Dick and Sandy had crouched in hiding for upwards of a half hour before Toma returned. He came as he had gone, silently, like a ghost almost, so stealthy were his movements, so clever his woodcraft.
“What did you find?” whispered Dick, anxiously.
“Two, t’ree—five bad fellas,” Toma counted on his fingers. “One Pierre Govereau lead um. They got um spring for tonight. We go round um. Got to. Them fellas friends Bear Henderson. They watch um trail for police. ’Fraid police go to Fort Good Faith.”
Dick and Sandy exchanged glances. Their weariness was temporarily forgotten in this new peril. They began to understand the far-reaching power of the man who had captured Sandy’s uncle and had taken possession of Fort Good Faith on the edge of the northern wilderness.
“We go,” Toma urged, his only excitement revealed by the swift movements of his eyes as they roved this way and that.
Silently the Indian guide melted into the underbrush, Dick immediately behind him, Sandy in the rear. For nearly two hundred yards they went onward, almost at snail’s pace. It was twilight now. Long shadows of tree and bush stretched everywhere.
At last Toma signaled for them to stop. Dick and Sandy dropped flat. Not more than three hundred feet ahead a campfire twinkled through the trees, and, motionless, between them and the fire, stood a silent figure, with rifle on his shoulder. It was a guard. Dick divined the figure, so like the tree trunk against which it stood, had even escaped the sharp eyes of Toma at first.
Four men were sitting around the campfire, and they could hear the mutter of gruff voices. Once or twice a louder than usual exclamation in French arose above the other sounds. It seemed the leader of the party was haranguing his men, or disciplining one of them.
Suddenly Dick started and clutched Sandy’s arm.
“That guard!” he exclaimed under his breath. “It’s the scar faced Indian!”
Sandy paled a little. It seemed almost impossible that the Indian could have gotten ahead of them. His appearance was as mysterious as had been their glimpses of him at Fort du Lac and along the Big Smokey river.
Toma was motioning for them to bear to the right. They crawled off after the guide in that direction.
Neither Dick nor Sandy knew which of them made too much noise, or revealed some part of his body, yet they had crawled no further than a dozen paces when the guard moved, turned and looked straight at them. Toma, watching over his shoulder, fell flat, Dick and Sandy following his example. Had they been seen?
The guard, his rifle ready for use, started slowly toward them. Tensely, Dick and Sandy watched Toma for a sign as to what course to take. They saw Toma slowly turn to his side. The guide swung his rifle to his shoulder as he lay.
Just as the guard cried out, Toma fired.
The scar faced Indian whirled, dropped his rifle and fell to his knees, clutching at one shoulder. Dick and Sandy got a glimpse of the men at the fire leaping up and snatching their rifles, as they took to their heels after Toma.
For several minutes they sprinted in the wake of the young Indian’s flying heels, hearing behind the crash of their pursuers through the underbrush, and their cries to one another.
Then, before a hollow tree, half covered by the dead branches of a lightning-blasted pine tree, Toma halted suddenly. He motioned to them to follow and disappeared into the half-obscured hole in the tree. Dick and Sandy slipped in after him. There was barely enough room in the tree for three to stand upright, but they managed to crowd in, while Toma quickly arranged the dead branches over the hole until their hiding place was entirely covered from view.
The distant shouts grew louder, as the men beat the brush looking for them. Two came closer and closer, until at last they stopped before the hollow tree, so near that the three hidden feared their heavy breathing might be heard.
“I thought I saw ’em go this way,” one said, in a harsh voice.
“Mebbe so,” the other, apparently an Indian, answered. “It look like they jump in air an’ fly away.”
“Pierre sure will give us the devil if we let ’em get away,” said the first. “Can’t blame him. Henderson will skin him alive if these trails aren’t kept clean of Hudson’s Bay men and mounties.”
“I see bush move over d’er!” the Indian ejaculated.
The two men moved off in another direction, and the boys in the hollow tree breathed easier.
“No go yet,” Toma advised. “Wait till all quiet.”
The minutes passed slowly while they waited in their cramped position. The shouts of the searchers grew fainter as they apparently abandoned the chase. Presently all was still. Toma peeped out through the branches covering the entrance to the hollow tree. After looking carefully about, the guide pushed back the branches and stepped out. Dick and Sandy followed. They were learning lessons in woodcraft every hour from this child of the forest.
