Cool air rose from the river, driving before it long, grey streamers of mist. Up through the trees it spread, close to the ground, dense as smoke. Across the sandbar, well up on the bank above, in the deep shadow of the balsam, a bright fire etched in bold relief the faces of Corporal Rand and the three boys. They made a complete circle around the fire and were conversing eagerly. Just now it was Sandy who held the center of interest.
“Something underhanded going on at Half Way House,” he explained to the corporal. “I think that Uncle Walter is suspicious of Factor Frazer. I don’t know exactly what the trouble is, but I think it has something to do with the way Mr. Frazer has been keeping his accounts. You see, Uncle Walter is Chief Factor for this district and audits the books of all the trading posts. He acted very mysterious when he asked us to go over to Half Way House. Didn’t he, Dick?”
“Yes, he did,” Dick corroborated his chum.
“It looks to me,” Sandy went on, “as if Mr. Frazer suspected that we were spies sent by my uncle and took the method he did to get rid of us.”
“Seems very likely,” smiled the policeman.
“Wolf Brennan and Toby McCallum were at the post when we left,” continued Sandy. “After what has happened, we can draw only one conclusion, that these two men are paid emissaries of Frazer’s. I suspect he wants to keep us out here until he has had time to cover up some sort of deviltry.”
Corporal Rand rose and gazed down into the fire.
“It would seem so, Sandy. Something deeply mysterious afoot there. Probably another case for the police to solve. I’ve never known it to fail. No sooner do we hear of an important case and start working upon it, than something else crops up. We’ve done nothing but patrol duty until this Miller case came to our attention. I start out upon this case when I learn of this business at Half Way House. Probably before I get back from Caribou Lake, there will be a murder or two added to the growing list of crimes.”
“Do you plan to have us accompany you to Caribou Lake?” Dick asked.
“When I met you out here this afternoon, that was my intention. But now that I’ve talked with you and heard your story I’ve changed my mind. It’s more important that you should go on to Half Way House. By travelling as fast as you can, you should make it in four more days.”
“What will we do when we get there?” asked Dick.
“That’s up to you,” Corporal Rand spoke grimly. “You handled the Dewberry case very nicely. I’m really in no position to advise you or help you in any way because I don’t know what’s wrong there. If I were you though, the minute I arrived I’d confront Frazer and demand an explanation. I’d mention Wolf Brennan and McCallum too. Make it plain that you intend to take up the matter with the police.”
“Do you believe there is a chance that he may confess?” asked Sandy incredulously.
“No, I don’t. But there is a chance that your accusations may sweep him off his guard, that he will blurt out something that will give you a clue to the mystery.”
“I never thought of that,” said Dick.
“I’ll divide my grubstake with you,” Rand went on. “I haven’t much, but you’re welcome to half of it. I can give you tea, rice, a little sugar, part of a slab of bacon and about ten pounds of flour.”
“You may run yourself short,” Dick hesitated.
“No,” smiled Rand. “I can look after myself.”
“Now that we’ve met you, I hate to separate so soon.”
“It can’t be helped,” smiled the policeman. “And that reminds me that it’s getting late. We must hurry to bed if we expect to make an early start tomorrow.”
Following a good breakfast the next morning, the boys loaded their canoe, shook hands with the corporal and, just at six o’clock by Rand’s watch, the two canoes floated out into the river, separated and began speeding on their respective ways. All day the boys worked like Trojans. In spite of a delay of over an hour at one portage, they managed to travel over forty miles before they stopped at dusk to make camp.
The second day was more or less a repetition of the first and, on the afternoon of the third day since their meeting with Corporal Rand, they drew up at the boat landing at Half Way House, tired but exultant.
They walked up along the well-beaten path toward the trading post, the cynosure of curious eyes. And indeed, this was not to be wondered at. Their appearance resembled scarecrows more than human beings. They were ragged from head to foot. Their faces were burned a deep brown from the exposure to sun and wind. As they made their way past a row of cabins, the company’s warehouse and finally to the store itself, Toma’s abbreviated trousers caused a good deal of merriment among lounging groups of Indians and half-breeds.
