“Your plan is a good one,” approved Dick. “It’s the best thing to do. If Sandy and I start at once—go over to the road-house and get our horses—we can reach Fort Good Faith shortly before the corporal arrives. What do you think, Sandy?”
“We ought to go, of course. The way things have turned out, we need someone to take charge and straighten out this tangle. Corporal Rand will know what to do. I expect his first move will be to set out in pursuit of Frischette. The sooner we get Rand back here the sooner he’ll be able to follow and overtake him. Yes, we’d better start at once.”
“All right, we’ll walk over and get the horses.”
Toma gave a little start of dismay.
“I jus’ happen think, Dick— By Gar— Make me feel like silly fool. What you think I do?”
“What did you do?” Dick asked kindly.
“Yesterday I turn ponies out to eat grass.”
“Hang the luck!” exploded Sandy. “That means we’ll have to walk. We might have to look around all night before we find ’em.”
“I very sorry,” began Toma. “I—”
Sandy cut him short.
“Forget it! I don’t blame you, Toma. It’s just a bit of bad luck, that’s all.”
“An’ you don’t feel mad at Toma?” inquired that young man plaintively.
“Certainly not,” Dick assured him. “Either Sandy or I might have made the same mistake. It’s all right. We’ll walk.”
Without even returning to the cabin to determine the extent of Creel’s injuries, they shook hands with the young Indian and quickly departed. Their hurried trek back to Fort Good Faith long remained in the boys’ memory. Dick struck out with Sandy at his heels, and hour after hour they pushed on without even a pause for rest.
Both were swaying on their feet from weariness as they entered the broad meadow, surrounding the fort, and came finally to the well known trading post.
Factor MacClaren looked up from his work as the two youths entered.
“Why, hello,” he exclaimed in surprise. Then: “Whatever has happened to you. You both look as if you’d been stuck in a swamp somewhere for the last day or two. I wish you could see yourselves.”
The boys looked down at their mud-spattered garments. Sandy’s eyes were bloodshot and his shoulders drooped. Dick’s face was scratched with brambles. He had lost his hat and his hair was rumpled and streaked with dirt. Each flopped into a chair and breathed a sigh of relief.
“We made record time from Frischette’s stopping-place,” Sandy announced finally.
Sandy’s uncle laughed. “I can well believe that from your appearance. Have you been travelling all night?”
“Yes,” answered Dick, “all night. By the way, is Corporal Rand here?”
Factor MacClaren nodded.
“Arrived last night. Got in sooner than he expected. He’s waiting for you. Went out to the stables just a few minutes ago.”
“Uncle Walter,” Sandy requested wearily, “I wonder if you’ll be kind enough to notify him that we are here.” He sprawled lower in his chair. “I’m so tired that I don’t think I could walk out there. Also, while you’re at it, I wish you’d tell Naida, the cook, to prepare a good breakfast for two hungry men.”
“Men!” grinned the factor.
“Yes, men. At least, we’re doing men’s work.”
Chuckling to himself, Sandy’s uncle departed upon his errand. Not long afterward Corporal Rand himself appeared in the doorway and came eagerly toward them.
“Well! Well!” he exclaimed. “So you’re back. What luck did you have?”
“Great!” replied Dick, too weary to rise. “If you’ll sit down for a moment, corporal, we’ll tell you everything.”
When Dick and Sandy had completed their narrative, Corporal Rand sat for a long time in thought. His fingers drummed on the table.
“You’ve done much better than I expected,” he complimented them. “And to be perfectly frank, I don’t know what to think of it all. Those two men you spoke of, who attacked Creel and secured the poke, I can’t recall that I’ve ever seen them. However, your description tallies with that of two prospectors I met one time at Fort MacMurray. But that’s hundreds of miles from here. It hardly seems likely that it would be the same pair. But that is neither here nor there. You boys have practically established Frischette’s guilt. If he didn’t actually take the poke from Dewberry himself, he must have induced Creel to do it. Probably when I have seen and talked with Creel I can force the truth from him.”
“Will you place Creel under arrest?” asked Sandy.
“Not unless I can get him to confess. As yet we can prove nothing against him.”
