he surmised at once what was afoot. Arriving at Wandley’s and finding Pearly there, very naturally still further alarmed him. Fortunately for him, his confederate, La Qua, had not yet gone on to Settlement Mountain.
“Now put yourself in his place,” he went on after a short pause. “What was to be done? A cache of stolen fur worth thousands of dollars in a cabin only a few miles away awaiting shipment—and the police aware of this fact! He would suppose naturally that Pearly intended to go immediately to seize the cache. In desperation, he ordered La Qua to send the two half-breeds ahead with instructions to ambush the police party. La Qua himself hurried on to Settlement Mountain.”
“Your theory seems reasonable enough,” said Corporal Rand. “But now that the outlaws know that Pearly is out of the way, do you suppose that they will do anything tonight?”
“La Qua doesn’t know this. Even if he did, it would be folly on his part to take chances. Something must be done with the cache at once.”
“So you really intend to start?” asked Sandy.
“Yes. Right away. Neither the corporal nor myself have had anything to eat since this noon, but we dare not stop now.”
Toma, who had gone out to gather brush for the fire, suddenly darted back within the circle of light, a startled cry on his lips.
“Quick!” he faltered. “Get to cover! I jus’ see ’em someone!”
Toma’s warning came in the nick of time. Motioning to the boys to drop back away from the campfire, Sergeant Richardson and Corporal Rand struck off hurriedly. With Sandy at his side, Dick found himself a moment later stumbling through snow more than ankle-deep. They could hear the sound of hurrying forms, a sharp word of command—then silence! They brought up before a willow copse, thick and almost impassable. Here they crouched low, waiting developments.
“It must be the half-breed again,” Dick whispered hoarsely. “It’s a good thing we scattered when we did. Anyone near the campfire would make a splendid target.”
He turned and looked back toward the place they had just vacated. A bright glare of firelight cast its reflection through a wide circle of pitchy darkness, producing an eerie effect. The trees looked stark and gaunt at the outer fringe of the circle. The place, which a few moments before had been alive with the human forms of his companions, was now totally deserted.
They waited breathlessly. The commotion, following Toma’s announcement, had died away. Deep and forbidding seemed the solitude of the forest. Dick wondered what had become of the two policemen and Toma. He half expected to hear the disconcerting crack of a revolver. The minutes passed slowly. The snow fell softly now—huge white flakes floating through the air like particles of fluff. Sandy stamped his feet impatiently, then pulled his parka farther down so that it muffled his face.
“If it isn’t one thing, it’s another,” he lamented. “If that half-breed has come back to bother us, he may get more than he has bargained for.”
Dick looked up sharply. A sudden tramping of feet and the crackling of underbrush, warned him of someone’s approach. For a split-second his heart caught with excitement. Was the half-breed himself coming their way? Then his mouth gaped open in amazement. Within the circle of light there appeared abruptly three forms, two of which the boys quickly recognized—Richardson and Rand. They half-carried, half-dragged between them a struggling protesting creature—none other than the half-breed himself!
The boys hurried forward. As they came up to where the policemen and their prisoner stood, they observed that the half-breed’s wrists had been manacled. Over his prominent cheekbone, close to his left eye, was a large welt he had received in his encounter with the guardians of the law. Corporal Rand’s uniform was slightly dishevelled. A button had been torn from his coat. He was bleeding from a cut on one cheek.
“Here’s one of Murky’s friends that won’t give us so much trouble in the future,” Sergeant Richardson stated evenly.
“He’ll not be released this time either,” the corporal said with conviction.
“How did you manage to capture him so quickly?” Sandy inquired wonderingly.
“I kept him occupied,” the sergeant replied, “while Corporal Rand stole up on him from behind. Rand got him after a short struggle.”
“We’ll have to take him along with us, I suppose,” said Dick.
“It can’t be helped,” Rand answered. “Hadn’t we better start, sergeant?”
Richardson brushed the snow from his fur jacket.
“Yes. At once. Dick,” he instructed, “you can saddle your ponies right away. We’ll use them in breaking trail.”
The boys offered the two policemen the use of their mounts but the offer was rejected.
“You’ll be tired enough as it is,” Corporal Rand pointed out. “Dick here hasn’t had a wink of sleep in the past twenty-four hours.”