Though they were exultant, they were also grim. Dick’s eyes were hard as he led his two companions through those tittering groups. His hands were clenched tightly at his sides and, reaching the entrance he flung open the door and strode defiantly in. Toma and Sandy followed, their manner belligerent.
Behind the counter, busily occupied in rearranging merchandise on the shelves, the factor, Mr. Donald Frazer had not noticed their entrance. When he did look around, his face paled.
“Y—y—you!” he trembled.
Three pairs of glaring, unfriendly eyes bored into the wavering optics of the man behind the counter. As yet, not one of the boys had spoken. A deep and ominous silence settled over the room.
“We’re back!” Dick cleared his throat.
“So I perceive,” the factor attempted to make light of the matter, but his effort at jocularity proved a dismal failure.
“We’re back,” Dick repeated, his voice harsh and cold, “and we demand an accounting. You’re a miserable snake, Frazer, and you have a lot to answer for. Before we report this matter to the police, perhaps you’d like to do a little explaining on your own account.”
The factor’s right hand reached out and he grasped the counter for support. He tried to speak, but in his fear and great agitation, the words would not come. A queer rumbling in his throat, his jaw muscles twitching, his face white, he stood there helplessly staring at the three determined figures confronting him.
“Didn’t expect us back, did you?” almost snarled Dick. “Had an idea that we’d starve out there, didn’t you? Thought that your friends, Wolf Brennan and Toby McCallum, would settle our hash for good and all, didn’t you? Well, we’re back. What do you propose to do about it?”
Frazer’s face distorted queerly and he protested angrily.
“What sort of a plot are you trying to lay at my door?” he wheezed. “Brennan and McCallum—I don’t understand you. What have they to do with me? If you had trouble with them, it was not of my making.”
“Don’t try to deny that you didn’t send them. You did.”
At this juncture Sandy completely lost his temper. In a flash, he had bounded over the counter, seizing Frazer by the throat.
“You wretch!” he shouted, shaking the factor as a cat might shake a mouse. “You wretch! Don’t lie to us! You sent us out there to the island of the dinosaur for no other reason than to get rid of us. And then,” Sandy shrieked “you instructed those two miserable rats to follow us to make sure we didn’t get back.”
The factor was a powerful man and Sandy’s advantage was only temporary. Frazer flung him off, stepped back and his fist crashed into Sandy’s face sending him reeling back, where he toppled and fell over a packing case. The resounding impact of his fall was sufficiently heavy to shake the room. Dick and Toma cried out angrily and they, too, leaped over the barrier. Retreating before them, Frazer sped down along the space behind the counter, reached up in one of the shelves and whipped out a revolver, just as Dick made a lurch for him.
“Stand back!” he cried, breathing hard.
An inner door flew open. There came the sound of running footsteps. Dick turned in time to see, to his unutterable astonishment, the commanding figure of Sandy’s uncle, Mr. Walter MacClaren.
“Mr. Frazer,” ordered Factor MacClaren, “put down that gun. Dick, what’s the meaning of this?”
Before Dick had time to reply, Sandy’s head uprose behind the counter, twisted around and presented a blood-stained face to his uncle. At sight of it, Mr. MacClaren started back in dismay.
“Good Heavens, Sandy—you too! What have you boys been up to?” He whirled toward Frazer again. “Put down that gun, I told you. Put it down! Mr. Frazer, Dick, Sandy, I demand an explanation. Are you all mad?”
“If you want the truth, they attacked me first.” Frazer had grown more calm now. “Your own nephew grabbed me by the throat and I knocked him down. These other two miscreants were coming toward me just as you ran in. I picked up the revolver as a last resort. I have a right to defend myself.”
Mr. Walter MacClaren sat down in a chair, produced a handkerchief and feverishly mopped his brow. Sandy clambered over the counter and advanced toward him. Dick was still trembling and fighting mad. Toma’s lips were drawn tightly across his teeth. There was still an atmosphere of tension in the room. Sandy’s voice broke the quiet.