Naida appeared at this juncture to announce that breakfast was ready, and Corporal Rand accompanied the two boys to the dining room. Dick and Sandy applied themselves with such diligence to the feast before them, that Rand refrained from asking any more questions just then. When the boys had pushed back their chairs, sighing contentedly, Rand took up the subject anew.
“I’m glad you came when you did. I’m anxious to go out on the trail after Frischette. Just now Frischette holds the key to the riddle. If we can catch him, I think our troubles will be at an end.”
Dick looked across at the policeman.
“Your suggestion, then, is to return immediately to the road-house?”
“If you boys are not too tired, I’d like to start at once.”
“Now that we’ve had something to eat, I’m ready to go,” said Sandy. “I feel a lot different than I did when we arrived here a short time ago.”
With one accord the three rose to their feet, and not long afterward secured their horses and departed. Following a hard but uneventful ride, they reached the scene of the events of the night previous. They met Toma just outside the door of the road-house. He greeted them with a cheery smile, striding forward to shake hands with Corporal Rand.
“Glad you come so soon, corporal. I get ’em Creel over here last night. Him pretty near all right now.”
“Did Frischette come back?” asked Sandy.
The young Indian shook his head.
“He no come. Creel no think he come either.”
They found Creel a few moments later, sitting, with bandaged head, in a chair near an open window. At sight of the mounted policeman his eyes dilated perceptibly. Yet otherwise he showed little of the emotion and fear the boys had expected.
But if Rand had hoped to secure information of value from the old recluse, he was disappointed. When questioned about the events of the night before, his answers were evasive. He knew nothing about the poke. He had seen no poke. The money-box, slightly battered, which Toma brought forth as evidence, belonged to him, he admitted. Why the thieves had not taken the box, Creel could not understand. It contained upward of five thousand dollars in currency.
“If this box and money belongs to you,” Rand demanded, “what was Frischette doing with them? The boys say that Frischette had this box in his possession here only two days ago. What was he doing with it?”
Creel met the policeman’s eyes unflinchingly.
“The boys must be mistaken,” he wagged his head. “The box is mine. Until last night no one has seen it. People call me a miser. Those men, who came last night, were disappointed because they expected to find more.”
Rand scowled. He saw the uselessness of further questioning. Though Creel might be aware of Frischette’s treachery, it was evident that he had no intention of attempting to obtain revenge upon him. To incriminate his confederate, would be to incriminate himself. Both would go to jail. Creel was wise enough to see that.
“Perhaps,” said Rand grimly, “you’ll have more to tell us when we bring your friend, Frischette, back and obtain possession of that poke. You could save yourself a lot of trouble by giving me a confession now.”
“I have nothing to confess,” Creel declared obdurately. “I do not understand Frischette’s disappearance. But even if you do find him and bring him back, you’ll learn nothing of value. Frischette is my friend and I know that he is not Dewberry’s murderer, that he is innocent of all wrong.”
The policeman rose to his feet, walked over and looked down at the old recluse.
“I didn’t say that Frischette murdered Dewberry. I’m convinced that MacGregor did that, just as much as I’m convinced that either you or Frischette secured the money and poke that belonged to the murdered man.”
Thus openly accused, Creel shrank back. His hands trembled. Yet, in a moment, the weakness had passed. Again, unflinchingly, he met the gaze of the man opposite.
“You are mistaken,” he declared in a clear, steady voice. “You will find that you are mistaken. Events will bear me out.”
Rand suddenly drew back. Footsteps sounded outside. Voices, scarcely distinguishable, floated to their ears. More scuffling of feet, and then the door opened. Dick, Sandy and Toma darted to their feet, staring wildly at the two newcomers:
Creel’s assailants of the night before!
For a full minute no one spoke.
It was a question who was the more astonished—the prospectors or the three boys. Corporal Rand turned his head as the two men entered and regarded them steadily. Creel had half-started from his chair, then quickly sat down again, while a queer smile puckered the corners of his mouth. If Dick had expected that Creel’s assailants of the previous night would show fear at sight of the mounted policeman he was greatly mistaken. To his surprise the big man nodded in a friendly way toward the corporal, then advanced to confer with him.
