Dejectedly, Dick put one of his rifles on the ground and sat down upon it. He was breathing hard, but not from the effects of the race. His triumph had been short-lived. He leaned forward and put his head in his hands.
“The villagers are panic stricken,” Sandy informed him. “They’re about done for. They’ve lost all hope, and I don’t think they’re to be blamed very much either.”
Dick raised his eyes. A crowd had gathered round him. It was a silent crowd. Dejection showed in every face. Somewhere, at the edge of the gathering a woman was crying softly. Dick staggered to his feet.
“Her husband was one of the servants the Indians took,” Sandy explained. “Everyone here believes that we’ve seen the last of those four men. They’ll all be murdered.”
Dick found his voice.
“Does anyone know which way that attacking party left?” he demanded.
“There are plenty who can testify to that. They went north into the barrens.”
“Is there an Indian village up that way?”
“Yes, about four miles from here. What do you suggest doing, Dick?”
“We can do one thing only,” Dick’s tone was tragic. “I’ll call for a party of volunteers and set out in pursuit.” He raised his voice: “Come now, who will be the first to go with me?”
Toma stepped forward.
“I go,” he said.
Sandy was scarcely a foot behind him.
“I’ll be one.”
A moment’s hesitation, then the tall form of a villager drew away from the crowd.
“I will accompany my white brothers,” he asserted.
Others also came forward. By ones and twos they shambled up—tragic-eyed men, frail, hollow-cheeked youths, white-haired veterans of a hundred trap-lines. Steadily they came and took their places at Dick’s side.
Four miles is not far. In the north country, where distance plays such an important part in the lives of the inhabitants, four miles would be accounted but a step, a unit of space hardly worth considering. Yet to Dick and his party, who had set out in pursuit of the Indian invaders, it seemed a long way indeed. It was a weary trail and a hard one. It was fraught with danger, with grave foreboding.
It seemed to the young leader, as they fared forth across that ghastly moonlit field, that his life had been spent on trails. Daily he walked along some trail. At night he slept beside one. When chill morning broke across a bleak snow-covered land, it was only to resume that never-ending, continuous trek.
It was a sort of Nemesis that haunted him. Somehow he couldn’t get away from it. The trail!——It was there always. It beckoned to him. It defied him. It led him wearily, doggedly on to new dangers and disasters.
On the night in question, the four miles seemed inconceivably long. The feet of his party dragged. A moody silence hung about them. No one laughed. Conversation had ceased. Behind him came the monotonous crunch, crunch, crunch of scores of snowshoes, beating out a path. Crunch, crunch, crunch—tired, laggard feet moved hesitatingly, moved fearfully, ready at the slightest pretext to turn and flee.
Neither Dick nor his two chums believed that in case of an attack, any of the Indians, comprising their party, would make a stand. They were too fearful. In the final crisis, so Dick believed, he would be forced to depend solely upon his two friends and himself. Yet in numbers there is strength. Their imposing array would be sure to impress the enemy.
They reached the village. They bore down upon it, forty strong, shouting their defiance. With their rifles ready, they entered the outskirts, laggard steps becoming more laggard, frightened faces becoming more frightened as the crisis approached. They were offered no resistance. Could it be that the village was asleep? A few huskies sniffed at their heels. A papoose cried in one of the tepees they passed. Still they went on.
In the brilliant star-sprinkled sky a few clouds were visible. One particularly dark cloud passed across the moon. Shadows fell athwart the tepees. It was darker now. The forms of Dick’s followers became shrouded in gloom. Along the white snow surface crept a huge dark stain, an immensity of shadow that blotted the earth.
The tepees were black blotches now against a dark background. Out of this obscurity, coming as unexpectedly as a fire-siren, shrieking its warning, there rose a blood-curdling, hideous yell. Dick literally froze in his tracks. A cold sweat broke out upon his face. He had scarcely the strength to stand upon his tottering legs.