“Uncle Walter, that man is no better than a murderer. He sent us up Half Way River on a fool’s errand, then hired a couple of his confederates to track us down and try to kill us.”
Mr. MacClaren stared at his nephew incredulously. It was his Scottish caution that moved him to exclaim.
“Careful, Sandy. Careful, Sandy, my boy. Those are hard words. A murderer, you say. Are you prepared to back up your statements?”
“I am,” spat Sandy.
“Mr. MacClaren, he lies.” It was Frazer’s voice. “There is no truth in what he says. The boys are laboring under a delusion. If they’ve been attacked while away on their trip, it was not through any of my conniving. I have nothing whatever to do with Wolf Brennan and Toby McCallum. Those men are not in my employ, as these three young men seem to believe.”
“They have been in your employ, haven’t they?” MacClaren asked drily.
“Indeed, they have not,” protested Frazer.
“If that is true, how do you account for the three entries in your own ledger under the date of March third, seventh and fifteenth? According to your own books, you paid McCallum and Brennan for work done here at the post.”
“Yes, I’ll admit that but—” Frazer paused slightly confused.
“They have been in your employ then?” Mr. MacClaren persisted.
“Little tasks about the post here,” the other retorted. “Does it necessarily follow that they are in my employ regularly?”
“No, it doesn’t. But it does give us a line on the type of men you do employ.”
“You’re prejudiced,” flamed Frazer.
“Not at all. If these boys are wrong, I shall insist that they apologize. But it hasn’t been proved that they are wrong yet. Sandy, go on with your story.”
During its recital, Mr. MacClaren’s eyes narrowed. He turned again upon the factor.
“You must have known, Mr. Frazer, that the boys could never bring back the bones of that dinosaur. Isn’t that true?”
“No, it isn’t. I never saw the dinosaur. I had no idea that it was so large.”
“Look here,” protested Dick, “I can bring witnesses here to prove that you visited the dinosaur’s island two years ago.”
Sandy’s uncle ignored the sally. He asked the post manager another question.
“You promised the boys six hundred dollars if they would bring the bones of the dinosaur back here to Half Way House. Is that correct?”
“Yes, sir.”
“As I understand it, the bones of the dinosaur were to be sold to a famous London Museum. Is that also correct?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You have a letter from that museum making a certain offer.”
“Yes, Mr. MacClaren, I have.”
“May I see it?”
“You could see it if I had any desire to show it to you, but I haven’t. I consider it none of your business.”
Mr. MacClaren smiled grimly at this affront.
“Very well. That may not be my business, but what you do here as a factor of a Hudson’s Bay Company’s post is my business. Does your contract permit you to engage in any enterprise not connected with that of the company?”
“On my own time, yes.”
“You’d better re-read your contract.”
“I’ve already done that,” sneered the other.
“When I came over here today,” Mr. MacClaren’s voice was deathly calm, “an audit of your books showed that you had robbed the company of over two thousand dollars. I suppose you had a perfect right to do that under the terms of your contract?”
“I object to that word ‘robbed’,” rasped Frazer. “I’ll admit to a shortage but I’ve covered it.”
“Yes, when I drew your attention to it.”
“I paid back every cent of it in gold.”
“Where did you get the gold?” sneered Mr. MacClaren. “How did you come in possession of it? There’s another point that may need a little explaining.”
“You know as well as I do that we take gold over the counter in exchange for goods.”
“Correct. But whenever we do we keep a record of the transaction. In auditing your books, I found no such record.”
“The more you talk the farther you get away from the subject under discussion. You asked me what was wrong here and I told you. Your own nephew assaulted me without cause. Not only that, but he made a very serious charge against me, a charge without any foundation whatsoever.”
“Whose word can I take for that?” inquired Mr. MacClaren sarcastically and angrily.
“Mine.”
“But I do not consider that your word is sufficient. You’ve lied to me repeatedly. You lied to me this afternoon. Your conduct generally is so deceitful and dishonest that I think I was perfectly justified in asking for your resignation.”
“By doing that you haven’t hurt my feelings in the least. For some time past, I have been seriously thinking of quitting the service anyway. In fact, not long ago I completed arrangements to take charge of an independent trading post shortly to be established at Caribou Lake.”