“This sure is a piece of luck,” he exclaimed, extending a grimed and hairy hand, which Rand totally ignored. “I hadn’t expected to find yuh here. Most allers when yuh want a policeman, there ain’t one within fifty miles.”
This statement, apparently, did not wholly please Rand, for he scowled lightly, his sharp blue eyes full upon the other.
“What business have you with the police?” he demanded.
“It ain’t nothin’ that concerns us,” the little man cut in, in his attempt to smile looking more repulsive and ferocious than ever. “It’s like this, constable—”
“I’m a corporal,” interrupted Rand severely.
“A’ right, corporal. As I jes’ started out tuh say Burnnel an’ me—that’s him there. He’s my pardner—is a hoofin’ it along on our way to Deer Lick Springs, when sudden like, in a little clearin’ in the brush ’long side the trail, we comes upon the body of a man.”
The prospector paused, rubbing his chin with the sleeve of his coat.
“He was dead, corporal,” he went on, “—dead as a dead crow he was, sir, a lyin’ there all stiff an’ cold with a bullet through his head.
“Fer more ’n a minute Burnnel an’ me we couldn’t speak, we was that surprised, corporal.”
“My pardner has told yuh right,” the big man hastened to confirm the other’s story. “He’s back there now, jes’ like we found him.”
During the short announcement by the two men, Rand’s expression had grown severe, as was always the case when he was thinking deeply or when he had suddenly been made aware of some new and unexpected happening. A deep pucker showed between his eyes. He motioned the partners to be seated, produced a notebook and fountain pen.
“Now just a moment,” he began, glancing sharply across at the two tale bearers. “Answer my questions as I put them to you. First of all, just where did you find this body? How far from here?”
Burnnel scratched his head.
“Le’s see—I reckon, corporal, ’bout twenty miles from here, southeast on the trail tuh Deer Lick Springs. It was on the right side o’ the trail, wa’n’t it Emery?”
“It was,” Emery corroborated the other.
“On the right side o’ the trail,” continued Burnnel, “close to a willow thicket.”
“In what position was the body?” Rand next inquired.
“The man was a lyin’ stretched out a little on his left side, one arm throwed up like this:” The speaker imitated the position of the body by putting his head forward on the table and extending his arm. “It was like that, wa’n’t it, Emery?”
Again he turned toward the little man.
“It was,” came the ready rejoinder.
“And you say there was the mark of a bullet on the man’s forehead?”
“Yep,” Burnnel answered, “an’ a revolver in the hand what was outstretched.”
“In other words,” Rand’s tone was incisive, “it looked like suicide.”
Both the men nodded emphatically.
“Yeah, that’s what it was. Suicide. An’ it happened not very long afore we had come. Yuh could see that.”
The policeman tapped softly on the back of his hand with his fountain pen. For several minutes he did not speak, then—
“You say you didn’t disturb the body?”
“No,” answered the little man, “we didn’t touch him.”
“Did you, by any chance, examine the contents of his pockets?”
The big man flushed under the direct scrutiny, while his partner, Emery, suddenly became interested in the fringe of his mackinaw jacket.
“Well, yes,” drawled the big man. “Yuh see,” he attempted to defend their actions, “Emery an’ me thought that mebbe we could find a letter or suthin’ in his pockets what would tell who the fellow was.”
“Quite right,” approved Rand. “And what did you find?”
“Nothin’,” stated Emery.
“Nothin’,” echoed his partner.
“Absolutely nothing?” Rand’s eyes seemed to bore into them.
The partners exchanged furtive, doubtful glances. Then the face of Emery darkened with a sudden resolve, and he thrust one hand in his pocket and brought forth—to the boys’ unutterable amazement—a small moose-hide pouch, scarcely more than two inches in width and three inches in length—a small poke, identical to the one Dick had held in his own hands less than twenty-four hours before. Seeing it, Dick had taken in his breath sharply, while Sandy and Toma rose excitedly to their feet and crowded forward.
“You found that?” asked Rand, wholly unmoved.
“Yes.”
“Let’s see it.”
Emery tossed it over and it fell in Rand’s lap. The corporal picked it up and examined it closely. He untied the cord at the top and opened it. He thrust two fingers inside.