The yell was followed by the cracking of rifles, the whining of bullets. Appalled, his men drew back. For a brief moment they stood their ground, then broke and fled in confusion. The retreat became a rout. Panic spread, rifles were hurled to one side, and a few minutes later Dick’s valiant supporters disappeared from view, swallowed up in the semi-darkness.
Dick saw the absolute futility of attempting anything further that night. Moving more leisurely, he and his two chums followed his defeated column. Again the trail oppressed him. Hope had gone glimmering. He had reached the end of the road. He heard Sandy speaking in mournful tones:
“Well, I guess there isn’t much we can do now. It’s all over. I wouldn’t give one whoop for Dr. Brady’s chances now, or the priest’s either. What do you think about it, Toma?”
For once the young Indian was at a loss to know what to say. He shook his head and walked on beside them.
“I’m tired of it all,” said Dick. “Our luck has deserted us. There used to be a time, Sandy, when we could stumble through difficulties blindly. But I’m afraid that that time has passed. We’re up against a solid rock wall. We can’t scale it. It’s too high for our puny strength. We’re helpless.”
“And yet,” said Sandy, almost reverently, “Corporal Rand came up here single-handed to accomplish what we have failed to do with forty men. Have you stopped to think about that?”
“Yes, but Corporal Rand is licked too.”
“The trail did that. I’m willing to bet that if Corporal Rand were here now, he’d dare to go back to that Indian village alone, and would probably be successful too.”
“I realize that. But how do they do it? It’s a thing I’ve often wondered at.”
“I can’t explain it myself,” said Sandy, “unless it is the awe in which they are held. You see, Dick, all the people who live in this north country know what wonderful men they are, how brave and determined. They’re afraid of them. But it’s something more than fear. It goes deeper than that. It’s—it’s——I can’t tell you what it is. It isn’t exactly awe or reverence or fear. Perhaps it is a mixture of all these things. I really can’t tell you.” They struggled on, soon reaching the village, where they were met by Father Michaud, who was now in charge of the mission. Father Michaud carried a lantern. He was a much older man than either of his two associates. He held the lantern out before him, and as the boys came closer, peered up anxiously in their faces.
“Ah, monsieur, is it not terrible. Ees everyone safe? Are there no dead? So terrible—so terrible!” he lamented. “Even from here I hear those awful shouts an’ ze sound of ze rifles. Did you make a brave ree-sistance?”
“How could we?” answered Sandy. “Everybody ran away. At the first sound of firing, our brave little army vanished like a flock of frightened sheep.”
“An’ you saw nothing of ze Father Bleriot an’ ze good Dr. Brad-ee?”
“No. We saw nothing of them.”
“Et ees so terrible,” wailed the priest “Tomorrow will you go again?”
“I’ll have to think that over,” Dick replied. “But what is the use. If you can supply me with some really brave and courageous men, I’ll undertake to bring the good father and Dr. Brady back.”
“Ah, but my people, zey are so prostrate, so heavy with grief. Ze spirit has gone out of them.”
“Well, I’m not surprised at that,” said Sandy, a little more charitable.
“Et ees to be regretted zat ze policeman ees seeck. He ees a wonderful man, zat Corporal Rand. Nothing on earth can stop zat man.”
“What did I tell you,” whispered Sandy, nudging Dick’s arm. “He knows it too.”
“What will monsieur do now?”
“First of all, we’ll have something to eat and a few hours sleep. After that, we can make our plans. To be perfectly frank, Father Michaud, I don’t know what to do.”
Dick’s shoulders seemed to droop as he made the assertion. He was feeling the weight of his responsibilities, had reached the point where it seemed impossible to go on.
And then, suddenly, there flashed through his mind the grim figure of the Inspector of Police. The steel-gray eyes were regarding him.
“If I didn’t have implicit faith in you, I wouldn’t send you on this expedition.”
Implicit faith in him! Yet he wondered if Cameron, knowing of the odds against them, would have held out hope for their ultimate success.
“Et ees too bad zat Corporal Rand ees ill,” Father Michaud repeated. “Zey would be afraid of him; monsieur. Zey see ze mounted police an’ zey are afraid.”
