Rand made his decision promptly. “We might as well stay here. They’ll have to come sooner or later. All we can do now is to wait.”
Considerably cheered, the three walked out of the building and made their way over to the landing wharf. As they stood there, a disconcerting thought occurred to Dick.
“The outlaws will be sure to see our tracks around the warehouse when they come with the fur,” he pointed out.
“Don’t worry about that,” said Rand. “They don’t know yet that they’ve been followed by the police. I doubt if they have a single suspicion. However, when we go back, we’d better repair the damage to the lock and door.”
Standing there, Dick half-expected to see at any moment a vessel round the heavily wooded point and come steaming toward them. He thought about the boat from Seattle. Wouldn’t it be great sport if the ship would arrive ahead of its schedule? If this happened, would they drop anchor in the deep waters of the inlet and wait for the coming of the outlaws? What action would Rand take? Would he attempt to capture the vessel, or would he fall back out of sight to lay in concealment until the arrival of the pack-train?
The first light of oncoming dawn struck Dick’s eyes on the following morning when he peeped out from between his Hudson’s Bay blankets. It was really still too early to get up and it provoked him to find that he had awakened so soon. Neither Toma nor the corporal would be astir for another two hours. What had aroused him? He sat up impatiently, tucked the blankets around his feet. Then he heard a voice:
“What a fool I am. I must be suffering from a mental relapse. What is the matter with me? A blind bat! A nincompoop! Honestly, I need a guardian.”
The assertions were made with such deliberateness, with such sincerity, that Dick grinned in spite of himself. He turned his head quickly in the direction of Rand’s bed and discovered that person sitting up like himself, and staring moodily out through the thick obstruction of trees. Rand’s back was towards him. Apparently, the policeman believed that his remarks had fallen upon heedless ears. Naturally he supposed that the boys still slept.
“What’s wrong, corporal?” pleasantly inquired the eavesdropper.
Rand started and half-turned. His manner was a little sheepish, like that of a boy caught in some foolish prank.
“So you heard me?” Rand turned completely around and grinned. “Well, anyway, you know now what I think of myself. When you have finished dressing, Dick, come and clout me over the head. You have my permission. I’ve been guilty of blithering idiocy. How I ever contrived to persuade the R. N. W. M. P. to take me into the service will always remain an unsolved mystery.”
Dick laughed outright. “I don’t think you do yourself justice, corporal. What makes you say that?”
“My conscience hurts me. I’m an ass. When I awoke about twenty minutes ago, it suddenly dawned on me how completely we’ve been fooled.”
“By whom?” inquired Dick, wondering if the policeman had taken leave of his senses.
“By the outlaws.”
“You mean when they gave us the slip?”
“Yes. That’s it exactly.”
“That wasn’t your fault. We’ve been careful enough.”
Corporal Rand threw back his blankets and commenced to dress.
“Do you remember, Dick,” he resumed, “when we passed the first trapper’s shack on the trail this side of Dominion Range, and Toma called our attention to the three ponies?”
Dick nodded.
“You may recall,” Rand went on, “that the presence of the ponies there puzzled me. Subsequently the thing was repeated at other trappers’ cabins along the route we were travelling. Now, as I look back upon it all, I’m ashamed of my stupidity, I should have known right away what was taking place.”
“I’m afraid I don’t follow you.”
“The ponies were part of the pack-train. The furs were unloaded at various places along the line. As the pack-train progressed, it became smaller, until, finally, nothing was left of it. That explains many things. It explains why we have been unable to overtake the outlaws. Murky’s precious shipment is scattered along the trail over a distance of twenty miles.”
“What a trick!” Dick exclaimed. “Pretty clever ruse, wasn’t it? The outlaws must have known all the time that we were following them. It took a genius to think of a plan like that.”
“I don’t believe they knew we were following them,” stated the corporal. “It’s probably the usual procedure, inaugurated by Murky himself. Nichols does not feel safe with all of his eggs in one basket. He doesn’t believe in taking unnecessary risks. The trappers who live along the trail, where we saw the ponies, are probably in his employ—really not trappers at all. They guard the caches of stolen fur.”
Rand paused for a moment, then continued:
“Do you remember, Dick, how many of those trappers’ shacks there were where we saw ponies?”
“Three,” answered Dick quickly.