“Empty,” he said.
“Yeah. Empty.”
Both Burnnel and Emery wagged their heads. Corporal Rand favored them with a keen, searching look.
“You’re sure about that. You didn’t take out its contents?”
The partners denied the implication stoutly. Their denials and protestations were so emphatic, that neither Corporal Rand nor the boys could believe that they spoke anything but the truth.
“And this was all you found?” Rand continued his questioning.
“Nothin’ else,” grunted the big man. “There wasn’t even a pocket knife or a comb or a watch, or anything like that. His pockets was absolutely empty.”
The sight of the moose-hide pouch had produced a strange effect upon Dick. His eyes kept returning again and again to the mysterious object Rand still held carelessly in one hand. Improbable as it seemed, Dick could not shake off the belief that the poke was the same one that had been taken forcibly from Creel the night before. He wondered what the old recluse thought about it all. Turning his head, he glanced sharply in his direction.
To his surprise, Creel sat unmoved, apparently uninterested. His round, staring eyes, which somehow reminded one of those of a cat, were set in a fixed stare. Occasionally, Creel’s long hand stole to his bandaged head. It was evident that nothing was to be gained here. Then Dick became conscious of a question that Rand had just asked the two men:
“You found the body along the trail, twenty miles from here. Deer Lick Springs is only ten miles farther on. What motive prompted you to return here? Wouldn’t it have been much easier to go on to your destination?”
“We thought about that,” the little man answered without a moment’s hesitation. “Burnnel an’ me we talked that over when we was standin’ lookin’ down at that man’s body. I was fer goin’ on tuh the Springs, but Burnnel he says no. Wouldn’t hear to it. He insists on comin’ back all this way tuh Frenchie’s stoppin’-place.”
“Why?” asked the policeman, turning upon Burnnel.
The big man drew a deep breath before he answered.
“It’s like this, corporal,” he finally declared. “Yuh see I had a notion that I had seen that man before. He looked like somebody I knowed what lives over this way. I wa’n’t sure, o’ course, but I had a suspicion. It sort o’ bothered me. I says to Emery: ‘We’ll go back an’ find out.’”
The pucker came back between the corporal’s brooding eyes. He looked upon Burnnel with suspicion. Dick wondered if Rand believed, as he was somewhat inclined to believe himself, that the partners were the man’s murderers.
“What did you intend to do when you arrived here?” Rand asked.
“We was plannin’ to send word tuh the police. We thought they ought tuh be notified. But afore God, corporal, we didn’t have no idea that yuh was here. Mighty lucky, I call it. Saved us a hull lot o’ time an’ trouble.”
“Yes, it was lucky,” the corporal averred grimly. “Rather fortunate for me too. You may consider yourselves under arrest, at least until I have investigated this case. You and your partner will lead me to the scene of the tragedy.”
“A’ right,” agreed Emery, his face more repellent than ever, “me an’ Burnnel’ll go with yuh. It won’t take long. If we had some horses now—”
“I’ll supply the horses,” Rand informed him.
“That’s fine!” Emery’s smile expanded into a leer. “We can go an’ get back afore night. Ain’t that right, Burnnel?”
“Yeah,” agreed Burnnel, “an’ when do we start, corporal?”
“Right away.”
“That’s a’ right with us,” said the big man, “only—”
“Yes,” insisted Rand, “Only—”
“Yuh see, me an’ Emery ain’t had nothin’ tuh eat fer a long time. Soon as we get suthin’—jes’ a bite, corporal—we’ll be ready tuh start. Ain’t that fair enough?”
Rand nodded. His brow had contracted slightly, deepening the pucker between his eyes.
“There’s one thing you’ve forgotten to tell me,” he informed them. “Burnnel, you said a moment ago that the man out there reminded you of someone. Who?”
“Yes, yes,” said the big man eagerly, “I was a comin’ tuh that. It’ll explain, corporal, why we drifts back this way ’stead o’ goin’ on to Deer Lick Springs. Yuh see, the man out there looked,” he paused, wetting his lips, “looked like this here fellow what runs this stoppin’-place—this here Frenchie Frischette.”