Suddenly Dick had an idea. He turned quickly to the priest.
“Father Michaud, where is the man I captured earlier in the night? Where is he now?”
“In one of ze cabins. Zey have put a guard over him.”
“Father, will you lead me to that cabin?”
The priest nodded. He commenced hobbling down the road. They followed him and turned into the narrow street, with the row of cabins on either side. They hurried on through the dim light of early morning, presently drawing up before a low structure, in front of which stood a native, a rifle clutched in his hands.
“Open the door,” said Dick in Cree. “I wish to see the prisoner.”
They entered the dark interior. The guard struck a match and lit the tiny taper that had been placed on the mantle above the fireplace.
In front of the fire, rolled in a blanket, which had been provided him, lay Dick’s former track-mate. Toma aroused him by shaking his shoulders none too gently, yanking him to an upright position. The man daubed at his eyes, looking sleepily about him.
“What is your name?” asked Dick in Cree.
“Tawanish.”
“All right, Tawanish, I’m about to release you. You can go back to your own people.”
“Dick, are you mad?” suddenly interposed Sandy. “Have you taken leave of your senses? Do you realize what you are saying? No, Dick, we will hold him here as a hostage. They have Dr. Brady and Father Bleriot. We have this man.”
Dick turned almost angrily upon his chum.
“Please, Sandy, don’t interfere. I know what I’m doing.”
He turned again to the Indian.
“Tawanish, I am sending you back to your own people. You can go free.”
“It is very good of my brother,” stammered the Indian, blinking at his liberator.
“You will carry a message to your people,” Dick went on. “Do you understand that, Tawanish—carry a message. You must remember what I say, else it will go hard with you and them.”
“What is the message?” Tawanish asked.
“You must tell them,” Dick replied, choosing his words carefully,”—you must tell them, Tawanish, that the mounted police have arrived. Corporal Rand is here. Tell them that they must release the good father and the white medicine man. As soon as you return and tell them this, they must release these two men and give them a convoy back to this village. Do you understand what I have told you?”
“Yes,” answered the Indian. “I understand.”
“This Corporal Rand,” Dick resumed, “is a terrible man. He is one of the greatest among all of the mounted police. If you do not comply with his request, his vengeance will be sure and certain. Do you follow me, Tawanish?”
“I understand what you have said. It shall be done.”
“Very well,” said Dick. “Know you then that if the good father and the white doctor do not return to us before the time of the noonday sun, Corporal Rand will proceed to your village.”
Sandy and Toma stared in open-mouthed amazement.
“You’re mad!” sputtered Sandy.
“If you will come with us, Tawanish, I will give you back your gun. Then you can start at once.”
They filed from the room. Outside Dick dismissed the guard, then led the way to his own billet, where he had left his captive’s rifle. Extracting the cartridges, he handed it over to Tawanish.
“Go,” said Dick, “and give your chief and your people my message.”
The Indian’s departure was sudden and abrupt. He streaked for the door. Father Michaud touched Dick’s arm.
“I hope,” he declared, “zat you have not made a serious meestake, monsieur. Do you think zey will heed your request?”
Dick sat down on the edge of his bunk, under the accusing gaze of his two chums.
“I don’t know,” he answered. “There’s a chance.”
The pent up rage and anger, which had been seething within Sandy’s breast, suddenly broke forth.
“You fool! You fool! Of all the unthinking, crazy actions I’ve ever witnessed, this is the worst. Do you realize what you’ve done? Do you know what will happen now? Wouldn’t listen to me, would you? Nor Toma? Nor Father Michaud? You—you——”
Sandy’s tirade ended in a choking and sputtering wholly unintelligible.
“What have I done?” asked Dick.
“You haven’t the sense to see it, so I’ll tell you. The Indians might hesitate about killing Dr. Brady and Father Bleriot as long as we had one of their own people here. They’d be afraid that if they did commit such an act, we’d retaliate by taking the life of that Indian.”
He paused, clearing his throat.