“But we went past several where we saw none. Do you recall whether there were dogs around these places?”
“Yes, I believe so.”
Rand mumbled something which Dick did not catch. Then—
“Well, I’ve come to this conclusion: Those five or six places harbour the outlaws—all of them, every member of the pack-train. I’m convinced that if we went back there tomorrow we’d also find the fur.”
“If Murky has five or six separate caches, why did he build the warehouse?”
“Couldn’t very well get along without it. Consider his position. The boat from Seattle may on occasion be two or three days late. What is to be done with the fur? It is too valuable to be piled up on the landing wharf in all kinds of weather. The warehouse would be—”
Corporal Rand did not complete the sentence. Dick had jumped to his feet and was waving his arms about wildly.
“There it comes! There it comes!” he shouted. “The boat! It has entered the inlet. Look, corporal!”
The vessel came to anchor not far from the landing wharf. The throb of her engines ceased. Immaculate in fresh paint—a dull gray—she rode prettily in the water. Her graceful lines resembled those of a yacht. It was evident that she had been built for speed. Slung out over port and starboard, were two small boats, one of which, judging from the plaintive creaking of ropes, was about to be lowered. The three watched her for a while, endeavoring to make out some of the figures on board.
“She must be days ahead of her schedule,” surmised Rand. “The outlaws would never have cached the fur along the line if they had known she was coming in so soon. What’s that?”
They heard rather than saw the oncoming figure—someone trampling along through the brush. Then the newcomer broke into the clearing and for the first time his form stood revealed.
Dick’s throat contracted. He shrank back against the thicket, reaching out for support. A faintly audible exclamation rose to his lips.
“Murky Nichols!”
The silence that fell over the little party was so deep, so breathless that they could hear the thicket rustling in the faint breeze. Corporal Rand stared at Dick, and that young man returned the gaze with an expression that was indescribable. Toma whispered hoarsely:
“How him get here? I thought he go back to Fort Good Faith.”
“Apparently not!” Rand gritted from between set teeth. “A ruse, a trick—he’s full of them. One never knows what Nichols is planning, or where he is likely to be at any stated time. He bobs up everywhere. It has always been difficult to follow his movements. He’s here now. It’s something I hadn’t bargained for.”
The lanky, indolent figure slumped past the warehouse, heading for the wharf. A gray felt hat was pulled down over his forehead, the brim almost resting upon his shaggy eyebrows. Reaching his objective, he pulled a knife and plug of tobacco from his pocket and lazily sliced off a generous hunk. Having completed this important operation, he glanced up, slowly raised his arm and began signalling the vessel.
There sounded the creaking of hawsers, then a low splash as the boat hit the water. Two men, one of them in a blue cap and uniform, rowed for the shore. They reached the landing wharf, clambering up with the assistance of Murky.
Although they could see everything that happened, Rand and the two boys were unable to catch more than a low murmur of sound coming from the conspirators. Once the voice of the man in uniform rose appreciably, but even then they could not catch what was said.
“I’d give my right arm to be able to sit under that wharf and listen to them,” Rand whispered eagerly.
“What you think them fellows do?” Toma wished to know.
“Can’t imagine. Something’s up. I wonder why Murky didn’t bring along his pack-train. What’s the reason for the delay?”
Scarcely had the words left the policeman’s mouth, when he jumped back, nerves taut, eyes shining. A perfect bedlam of sound arose. It drifted across to them through the trees, disturbing the stillness, the calm of the forest’s solitude. They could hear the voices of men, the whinnying of ponies, the guttural shouts of packers, the swishing and snapping of underbrush. Dick seized Toma’s arm and held it in a vise-like grip. In a sort of stupor, he noticed that Rand was filling a rifle-clip with cartridges. The pack-train came into view at the edge of the clearing—ten horses, four dog teams and six men. They gathered about the warehouse, a confused mass of horses, dogs and men, seeming to hesitate, in reality waiting for a signal from Nichols.
It was a crucial moment. Dick knew that the time had come for action, yet the thought terrified him. What chance had they against so many? Not counting Nichols, there were six of the outlaws and probably as many more sailors aboard the yacht. Chills, like tiny currents of ice, coursed down Dick’s spine.
The policeman seemed to sense Dick’s feelings, almost to read his thoughts. He reached over and patted the younger man affectionately on the shoulder.
