“I hate to risk it,” said Dick. “I wish Lamont was here. He’s lazy and worthless in lots of ways but he knows the trail. Will you go out and bring him back, Toma?”
The Indian lad blinked, stared at his chum unbelievingly. Surely he didn’t mean that. Go after Lamont? Why the man wasn’t worth his salt. He broke the silence with a sudden jarring laugh.
“No. I’m in earnest,” Dick hastened to reassure the other. “I really want you to go, Toma. Find him and make him come back. You can take your gun. You must be very careful. While you’re out there after him, we’ll go on. You can follow and overtake us later.”
The Indian rose deliberately to his feet. His eyes were sparkling now in his eagerness. No need to tell Dick that he would meet his wishes, would be glad of the chance for this adventure.
“And you won’t be afraid?” Dick asked.
Toma grunted disdainfully, lifting his shoulders in a gesture that implied scorn at the mere suggestion.
“I start right away,” he informed his friend. “Mebbe you be surprised how soon I bring him back. Him lazy fellow. Not go very far before he stop an’ rest.”
“That’s the spirit. I know you’ll succeed, Toma.” Dick rose and placed one arm affectionately about the broad shoulders, a great weight lifted from his mind.
“I be gone in a few minutes. You say good-bye Sandy.”
“All right. Lots of luck, odd chap. Don’t get into any trouble. If I were you, I wouldn’t take any chances with Lamont either. If I’m not mistaken, he’s more treacherous than a wolf. You’ll have to watch him.”
“I be careful—don’t you worry. Good-bye.”
And not long afterward the young Indian stole silently forth on his dangerous errand. Expert in the use of snowshoes, he seemed to glide away, his queer shuffling motion taking him quickly across the open space to a clump of trees beyond. When Dick had joined Dr. Brady and Sandy and the little group around the campfire, he had disappeared.
“Hope he’s successful,” Sandy sighed, picking up another armful of wood to throw on the fire. “You’ve shown good judgment in sending him, Dick.”
“But it’s not a very pleasant morning,” said Dr. Brady.
Dick glanced at the lowering sky, at the black clouds rolling up from the horizon and nodded grimly.
“Yes, that’s the worst part of it, if we should have a blizzard Toma might as well come back. He’d lose Lamont’s tracks and could never find him.”
“Not in a storm,” agreed Sandy. “It would be almost impossible. But let’s hope that that won’t happen.”
Yet happen it did. They were out on the trail by that time, mushing slowly along the edge of a wide ravine, their faces toward the wind, which was very sharp and penetrating. The loose snow, covering the drifts, was awhirl by now, sweeping around them. Yet this preliminary barrage was as nothing compared to the terrific onslaught that followed. A fearful darkness descended over the earth, for the light was smothered as the snow gods hurled their challenge.
Dick and his party did the only thing possible under the circumstances. They blindly sought out the nearest shelter and clung there, helpless and as impotent as babes, mere human specks in a tremendous vortex of wind and snow. Night had fallen when finally the sky cleared. Everywhere around them were mountainous drifts, battlements, peaks and even pinnacles, showing white and ghostly in the pale starlight.
As the little party straggled forth from its shelter, the earth presented an aspect of strangeness, of newness, so entirely different from its original appearance, that one could almost believe that he had been transported in some mysterious manner to another world.
“I honestly believe,” Sandy gasped, “that all the snow in the universe has been gathered together and dropped down in this one place.”
“It certainly looks like it,” agreed Dr. Brady, as he took a step forward and slid waist-deep into a drift. “How are we going to break trail? I certainly pity your friend Toma. Do you think it will be wise to push on until we hear from him?”
Dick shook his head despondently.
“No, we’ll have to wait here. This storm is the worst thing that could have happened. Toma may not be able to rejoin us for two or three days.”
“If not longer,” despaired Sandy.
So, imagine their surprise and delight on the following morning to find the young man in question already amongst them. Toma sauntered up with solemn unconcern to the place where Dick and Sandy were endeavoring to build a fire. No apparition could have astonished them more. From their squatting position, they looked up and gasped, then rose in unison, howling like two maniacs. They descended upon the young Indian with a varied assortment of whoops and yells, lifted him up bodily between them and carried him triumphantly away to the tent of Dr. Brady.