At the mention of the name, Caribou Lake, Dick pricked up his ears. That was the name of the place Corporal Rand was proceeding to.
“It is your privilege to go anywhere you like,” Dick heard Mr. MacClaren say.
Sandy looked across at Frazer, a peculiar gleam in his eyes. At that moment he presented a most unusual appearance. His bruised lips had swollen to twice their normal size. His cheeks were smeared with blood.
“If you’ll permit me to say so,” he blurted forth, “I’d like to prophesy that you’ll not take charge at Caribou Lake either. I propose to swear out a warrant for your arrest.”
Frazer’s face grew a shade whiter, but he recovered himself quickly.
“Two can play at the same game,” he reminded Sandy.
“My charge is a more serious one.”
“What is your charge?”
“Attempted murder.”
The man behind the counter laughed a mirthless laugh and made an ugly grimace.
“You may have a lot of trouble proving that.”
“I expect to,” said Sandy calmly, “but we’ll get you in the end. Please don’t forget that. This matter isn’t settled by a long way.”
Mr. MacClaren rose hastily to his feet.
“Enough,” he said. “Argument will get us nowhere. Mr. Frazer will be leaving us tonight and after his departure we’ll have plenty of time to discuss your case.”
The factor darted from behind the counter and strode over to where Mr. MacClaren stood.
“I didn’t say I was going tonight,” he snarled, his face close to that of his superior.
“No, but I’m saying it. In fact, I insist upon it.”
“You’re exceeding your authority. You have no right to compel me to go.”
“Nevertheless, that is my intention.”
“I refuse to go.”
Coming from a mysterious place, a revolver leaped into MacClaren’s hands. Dick was astounded. He had never suspected that Sandy’s uncle could draw a gun so quickly. Its cold nozzle sprang forward pressing against the front of Frazer’s coat.
“We won’t argue the matter,” he declared pleasantly. “I’ll accompany you to your room while you pack your things. After that I’ll arrange for a transport. Much as we may dislike to part with your company, Mr. Frazer, I think it is for the good of all concerned. Turn and march to your room.”
Frazer complied hurriedly, his features swollen with rage. The two figures passed through the inner doorway, their footsteps echoed down the long corridor and, presently, in the trading room a deep silence reigned.
Mopping the blood from his face with a handkerchief which Dick moistened, Sandy was soon more presentable.
“That was a mighty wallop he gave me,” half grinned the injured one. “Still, I suppose that it was coming to me. Shouldn’t have lost my temper.”
“It’s probably just as well that things have turned out as they have,” Dick reassured him.
The next morning, after the departure of Donald Frazer, Harold Scott, Frazer’s assistant, was placed in charge of the company’s post at Half Way House. Having made the appointment, Sandy’s uncle issued final instructions and then prepared for an immediate departure for Fort Good Faith.
“I’d just as soon you’d stay here for a week or two,” he told the boys. “There is a bare possibility that Frazer may return to cause trouble. Mr. Scott may require your help.”
This request on the part of Mr. MacClaren met with general approval, for none of them believed that Frazer’s real perfidy had yet been uncovered. Something deeper and more mysterious was afoot. Frazer’s attempt to rob the company was not, they reasoned, his only crime. He was mixed up in other and more sinister affairs. Wolf Brennan and Toby McCallum were, undoubtedly, part of the gang who were operating under Frazer’s directions.
“Where do you suppose Frazer will go?” Sandy inquired of Dick soon after Mr. MacClaren’s leave taking. “Do you think that he is really establishing a new trading post at Caribou Lake?”
“No, I don’t,” Dick replied. “I think that was a fabrication, pure and simple. There wouldn’t be enough money in it for him. That is a very sparsely inhabited district. Few Indians trap there during the winter and I doubt very much whether the fur trade would warrant the establishment of a post.”
“That’s what I’ve always heard. The country is rugged and hilly, better adapted to mining and prospecting than to trapping.”
“Exactly. Frazer has no intention of engaging in trade there. You could tell when he said it, that it was a lie. He has other projects in mind.”