“Don’t worry, Dick, we’ll come out all right. Just keep cool. You’ve been anxious to join the Royal Mounted—now show me the stuff you’re made of. You too, Toma.”
“Yes sir, corporal, I stick by you when we make ’em big fight. You just tell ’em Toma what to do.”
“What’s our first move?” asked Dick. “Do you intend to meet the outlaws face to face? Aren’t there too many for us?”
“The best way to defeat a gang like this is to capture its leader. That’s what I propose to do now. Murky Nichols is the man I want. He’s the directing force here, the brains behind every move. The others are mere chessmen. He’s the player. I intend to walk right over in the presence of every one of his men and take him prisoner.”
“What!” gasped Dick.
“I can do it.” Rand’s voice was calm.
It was a breathless, incredible thing that Rand proposed. A desperate plan indeed—seemingly foolhardy! It required bravery of the deepest brand—nerves of steel and a courage that would never falter.
“You can’t make it,” almost whimpered Dick. “A bullet will bring you down before you go fifty yards.”
“I don’t think so,” the corporal answered, only a slight tremor in his voice. “There’s a psychology about this thing, Dick, that neither you nor I understand. At first, they’ll be too startled to do anything. By the time they have recovered from their surprise, they won’t be able to shoot without endangering the lives of Nichols and the two sailors. At any rate, I’m willing to take the chance.”
“It isn’t fair!” Dick protested hotly. “Why should you run all the risks alone? Corporal Rand, I won’t permit it. If you’re going to walk over there, I’m going with you.”
The suspicion of a twinkle showed in Rand’s unwavering gray eyes. But his voice was stern.
“Who’s in command here?”
“Yes, I know,” argued Dick. “But just the same—”
“You and Toma will stay here. That’s final. By doing that, you can serve me better than by going along with me.”
“How?”
“In various ways. I could tell you better if I knew exactly what is going to happen. I may not capture Nichols at all; he may capture me. If he does, there is the chance that you may be able to rescue me. It may be that I am wrong too about the outlaws being too astonished to fire at me while I am crossing the clearing. If I am wrong, you may be able to draw their fire and give me a chance to escape.”
Without once faltering, Corporal Rand struck boldly out into the clearing and headed straight for the wharf. His course would take him about forty yards west of the warehouse on the side opposite the door. The outlaws completely encircled the building. Dick thought at first that it was their purpose to unload the furs, placing them in the building, but on second thought, he realized that this would not be the case. With the yacht riding at anchor in the inlet, it stood to reason that the furs would be placed on the landing wharf, thereby saving a second handling. In fact, the corporal had proceeded scarcely twenty feet on his way, when Murky raised one arm as a signal for the pack-train to come closer. Fortunately, no one had as yet noticed the policeman.
Dick was rapidly losing control of his nerves. The tension was terrible. He experienced a feeling similar to that of being smothered under a blanket. His gaze was fairly riveted on the retreating figure. Every step that the corporal took positively hurt him.
He closed his eyes for a moment. He felt dizzy and weak. He could hear Toma’s breathing—choking and asthmatic. He reached out and grabbed convulsively for a branch that drooped down in front of him. A wail of terror issued from his lips. A crash, a puff of smoke! Corporal Rand stumbled a little, as if his toe had caught in some obstruction underfoot. Dick saw Murky wheel in surprise, his hand fumbling at his belt, face white and tense. But Rand had already pulled his gun and though still thirty feet away, he had the drop on his opponent. Murky’s hand and those of the two sailors went up, clawing the air. A few more steps, and Rand stood amongst them.
Murky shrieked out something in Cree, which resulted in immediate confusion around the warehouse. Packers sprang to their ponies, whips cracked—hurried calls and frenzied oaths. Figures darted back and forth as though daft. Presently out of the confusion came some semblance of order. The pack-train started away in full retreat—a retreat that was almost a rout.
Dick knew now what Murky’s command had been: Unable to save himself, only one chance was left him—to send away the pack-train, to get rid of the tell-tale evidence. Occupied as he was, Corporal Rand was powerless to prevent it.