“I think we ought to go back to the camp, steal up close and see if we can’t learn something of your Uncle Walter, Sandy,” Dick announced.
“Is it worth the risk?” Sandy came back. “Can’t we do better by hurrying on to Fort Dunwoody?”
“It’s true we can’t do much without the aid of the mounted police,” Dick studied. “Yet I’d like to know, if it’s possible, just what has been done with your uncle—how they’re treating him.”
Dick asked Toma what he thought of trying to learn something by eavesdropping. “If you think um best thing do,” Toma replied. “That scar face got best ears of all. He wounded now. Not much good; what say I try?”
“No, you’ve done plenty of this already, Toma,” Dick was firm. “I’ll go this time. You wait here where you can cover me with your guns if I am detected.”
Toma, assured Dick was determined to go, grunted his assent, and a moment later Dick disappeared into the bushes on his perilous venture. Sandy and Toma crawled back to within gunshot of the camp, where the men had gathered again, gesticulating to one another, plainly undecided what to do.
When Dick left his chum and the guide he realized the danger he faced. Yet he knew any information he might gain would be more than valuable to the police when once he got in touch with them. Govereau’s men were talking so loudly that he had little trouble in overhearing them. The leader’s heavy voice broke out in French, which disappointed Dick, for he knew very little French. Then Govereau changed to broken English, evidently for the benefit of a member of his band who did not understand French.
“We go on queeck, ketch them,” Govereau was saying. “Sure t’ing them fella are zee ver’ ones come from Fort du Lac. That devil Many-Scar an’ them others—they let zem get through Little Moose, I bat. We go.”
The four began breaking camp hurriedly. The scar faced Indian was reclining with one arm in a crude sling. He arose with the others and rolled up his blanket with one hand, as if nothing were wrong with him.
Dick was disappointed in not hearing anything regarding the situation at Fort Good Faith. But, as he could think of nothing to do about it, he edged about and crept back to Sandy and Toma.
“They’re breaking camp,” he told his companions. “They think we’ve gone on ahead. Suppose we fool them and camp right here after they leave.”
Toma’s face lighted up and Sandy was jubilant at the chance to rest his weary legs. A few minutes later, hidden in the bushes, they watched Govereau and his four men string out on the trail and quietly disappear into the forest. They got a close look at the leader of the band as he passed, and Dick and Sandy could not suppress a shiver of dread. The man had an exceedingly evil and cruel face.
Dick hid his disappointment in learning nothing of Henderson’s movements and of Sandy’s uncle in his elation at this opportunity to camp where Toma had planned. They would be fresh for a long hike next day, which would take them to the hidden cache of provisions.
Toma said little while they prepared their scanty meal, which was for the most part, bear steak. Every now and then the guide looked up at the sky and sniffed the air.
“Storm pretty soon. Winter come. Heap big blizzard few days,” he finally confided to Dick and Sandy.
“That means we’ve got to make a raise of a dog team,” Dick said, tearing off a huge hunk of cold bear meat.
“Good thing Mr. MacLean gave you that money,” Sandy observed.
Dick agreed with his chum, stifling a yawn. Already his eyes were closing. Toma consented to take the first watch, and in a few moments Dick and Sandy were sound asleep in their blankets.
The night passed without incident, Dick and Sandy taking their turns on watch. At dawn they were on the trail again, leaving camp hungry. They hesitated to shoot at any small game for fear Govereau’s men might be near. Toward noon, however, Dick’s gnawing stomach got the better of his caution, and he knocked over a partridge. They made a short stop, broiled the partridge and divided it.
Appetites a little appeased, they were off again, hoping to make the cache of provisions on Limping Dog Creek by nightfall. Late in the afternoon they trudged down into the canyon designated by MacLean on the map.
It was twilight when the canyon walls widened and grew less precipitous. Toma said they were nearing Limping Dog Creek. Sandy was hobbling from a slight sprain received when he tripped over a root, and Dick was far from fresh.
“Flapjacks will sure taste good,” Dick murmured.
“Amen,” Sandy groaned in answer.
When at last they came in sight of the creek, Toma stopped to compare landmarks with the map.