“Look!” shouted Sandy. “Look what we’ve found.”
“He’s safe, doctor,” screeched Dick.
The center of so much interest and enthusiasm, one would have thought that Toma himself would have caught some of the infection. Not so. With each passing moment, his face became more and more gloomy, his manner more despondent. He struggled out of Dick’s and Sandy’s embarrassing embrace to a more dignified position on his feet. Soberly he waved them aside.
“You think mebbe I bring back Lamont,” he said bitterly. “It is not so. I no see him.”
With averted eyes and shamed, flushed face, he pushed the two boys unceremoniously to one side and stalked sombrely outside.
For three hours Dick had been breaking-trail steadily and had reached the point where his endurance was spent, where it seemed to him that to take one more step would result in physical collapse. Behind him straggled a perspiring, panting line of weary dogs and wearier men, while ahead—snow; acre upon acre, mile upon mile, interminable, never-ending—snow!
The sun of late afternoon shone brightly on the snow and made of it a vast, brilliant, sparkling field of intolerable whiteness. To gaze for any length of time into that field was impossible. The human eye wavered before that blinding radiance, could not for long meet and hold its glaring intensity. So it was that Dick looked down as he staggered on at the head of the column, and so it was that every other member of the party moved forward with bent head.
They were travelling northeast in the general direction of Keechewan Mission. Keechewan Mission was at the end of an imaginary straight line—a very straight line—beginning at the Mackenzie River barracks. Sometimes, because of topographical obstructions—hills, ravines, dense forests, and the like—the party was forced to deviate or detour from the prescribed route. Naturally this wandering brought confusion. No one knew with any degree of certainty whether, when they came back and attempted to get on the right track again, they were a little east or a little west or directly upon that imaginary line.
It was a problem that would have absorbed the interest of a navigator or a civil engineer. To Dick, however, it was a hopeless tangle—blindly guessing at something and hoping it would come out all right. More and more he fell to consulting other members of the party, especially Toma, who had a strong sense of direction, and who had been uncannily successful in guiding Dick and Sandy on previous expeditions.
He was thinking of all this as he plodded wearily along. Perhaps even now they were off the trail and would eventually come to grief in some forbidding wasteland, far from the haunts of men.
He heard footsteps behind him and felt the weight of a hand upon his shoulder.
“What—you break trail all time. You go back now an’ drive ’em my team an’ ride a little while mebbe. Too hard break trail an’ no stop an’ rest.”
It was Toma, of course. Always faithful and observing. A ready champion and trusted friend.
“It’s good of you,” Dick said wearily. “I am tired. My eyes hurt too. This glare is terrible.”
“It very bad,” agreed the young Indian. “One dog driver back there,” he pointed, “him almost snow-blind.”
“Glad you told me. Tonight when we make camp, I’ll send him to Dr. Brady.”
Dick stepped to one side to permit Toma to pass.
“Very well, then, you’ll take my place. But have I been going right, Toma? Don’t you think we ought to turn more to the left? I can’t imagine why it is, why I feel that way, I mean, but I keep thinking that we’re striking too far east.”
The Indian shook his head.
“No, I guess you go about right. Mebbe it no hurt to turn little more to left.”
Dick vaguely wondered.
“Why do you believe our course is about right?” he asked.
“All right,” returned Toma, “I tell you. In morning an’ at night when you look off that way,” Toma made a sweeping motion with one arm, “you see ’em big hill. We go towards that. We keep hill in front of us. If we go wrong on trail, big hill be one side or other—not in front. That’s how I know.”
“Hill,” said Dick, puzzled. “I haven’t seen any.”
“Then you not look very good. Mebbe you not look right time. Morning early, before sun him get too bright, you see ’em plain. Jus’ before sunset another good time. Tonight you try it an’ see.”
“I will,” said Dick, as he turned back to drive Toma’s team. “You may depend upon it.”
So, just before sunset, he called an early halt and while the other members of the party unharnessed the teams and proceeded to make supper, he climbed to the crest of a small hill and gazed off towards the northeast. Shadows had already commenced to appear along the hollows and ridges. There was no glare over the snow now. He could see for miles across that forsaken, desolate land.