The packers had drawn their guns and were herding the ponies across the clearing, shouting hoarsely at the top of their lungs. Dick saw Toma leap past him, rifle held in readiness. For a split-second he stood undecided, then he too turned and rushed frantically away to head off the retreating party. Panting, they circled around to the far side of the clearing, just as the head of the column entered the woods. Toma’s rifle spurted fire and Dick followed his example. The rout became a stampede. Ponies broke away from their packers and rushed away at a mad gallop. Dog teams snarled and fought. Taken completely by surprise, the outlaws huddled together, firing volley after volley at the place where the boys lay concealed.
From that time on, at least as far as Dick was concerned, things became blurred, hazy—unreal. Bullets flew in the brush everywhere. The pack-train had stampeded, but the outlaws still remained. Most of Murky’s adherents had now taken to cover and were offering a most stubborn resistance. It was plain that Dick and Toma had failed in their efforts.
There came suddenly a lull in the firing. In a choked, excited voice, Dick spoke to Toma:
“This is a terrible mess. We haven’t succeeded in accomplishing anything. First thing we know, one of these outlaws will get a pot-shot at Rand—and then all will be over.”
“Corporal no fool,” Toma replied. “Things not so bad what you think. Here come policeman now.”
It was true. With the prisoners walking ahead of him, Rand came straight toward the place of the recent skirmish. This was the reason why the firing had ceased. The outlaws were waiting for Murky. As the policeman and his three prisoners came directly opposite Dick heard Rand giving orders. Then Nichols called out in a trembling voice:
“Come out of it, boys. It’s all over. Come out, I tell yuh. If any o’ yuh shoot, I’m a dead man!”
One or two at a time, the outlaws came out, dropped their guns and moved forward to Murky’s side, hands held high. Seeing the turn affairs had taken, Dick and Toma also lost no time in joining the group.
“Well, Murky, I guess it’s all over,” Rand stated evenly. “We haven’t seized your fur yet, but that won’t take long. Have you anything to say for yourself?”
“Nothin’ at all, corporal,” Nichols answered insolently. “But mebbe we ain’t through yet—you an’ me.”
Rand ignored the threat.
“You can dispatch two of your men to overtake the stampeded ponies and find the dog teams. Toma will go along with them.”
Murky issued the orders, but the young guide stepped forward and exclaimed:
“Men not all here, corporal. First time over at warehouse I count six packers. Only four here.”
Dick confirmed Toma’s statement.
“That’s right. There were six. I counted them myself. We’d better be careful.”
“Is this true, Murky?” Rand scowled.
“Yep.”
“Where are they?”
“How should I know? I wasn’t here. Yuh oughta know that.”
“You’ll be responsible if anything happens,” warned the policeman.
Not long afterward, Toma and two of the outlaws went out in search of the stampeded ponies, while Rand and Dick took the remaining men—with the exception of the uniformed sailor and Murky—and locked them in the warehouse. Then Rand turned to the officer in charge of the yacht:
“You’d better order your vessel in, captain.”
“I’ll try, but I don’t know whether they’ll come,” trembled the sailor.
“They’ll save themselves a lot of trouble if they do. I have the name and description of your vessel. Remember you’re dealing with the Canadian government now.”
But the captain was right. Signalling from the wharf proved of no avail. There came derisive shouts from the men aboard, and not long afterward the sailors hoisted the anchor and the yacht steamed out of the inlet.
The escape of the outlaws from the warehouse during the night was one of those regrettable happenings that come occasionally when least expected. On the following morning as Dick opened the door a deep silence greeted him. The prisoners had gone. Investigation showed that part of the flooring had been removed and that the outlaws had dug their way out during the night. The shock of this discovery staggered Dick, who lost no time in reporting to Constable Rand. The policeman received the news calmly.
“Well, there’s no use worrying about it. I’m sorry, but it can’t be helped. We have the ring-leaders—which is much more important. The police will retake the others in the course of time. Right now, I’m worrying more about Toma and the pack-ponies. What has become of the fur? If we lose the fur, we’ll have no direct evidence against Murky.”
“Why,” said Dick in surprise, “I should think you could convict him easily. What about the shooting of Pearly and the assault upon Richardson?”
“True enough. But Murky didn’t commit these crimes.”
“No; but he ordered them done. He’s the person responsible.”
“Unfortunately, that may be rather hard to prove. It all depends upon what attitude the other outlaws take.”