“Now, by your colossal blunder, you have made the way easy for them. They can kill them with perfect impunity. Dick, how could you be so thoughtless. Your plan won’t work. You acted on impulse. I’m sure,” more kindly, “that if you’d paused to reason it all out in your mind, you’d never have taken that step.”
Dick had nothing to say. It did seem as if Sandy were right. It was an awful moment.
“Well,” said Sandy, “we might as well go to bed. There is nothing more that we can do now. Come on, Dick, let’s tumble in.”
The priest turned away quietly and left the room. They could hear the crunch of his footsteps outside. Toma and Sandy sat down and commenced pulling off their moccasins. But Dick did not stir. His hopeless, tragic eyes stared into the fire.
Sandy consulted his watch. His face was anxious. Little worried lines showed under his eyes and at the corners of his mouth.
“It’s eleven o’clock, Dick,” he announced. “One hour to go. If they aren’t here by twelve, they won’t come at all.”
“Yes,” said Dick miserably. “Eleven o’clock. But they may come, Sandy.”
The suspense was difficult to endure. In the last half hour, Sandy’s watch had been jerked from his pocket no less than seven times. The three boys sat in their billet and marked the slow passing of time. All through the morning they had experienced a nervous tension, which was becoming rapidly more and more acute. Toma paced up and down the floor, paying little heed to what his two chums said. Occasionally, he looked out through one of the frosted windows, straining his ears for the shout that would announce the safe return of the two captives.
In his heart, Toma half-believed that Dick’s plan would work. He knew the awe and reverence in which the mounted police were held. If Dr. Brady and Father Bleriot were not sent back, it would be because the Indians had come to the conclusion that Dick’s statement regarding Corporal Rand was merely a bluff.
Sandy’s watch ticked off the seconds. Dick stepped forward to stir up the fire. There came a timid knock at the door.
It was Father Michaud. He shuffled through the doorway, his robes rustling about him, his thin bare hands rubbing each other to restore their sluggish circulation.
“Ah, monsieurs,” he broke forth, “I have slept but ill. Et ees most difficult theese slow waiting. Do you not think, monsieurs? All night I worry veree much. Zen I pray, monsieurs. Et ees a great help.”
Sandy pulled forward a chair for their unhappy visitor.
“Sit-down, father. Take a place here close to the fire.”
“Merci.You are kind, monsieur.”
He half-turned in his chair.
“Do you think zey will come?” he asked, addressing Dick.
“I do not know.” Dick’s face was tragic. “I’m afraid, father, they may not come.”
For twenty minutes the priest kept alive a failing conversation. Occasionally, Sandy consulted his watch. Time slipped by.
“Twenty minutes to twelve,” said Sandy, at the end of what seemed like an eternity.
Toma continued his pacing back and forth. Dick sat huddled in his chair. The priest rambled on.
“Ten minutes to twelve,” Sandy informed them.
Dick could endure the suspense no longer. He rose, crossed the room, and flung open the door. A cold draft of air whirled in across the floor. Toma hurried over to where Dick stood and peered over his shoulder. They heard a shout. It brought Sandy and Father Michaud to their feet. Villagers were running in the street. A crowd had gathered.
“They—they’ve come back,” blurted Dick, darting through the door, Toma right behind him. They joined the throng.
In the center of the crowd stood, not Dr. Brady and Father Bleriot, but—and Dick’s heart sank at the sight of him—their captive of the night before. In his hand he waved something—something white. With Toma acting as his interference, and employing football tactics, Dick plunged through, gaining a place by the side of the messenger. He seized the piece of birch bark and scanned it eagerly. It was covered thickly with Indian signs and symbols.
“Toma,” cried Dick, “can you make this out? Tell me, what does it say here?”
Toma took the birch bark in his own trembling hands, studied it for a moment, then in a fit of anger threw it at his feet, where with one foot he trampled it in the snow.
“What does it say?” Dick’s voice was shrill, plaintive.
“It say,” stormed Toma, “that you tell ’em big lie about mounted police; that Corporal Rand no come here at all. They make you big laugh.”