Yet at first he could see nothing that resembled a hill. Where the horizon began, it was true, there reposed what looked like a bank of mist, but which, unlike mist, remained perfectly stationary and unchanging in form—a sort of purplish blotch against the blue background of the sky.
This, he decided, must be the hill Toma referred to. It didn’t look like one to his inexperienced eyes, yet hill it must be. The young Indian had good eyesight and a vast knowledge of the North stored away in that clever brain of his. At any rate, provided it didn’t disappear during the night, he would use that hill or blotch, or whatever it was, as the goal for tomorrow’s weary trek.
He returned to find supper waiting for him. The dog mushers sat huddled around the blazing campfires, resting after their arduous day. Dick was glad that he had called a halt earlier than usual. The physical strain of tramping hour after hour through soft, yielding drifts had been almost unendurable.
Usually after the evening meal, Dick remained beside the campfire to talk with Sandy and Dr. Brady, but tonight he felt too tired. After he had eaten, he bade his friends good-night and repaired to his tent, where he was soon lost in sleep.
When he awakened, a blue darkness still enveloped the earth. It was very early. He had a vague notion that he had been disturbed. Somewhere at the back of his consciousness was the dim memory of voices and running footsteps. But whether this was reality or a fragment of some vivid dream, he could not say. He lay still for a few minutes, listening.
Satisfied, at length, that he had heard nothing, that it was all an illusion, he turned on his side and attempted to go back to sleep. Just then there broke across his hearing, unusually clear and distinct, a shrill human cry. The cry was followed by the sound of a struggle and a muffled groan.
In a flash, Dick was up and fumbling for a candle. He tore into his clothes. He sprang to the tent opening and darted through—coatless, hatless, a revolver gripped firmly in his right hand. He made his way quickly toward the sound of struggling, arriving just as two men swayed to their feet and seized each other in another desperate embrace.
In the darkness, it was impossible to tell who the two combatants were. For the life of him, Dick could not guess their identity. However, he advanced, gun held in readiness.
“Stop it! Stop it, I say. I have you covered.”
The two figures drew apart. Dick wondered if they weren’t two of his own dog drivers, between whom ill-feeling existed, and who were employing this method to settle their differences. Imagine his surprise when the voice of Toma broke the quiet.
“Dick! You!” he puffed. “This fellow he put up pretty good fight. Twice he almost get away.”
“But who is it?” Dick asked wonderingly. “Who is it, Toma?”
“Lamont,” answered the young Indian briefly.
Dick took a step forward and almost dropped his gun.
“Lamont!” he exploded. “Lamont! Lamont! It can’t be——”
“It is,” said Toma stubbornly. “Pretty soon you find out. You see I tell you right.”
“But what in the name of—” Dick began, then paused breathless. “Lamont—what’s he doing here? How did you happen to find him, Toma? What were you fighting about?”
“I wake up over there in tent,” Toma explained, “when I hear something go by. First I think mebbe it one of the huskies. Then I hear more noise out by my sledge. I dress quick as I can an’ go out there. No gun!—nothing! An’ I find him this thief try to steal. Soon as he hear me, he start run over here, near your tent. I grab him by shoulder, but he slip away again. More run. Again I catch him. I trip him down an’ grab him by his throat. Then he make yell.”
“You’ve done well, Toma,” Dick complimented him. “Good boy!”
He turned upon the panting culprit.
“Mighty glad you’ve come back. Very kind of you. This is a pleasure we hadn’t expected,” he could not conceal, even in this attempt at sarcasm, the satisfaction and relief the guide’s coming had brought. He seized Lamont by the arm.
“Step lively now over to that tent. You’ve played your last little game with me.”
Flourishing his gun, he sent the former guide staggering ahead with a well-directed push.
“Get in there,” he thundered, “and be quick about it! We’ll have a pleasant little talk—you and I. There are a few things I want to tell you.”
He followed Lamont inside, motioning to Toma to follow him. In the feeble light of the single fluttering candle eagerly he scanned the downcast features of the man who had caused him so much misery and trouble. He pointed to his bunk.