The forenoon was long and tedious. Lines of worry began to crease the corporal’s forehead. Dick was driven to the verge of desperation. The pack-train had not yet returned. Sitting in front of the campfire, opposite the sailor and Nichols, with Rand pacing nervously back and forth behind him, Dick pictured a hundred imaginary perils and disasters that had befallen Toma. Sometimes he saw him languishing in a dark, foul room, suffering all the tortures of imprisonment; and again he visualized a limp, lifeless form, crumpled in the snow in the depth of some forest solitude, around him the leering, grinning faces of the outlaws. By three o’clock in the afternoon, Dick had become almost desperate. He rose to his feet and drew the corporal aside.
“I can’t endure this much longer. Let’s do something.”
The policeman took the younger man’s arm affectionately.
“What would you suggest?”
“I don’t know,” wailed Dick.
“There is only one thing that I can propose—and you may not like that.”
“What is it?”
“You can stay here and watch these two vultures while I go out and try to find Toma.”
Moisture had gathered in Dick’s eyes. Through a glistening film, he looked up at the corporal.
“Will you let me go? This inactivity, this suspense is killing me by inches. Corporal, I’ll promise to be very careful. But please let me go.”
“All right, Dick, you can start. Take your blankets and a few supplies—if you can find any. If you have not discovered any trace of him by noon tomorrow, come back and report to me.”
Dick lost no time in making his departure. All that afternoon he trudged through the snow, sometimes picking up the track of a pony and losing it again, on other occasions, coming across human footprints or the charred remains of a campfire. When darkness descended, he was miles back from the coast, with nothing more encouraging to buoy up his spirits than the thought that he must soon reach the main-travelled trail. His aching legs carried him along the slope of a hill—up, up interminably; then he struck out north by east in the direction he knew must eventually lead him to the place he sought. But as the miles slipped past, he grew so weary and footsore that he decided to make camp for the night. Just ahead he could see what appeared to be the edge of a coulee—and he struggled on with the intention of entering it, thereby gaining protection from the chill, moist wind that blew in from the sea.
Imagine his surprise, upon approaching closer, to discover that it was not a coulee at all, but a deep-set basin, looking somewhat like the ancient bed of a lake. It was nearly three miles across, several hundred feet deep, and thickly overgrown with red willow. Near its center, he saw the twinkling light of a cabin.
An hour later, he approached the cabin and knocked timidly at the door. A squint-eyed native, so old that his yellow face was a curious net-work of wrinkles, admitted him.
“I want drink and food,” Dick informed the man, stumbling over the Indian words.
The old man nodded acquiescence, leading the way into the house. He clapped his hands together sharply and waited. From the loft above, there came immediately the sound of shuffling feet, then a form, even more senile than that of Dick’s host, slowly descended a rickety ladder, emitting as it came a series of rheumatic groans. The woman, following instructions from her husband and a half-timid stare at Dick, hobbled into the adjoining room and returned presently, carrying an earthern pot, which she placed upon the floor in front of her visitor. It was a cold but not unsavory mixture of fish and vegetables and Dick, weak from hunger, carried the food to a bench at one side of the room and began eating with avidity.
Thus far, he had not been successful in finding any trace of Toma. Neither had he seen any of the outlaws, although he was sure they must be somewhere in the vicinity. Probably a few of them had even passed by this cabin. Dick had learned a little Cree and he decided to question the old Indian. After several unsuccessful attempts, he finally gained the information that a number of pack-horses, in charge of three men, had crossed the basin only a few hours previous.
Dick received the news with a joyous quickening of the heart. From the native’s description, Toma was one of the party.
“Which way were they travelling?” came his next eager question.
He expected, of course, to hear that they were going east in search of the remainder of the ponies, but to his surprise the Indian pointed westward. This meant that he and Toma had passed each other only a short time before. The guide, having completed a successful search, was returning to the coast.
It was cheering information and Dick decided that as soon as he had finished his welcome repast and had rested for a short time, he would retrace his steps and rejoin his friends. Putting aside the empty dish, he turned eagerly upon his host, just as that worthy stepped back from his place by the door, fear and dismay depicted in his watery old eyes. Almost simultaneously, there fell across Dick’s sensitive ears the sound of approaching footsteps, then a voice that caused him to experience a momentary sensation of chill.