At that instant Dick bethought him of the messenger. Defy him, would they? Well, he’d see about that. At least, he’d seize their messenger. He sprang forward with this purpose in view, but the Indian slipped under his arm, dodged behind the tall figure of one of the gaping natives, and before anyone could prevent it, had made his escape. At that moment, Sandy came plowing through the ranks of the spectators, shouting hoarsely.
“Where is Dr. Brady?”
“He didn’t come back.”
“What’s all this rumpus about then?”
“That Indian prisoner I released last night came back with a defiant message, which says that they, the Indians, don’t believe that the policeman is here.”
“And the messenger?”
“He slipped away from me.”
Dick ordered the crowd back with an authoritative wave of his arm. His feeling of hopelessness and despair had given place to anger, to a consuming, burning rage. The Indians had defied him openly. They were making a fool out of him. They had called his bluff.
It occurred to him that he could recruit another attacking party and go to the doctor’s rescue. But the memory of his experience of the night before still rankled in his mind. No—if he were to accomplish anything, it would be through his own efforts, and with the assistance of only Sandy and Toma. He beckoned to his chums.
“Let’s go back to the billet,” he suggested, “and talk this thing over.”
As his two friends came up, he linked his arms in theirs and began:
“I can see now, Sandy, that I have made a terrible mistake. I’ve got myself in a hole and may never be able to get out of it. Just the same, I don’t intend to give up. I’m not licked yet. I want to know if you boys will stand behind me.”
“Yes, Dick, we’re with you,” Sandy assured him.
“You depend on us,” added Toma.
Back in the billet again, they commenced to lay their plans. On the previous night they had tried, by the superiority of their numbers, to intimidate the enemy. They had failed. Now they would employ stealth. That night, they decided, the three of them would creep up to the Indian village and attempt a rescue.
“We may be successful,” said Sandy. “We have a chance, at any rate.”
“Our last chance, too,” declared Dick. “If we fail in this, it is all over.”
A little later, Sandy went over to the mission store to purchase a few supplies. Toma remained behind, his head bowed deep in thought. Silence had come to the room, broken only by the breathing of the boys and the crackling of the logs in the fireplace. After a time, Dick rose.
“I suppose we’d better be thinking about lunch.”
Of a sudden, Toma darted to his feet. He had sprung from his chair so quickly, that Dick, who was looking at him, could scarcely follow the lightning movement. Toma hugged himself in ecstacy. He seized Dick in a smothering embrace, whirling him around and around.
“Dick, listen me,” he shouted. “I know what we do now. I think it all out. It come to me in flash. Sandy no need go at all. Jus’ you, me go. We go this afternoon. Hurry—you follow me quick!”
Blindly Dick followed the other. He trotted down the street in the wake of his excited chum, wondering what it was all about. They hurried past the mission school, reaching, finally, a low dwelling, into which, without a moment’s hesitation, without even the preliminary of a knock, Toma darted.
It was the house which harbored Corporal Rand. Upon the afternoon of their arrival, the policeman had been placed here with an Indian woman in attendance. He was here now, sitting propped up in a chair in front of a pleasant fire.
“Good morning, corporal,” both boys greeted him.
The policeman turned his head. As he did so, the boys stopped abruptly. A remarkable change had taken place in him. His cheeks were fuller now. His eyes burned less brightly. The heavy beard-growth had been removed. He smiled a wan greeting.
“Dick and Toma, as I live! Where did you come from?”
“We have a billet down the street,” answered Dick.
“Ah, yes; and I have been ill. Very ill. I can remember—it is so difficult to remember—but I was on the trail, wasn’t I? A difficult trail. And what is the name of this place, Dick?”
“Keechewan.”
“Keechewan! Keechewan!” Corporal Rand repeated the name. “It sounds familiar, doesn’t it?”
Toma was beside him now—standing very close, looking down into the sick man’s eyes. He suddenly stooped and whispered something into Rand’s willing ears, then drew back smiling.
“It is all right,” he announced to Dick, who had come closer. “Corporal Rand he say all right. Him willing we go. We must hurry very fast, Dick. You go back to billet an’ pretty soon I go there too.”