“There um three trees,” Toma pointed to some huge balmagiliad trees that stood out from the smaller jack pines like giants.
They hurried forward. Martin MacLean had said the cache was in the third of the three big trees nearest the creek. They speedily reached the tree and Toma climbed it. He was gone for some time, Dick and Sandy straining their eyes upward through the dark foliage.
Toma came down much slower than he had gone up. As he dropped to the turf, Dick and Sandy awaited anxiously his report.
“Him gone,” said Toma briefly. “Cache not there!”
Dick’s eyes narrowed, and Sandy’s countenance grew glum indeed.
“Maybe this isn’t the tree,” Dick ventured.
“Him right tree,” Toma was certain.
“It must have been Govereau’s men,” Dick spoke, after a short silence.
“Mebbe so,” Toma grunted.
The loss of the cache, more than anything else, had cast its shadow of gloom over the spirits of Dick and Sandy. Toma, however, who had made the discovery, seemed not so deeply concerned.
“We catch um meat,” Toma attempted to cheer the boys. “Mebbe bye an’ bye we eat.”
“I’m not so sure about that,” declared Sandy, thinking of the lonely strip of bacon and the one handful of flour, which were all that remained of the provisions the grizzly had destroyed. “To tell you the truth, I haven’t seen very much game lately. Have you, Dick?”
Dick shook his head, forced to acknowledge the truth of Sandy’s statement.
“When a fellow’s hungry,” Sandy complained, rubbing his lame ankle, “he’s hungry, that’s all, and a mouthful of bacon is about as much good to him as a drop of fresh water in the ocean.”
“Me no eat one time for whole week.” Toma reminded them.
Both boys looked up in astonishment.
“A whole week!” gasped Dick, “great guns! I hope we don’t come to that.”
“Mebbe set snare for rabbit tonight,” encouraged Toma. “Toma good ketch um rabbit.”
“I could eat two or three rabbits,” Sandy grumbled, taking up the slack in his belt.
As they made their way onward, Dick seriously considered their plight. Thoughts of the ruthless, cold-hearted rifling of the cache by Bear Henderson’s men filled him with an anger that was difficult to suppress. But anger or resentment could not help them now. The thing to do was to abandon any attempt at further progress that day and put in a few good hours hunting while it was yet daylight.
“Boys,” he decided, “we’d better pitch camp here for a while, until we can bag some game. My suggestion is that each of us start off in a different direction. We must keep track of the time and be sure to get back to camp by dark. The chances are that at least one of us will be successful.”
“It’s hunt or starve,” agreed Sandy. “Which way do you want me to go?”
“Toma had better try his luck here in the creek valley,” said Dick, “because game is apt to be more plentiful here and he’s the best hunter. You and I can make our way into the hills, keeping about half a mile apart. Shoot anything at all that has meat on its bones,” and he winked slyly at Toma.
“I could eat a skunk and like it,” groaned Sandy. “By the way, before we start don’t you think we’d better divide that bacon?”
With a queer, inexplicable feeling, Dick produced the last morsels of food from their packs and divided them carefully. If he gave Sandy a little more than an equal portion, no one, with the possible exception of a tiny sparrow perched on a branch overhead, could have noticed it. They ate in silence, and in silence they arose immediately after their inadequate meal and started off for the hunt.
“I don’t think I’ll ever see anything,” Dick muttered to himself, “or if I do the chances are that the pesky thing will get away. Hang it all, why did Govereau, or whoever it was, have to find that cache?”
Dick’s mood brightened a few minutes later as he came up through the autumn sunshine to the foot of a slope, thickly covered with stunted pine. It looked like a very good hiding place for ptarmigan, or possibly even deer. He unslung his rifle and went forward as cautiously as he could, one finger hovering close to the trigger of his gun.
But, after an hour’s slow progress, Dick had begun to lose hope. He had seen nothing. Apparently the forest was as devoid of all animal life as a city street. Except for a hawk, circling lazily about high overhead, there was neither bird nor beast anywhere in that lonely stretch of wilderness.
Mopping his perspiring brow, the young hunter finally sat down for a moment’s rest, before continuing his course to the top of a high ridge.