“Sit over there.”
For a moment he glowered, then:
“What were you doing here? Why did you come back?”
The guide looked up, his squint eye gleaming defiantly, his mouth quivering with suppressed anger and humiliation.
Silence.
“Answer me!” shouted Dick.
Lamont’s eyes fell before the young leader’s unblinking gaze. His fingers played nervously with the worn fringe of his short fur coat.
“If you don’t talk,” stormed Dick, “it will go hard with you. Why did you come back?”
“I get lonesome,” lied Lamont. “I get lonesome all time out there alone.”
“A very pretty story,” laughed Dick. “You come back in the middle of the night because you were lonesome. You didn’t come back, of course, to steal. Getting hungry, weren’t you? Thought you’d come over and sample our supplies. Well, you failed. You’re a thief, Lamont, a dirty thief, and when we arrive at Keechewan I’ll turn you over to Corporal Rand of the mounted police. How’ll you like that, eh?”
At mention of the dreaded name, the guide stirred uneasily. He looked up again, his features distorted with fear.
“I no help I come back,” his voice broke. “What else I do? I get hungry like you say. You owe me money. What hurt I come here an’ get little something to eat, get mebbe few dollars grub. Anyway,” he hurried on, “you tell me no want me here. You say go.”
This, of course, was perfectly true. Dick had told Lamont that his services were no longer required.
“Yes, I told you. But you had no right to come back here to steal. Now you’ll be punished for it. You’ll remain with this party, Lamont. You’ll work. You’ll break trail. You’ll guide us. I’ll watch you close, and there’ll be a bullet for you if you try to escape. You won’t have an easy time of it like you had before, Lamont.”
The guide did not answer. He merely sat and glared at his accuser. He was nervous and ill at ease. Dick consulted his watch.
“It’s now four o’clock,” he announced to Toma. “Everyone will be awake in two hours. We might as well stay up.”
Toma rose to his feet.
“I take this fellow over to my tent,” he said winking at his chum. “Him hungry, very hungry, he say. All right, we make him start to work. He get himself big breakfast. Get breakfast for you, me too. Start campfire. Do plenty work.”
“That’s not a bad idea. I’ll go over with you.”
He motioned to Lamont to follow the young Indian outside, then remained behind for a moment to blow out the candle. A short time later, they stood around while Lamont worked.
The guide offered no objections. He was hungry, so hungry indeed, that he would have worked gladly for hours for a mere crust.
Lamont, Toma and Dick were sitting around the fire at breakfast when the camp awoke. Here and there a light flickered through the gloom. The plaintive howling of the malemutes and huskies. Drowsy human voices. The sharp, quick blows of an ax, crackling brush. Ruddy flames leaping up, brighter and brighter. More noise and bustle and confusion.
They were still sitting there, when Dr. Brady and Sandy appeared. The pair of them came up, laughing, but, at sight of Lamont wolfing his food, they paused in sheer wonderment.
Dick beckoned to them.
“It’s all right, doctor. Don’t hesitate, Sandy. Come on over. He’s perfectly harmless. Permit me to introduce him to you. Gentlemen,” he grinned, “Mr. Martin Lamont—our guide!”
The days that followed proved arduous for the guide. No longer, in lordly, domineering manner, was he permitted to ride on one of the sledges and point out the way. His hours of leisure were at an end. He took his turn in breaking trail, drove dogs, chopped wood, assisted in putting up and taking down the tents, and in many other ways became a useful and valuable member of the expedition.
His presence, distasteful as it was, had brought a quick change in the spirits of the party. Hope rose again in Dick’s heart, and his enthusiasm and energy were unbounded. He had ceased to worry about getting lost or even wandering from the trail. Threatened with the most dire punishment, Lamont was forced to set their course.
Shortly after the return of the guide, they came upon the first log cabin they had seen since leaving Mackenzie River. It stood in a thick clump of trees, and had been recently built judging from the freshly-scored logs and its general appearance of newness. A flutter of interest, not unmixed with awe and wonderment and curiosity, stirred the party. Necks craned suddenly, drivers deserted their teams to go forward to talk to other drivers, even the huskies raised their tawny heads, as if to sniff out this new mystery.