And almost before he realized it, Toma had seized his arm and was dragging him toward the door.
“Quick!” he commanded. “You go back to billet. I know place where I find two horses. You get us something to eat in plenty hurry. Two rifles, cartridge belts, revolvers——You work quick—plenty fast. So me too.”
“But Toma,” protested his bewildered companion, “I don’t see. I don’t know——What——”
“No time ask ’em questions now. Do like I say. Quick! Hurry!”
Through the open doorway Dick was bundled, pushed, treated somewhat roughly, considering that Toma was his friend. Outside in the chill air, he had started to protest again, but the door was slammed in his face.
“You be good fellow. Hurry now!” the inexorable voice boomed at him through the heavy barrier. “I be along mebbe eight, ten minutes.”
There was nothing left for him to do except obey. Shaking his head, wondering what new form of insanity had seized hold of his friend, he wheeled about and struck back towards the billet. There he gathered up a bundle of food, secured the rifles, cartridges and revolver—exactly as he had been instructed—and sat down to wait.
In a remarkably short time Toma appeared. His coming was heralded by the clatter of hooves. Dick heard a voice calling to him.
Toma did not even dismount, as Dick thrust his head through the doorway.
“Is that my horse?” asked Dick, feeling a little foolish.
“Your horse. Bring ’em rifles an’ grub an’ jump up into saddle quick.”
Sandy was just coming down the street, his arms loaded with provisions, when the two horses, their flanks quivering, nostrils dilated, leaped from the trodden snow around the doorway and galloped away like mad.
They turned off on the north trail, whirling past an open-mouthed sentry, who, in his hurry to get out of the way, stepped back in a huge snowdrift and sat down. They streaked over a narrow bridge, spanning a creek, shot up the steep embankment on the farther side and, at break-neck speed, headed for the open country in the direction of the Indian village. It was not until they were two miles out, that Toma drew in his horse.
“We stop here for a few minutes,” he informed Dick.
“What for?”
Toma produced a bulky package, deftly opened and shook out—a frayed crimson tunic of the mounted police.
“What’s that for?” Dick gasped.
“You put ’em on—quick! You Corporal Rand now. Indians be much afraid when we ride up.”
Trembling, Dick removed his own coat and put on the crimson garment. They rode on again.
It was all that Dick could do to sit erect in his saddle, much less simulate a quiet determination, a bravery he did not feel. The two miles dwindled into one. The remaining mile to the village—how quickly did it seem to slip away past them, bringing them closer and closer to that unwavering row of brown tepees.
Their horses went forward at a walk. From the tiny dwellings emerged human figures. Malevolent eyes were watching them. Dick caught the flash of sunlight on some bright object, probably a rifle barrel, and he grew rigid in the saddle, instinctively reaching toward the holster at his side. Toma detected the motion and soberly shook his head.
“No do that,” he advised promptly. “Mounted police never pull gun ’til other fellow get ready to use his. What you say we make horses go fast? Gallop right up to village.”
Dick approved the suggestion. For one thing, a flying mark is more difficult to hit. Another thing, it gave a touch of realism to their bluff. It was exactly what a mounted policeman would do.
So, when less than fifty yards from the nearest tepee, they dug their heels into their ponies’ flanks and cantered briskly up. They approached the first two tepees and passed them without mishap. But Dick’s heart was in his throat now. His cheeks were drained of color. With increasing difficulty, he kept his place astride his plunging horse.
Indians were pouring out of their domiciles, like disturbed bees from a hive. A low murmur came to the boys’ ears. Form after form they flashed by, scarcely conscious of where they were going until, by chance, they perceived that toward the center of the encampment there had gathered an excited crowd of natives, who were watching their approach. Toward this crowd, they made their way at a quick gallop.
Dick felt a little dazed as they came to a sudden halt. The Indians had fallen back, yet did not disperse. Deep silence greeted them. It was so deeply and intensely quiet that Dick could almost believe that the Indians were statues of stone.