Then an abrupt, totally unexpected crackling in the heavy Saskatoon thicket ahead caused him to start—almost in wonderment. His breath came quickly. He half rose, then fearing, that even his slightest sound might spoil everything, he sank down again, his left hand nursing the cold, blue barrel of his Ross rifle.
More crackling, a sudden parting of the bushes, and Dick’s heart almost stood still. A large bull moose, majestic in his stature, crashed into view.
By this time Dick was fairly trembling with excitement. Twice he endeavored to raise his rifle to his shoulder. His arm shook so much that he knew it would be worse than useless to attempt a shot while his nerves were in such a condition.
“I can’t do it,” thought Dick, then across his mind flashed the mental picture of a cache, broken into and robbed, and the sneering face of Pierre Govereau mocking him. Then his rifle went to his shoulder, and two loud reports rang out in quick succession. The moose stumbled, but did not fall. Dick heard quite plainly its sudden snort of alarm and the crash of underbrush as it struck off at terrific speed directly down the slope in the direction from which he had but recently come.
The moose was wounded, he knew, but he also was well aware from previous experience that a wounded moose will often travel for miles before it falls. Galvanized into action, Dick was off, following the blood-stained trail, hoping against hope that either Sandy or Toma might intercept the animal before it had become lost in the intricate tangle of brush and woodland that lay to the south.
Sliding down a particularly treacherous part of the trail, Dick’s foot caught in an exposed root and he fell heavily. As he bounded to his feet again, he thought he heard a distant shout—but he was not entirely sure.
For twenty minutes more, he pushed forward rapidly, sometimes almost losing the trail of the moose. Then finally he did lose it altogether. Search as he would, the telltale tracks had disappeared as magically and as unaccountably as if the animal had leaped into the air and flown away to a place of safety.
“It’s the most unusual thing I ever heard of,” Dick commented aloud, racing about in a vain effort to discover some sign that would point out again the trail that had so suddenly vanished.
In despair his eyes fell upon a level formation of rock not more than thirty feet away. Could it be that the moose had passed that way—scrambled over the level rock floor in its mad race with death? If so, it would explain the mysterious disappearance of the tracks; but there must be blood-stains somewhere.
“Whoop-ee!” he shouted as his quick eyes made out the signs he sought—small splotches of red scattered across the smooth surface of sandstone. And shortly thereafter, he hurried on again, like a young bloodhound finding fresh scent along the path ahead.
“I’ll be more careful next time,” he assured himself. “It would be a pity if this moose got away. I’d have been ashamed to show my face in camp.”
Two miles further on he almost forgot about the moose. Through a screen of willows, skirting a small creek, he caught the faint movement of some living thing—something that stood concealed and which watched him furtively as he made his way along through the dead and matted grass of the little valley.
Dick felt instinctively that some danger threatened. What this was he had no way of finding out, yet the feeling persisted that he was being watched, spied upon by an enemy more terrible than any wild denizen of the forest. As he advanced swiftly on his way, he was conscious of a strange tingling of nerves, as if he half expected at any moment to be pounced upon and overcome by an unknown assailant.
“I’ve never felt so queer about anything in my life,” he confided to the silent trees, as he hurried quickly along. “I’m sure that I saw something move there in the bushes, and I’m positive that it wasn’t an animal that walks on four legs.”
Just then, an object lying on the ground, immediately ahead, drove every other thought from his mind. With a glad cry he sprang forward, and, a short time later, stood looking down at the prostrate body of the bull moose, majestic even in death.
A lump arose in Dick’s throat as he stood there silently regarding it. “Poor old fellow,” he breathed, “it was a shame to do this. But perhaps you saved us from starving. Maybe——”
A shout close at hand roused Dick from his musings. Wheeling about his eyes lighted with pride and happiness, as he espied the approaching figures of Sandy and Toma.
“Good for you!” Sandy exclaimed, as he strode up to where his chum was standing. “I just knew you’d do it. Say, I believe it’s the biggest moose I ever saw.”
“You ketch um big fella,” complimented Toma. “It is good.”
Together the three young adventurers stood admiring the moose. So interested had they become that not one of them caught the sound of stealthy footsteps until a heavy, threatening form, followed by three others, pushed its way within the circle of admiring eyes.
With a cry of warning, Dick sprang back, clutching his rifle tightly. Then he looked at the man.