With a finger on his lips as a warning to the native, Dick scurried up the ladder, pulling it up after him. His hands were shaking. He deposited the ladder on the floor, tiptoed across the loft and lay down with his eyes at a crack.
The door of the room below was pushed rudely open, without even the formality of a knock, and three men—all of them outlaws—entered. Of the three, one was a white man—the sailor who had come ashore with the captain of the yacht. He wore a gray cap and a much-soiled suit of clothes—apparel too thin for that climate! He sat down shivering close to the fireplace, extending his blue, unmittened hands toward the blaze. He did not even look up as one of the other outlaws called loudly for food and growled unpleasantly when it did not appear forthwith.
While they ate, Dick lay watching them. He hoped that none of the outlaws would make a search of the house. Even if they did—now that the ladder was pulled up—he was fairly sure they would not come to the loft. He was feeling comparatively safe, until he became conscious of a step behind him. Then he became panic-stricken. His tongue clove to the roof of his mouth. He had hardly the strength to turn his head as the apparition passed, a young Indian girl not over seventeen or eighteen years of age. She had paused, looked at him in a sort of bewildered manner, then moved forward, picked up the ladder, let it slip through the hole in the floor, and proceeded to climb down to the room below.
Dick’s breath caught as he thought about the ladder projecting there through the aperture, where the Indian girl had left it. It was a strange trick of fate that had been played upon him at a most inopportune time. The outlaws now had easy access to the loft. It would be simple enough indeed to come up and take him like a rat in a trap.
Also, there was another horn to the dilemma. Unwittingly, the girl might blurt out something about his presence there. And if she did, the outlaws would hear it immediately and the game would be up. The very imminence of the thing was not conducive to Dick’s peace of mind. Lying there, not daring to stir, expecting at any moment to hear the ladder creak under the weight of one or more of his enemies, he sweated in an agony of apprehension. He had left his rifle below and, unfortunately, his revolver was empty. Desperately, he looked about him for some sort of weapon that he might use in his own defense. He could see nothing. Except for the blankets in the far corner, the loft was bare. A small pocket-knife was the only thing he had that would be of the slightest service in a hand-to-hand encounter.
Soon afterward, one of the outlaws turned upon the Indian woman and demanded more food. She shook her head, informing him in Cree that there was nothing more in the house. The outlaw apparently did not believe this and, in a sudden burst of anger, advanced and shook her roughly by the shoulder.
The girl intervened. With a tiger-like spring, she bounded forward, slapping him across the face. In a blind fury now, he attempted to retaliate, but she eluded him and ran to the center of the room. Here he caught her, but released her with a snarl, as her teeth sank into his arm. Eyes blazing, he grabbed for her again, but she dodged past. His long fingers caught in a string of beads, tearing it from her neck. Then Dick’s heart seemed to stand still. She had started up the ladder, the outlaw in hot pursuit.
During the next few moments Dick’s movements were performed subconsciously—and with the speed of desperation. The girl’s head had appeared in the aperture, when he jumped past her. Feet foremost, he crashed into the repulsive up-turned face; crashed into it, then went down—girl, outlaw and ladder together—landing with a terrific impact that shook the house.
Stunned, he and the girl separated themselves from the confused muddle and struggled to their feet. The outlaw, however, did not stir. When Dick sprang forward and seized his rifle, the man still lay there, one brown, claw-like hand still retaining three or four unstrung beads.
No sooner had Dick picked up his rifle than he realized that he could not possibly escape the second half-breed and the sailor who stood by the fireplace. The odds were against him. The sailor had covered him with an ugly-looking automatic, while the breed’s rifle was held at a threatening angle. He put down his gun as quickly as he could, deciding to face the situation squarely. Reaction from his first spasm of fear had left him calm and cool, his mind on the alert.
“You’re too many for me. I’ll give up.”
“You showed a lot of good sense there,” approved the sailor. “We sure would o’ drilled you, Buddy, if you’d made another move. Looks as if you’d done about enough damage now.”
Dick turned his head and looked again at the crumpled form of the girl’s assailant.
“I’m sorry this had to happen. I guess he’ll recover.”
“Playing the hero stuff, eh?” leered the sailor. “She ought to feel pretty proud o’ your work. I must say you made a good job o’ it.”