He tried to speak, but his tongue clove in his mouth. Fear had settled upon him and he seemed powerless to shake it off. At the crucial moment, when everything depended upon his actions and deportment, he was failing miserably. Fortunately, he had the good sense to see this and tried desperately to control himself. He sat up more rigidly in the saddle, his mittened hands clenched.
“Make ’em talk,” whispered Toma.
Dick flung up one arm in a commanding gesture.
“Bring the two white men here at once,” he ordered.
Then suddenly his gaze seemed to waver. The crowd became a blur—a shadowy something before his eyes. In their place rose up the stern figure of Inspector Cameron—the worn, austere face, the steel-gray eyes, the decisive chin. Again Dick threw up his arm. A strange calmness pervaded him.
“Bring them here,” he repeated in a voice of gathering impatience.
A murmur rose from the crowd. Suddenly it fell back, hesitated for a brief interval, then hurried away to do the white chief’s bidding. The tension had relaxed. As he slowly turned in his saddle to meet the gaze of his friend, a ray of sunlight fell across Toma’s face.
“Bye-’n’-bye they come!” he cried happily.
“You’ve won, Dick. Dr. Brady says that you were absolutely wonderful. The way you sat on your horse, the way you ordered that crowd of natives about—your calmness, your courage. You were every inch a policeman!”
Dick laughed.
“I wonder what Dr. Brady would say if he knew the truth. I wonder what he would say if he knew that I was quaking inside like a jelly-fish. It is true that I sat on my horse, but the credit is due the horse, not me. If he had moved as much as one front leg, he’d have shaken me out of the saddle. Our cause would have been lost.”
“Come! Come! You’re fooling, Dick.”
“Not at all. I was never more frightened in my life, and I never want to be as badly frightened again. I was trembling like a leaf. When the chief brought out Father Bleriot and Dr. Brady and turned them over to us, I very nearly collapsed.”
“But the Indians were frightened too. They were afraid of you.”
“Perhaps they were. Everyone was more or less frightened, I guess, except Toma. Cool! Honestly I think he enjoyed it. He egged me on, encouraged me. I never would have had the nerve to enter that village if it hadn’t been for him. There’s a young man, Sandy, who was born without fear. He doesn’t know what it means.”
Sandy rose and threw another log on the fire. Then he rubbed the palms of his hands together and grinned.
“Well, I’ll grant that. He doesn’t. He loves action and excitement. He eats it. I suppose he’s off somewhere now, worrying because we haven’t much left here to do.”
“I know where he is,” laughed Dick. “He went back to the Indian village with Dr. Brady. Brady is finishing his work there this afternoon. Toma is his interpreter.”
A moment of silence. Then:
“Dick, were you over to see Corporal Rand this morning?”
“Yes.”
“Better, isn’t he?”
“Much better. I never saw anyone improve so rapidly.”
“But you didn’t talk with Dr. Brady. Did he tell you, Dick—did you hear——”
In his excitement, Sandy pulled forward a chair and plumped himself into it, putting both hands on Dick’s knees.
“Dr. Brady admits that he was wrong. His first examination was—er—well, a little hasty. Those feet, for example. Bad, of course, but——”
“Do you mean to tell me he’ll walk?”
“Exactly.”
“Will be well enough to return to his duties?”
“Dr. Brady believes so now. He was quite enthusiastic this morning. It’ll take months, of course—months before he’ll be around again. First, he must go to Edmonton and have an operation—skin grafting and all that sort of thing.”
“And his mind is all right too?”
“Yes. Almost.”
“Almost!” snorted Dick. “You don’t mean that, surely. Why, he was perfectly rational last night, when I had a talk with him. He remembered everything. He told me about his troubles on the trail. He asked me if we were intending to take the Keechewan mail back with us. We had a long talk together. His mind is as bright as a new silver American dollar. What made you say that?”
Sandy rose again and pushed back his chair. He walked over and stood with his back to the fire.
“It’s getting colder, Dick.”
“Look here, you gay young deceiver, you didn’t answer my question.”
Sandy looked up blankly.