In the lead at the time, breaking trail, Sandy gave the cabin the benefit of one swift look of appraisement, then started forward on the run. He proceeded very rapidly for fifty or sixty yards, then stopped short so abruptly that the point of one snowshoe became entangled in the other and he fell headlong.
Dick and Dr. Brady both started to laugh, but the sound died on their lips. They watched Sandy rise and start back, waving his arms frantically. The driver of the first team pulled up short. The second team, close behind the first, also pulled up short, but not soon enough to prevent an entanglement, which led to a furious fight among the malemutes.
Dick and Dr. Brady ran to the driver’s assistance, reaching the scene of trouble just a moment before Sandy arrived breathless. White-lipped, the young Scotchman waited until the commotion had subsided.
“Dr. Brady,” he began, “I guess you——”
His words trailed off to a mumbling incoherence. He sat down on the sledge, gesturing a little wildly, his expression difficult to describe.
“Did you——” he inquired in horror-struck tones, “I say, did you see—see it, too?”
Dr. Brady nodded gravely. Dick stared, moistening his lips.
“A red flag,” said the physician. “We weren’t quite sure. There was something there just outside fluttering—— A cloth. A rag of some sort. Looked red.”
“Exactly,” Sandy spoke tersely with a deep intake of breath. “Smallpox!”
“Smallpox!” Dick echoed the word.
“I’ll go over,” announced Dr. Brady quite calmly. “Get my case, Dick.”
The case was brought. The physician took it smiling.
“Shall we go with you?” asked Dick.
“No; it isn’t necessary. You’d better stay here.”
The news quickly spread. Smallpox! Faces grew gray and anxious. One by one, the drivers slunk back to their places, while all talk ceased.
Finally, Sandy jerked his hand back in the direction of the cabin.
“We’ll see lots of that sort of thing before we return to the Mackenzie.”
“Yes, when we get to Keechewan. But I doubt if we’ll find another smallpox case this side of the Barrens,” said Dick. “Terrible business, isn’t it?”
Both, as if by a common impulse, looked up and stared over at the cabin. The red cloth fascinated them. It furled and fluttered softly, yet ominously, in the light breeze.
The boys wondered what Dr. Brady was doing. He had entered the cabin, closing the door after him. They both started as the door opened and their friend emerged. They saw him raise one arm, beckoning them to come closer. A little fearfully, Dick and Sandy obeyed. They were strangely excited. Stalking up before the door, they observed that the physician was very grave indeed.
“Well?” said Dick, the first one to speak.
Brady stepped away from the door and came toward them, his eyes evasive.
“There’s only one thing to do,” he announced in a curiously soft and gentle voice. “Set fire to the cabin. We’re too late.”
“Too late?” repeated Sandy.
“Yes, too late.”
“How—how many inside there?” whispered Dick.
“Two half-breed trappers—one young and one old.”
“And they both had it?” the boys asked in unison.
“Yes,” Dr. Brady’s mouth twitched at the corners. “They’re gone. We came too late. As I just said, there’s only one thing to do: Set fire to the cabin. Burn it down.”
“Burn it,” asked Sandy. “What for?”
“As a matter of precaution. To protect the lives of others. Now and again, some lone wanderer might chance this way.”
Sandy and Dick stood looking at the physician during an odd interval of silence. Of course, he knew best. They realized that. And it would save time. Dick touched Sandy’s shoulder and together the two friends moved toward the timber at the back of the house. They carried dry bark and branches, soon gathering a large pile, which they threw down in front of the door. Soon a fire was started. It mounted slowly at first, smouldering and cracking, but presently it leaped up, quickly spreading to every part of the building.
“That’s done,” Sandy sighed relievedly. “Let’s go back.”
It was a little awkward joining the party again. Yet no one questioned them. They were greeted with curious stares and frightened glances. At noon they were miles away and halted for a midday meal in the shelter of a spruce grove, through which there ran the wandering course of a tiny stream.
It occurred to Dick that this stream might be one of the tributaries of the Wapiti River, which they must cross ere long. He was discussing this possibility with Toma, shortly after lunch, when Sandy came up shaking his head.