“All I know is,” put in Sandy, “that anyone that would associate with characters like Wolf Brennan and Toby McCallum can’t be very honest himself.”
“Where do you suppose he got the gold to cover his shortage?” Dick mused.
“Probably stole it. That’s Uncle Walter’s belief too. It’s another case of robbing Peter to pay Paul.”
Dick and Sandy were sitting on a bench outside the trading room while this discussion was going on. It was a lovely morning and after the rigorous activities of their experience down river, it seemed good merely to sit there basking in the sun. Some distance away, Toma sauntered about among the idling groups of Indians and half-breeds who came here to trade. Presently, he came strolling up with that shrewd gleam in his eyes that denoted some new discovery. Dick looked up and smiled as he approached.
“What’s on your mind now, Toma?”
Without preamble, the young Indian plunged into his subject.
“You remember them two fellow, Indian boys, I tell you ’bout I see in that room one night with Toby McCallum, Wolf Brennan an’ Mr. Frazer?”
Dick scratched his head. “Let me see. You mean that time when you saw the light burning in Frazer’s room at two o’clock in the morning?”
“Yes. Them two fellow here.”
“Here at the post?” inquired Sandy, straightening up in his seat.
“Yes.”
“What are they doing?”
“They just hang ’round. Do nothing like us. I find out they have tepee down near the river.”
“Well, what about it?” demanded Dick. “They have a right to stay there if they want to, haven’t they?”
Toma grinned. “That just the trouble. Why they want to stay here now that their friend, Mr. Frazer, go ’way? They very good friend Mr. Frazer, you think they like go ’long too.”
“Perhaps they’ll follow later,” surmised Sandy.
“Mebbe so. But I think I know why they stay here.”
“Why?” asked Dick.
“’Cause Mr. Frazer tell ’em to. Mr. Frazer talk with them two fellow just before he go. I see him do that. I see they very careful nobody hear what they say too.”
Dick felt a momentary quickening of his pulses.
“Good boy! No one could ever accuse you of being slow-witted. I know what’s on your mind now. You believe that these two Indians have been left behind purposely—that they’ll be up to some mischief before long.”
“Yes, Dick, them very bad fellow. Other Indians say that. Like drink alla time an’ get in trouble.”
Toma scowled and took a seat on the bench beside Sandy. For one full moment no one spoke.
“There are two reasons why Frazer instructed those two Indians to remain here. Either they intend to cause Scott all the trouble they can or they are waiting for the arrival of Wolf Brennan and Toby McCallum,” said Dick.
“We’ll keep an eye on them,” stated Sandy darkly. “We might possibly learn something to our advantage.”
Toma turned his head. “There they are now,” he said.
Two Indians came down the path toward the trading room, walking one behind the other. Both were sinister looking men, Dick thought. He wondered if they were intending to enter the store to make some purchase or whether the object of their visit was to appraise himself and his two chums. He bent his head toward Sandy and whispered in a low voice.
“Slip into the trading room and see what they do.”
The young Scotchman rose, stretched himself languidly, imitated a yawn and lounged through the open door. The two Indians followed him in. Dick winked at Toma, produced his hunting knife and began whittling on a stick. For five minutes they waited. At the end of that time the Indians came out, one of them carrying a package under his arm. Just outside the door, looking about them for a moment idly, they took a seat on the bench near Dick and Toma.
The action was wholly unexpected and Dick was taken unawares. Were the two Indians giving them a secret appraisal? Was there an ulterior motive behind this seemingly trivial act? To add to his surprise, one of the two men addressed him.
“You come up the river yesterday?” he asked.
“Yes,” answered Dick.
“River more high than last year,” said the Indian conversationally.
“I believe it is,” Dick nodded.
“You come back prospecting trip, eh?”
Dick shook his head. “No, we weren’t prospecting.”
“How you like ’em new factor?” came the next question.
“Mr. Scott is a very nice fellow,” replied Dick, half smiling to himself.
“Mr. Frazer fine fellow too.”
Dick looked startled. “I’m—I’m glad you like him,” he stammered.