The three boys bounded from their seats. Corporal Rand himself started visibly. With one exception every one in the room showed his astonishment. That exception was Creel. The old recluse sat perfectly unmoved, as though he had expected, had been prepared for the strange denouement.
Soon after the departure of Corporal Rand, Burnnel and Emery, the boys sat in the big, cheerful room of Frischette’s road-house and discussed the latest episode in the chain of mysterious events.
“I never expected to encounter anything like this,” Sandy was saying. “Honestly, Dick, it gives me the shivers just to think about it. If I were called upon to express an opinion, I’d say that the farther we get into this case, the more muddled and difficult everything appears to be. For one thing, whoever would have guessed that this sudden tragedy would have overtaken Frischette. What is the reason for it? Do you really believe the story about the suicide?”
“It sounds plausible, the way they tell it, but to be perfectly frank, I think it’s a deliberate lie. Why should Frischette take his own life? It would be rather difficult to supply a motive.”
“That’s what I think. But if he didn’t take his life, how—I mean, what happened?”
“Simple enough. Burnnel and Emery met Frischette on the trail, discovered that he had the poke and murdered him. Then, having committed the crime, they became afraid. In order to save their own necks, they devised a scheme so that it will appear that the Frenchman had taken his own life. They probably arranged the body to bear out the story, placing a revolver in Frischette’s hand. They emptied the poke, hid its contents, and then came back here, intending, as they both openly admitted, to get in touch with the police.”
“Well, that is a lot more plausible than the suicide story. Do you think that Corporal Rand was taken in by it?”
“No; not in the least. They won’t be able to fool him for a minute. When they return here tonight, I’ll be willing to wager every cent I have that Burnnel and Emery are still under arrest.”
“I won’t take your bet,” said Sandy. “That’s my belief too.”
Imagine their surprise, therefore, less than four hours later, to witness the return of Corporal Rand and to perceive that he was unaccompanied. Burnnel and Emery were not with him. The horses which had borne the two prospectors to the scene of the tragedy, trotted behind the policeman’s horse at the end of a lead-rope, saddled but unmounted.
It seemed incredible to the boys that Rand, usually so careful and cautious in matters of this kind, should permit the two miscreants to slip out of his hands. It was not like him. What could be the reason for it? They could hardly wait for the policeman to dismount.
“I found everything,” said Rand a few minutes later, “just as Burnnel and Emery told us. It is unquestionably a case of suicide. Everything pointed to it. The revolver gripped in Frischette’s hand, the position of the body and the wound in his forehead. But what caused him to commit such a rash act, is a problem which we may never solve.”
While the corporal was speaking, Dick could scarcely contain himself. On two or three different occasions he started to interrupt the policeman. At the very first opportunity he broke forth:
“Corporal Rand,” he began earnestly, “you have made your investigations and, no doubt, are in a better position than we are to form an opinion. But has it occurred to you that there is something unusually mysterious about the whole affair. Sandy and I were talking it over just before you came in. And no matter from what angle we look at it, we can draw but one conclusion.”
“And what is that?” Rand was smiling.
“That Burnnel and Emery killed Frischette, afterward making it appear that the road-house keeper took his own life.”
Corporal Rand moved over to where Dick stood and patted that young man on the back good-naturedly.
“Splendid! You’ve both shown that you know how to use your heads. And now, I’ll make an admission: That was exactly my own estimate of the case up to a few hours ago. To use a well known expression, the thing looked like a ‘frame-up,’ very carefully planned by Monsieurs Burnnel and Emery. I could have sworn that they were guilty. I was absolutely sure—as sure as I am that I’m standing here—that Frischette had not committed suicide at all, but had been murdered. There was pretty strong circumstantial evidence to bear out this belief. The two men had gone to Creel to obtain the poke, and had secured it, only to lose it again through your intervention.”
The corporal paused, clearing his throat.
“Then Frischette got it from you. Now, I ask you, what would be more likely than that the two prospectors and Frischette should meet each other, that Emery and Burnnel should learn that the Frenchman had come into possession of the poke and eventually murder him in order to get it. As I have said, that was the reasonable and logical deduction, and you can imagine my astonishment to discover, almost beyond the shadow of a doubt, that such a deduction was entirely wrong. Motive or no motive, the Frenchman took his own life. I have proof of that.”