“A pretty business! A pretty business!” he muttered, taking a place beside them. “They’re as frightened as sheep. Too bad we had to come across that cabin. Hope nothing serious grows out of this.”
“What do you mean?” asked Dick.
“Just look at them.”
Dick turned and looked toward the place Sandy indicated. The dog drivers were assembled there in an excited, gesticulating group.
“I overheard part of it,” said Sandy. “They’re telling each other that they don’t want to go on, that they’re afraid, that no white man’s medicine can save them from the horror of the plague.”
“But all of them have been vaccinated,” Dick protested.
“Sure. But they don’t realize what that means. They have guessed, somehow, that the men who lived in that cabin died. They know the meaning of that red cloth, and it has struck terror into their hearts. I heard Fontaine say that he, for one, intended to turn back.”
“Mere talk,” objected Dick. “They’ll get over it. The thing is fresh in their minds now and, of course, they’re worried. By tomorrow or the next day they’ll have forgotten all about it.”
“Do you think so. I can’t help feeling that in some way Lamont is at the bottom of this. He’s stirring them up.”
“I believe you’re right.” Dick stared moodily into the fire. “Come to think about it, I saw Lamont talking to them.”
“Well,” said Sandy, “we’d better watch him. And the others, too. You know what it will mean if they decide to leave us.”
Dick’s face shadowed, then brightened quickly. Such a possibility seemed remote. Surely, they’d do nothing of the kind. They wouldn’t dare.
“They’ll soon forget,” he said.
But in this, as it subsequently proved, he was mistaken. That night a deputation came to him. The face of each of the drivers was set and determined. Altogether they were an ominous crew. They gathered around him and abruptly Fontaine, who acted as their spokesman, spoke up:
“M’sieur Dick, these fellow,” indicating his following, “they tell me no want to go any farther. No want to die. Smallpox get ’em sure. You know that. You know everybody die pretty soon jus’ like them fellow in cabin.”
“Nonsense,” said Dick. “You’re all vaccinated.”
Fontaine shook his head with great emphasis.
“No good that. Nothing stop smallpox. Very bad. Make ’em all die, these fellow.”
“But you know better yourself, Fontaine. You know that isn’t true. We’re all safe enough. Tell them not to worry. They need not be afraid.”
A mutter of defiance ran around the little circle. Fontaine’s voice rose to a higher pitch.
“No good tell ’em that. They understand what you say. They know better.”
Dick was rapidly losing ground. In desperation, he raised one arm, calling for silence.
“But wait! Just wait!” he beseeched them. “I will bring the white doctor to you and he will explain. Dr. Brady will repeat what I have told you. There is no danger. If you do not believe me, surely you will believe him. He is a great medicine man.”
“That doctor him very much mistake,” a new voice broke into the discussion.
Turning quickly, Dick perceived Lamont standing at his elbow.
“Who askedyouforyouropinion?” Dick demanded hotly. “Lamont, keep out of this.”
The guide’s defective left eye rolled up in a way that made Dick shiver. The man stepped back, leering.
“Lamont know all about this,” Fontaine cut in quickly. “He tell me his father, two brothers die from smallpox four years ago. White doctor him there, too. Try help. No good. What you say about that?”
Dick had nothing to say. It was a lie, of course, A story to feed these frightened and credulous fools. He could see the purpose in it all.
“I tell you another thing,” Fontaine took up the thread of his plaint, now speaking triumphantly. “One of these fellows,” he pointed to a half-breed, who stood directly opposite, “think mebbe already he get sick. All afternoon his head hurt. Him feel very hot—deezzy.”
“Faugh!” grunted Dick. “It isn’t the smallpox. He wasn’t within three hundred yards of the cabin. And even if he were exposed, he wouldn’t get sick less than ten hours later.”
But the drivers were obdurate. Sandy, Toma, and later, Dr. Brady himself took turns in pleading and arguing with them, but to no avail. Fontaine insisted that one of their party had already contracted the disease, so the physician examined the man while the rest of the drivers went to their tents. Outside Brady’s tent, Dick, Sandy and Toma waited impatiently.