Dick flushed, but did not reply. He was watching the half-breed, who had advanced upon the old Indian and had demanded a rope with which to bind his prisoner. He saw the old man shake his head. The watery old eyes, set in the curious net-work of wrinkles, roved fearfully from face to face. Would the outlaw please believe him? He spoke the truth. God was his witness.
The half-breed considered the problem for a short space, his crafty gaze darting here and there around the room. In spite of his host’s assertion to the contrary, he was sure that the old man was not telling the truth. He walked into the kitchen and came back, shaking his head. He scrambled up to the loft, where Dick heard him prowling around, muttering to himself. He reappeared, at length, carrying a thick woolen blanket, which he had taken from the girl’s bed. Producing a hunting knife, he cut this into strips about two inches wide, and in a short time had Dick bound as securely as if he had used moosehide thongs or manilla rope.
“Kind o’ hard on you, ain’t it, Buddy,” sympathised the sailor. “If it was me now, running this show, I’d let you go free. ’Cause we ain’t got no particular quarrel with you. But his nibs here seems to think that you require special attention.”
Dick and the sailor kept up a desultory conversation for the next two or three hours, the sailor doing most of the talking. He bitterly regretted the circumstances that had brought him here. He spoke contemptuously of his two companions. They were not his sort. He liked neither of them. During the day he had suffered from cold and exposure and had undergone a terrible agony caused by blistered feet. This was no country for a white man.
“If I had my wish right now, Buddy, I’d be aboard the ‘Elenore,’ steamin’ down along the coast,” he declared presently.
“You should have remained behind when the outlaws broke out of the warehouse,” Dick reminded him.
“What! Stay there, an’ later on get throwed into jail? I should say not. Even if I do have to suffer now, I can mebbe make my way back to the States somehow.”
“They’ll get you sooner or later,” Dick argued.
“Mebbe so, but I’ll take my chances.”
The room became more quiet. The old Indian and his wife and daughter retired to the loft, leaving the outlaws in full charge. The man, whom Dick had hurt in his leap from the top of the ladder, had recovered consciousness, but was as yet too dazed and shaken to do more than lie groaning in the corner, where he had been carried. His friend—he who had bound Dick—paid little attention either to this manifestation of suffering or to the conversation between Dick and the sailor. In a short time he had begun to drowse, chin on his chest, eyes half open. With a friendly nod to Dick, the sailor rose from his place by the fire, and, using his coat as a pillow, lay down upon the hard floor.
Two candles furnished light for the room. One had been placed on a shelf on the wall, the other on a small table by the door, leading to the kitchen. Except for the ruddy glare from the fireplace, there was no other light. When the other occupants of the room had fallen asleep, Dick rolled restlessly from side to side. Occasionally, his gaze fell upon the candles. Both had burned low, now flickering and fluttering eerily. The shadows deepened. When he awoke, following a fitful nap, one of the candles had gone out. The fire also had burned low. Its feeble red glow cast a weird and ghastly shaft of light across the floor. As Dick turned his face to the wall, the remaining taper sputtered and burned down.
Again sleep claimed him—this time deep and unbroken for several hours. He was startled into wakefulness by a loud banging at the door. A match flared through the darkness, footsteps sounded across the floor, the bolt was slid back to admit two muffled forms. The two newcomers, accompanied by the man who had bound Dick, strode over to the fireplace and piled on more fuel. In the ruddy glow that sprang up shortly afterward, Dick recognized them both—two more of the packers who had escaped from the warehouse.
For nearly an hour, the three jabbered unabatingly in Cree. Dick was able to understand a good deal of what was said. He followed their long, rambling discourse with increasing interest. Here was news indeed! A plot! The eavesdropper caught his breath, felt his pulses leap quickly.
They proposed on the following morning to set out for the warehouse to rescue Murky and the others. But it was more than a mere rescue. It was to be an ambuscade. From different directions they would creep up within rifle range of the policeman and, when the first opportunity presented itself, would riddle his body with bullets. Later on, they would shoot Toma. As soon as Murky had been released, they would recover the fur and travel south.
Then, with a start, Dick heard them mention him. He too would meet the same fate as the others—only much sooner. Was it not a tedious business to drag along a prisoner? Much more simple to dispatch him with a knife or bullet before starting. Anyway, it was no more serious an offense to kill three men than two. The punishment would be the same if they got caught. But that was unthinkable. They would escape easily this time. It would be very simple.