“What is your proof?” asked Sandy.
“Well, I made a search of the body and found something that both Burnnel and Emery had overlooked, a note in the inner pocket of Frischette’s coat. I know his handwriting and I am positive that the note is not a forgery.”
“What did it say?” Dick asked breathlessly.
By way of answering, Corporal Rand produced a wallet and extracted from it a small, soiled slip of paper, handing it over to the boys to read. For a moment they found difficulty in deciphering the sprawling, almost illegible script. But presently Dick read aloud:
“To whom it may concern:“I, Louis Frischette, am about to kel myself because I am veery much desappoint. I write thes so no other man be acuse an’ put in jail for what I do.Signed:“Louis Frischette.”
“To whom it may concern:
“I, Louis Frischette, am about to kel myself because I am veery much desappoint. I write thes so no other man be acuse an’ put in jail for what I do.Signed:“Louis Frischette.”
Dick’s hand shook as he handed the paper back to the policeman.
“I’m not convinced yet,” he declared.
“But here’s the evidence—the proof right here.” Rand patted the slip of paper.
“It might be explained,” Dick pointed out.
“What!” The corporal looked startled.
“How do you know that Emery and Burnnel did not force Frischette to write that note before they murdered him?”
Rand did a peculiar thing. He stared at Dick for a moment in absolute silence, then turned without a word and walked back into the stable and led out his horse. Not until he had sprung into the saddle did he trust himself to speak.
“I’m going back. I ought to be jerked back there by the nape of my neck. What have I been dreaming of? Dick, I’ll take off my hat to you. It’s a fortunate thing that one of us, at least, has not been wholly deprived of the faculty of sober reasoning.” He smiled grimly. “If this ever got to Cameron’s ears, I’d be fined six months’ pay.”
“But I may be wrong,” Dick flushed at the other’s compliment.
“Right or wrong, we can’t afford to take any chances. In any event, I’m going back before Emery and Burnnel slip out of my hands.”
And, in an incredibly short space of time, he was gone. A turn in the woodland path shut him from view. But, even long after he had gone, Dick and Sandy stood looking down the trail, across which laggard twilight had flung its darkling banners. Sandy broke into an amused chuckle.
“That’s one on the corporal. He won’t be in a very pleasant frame of mind for the remainder of the evening, will he?”
Dick scowled.
“You must remember, Sandy, that we all make mistakes. Rand’s oversight is excusable. He’s been working on this case day and night for the last six months. He’s tired out, and sometimes so sleepy that he can hardly stick in the saddle.”
“Yes, that’s right.” The laugh died on the young Scotchman’s lips. “He’s had a lot to contend with. And perhaps he hasn’t made a mistake after all. Frischette may have committed suicide. The note might not have been forced from him. Who can say?”
“Yes,” said Dick, “who can say? Why don’t you put on your thinking cap, Sandy, and find a motive for Frischette’s act?”
“That’s a bargain. We’ll find the motive. We’ll go over the details carefully in our minds and try to come to some conclusion.”
Sandy grinned. “And tomorrow morning we’ll compare notes.”
They were interrupted at this juncture by the appearance of Toma. They could see at once, from that young man’s expression, that something unusual had happened. His face, sober at all times, was unusually gray and depressed. As he came forward quickly, he kept glancing from one to the other interrogatively.
“Have you seen ’em fellow Creel?” he asked anxiously.
“Why, no, Toma,” Dick answered. “What makes you ask that?”
“Little while ago,” the young Indian enlightened them, “I think mebbe I change bandage on that fellow’s head. I look everywhere. I no find.”
“Come to think about it,” Sandy made the assertion, “I haven’t seen him myself since lunch.”
Toma’s face darkened.
“I ’fraid mebbe he run away.”
The disappearance of Creel caused the boys a lot of worry. He had left the road-house without a word to anyone and had slipped away without being seen. It occurred to Dick to question Fontaine and Le Sueur, in the hope that they might be able to throw some light on the matter. But neither of the two young half-breeds could supply any information.