“You no like him?” persisted the Indian.
“Why do you ask me that question?” Dick wanted to know.
The Indian did not answer.
“You call ’em your name Dick Kent?”
“Yes.”
The Indian rolled a cigarette and lighted it, inhaling the smoke deeply, puffing with satisfaction. Sandy came out and, perceiving his seat occupied, stood leaning lazily against the door frame. An interval of silence, then Dick’s questioner fumbled in his pocket and drew forth a slip of white paper which he handed over with a slight bow.
“What’s this?” Dick asked.
“That am letter for you. By an’ by you read.”
The Indian rose to his feet beckoning to his companion.
“By an’ by you read,” he repeated.
“Who is this letter from?”
“I not know that.” A slight frown settled between the native’s eyes.
“But who gave it to you?” persisted Dick.
“Fellow come up river this morning gave it to me. Tell ’em me give it to you. Tell ’em me you read it by an’ by.
“But don’t you know this man’s name?”
“Fellow name—” the Indian hesitated, “fellow say his name John Clark. By an’ by you read letter.”
The speaker smiled a sort of twisted smile, took his companion by the arm and hurriedly made his departure.
Puzzled, Dick looked down at the letter in his hands. Then he glanced up at Sandy. He gulped. Who was John Clark? He had never heard of him.
“For goodness sake, don’t keep me in suspense!” It was Sandy’s voice. “Open the letter.”
Dick complied hurriedly. Sandy left his position by the door and slumped in the seat beside him. A bit of a white paper fluttered in Dick’s hands. He read in a choked voice:
“Mr. Dick Kent:“If everything goes well, I’ll be seein’ you a few days after you receive this letter. Mebbe you can guess why. Mebbe it won’t be very good for your health if you stop very long at Half Way House.“Yours,“Wolf.”
“Mr. Dick Kent:
“If everything goes well, I’ll be seein’ you a few days after you receive this letter. Mebbe you can guess why. Mebbe it won’t be very good for your health if you stop very long at Half Way House.
“Yours,“Wolf.”
“So that’s it!” Sandy exclaimed excitedly.
“A threat,” said Dick.
“Wolf come an’ shoot you, Dick,” grinned Toma. “That fellow mad all over. While you got chance, you better run away.”
Dick laughed. Yet, in spite of his laughter, he did not feel very happy at that moment. Wolf Brennan was a desperate character. The Wolf felt that he had a grievance and would try to settle his score.
Dick did not sleep well that night. Though he was not willing to admit it even to himself, Wolf Brennan’s threatening letter had upset him. He lay for a long time on his bed in the loft over the trading room, his mind active and restless. Close at hand, he could hear the even breathing of Sandy and Toma and, through the open window, there was borne to him the soughing of the wind in the pines. It was a clear June night of half darkness and only partially stilled woodland noises. Birds still peeped sleepily in the trees, the little denizens of the forest spaces still moved about as they had during the brighter hours of day.
Lying there, Dick was aware of a myriad night sounds. The staunch old log building, built nearly eighty years before by members of the Honorable, the Hudson’s Bay Company, creaked and groaned in the brisk night wind. Something was flapping up there on the roof. Was that a bird that made that peculiar pecking noise just under the eaves? Trying desperately to sleep, Dick succeeded only in becoming more and more awake with each passing moment.
In despair, finally, he swung his legs over his bunk, reached for his clothes and commenced to dress.
“I’ll go outside,” he thought, “and walk around for a while. The exercise may make me sleepy.”
He slipped quietly down the stairway and thence outside. Walking briskly, he turned his steps toward the river and, upon reaching the boat landing, sat down with his back against one of the pilings, watching the water eddying along under him.
Along the shore for nearly a quarter of a mile, both up and down stream, were the brown, skin tepees of the post population. About them the stillness of night had descended. From the inverted, cone-like top of one of them, smoke issued. Dick sat and watched it speculatively. The members of that household were up early. Probably someone sick. Through the translucent walls he could see the faint reflection of a fire within.
Must be someone sick, he mused. An Indian child perhaps. A papoose suffering an attack of colic. Once he thought he heard a child’s plaintive whimper.