The party set out shortly afterward, moving quickly through the darkness. They reached the Settlement River trail without mishap. Not a word was spoken. Silently they trekked on. In spite of the importance of their undertaking, the travelling had become so monotonous that Dick nodded in the saddle. The crunch, crunch, crunch of the ponies’ hoofs was slowly lulling him to sleep. Had his horse not stumbled occasionally over some obstruction in the trail, it is probable he might have fallen from his seat. On one of these occasions, shaken back to consciousness when on the verge of dropping off into sound sleep, he heard the voice of Sergeant Richardson.
“Just a moment, boys, until I get my bearings.”
They checked their forward progress at once. Instructing Sandy to look after the prisoner, the two policemen came up to the head of the column, conversing in low tones.
“We leave the trail here somewhere,” Richardson announced. “There used to be a tiny foot-path that wound away through the trees to our left. This is the one the outlaws must use in going to and from Settlement Mountain.”
“Like hunting for a needle in a haystack,” Dick heard Rand remark. “Have you a flashlight, sergeant?”
A faint flicker of light appeared and the two men started up the trail, their eyes searching the ground. Dick would have pushed on after them but Toma, who was in the lead, restrained him.
“They want us to stay here,” he whispered. “Come back jus’ so soon find ’em pack-trail.”
The curious eyes of the boys followed the retreating figures. Now and again, like a large fire-fly, the small electric torch flashed out. It appeared, disappeared, re-appeared, lending reality to the illusion.
How long they watched there, Dick could not say. He was nodding again when the two returned.
“We found it,” said Sergeant Richardson. “Follow us. Sandy, keep a good watch of the prisoner.” The party came to a halt again at the juncture of the two trails. The one which threaded its way on their left, led more or less directly to Settlement Mountain.
They were now only a mile from their objective. A thrill of suppressed excitement permeated each member of the party. Dick shook off his drowsiness and now sat alert, every sense keyed to the highest pitch. The policemen continued in the lead, walking forward at a brisk rate. Toma half-swung in the saddle and asked Dick in a subdued whisper:
“You think we find ’em outlaws pretty soon?”
Dick answered hesitatingly: “Yes, I think so, Toma. It isn’t very far now. Too bad you haven’t your rifle.”
A sudden commotion behind drew their attention. Sandy cried out in a tremulous voice as he slid from the saddle. A moment later he was rushing wildly away through the darkness. The snapping of dry branches, the crackling of underbrush was succeeded by a weird, unearthly shout.
“The prisoner has escaped!” Dick exclaimed breathlessly.
Guided by the sound at the side of the trail, Dick bounded forward to Sandy’s assistance. In his excitement, he ran straight into a small sapling with a force that shook the breath from his body. Dazed, he struck forward again, tearing his face and hands in a thicket of saskatoon. Desperately, he struggled on.
Faintly outlined in the gloom ahead, he saw two struggling forms. He drove straight toward them, striking Sandy’s opponent with a jarring impact. The three went to the ground in a squirming heap. The half-breed, who was fighting for his life, struck out with arms and legs like a madman. As Dick’s unguarded left arm swung across his adversary’s face, the outlaw sank his teeth into it, hanging there very much after the manner of a bull dog.
A blow in the pit of Sandy’s stomach had put that young man temporarily out of commission. He lay groaning a few feet away. It was this sound—more than the excruciating pain he suffered himself—that finally induced Dick to shake his arm free and scramble dizzily to his knees. But he got no further. The half-breed’s manacled wrists brought down with all the strength and force of which he was capable, transferred the temporary advantage. Dick sat down with a grunt, many brilliant, multi-colored lights popping before his eyes.
The outlaw pushed himself back, turned on his side and rose hastily to his feet. He had gone only a few yards, however, when Dick, somewhat recovered from the effects of the blow, sprang up in hot pursuit. The race was of short duration. A few moments later, Dick had seized the stocky runner by the nape of the neck and had jerked him to a sudden halt.
“Guess you’ll be ready to go back now,” gritted Dick. “Any more of your funny tricks and I won’t be responsible for what happens. Come on, now—get going!”
Sandy joined them a moment later. With the prisoner between them, they soon reached the trail. Toma and the two policemen came hurrying up.
“So he didn’t get away after all!” Sergeant Richardson exclaimed thankfully. “I’m mighty glad of that. But it’s my own fault. I should have known better than to give him this chance.”