“He must have gone back to his cabin,” guessed Sandy. “He’s a queer old duffer in some ways, and probably prefers to be alone. No doubt, we’ll find him there.”
But such did not prove to be the case. Creel’s cabin was empty. When the boys entered, the place was strangely silent and eerie. It was so dark within, that at first they could see nothing. It was damp and musty, and their footsteps echoed cheerlessly through the gloom.
“Strike a match,” said Dick, “and we’ll see if you can find a candle. Although he isn’t here, I’d like to look around a bit.”
The boys fumbled in their pockets. No one had a match, apparently, but finally Toma found a broken stub of one and a tiny glare flickered through the room. In its light, Sandy discovered a short piece of candle on a soap box near the fireplace and carried it triumphantly over to Toma before the match sputtered out.
It was well that the boys had decided to look around before pursuing their investigations further. The room was in complete disorder. Confusion was everywhere. Toma, who had been the last person to leave it on the previous day, was astonished at the change which had been brought about there.
“What you think about that?” he exclaimed excitedly. “Yesterday, when I leave this place, everything all right. Somebody him come an’ make trouble here.”
“Creel must have come back,” Sandy decided. “I wonder where he went to from here?”
“That seems hardly likely,” Dick spoke up. “Everything here belongs to Creel and he wouldn’t be apt to throw things about like this. It isn’t at all reasonable, Sandy. Even if he was planning to leave this place for good, he wouldn’t do this thing, unless he had suddenly gone mad.”
“Yes, that’s right. Just look at things! It’s more reasonable to think that someone came here with a grudge against Creel and proceeded to do as much damage as possible.”
The boys spent a few more minutes in looking about. A tall cupboard, at one end of the room, had been completely emptied. Its contents—parcels, packages, cans of fruit and an occasional dish or granite plate—had been swept to the floor. Chairs had been overturned. A small trap-door, entering upon a tiny cellar below the rough, board floor, gaped open. Looking at it, Dick came to a sudden conclusion.
“Do you know what I think?” he began hurriedly. “This isn’t a case of wanton revenge. There’s a reason behind it all. In Creel’s absence some person has been ransacking this place in the hope of finding something of value.”
“You guess right that time,” Toma nodded. “That’s what it look like. Somebody, not Creel, come here. Mebbe he look for box, where Creel keep all his money.”
Sandy turned upon the young Indian.
“By the way, Toma, what became of that box, the night we left here and you took Creel over to the road-house?”
“He take box with him.”
“Whoever came here,” reasoned Dick, “must have thought that Creel’s treasure had been left behind.”
Sandy scratched his head.
“Look here, Dick, do you think itwasthe box? Was it the money he came after? Why not that mysterious poke?”
Dick slapped his chum on the back.
“You have it,” he exulted. “We’re getting closer now.”
“And the plot thickens,” grinned Sandy.
“A few more tangled threads,” Dick answered, smiling. “Perhaps we’d better give up. This case is too deep and complicated for us. We haven’t the ability to solve it.”
“I quite agree with you. Not one of us is a Sherlock Holmes or an expert from Scotland Yard. We’re out of our natural element.”
“Just the same,” Dick’s enthusiasm was contagious, “we’ll have lots of fun in trying to figure it all out.”
“What we do about Creel?” Toma wanted to know.
In their interest in the new development, Dick and Sandy had completely forgotten about the old recluse until thus reminded. Where had he gone, and what was his purpose in going?
“No use in trying to do anything more about him tonight,” Dick came to the obvious conclusion. “It would be foolish to start out now to look for him. We don’t know which way he has gone.”
“Perfectly true,” said Sandy. “He has given us the slip and, even in broad daylight, we’ll probably have plenty of trouble in picking up his trail. We’ve been careless. I dread to think of what Corporal Rand will say, when he hears the news.”
Dick righted an overturned bench and sat down upon it.
“Let’s rest here for a moment and then go back to the road-house.”
Toma, who had been carrying the candle about in his hand, moved forward and placed it upon the table. Sandy drew up a chair. A short silence ensued. Outside they could hear the plaintive whispering of the pines, the rustling of leaves near the open window.