The flap was drawn aside and a figure emerged. Behind the first figure came a second. Dick drew in his breath sharply, slid along the rough planking and concealed himself behind a flat-bottomed boat which had been drawn up on the pier for caulking. Lying flat on his stomach, he raised his head and peeped over the top.
The Indians, who had brought the letter from Wolf Brennan, were making their way along the shore. They walked after the manner of men who knew where they were going. Reaching a point just opposite the boat landing, they swung sharply to the left, taking the path that led up along the warehouse to the trading post.
Dick’s heart thumped excitedly as he rose soon afterward and commenced following them. He went leisurely. He endeavored to keep himself concealed as much as possible by walking, not along the path, but through the bushes that grew on either side of it. For two hundred yards he stalked his quarry, finally bringing up in a clump of willows not sixty feet from the trading room. Lying concealed, his eyes were glued upon the forms of the two prowlers, who had strolled boldly up to the building itself.
Dick’s mind raced. What was the intention of those two midnight raiders? What were they up to? Had they designs upon the life of Mr. Scott, the new incumbent? Was this to be the first in a long series of reprisals aimed at Mr. MacClaren and the Hudson’s Bay Company by a disgruntled former factor and his insidious crew?
Now that it was too late, Dick regretted his folly in coming out of doors without first taking the precaution to arm himself. In case the two men broke into the trading room—and that seemed to be their intention—what could he do to prevent further depredations? Two against one, and they were armed. He was no match for either one of them physically. To make matters still worse, he recalled that he had left the door, leading to the loft, unlocked. If the Indians succeeded in forcing the door of the trading room, they would have easy access to Factor Scott’s room, which adjoined the hall at the top of the stairs just across from the space that the boys occupied.
Almost desperate because of his helplessness, it suddenly occurred to Dick that probably the best way to prevent the Indians’ entrance would be to call out sharply, attracting attention to himself. Such a move might cost him his life, but on the other hand, it might arouse the sleeping occupants of the post. In the very act of inflating his lungs another plan popped into his head.
Why not, he asked himself, follow the two Indians inside? In a flash, there had come to him a mental picture of the revolver Donald Frazer had returned to the shelf behind the counter yesterday afternoon. If the Indians went up the stairway, he would rush in, seize the weapon and could probably reach the factor’s room in time.
His body bent forward almost at right angles, he slipped out from behind his place of concealment and very cautiously commenced working his way forward. He was within thirty paces of the trading room door by the time the two Indians had forced the lock and had gained admittance. When the door closed behind them, he sprinted lightly across, not to the door but to the window. The interior space was dark and shadowy, yet he could make out the two forms hesitating near the counter. To their left was the door leading to the loft. Twenty feet to their right was another door leading to the cellar. To Dick’s great astonishment, instead of making their way to the stairway, they turned in the opposite direction, tip-toed across the floor, flung open the door and descended below.
No unexpected move on their part could have surprised him more. What did they expect to find in the basement? Dick had been there often and knew what it contained—packing cases, boxes, rolls of wrapping paper, yes, and—suddenly Dick grinned. He thought he knew now. All his panic over nothing. Petty thievery, not murder, was the motive behind the Indians’ forced entrance. Liquor was what they had come for. The Indians’ love of fire-water had led them here.
Realizing this, his tension relaxed. He decided not to go in to get the revolver after all. He’d wait until they reappeared—that would be safer. He’d keep hid. If he opened the door and stepped upon the trading room floor, no matter how quiet his footsteps, they would be sure to be heard. The loss of the liquor would be little compared to the risk he took. He’d have the goods on them anyway. Tomorrow the factor could swear out a warrant and place them under arrest.
“No,” decided Dick, “I’ll wait and bide my time.”
He had not long to wait. The cellar door opened and the two prowlers appeared, carrying two burlap sacks, bulging with what looked like bottles, and so heavy that the two stalwart natives bent under their load.