“Either one of you hurt?” Rand inquired anxiously.
“No,” Dick replied. “We were shaken up a bit—all of us. But we’re ready to go on now.”
“Corporal Rand will take charge of the prisoner,” Richardson instructed. “I’ll lead the way alone.”
They pushed on again, following closely and silently the tall figure of the police sergeant. Without incident, they travelled another quarter of a mile. Each minute was bringing them closer and closer to the outlaws’ encampment. Unknown dangers lay ahead. Dick’s heart beat quickly at the thought of what might presently transpire.
A short time afterward Richardson called a halt. He hurried back to confer with Corporal Rand. Then he came forward to where Dick sat and announced briefly:
“Settlement Mountain just ahead. Two hundred yards from the outlaws’ cabin. Dismount quickly, tie your horses somewhere near here in the underbrush. Then come back for further orders.”
The three boys complied hastily. When they returned, the sergeant spoke again:
“Corporal Rand and I are going forward to investigate. We’ll leave the prisoner here with you. Under no circumstances are any of you to follow us. Remain here. We’ll be back as soon as possible.”
Another long wait. The boys stared out fearfully through the darkness. Their pulses pounded with excitement. Impatiently, they paced back and forth, scarcely able to endure the suspense. When finally they heard footsteps approaching, they breathed relievedly.
It was Corporal Rand. He too was excited. When he spoke, his voice was husky with some deep emotion.
“Richardson’s gone!” he panted.
It was a verbal thunderbolt. The boys jumped.
“What’s that?” Dick and Sandy gasped out in unison.
“Gone, I tell you!” Rand whispered hoarsely. “Gone as completely as if the earth had swallowed him up. I think they’ve got him. We were walking along—the sergeant about thirty feet in advance of me—when the thing happened.”
It seemed incredible. A feeling of horror swept over Dick, while Sandy stood, shaking like a leaf. A poignant, miserable silence ensued.
“But—but di—did you look for him?” stammered Dick.
“Yes. I looked everywhere. In the darkness, I could see nothing. I dare not call out for fear the outlaws might be close at hand. Richardson probably walked straight into the arms of one of La Qua’s sentries, was struck over the head and then dumped bodily into some thicket. It was a good thing for me that Richardson had the flashlight. I think I would have been tempted to use it.”
“Good heavens! What are we going to do?”
Sandy had recovered the use of his vocal organs and now poured out his plaint—a sort of wail that rang softly through the forest’s stillness.
“First Pearly and now Richardson!” groaned Dick.
“There! There!” Rand attempted to comfort them. “It’s a hard blow, I’ll admit, but we’ll contrive to get out of this scrape somehow. You boys will have to help me. I must rely on you. I can’t very well go on with this thing alone. Are you with me?”
“We are!” Dick and Sandy sang out in chorus.
“And you, Toma?”
“You bet! Fight ’em all same like mad wolf.”
“That’s the spirit. The first thing to do is to find out what has become of Richardson.”
The five minutes which passed before Rand spoke again seemed like an eternity to the three young adventurers.
“Sandy will stay here with the prisoner and the ponies. If he attempts another break for liberty, shoot him on the spot.”
The trembling young Scotchman made no reply.
“Did you hear me, Sandy?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You’ll do as I say?”
“Yes, sir.”
“All right. Now—with regard to my plan: With the exception of Toma, we’re all heavily armed. Toma, you will take the half-breed’s rifle. The three of us will set out at once for the outlaws’ cabin, which is situated about two hundred yards straight ahead of us. Toma will circle around to the left, Dick to the right, while I will proceed directly along this trail to the place where Richardson disappeared. Neither one of you will fire a shot unless cornered—or in self-defense. What I want to do first of all is to try to find Richardson. If he hasn’t been taken to the cabin, he won’t be very far from the place I saw him last. Naturally, he’ll be heavily guarded. In some way we must secure his release.”
Rand ceased speaking. An unearthly hush had settled around them. Dick was shaking as if from the ague. Terror gripped him. Thankful he was that the darkness shadowed his face. He realized that his cheeks must be ghastly white. In spite of the cold, drops of moisture had gathered on his forehead. He seemed to be burning up. Like Sandy, he had temporarily lost the use of his tongue.
“Any questions to ask?” tersed Rand.