“Eh, what? Question?”
“Yes. My question. Why do you think that Corporal Rand hasn’t fully recovered his mental powers?”
“He hasn’t—quite,” Sandy wagged his head dolefully. “He sometimes suffers from hallucinations. Dr. Brady and I both noticed it.”
“What are they?”
“There was one in particular. It would have amused me, only I feel so sorry for him. He’s—he’s—well, he thinks he’s going to be placed under arrest. Can you imagine anything so absurd? And by Inspector Cameron, too. He’s really worrying about it.”
Dick’s roar of laughter echoed to every part of the room. Tears of merriment chased each other down his cheeks.
“I don’t think that is so very funny,” Sandy declared with great dignity. “You ought to pity the man.”
“You chump! You chump!” howled Dick. “Why that—that isn’t an hallucination; it’s a fact. Corporal Rand may be arrested. He probably will be, but I don’t believe Cameron will be very severe with him. Not this time.”
“What’s he done?” blinked Sandy.
“Disobeyed orders. He came up here against the inspector’s wishes. You see, Cameron intended to come himself.”
“Oh,” said Sandy, much relieved, “the inspector has probably forgotten all about it.”
“Not he! Cameron never forgets.”
“But he won’t be hard on him.”
“Of course not. He’ll impose a light fine along with a severe lecture. Then he’ll reach in his pocket and give Rand the money to pay the fine.”
Sandy laughed.
“Why don’t you tell Rand that? I think it will relieve his mind.”
“Guess I will.” Dick rose. “I’ll take a run over there now and cheer him up.”
Dick had readied the door, when Sandy called him back.
“I say, Dick.”
“Yes, Sandy, what is it?”
“Remember the night when you released the Indian—sent him back to his people with that message?”
“Yes, I remember.”
“I—I called you some names, Dick. I’m sorry about that. I guess I was a bit angry and overbearing. You’ll overlook it, won’t you?”
Dick took his chum’s hand and gripped it firmly.
“Why—I’d forgotten about it. Anyway, it’s all right. Everything is all right,” he smiled.
“And you’re all right, too,” declared Sandy.
Which, considering everything, was as fine a compliment as Dick had ever received.
A dog train waited outside the Keechewan Mission. It was a long train—ten teams of malemutes and huskies—an impatient train, too, for not only the dogs but the drivers as well, waited impatiently for the word of command that would set it in motion. Brake-boards were passed firmly into the snow, the feet holding them in place becoming cramped as the moments passed and still the leader did not appear.
Presently a door creaked open and a tall young man, laden with two heavy mail sacks, emerged to the street. It was Dick Kent—and he was smiling. Behind Dick came Dr. Brady and the cassocked figure of a Catholic priest, Father Bleriot. The two last named persons walked side-by-side, talking and laughing. The priest’s right arm was thrust in friendly fashion through that of the physician’s, and, as the three figures came to a halt directly opposite the sledge, to which a team of beautiful gray malemutes were harnessed, the doctor declared:
“So we’re to go back at last. I see you have everything ready, Dick. Nothing to do now except pull our worthless freight out of here.”
“Monsieur does himself an injustice,” beamed the priest. “You have reason to feel proud—you and your friends. Hope and happiness and tranquility have come again to Keechewan.”
“Have you any message that I can take to Inspector Cameron?” Dick asked.
“It is there in the sack,” Father Bleriot pointed to one of the mail pouches Dick had placed in the empty sleigh. “A letter, monsieur, written from my heart and sealed with tears of thankfulness. All one night I sat and wrote that letter, page after page, to the good inspector, and when I had finished, monsieur, I found that I had expressed not even one small part of what I wished to say.”
“Cameron will understand,” Dr. Brady reassured him.
“And now you go,” said the priest regretfully. “You embark upon a difficult journey. You go south without even a pause to rest.”
“It will not seem so far this time,” stated Dick, turning toward his sledge. “Well, thank you Father, for your kindness and hospitality. We must go now. Dr. Brady, you’ve worked hard, so we’re giving you the place of honor here with the mail.”