Dick slipped around the corner of the trading room, flattened himself against the side of the building and waited tensely. He heard the outer door creak lightly. He heard light footsteps pattering across the ground outside, gradually growing less distinct as they paced off the distance to the warehouse. As Dick peeped out around his corner, they passed the warehouse and disappeared from view.
Dick hurried inside, bounded up the stairway and knocked loudly at the factor’s door.
“Who’s there?” inquired a sleepy voice.
“It is I—Dick Kent, Mr. Scott. I’d like to see you.”
The creaking of a bed, the sound of footsteps moving across the floor, and the door swung open.
“Hello, Dick. Come on in. What’s the trouble?”
“Mr. Scott,” announced Dick breathlessly, following the other inside, “I’ve just been a witness to a bit of thieving. Two Indians broke into the trading room and made their way to the cellar where they stole something. I thing it was liquor. They came out carrying burlap sacks full of what looked like bottles.”
“Do you think you could identify the two thieves?” asked Mr. Scott, motioning Dick to a chair.
“Yes, I can. I can even take you to their tepee. Rough looking characters. No doubt, you know them well.”
“Pierre and Henri Mekewai,” guessed the factor. “They’re about the roughest looking pair that hang around the post.”
“I don’t know their names,” replied Dick, “but as I told you, I can identify them. I saw them come out of the tepee and followed them up here.”
The new factor’s eyes widened and he regarded Dick in some surprise.
“You saw them come out of their tepee?” he blurted. “What were you doing outside at this time of the night?”
“Oh, I assure you, I wasn’t up to any mischief,” smiled Dick. “Restless and couldn’t sleep. Thought that if I went out and walked around a while I could come back and get a little rest.”
The factor proceeded to dress.
“If you’ll wait just a minute,” he instructed, “we’ll go down and investigate. I shouldn’t wonder but what you are right about the liquor. That’s an Indian’s old trick. It’s a frequent occurrence. Don’t know why we keep the stuff. It’s only a temptation to many a poor devil who seems powerless to resist it.”
Mr. Scott continued to chat amiably while he pulled on his clothes. A few minutes later, he led the way to the basement. Reaching the bottom of the flight of stairs, he struck a match and lighted a candle that stood on a shelf. Dick following close behind him, he walked straight over to a pile of cases in the far corner, stooped down and began examining them carefully.
“I happen to know just how much there is here, so it won’t take long to determine the extent of our loss,” Mr. Scott pointed out.
Dick held the candle while the factor took inventory. At the end of five minutes he straightened up, looked at Dick searchingly, then bent down and made a second examination.
“What’s the matter?” asked Dick.
“Can’t understand it. It seems to be all here.”
“What! All of it?”
“Yes, all of it. Every case and every bottle. Nothing missing.”
Dick whistled in surprise.
“If that’s true, they’ve taken something else.”
“But there’s nothing else down here in this cellar that anyone could possibly want. I mean, nothing of value.”
“Are you sure?” gasped Dick.
“Absolutely.”
“But I tell you, they came up the cellarway carrying two burlap sacks—sacks full of something. I saw them with my own eyes, Mr. Scott. I wasn’t dreaming. I tell you they took something.”
The factor scratched his head, continuing to stare at Dick, an expression of wonderment in his eyes.
“That beats me. Don’t know what to make of it.”
Wondering and still perplexed, they ascended to the upper floor.
Factor Scott decided that he would not prefer charges against the two Indians until he had definitely discovered what they had stolen. But in the days that passed, to his increasing astonishment, he could find nothing missing. What had the two prowlers taken from the cellar? It was a question that was threshed over, pro and con, for many an hour. In Sandy’s opinion, the solution to the mystery was to be found in only one way: namely, that Factor Scott had taken a hurried inventory a few days previous to the robbery and that there were more cases of liquor in the cellar than he had on record.
“He can say what he likes,” insisted Sandy. “There is the real solution. Those two Indians wanted fire-water and they broke in and got it.”
However, when Dick reported this theory to the factor, Mr. Scott had a good laugh over it.
“It wasn’t liquor,” he smiled, “you can tell Sandy for me. Even if I did make a mistake in my reckoning, I insist that it wasn’t bottles of rum that the Indians stole.”