“N-n—no,” Dick heard himself stammering.
“Very well then, we’ll start. Remember—no shooting unless it is absolutely necessary.”
They separated forthwith. Almost immediately Dick was on his way. He moved cautiously and very slowly. His terror, the choking fear of a few moments ago, had gone. It was relief to move his limbs. He had become himself once more, determined to give the very best he had—to meet danger calmly.
Off to his left he saw the twinkling lights of the cabin. He was getting closer now; he must be still more careful, more deliberate in his movements. Perhaps the faintest sound would betray him.
Haunting the deepest shadows, he stole furtively along, treading softly through the snow—crouching here—hurrying forward there; in one place, that seemed more exposed to view, creeping forward on hands and knees.
He brought up suddenly, so startled that he nearly emitted a shriek. He stood perfectly still, his breath catching in his throat. Straight ahead, scarcely ten feet away, he saw the silhouette of one of La Qua’s sentries. The man was alone, a rifle slung carelessly over the crook of his left arm. He paced silently back and forth, occasionally turning his head in the direction of the cabin.
After a moment’s deliberation, Dick decided to steal past the sentry. At all cost, he must go on to the cabin. Inch at a time, he wormed his way ahead, contriving to keep a screen of underbrush between him and his enemy. Once the sharp crackling of a twig caused his heart to leap in apprehension. His hands shook. His breath seemed to burn in his throat. Instinct told him to turn precipitously and take to his heels. With difficulty was he able to steel himself for the ordeal. He was so close to the sentry now that he actually believed he could hear the man’s deep breathing.
For one tense moment he waited, shrinking back in the shadows, not daring to move. The sentry had turned his head and was looking straight in his direction. Dick thought that he could see the other’s eyes, shining like those of a cat in the darkness. Then abruptly his heart almost stopped beating. For the first time he became aware of another presence. He perceived now the reason why he had not previously seen the second outlaw. This person, short in stature—unmistakably an Indian—had stood with his back against a large spruce, seeming to form a part of the trunk of the tree. But he had stepped forward now, his body limned in the half-light, and had stolen over to the right, disappearing behind the thicket in which Dick himself stood concealed.
Dick was fully conscious of the peril of his position. The Indian was probably stalking him, as a tiger stalks its prey. Not a moment was to be lost. He placed one foot gingerly in front of him and started away, quickening his pace after he had placed a few yards between himself and the sentry. A very much frightened and trembling young man moved out to the edge of the clearing which encircled the cabin.
What ought he to do now?
He could hear voices now and the hurried trampling of feet. Once a husky howled. From the open door of another building—evidently a stable—there flickered the light of several lanterns. The stable, about fifty yards on the north side of the house, was the center of unusual activity. Here men called to each other in guttural Cree amid the confusion of barking dogs and the nickering of ponies. Back and forth between the stable and the cabin the outlaws continually hurried. Dick knew what it all meant. La Qua was preparing for his departure, to take with him the cache of stolen fur.
As he stood watching and waiting, a daring plan leaped into his mind. His breath caught at the very thought of it—to walk boldly up and mingle with the outlaws. They, in the general excitement and confusion, would probably let him pass unnoticed. As long as he kept away from the tell-tale lights of the lanterns or the lamps in the cabin, he would probably be safe enough.
At any rate, he decided to do it. Thoughts of Sergeant Richardson spurred him on. No effort or sacrifice would be too great. It was little enough to do for the man who had befriended him on so many previous occasions.
He walked boldly forth, swung in behind a tall figure hurrying toward the stable. Half way there, he stopped, glancing furtively about. He tip-toed over to the window on the side of the cabin opposite the door and looked within.
For a moment his breath caught. He was both startled and amazed at what he saw. The room, near the far end, was stacked with bales of fur reaching to a height of nearly five feet. Thousands of dollars were represented here. Wonderful black and cross-fox pelts! Rich-looking, unplucked beaver! Lynx, marten, mink—even the glistening coat of bruin himself, the least valuable of all. There were furs so valuable, so precious, that a single bale would have been more than sufficient to purchase a king’s ransom.
A steady file of men entered and departed. Each carried away a heavy burden. Standing over them, La Qua threatened and gesticulated fearful lest a moment might be wasted. It was evident that the outlaw was thoroughly frightened and intended to rush through the work as quickly as possible.