“Well,” asked Sandy, when the doctor finally appeared, “what is your verdict?”
“I’m not quite sure yet,” answered the physician. “But the symptoms are—smallpox.”
“How can that be? He’s vaccinated,” Dick protested.
“Yes, on several different occasions, but the vaccine took no effect. There are cases like that.”
Dick moved over to one of the sledges, too discouraged and alarmed to trust himself to speak. For several minutes he stood, gazing off across the white bleak waste of snow and wilderness. Back near one of the campfires, the drivers had come together again to discuss the all-important topic.
“You see what we’re up against, doctor,” Dick turned suddenly. “If they won’t listen to reason, we’re beaten.”
“Yes,” echoed Sandy, “we’re beaten. Licked. We can’t go on without drivers.”
The doctor rubbed his chin thoughtfully.
“The situation may not be quite as serious as you think,” he attempted to cheer them. “Before morning they’ll probably change their minds.”
Dr. Brady broke off a twig from a branch above his head and sat down on the sledge near Dick, commencing to trace queer patterns in the new, loose snow.
“It will soon be time to start on again, won’t it?” asked the doctor.
“It’s eight-thirty,” Dick replied. “We should have started a half hour ago.”
“Why not try taking a firmer hand with them,” suggested Brady. “Tell them that if they won’t go on with the party, they can return without supplies. That ought to frighten them.”
“I’ll try it,” Dick fell in with the suggestion. “Come on. We must do something. I want you fellows to back me up. Maybe there’ll be trouble.”
The drivers were still arguing amongst themselves as the four approached.
“Fontaine, come here.”
The spokesman drew away from his fellow conspirators.
“Yes, M’sieur Dick.”
“Tell the others to harness the dogs. It’s time to start.”
Fontaine’s eyes sought the ground.
“They no go, m’sieur,” he declared doggedly.
“What do they intend to do?”—brusquely.
“Nothing. They say go back to Mackenzie.”
“Utter nonsense. You’ll never make it. It’s hundreds of miles south of here. You’ll starve before you get there.”
“Starve!” exclaimed Fontaine. “But, M’sieur Dick, you mus’ be mistake. You have plenty grub here. Fellows no go back without grub.”
“That’s exactly what they’ll have to do if they leave this party—everyone of them. You’ll get nothing from me. I’ll shoot the first man that makes an attempt to take anything with him. Do you understand, Fontaine?”
The spokesman blinked and backed away. Here was a turn of events neither he nor any of the others had anticipated. It made their position somewhat untenable. It required careful consideration—more discussion. Quickly he turned and broke forth in Cree. It volleyed from him. He punctuated his talk with rapid-fire gestures.
When he had completed his oration, a deep silence fell. It was an angry silence. The half-breed drivers glowered.
“Well, what’s your decision?” Dick spoke sharply.
Fontaine was coldly deliberate.
“We eight men against four. We no go on. Fellows get supplies an’ start back to Fort Mackenzie.”
Dick was astounded. He looked up appealingly at Dr. Brady, his pulses quickening. He observed that Sandy’s hands trembled. A sudden movement among the dog drivers attracted his attention. All of them had started forward menacingly, then as quickly fell back. For a brief moment Dick wondered at this hesitancy on their part, but catching sight of Toma, the truth of the situation flashed over him. That young man stood, fondling an ugly-looking revolver, his eyes defying them to come on.
Sandy was quick to see their temporary advantage, and he, too, whipped out his gun. The mutinous dog drivers attempted to slink away, but Dick perceived their little ruse and stopped them peremptorily:
“No, you don’t. Stay right where you are until I relieve you of your guns.”
Three of the men carried revolvers, while all of them possessed knives. He quickly secured all these, placing them on one of the sleighs. Then, while Sandy and Toma kept the men covered, he and Dr. Brady hurried over to the tents and sledges, returning with three rifles and four more revolvers.
“Quite an arsenal,” puffed Dr. Brady.
“Yes, and they won’t get them back either,” Dick retorted. “Without arms, they’ll be helpless. During the day while we’re traveling, I’ll keep them on my sledge with the mail, and at night in my tent with a guard posted. That means we’ll have to take turn, the four of us, at sentinel duty.”