It was Pierre Govereau!
Govereau advanced menacingly. Backed by the rifles of the three villainous looking men with him, the three boys could do nothing.
“What you do wiz my moose?” Govereau snarled.
“Do you mean to say you shot that moose!” Dick exclaimed angrily.
“It iss so,” Govereau avowed brazenly.
“You lie!” Dick exclaimed hotly. “I shot that moose. I can prove it. What do you mean by holding us up this way. We have done you no harm.”
“It iss Henderson bizness—zat.” Govereau turned and signaled his men to bind the three young men.
“You’ll sweat for this,” Dick gritted.
“Not so much as you,” Govereau taunted. “Young fellas like you should stay home wiz zee mamma.”
Dick gritted his teeth again, but resolved to keep his mouth shut. He must save his breath to get Sandy and Toma out of the mess. It must have been Govereau’s men watching him when he had felt so queer on the trail of the wounded moose.
Dick did not resist the moose-hide thongs as they were bound mercilessly tight about his wrists. Sandy and Toma followed his example. There were other ways of getting the better of Govereau, and it might be easier if they submitted, or seemed to submit, mildly to capture.
They could see one of the men slicing steaks from the moose haunch before, at a guttural command, they were started off into the woods, northward along Limping Dog Creek.
An hour’s tramping brought them to Govereau’s camp, four miles up the creek. The scar faced Indian was there to greet them. He leered at the captives hatefully. Dick felt that the Indian knew one of them had shot him at the camp forty miles away, and that the savage would do anything in his power to wreak vengeance.
Govereau had made his headquarters in an old cabin, deserted by some trapper. There were two rooms, and the three young captives were shoved into the smaller of them, their hands still bound behind them. Probably their captors realized they would soon untie themselves, but since with the huge oaken bolt shot on the door, there was no way of getting out of the room, they did not bother themselves about it.
“Well?” Dick turned to Toma and Sandy, when at last they were left alone.
Toma’s face was as stolid as ever. Sandy had nothing to say. He sat down on the bunk at one side of the room.
“I guess we’re in a pickle, all right,” Sandy said at last.
Dick paced back and forth twice, then stopped before the door, which he carefully inspected. The door seemed heavy enough to repel the attack of a battering ram, say nothing of three boys. Dick turned back to Sandy and Toma. “Govereau will question us now, I suppose,” Dick spoke rapidly. “And he’ll probably take us out separately to see if our stories are the same. He’ll want to know just how much we know of Henderson’s movements and what we are trying to do against him.”
“What shall we say?” Sandy scratched his head. Toma said nothing. The young Indian seemed to feel that the situation was beyond his ability to handle.
“We’ll tell Govereau that we have been visiting the factor at Fort du Lac—spending our vacation there, and that we were on our way south—to return home. How’s that?”
“That sounds all right,” Sandy responded, a little dubiously.
“No go so far east if go south from Fort du Lac,” Toma’s dark eyes blinked rapidly.
Dick thought a minute. “Then suppose we have some one at Fort Dunwoody that we want to see before we leave for home—a cousin.”
“That’s the trick,” Sandy agreed enthusiastically.
“Then we all understand what we’re to tell,” Dick resumed. “Toma, how about it?”
“I tell um,” was the taciturn reply.
“If Govereau believes our story he may let us go,” Dick concluded. “If he learns the truth he may do something worse than just hold us behind a locked door.”
All three were silent for a time while Dick paced back and forth. Upon his shoulders he realized was now the bulk of responsibility. Toma might excel him on the trail, where native woodcraft and instinctive stealth was the chief requirement, but in the present situation Toma was at best only a willing servant. And it was Sandy’s nature to depend upon his chum, himself only offering what suggestions occurred to his lower mind.
“I’ve a plan to escape, if this first scheme fails!” Dick suddenly stopped his pacing and looked about him.
Sandy jumped as if shot, so sudden was Dick’s exclamation. “Let’s hear it,” the young Scotch lad cried eagerly. Toma brightened.
Dick turned to Toma. “Sandy or I would be glad to do this,” he addressed the young guide, “but it’s just about impossible for us. Can I depend on your support, Toma?”
“I do my best; what you say I do?” Toma promised sincerely.