Suddenly, Sandy sat up very straight on the bench, then leaned forward eagerly, his merry blue eyes now serious.
“I’ve just had a real inspiration,” he announced. “Incidentally, I’ve fulfilled my part of our agreement. I’ve found the motive for Frischette’s suicide.”
“Tell us.”
Dick’s face lit in a half-smile. At the moment he did not take Sandy seriously. He doubted very much whether Sandy would be able to advance anything of value concerning the Frenchman’s untimely end. Yet he was mildly curious to learn what the other had to say.
“What is your motive?”
“Before I tell you,” Sandy’s eyes were sparkling now, “I want to ask you a question. Please comb that old wool of yours and help me out as much as you can.”
“Fire away,” smiled Dick.
“The other night when we took the poke away from Burnnel and Emery, can you remember what it felt like?”
Dick broke into a roar of laughter.
“Felt like? What do you mean, Sandy?”
“The poke, of course,” scowled the young Scotchman. “I’m perfectly serious. It’s important. For nearly a minute you held that poke in your hand. Didn’t you feel it? Didn’t you look at it? What were your sensations?”
“Why, why—I was too excited at the time. I had it in my hand, of course. I remember it sort of fitted nicely in my hand—a little, flat poke, made of soft leather, that was somehow pleasant to the touch.”
In his excitement, Sandy rose to his feet.
“There! That’s what I’ve been driving at. Didn’t it occur to you at the time that the poke was curiously light?”
“No, I can’t remember that it did. On the contrary. I have a sort of hazy memory that, although the poke was somewhat flat, it did contain something.”
Sandy sighed. “Well, if that’s the case, I guess my theory is already exploded.”
“What were you trying to deduce?”
“You can have it for what it’s worth. You will recall that after Burnnel and Emery had spurned the money-box, and had knocked Creel flat across the threshold, they went inside and found the poke—the thing they had come after. They weren’t inside that room more than a few moments. I don’t believe they opened the poke inside the room, and I know they didn’t open it outside. They were probably satisfied that it contained what they had reason to believe it contained—I mean, weren’t suspicious.”
“I don’t understand you.”
“Well, it’s just a possibility, of course, yet it seems quite reasonable. Anyway, for the sake of argument, we’ll say that Creel had removed everything of value from the poke. Not suspecting this ruse, Burnnel and Emery took the poke away with them. A few yards away from the cabin they are confronted by Toma, and then we relieve them of that mysterious poke. We have it in our possession only a short time. Frischette snatches it away from you. Believing that he has a fortune in his hands, he decides to make his escape, leaving Creel, his confederate, in the lurch.”
Sandy paused for breath, smiled soberly, then went on again:
“Let us say that he puts the poke in his pocket and hurries along, gloating over his good fortune. At first, he’s so busy endeavoring to put distance between him and the rest of us, that he doesn’t find it convenient to open the poke and examine its contents.
“After a time, he slackens his pace. He pulls the poke from his pocket, opens it, and, to his horror, discovers that it is empty. What is he going to do? He dare not turn back. He has no money. You will remember that Frischette was a person of sudden moods and emotions. He was violent in everything—violently happy or utterly dejected. He feels that there is nothing to do but to take his own life. A few hours later, Burnnel and Emery came along and find his body and the empty poke. Now, what do you think of that for a theory?”
“Sandy,” said Dick, in tones of deep admiration, “you’ve done well. Splendid! Very logical. I’ve almost begun to believe in your theory myself.”
“The trouble is,” sighed Sandy, “it has one very weak point.”
“What is it?” questioned Dick.
“You said just a moment ago that you were under the impression that, when you had the poke in your hand, it contained something; wasn’t quite empty.”
“No,” remembered Dick, “it wasn’t.”
“So all my clever reasoning has been in vain.” Sandy looked despondent. “The circumstances do not fit my theory.”
Another long silence.
“Let’s not discard your theory altogether,” said Dick at length. “Perhaps I can help you out a little. Two minds are better than one, you know. Permit me to offer a suggestion. From what you have said, I gather that your inference is that Creel removed the contents of the poke. Well, perhaps he did.”
“Yes, yes,” said Sandy. “Go on.”