“Is not all this true, brothers?” inquired the chief conspirator.
There came guttural assent. Emphatic nods of confirmation.
“Is there anything to eat in the house of this doddering old spy?” one of the newcomers wished to know.
The answer came in the negative.
“Or drink?”
“There is nothing, my brother.”
“Then we will sleep.”
They proceeded to do this with a celerity that was astonishing. Soon their heavy snoring rumbled across the stillness of the room.
The hours passed slowly, seeming interminable. Dick slept by fits and starts. Once he awoke, conscious of a strange feeling. Had he heard someone moving about? He lay very still, endeavoring to catch the sound again, but although he listened for a long time, it was not repeated. He was almost asleep again when soft footfalls issued from the loft. A faint cushion-like tread, a creak of the ladder, then a vague form groping about the room.
The person, whoever it was, paused and remained perfectly still for several tense moments. Again the soft footfalls. Another pause. The ghostly visitor was getting closer now—almost within reach of Dick’s arm, had he been able to use it. The figure advanced another step; a hand groped forth experimentally. Dick’s heart almost stopped beating. Dark as it was, he caught the gleam of a knife.
The Indian girl! A surge of elation swept over him. She stooped down and a moment later his bonds were cut. He was free! It seemed incredible. He was free! He could move his numb and aching limbs. Under the stress of a great emotion, he reached up and patted his rescuer’s soft cheek. Just then he could have shed tears of happiness.
Not even a whisper had passed between them. The girl pressed the knife in his hand, and then, to his utter astonishment, a bulky object, which he knew immediately was his own automatic. Abruptly she left him. The soft footfalls across the floor, the faint creak of the ladder, a rustle in the loft above—followed by a deep, unearthly silence. Dick lay, eyes open wide, staring out across the room. The girl had not been heard. The whilom packers still slept, as their deep breathing attested. His chance had come!
He sat up cautiously, his gaze turned in the direction of the door. It was about twelve feet away. To reach it, it would be necessary to pass the sleeping form of the half-breed who had bound him. Trembling, he arose, feeling his way ahead but had gone only a few steps when he stopped short in uncertainty. No longer could he hear the man’s deep breathing. Was he awake? Fully five minutes passed before Dick again essayed to move, to dare take the risk. Then, gaining more confidence, he tiptoed straight to the door, one hand reaching out to shoot the bolt.
Two spurts of flame stabbed the dark, a hurtling form missed him by a scant three inches as he swung open the door. He leaped outside and started away on a run. The wind tore at his clothes. His parka slipped from his head and fell to the ground. Through the smothering obscurity of the night he raced wildly, in his terror imagining that he could hear plainly the patter of footsteps behind. Never once did he slacken his speed until he had reached the foot of the slope, leading up from the ancient bed of the lake. Here he stopped short, choking for breath, listening fearfully for the sound of his pursuers.
Dick did not deceive himself in believing that no attempt would be made to recapture him. Even now the outlaws had probably left the cabin and were in swift pursuit. He paused in the shelter of a bush to strike a match and consult his watch. To his surprise, it was now nearly six o’clock. Dawn would soon break and it behooved him to put as many miles between him and his pursuers, as possible.
He went on through the pitchy darkness that obscured the earth. He had a fair sense of direction, but at length he became confused. For all he knew, he might be travelling miles off his course. When the first faint light of day streaked the east, he paused in dismay. His fears were confirmed. He had been walking south instead of west, and it would be necessary to retrace his steps. His heart was heavy as he turned to the right and struck off through a wilderness of rocks and trees that encompassed him on every side.
Daylight found him on the shore of a small river, not yet frozen over, whose icy waters cascaded down from the hills. He knew that if he followed this stream, it would lead him eventually to the ocean. He struggled on, conscious of fatigue and hunger. His feet were blistered and sore. His clothing was torn. An unexpected fall on a slippery rock had wrenched his right wrist, causing him excruciating pain. He was moving slowly along, wondering how much farther he would be compelled to go before he reached the coast, when a tall figure stepped out from its concealment of rocks, less than fifty yards ahead. It was one of the outlaws.
For a time despair choked him. Then he jumped quickly to cover and hurried back over the selfsame route he had come.