Placing their load of weapons on Dick’s sledge, they rejoined Sandy and Toma, who still guarded the mutineers.
“You can put away your guns,” ordered Dick.
“But what about these prisoners?” Sandy asked.
“I think they’ll be willing to go back to their teams now. Is it not so, Fontaine?”
The stalwart French half-breed pretended not to hear.
“Fontaine,” Dick raised his voice, “did you hear what I said? You can all go now. Take up your tents, harness your dogs the same as usual, and get ready to start.”
The dog drivers were at a disadvantage and they knew it. There was nothing to do but to obey. Yet it was with much muttering and grumbling, that they turned again to their morning’s routine. They would bide their time. The boys had gained the upper hand now, but this was only the first round in a battle of wits. Tomorrow, perhaps, they might be the victors.
“We’ll have to watch them day and night,” Sandy declared, shoving the revolver back in its holster and turning away. “Heaven help us, if they ever get a chance at those guns again—or those deadly-looking knives.”
“Yes,” agreed Dr. Brady, “I don’t like their looks. Naturally, they’ll resent this. I think that we can expect trouble. I’ll volunteer for the first night’s guard duty.”
“That’s splendid of you, doctor,” Dick smiled. “But we’ll let you off easy. You can stand guard from eight until twelve tonight, and I’ll take your place for the remaining hours until morning.”
The first day, following the events narrated above, passed without incident. On the second day, however, the driver, whom Fontaine said had contracted smallpox, and whom Dr. Brady later had examined, died suddenly. The morale of the party tottered. If ever the half-breeds had placed any faith in the medicine of the white man, they lost it now. Again they became panic stricken. The muttering and the complaining broke out afresh. Hourly, it grew more and more difficult to keep them at their work. Dick found it necessary to have either Sandy or Toma drive the last team in the line, with instructions to be ever on the alert, their revolvers always in readiness.
That night, fearing trouble, Sandy, whose turn it was to stand guard for the first part of the night, asked Dick to keep him company.
“I hope you don’t mind, old chap. The truth is, I’m a little bit afraid. I have a feeling that the time is nearly at hand for them to strike. I don’t like the way they’ve been acting.”
“Nor I,” said Dick. “They’re up to something. They gather about in little groups, whispering. Fontaine and Lamont keep stirring them up.”
“Their first move,” reasoned Sandy, “will be to try to get back their rifles and cartridges. With these in their possession, they’ll be able to take what supplies they want and return to Mackenzie.”
“A sorry day for them if they do,” Dick declared. “Inspector Cameron will know how to deal with them.”
“Of course, that is true. But they don’t stop to think about that. Their chief worry now is to get away.”
As usual, the mail and guns were taken to Dick’s tent, where the two boys stood guard. This constant vigilance was wearing upon them. The three boys and Dr. Brady suffered from lack of sleep, yet each day they were compelled to carry on. There was no help for it.
Despite Sandy’s presentiment, no attack was made that night, nor yet on the following day. Late in the afternoon, while crossing a low chain of hills, they perceived, about a quarter of a mile away, a small Indian encampment, consisting of four lonely tepees.
“There may be smallpox there,” said Dr. Brady. “I’d better go over there.”
Leaving Sandy and Toma behind to watch the camp during their absence, Dr. Brady and Dick went forward to investigate. They were received warmly at the first tepee, and were informed that no one was ill. In fact, the Indians had not even heard of the epidemic. At each of the tepees in turn they were received graciously until they came to the fourth and last.
Here their reception was very cool indeed. The place was occupied by an aged Indian couple and by a young man, evidently their son. This young man became very angry upon their entrance. He sat opposite the entrance, blankets wrapped around him, and scowled continuously. When Dick questioned him, he refused to answer, pretending that he did not understand. The old Indian squaw seemed to be the only one equipped with vocal powers. Over and over, she kept repeating the words in English:
“Go ’way! Go ’way!”
“Don’t seem to be very popular here,” grinned Dr. Brady. “Well, there’s no use of staying very long. I’ll vaccinate them as quickly as I can and then we’ll be on our way.”