“My plan is this: when Govereau questions you, Toma, you are to express a desire to join him—to turn against us. See? With you on the outside there’s much more chance of escaping than with all three of us in here. Can you do it, Toma?”
“I try.”
“Then I’ll leave everything to you once you get outside. Of course, Govereau may get wise to what you are up to. But, again, he’s no doubt pretty anxious to get more men in his band.”
As Dick concluded his instructions, there came a noise at the door, and the bolt was shot back. A sharp, rat-like face, that of a half-breed, was pushed in. “You come,” said the man, indicating Dick.
Dick and Sandy both realized that a crisis was at hand. If they revealed their real mission to Govereau they would without doubt never reach the mounted police. Perhaps they would not reach them anyway, yet there was a good chance that Govereau might let them go if they convinced him of their ignorance of any of Henderson’s business.
“Good luck, Dick,” Sandy’s voice was a little husky.
“Never mind, old boy, I’ll make out,” Dick cheered him.
Toma was visibly affected, and Dick reassured him also. Short as the time had been that Toma had been with them, there seemed already a strong bond of friendship between the young Indian and the two young adventurers.
Dick squared his shoulders and followed the rat-faced half-breed into the other room. Dick now faced Pierre Govereau. The Frenchman was seated at a board table across from the door which just had been closed after Dick. At one side of the room a huge fireplace roared and crackled. The rat-faced half-breed went over and squatted before the fire, picking up a red-hot iron in a pair of tongs. Dick Kent shivered as he saw what the man was doing. But he met Govereau’s eyes unflinchingly.
“What iss zee bizness you bean on when you make for zee Fort Dunwoody?” Govereau came straight to the point.
“My friend and I are visiting in Canada,” replied Dick cooly. “The factor at Fort du Lac was an old friend of my chum’s father. I have a cousin in Fort Dunwoody that we wanted to call on before we went home.”
“I zink you lie,” growled Govereau. He sat silent for a moment, glaring at Dick as if he would hypnotize the young man with his snake-like eyes. But Dick’s gaze did not falter.
“Why you fear my men?” Govereau’s voice cracked like a whip.
Dick hesitated a moment. Sandy’s uncle’s welfare might depend upon his misleading the villainous Govereau. “We had been told there were bandits along the trail to the fort,” Dick replied in a clear voice.
“Haw!” scoffed Henderson’s lieutenant, and wheeled to the half-breed at the fireplace. “Napio, zee iron now. We make zee young upstart talk right.”
Dick recoiled slightly as the Indian arose and came forward with a short piece of iron, red hot and smoking in the tongs. Govereau came out from behind the table. Dick’s hands were still tied behind him. The Frenchman seized Dick in an iron grasp and tore away his shirt front.
“You tell zee truth now,” Govereau hissed. “Queeck, Napio!”
The iron was pushed close to Dick’s naked breast. He could feel the heat of it already searing his skin.
Then the door opened and the half-breed hesitated. Govereau turned, snarling at the interruption. An Indian stood in the door.
“Men all go way,” said the intruder. “They drink firewater. M’sieu Govereau, you come bring them back.”
“Throw him back in. We finish wiz him tonight,” Govereau ordered the half-breed. “Bring zee young white one. I come soon,” he waved away the Indian at the door.
Dick reeled into Sandy’s arms a minute later as he was roughly pushed into the back room. “He’ll call you next, Sandy,” Dick gasped a little weakly. “If he asks you why you feared his men, say you thought they were bandits.”
Sandy pressed Dick’s arm to signify he understood and followed the rat-faced half-breed out into the front room. Dick and Toma waited only a few minutes before the door opened and Sandy was pushed in once more. Govereau had not attempted to torture Sandy. He seemed in a hurry to go after his men. They could hear him cursing through even those thick, log walls, for Sandy’s story had tallied with Dick’s.
It was Toma’s turn next, and Dick talked earnestly with the guide as to the method he was to use in convincing Govereau of his desires to be a traitor to his white friends. Dick was now certain that Govereau would not believe their story. Toma was their last chance.
They waited for some time before Toma was called. Then the half-breed came again, and beckoned to the guide. In high suspense Dick and Sandy watched him disappear through the door.
In a half hour they took courage. Toma had not come back. They waited an hour and still Toma was not thrown back among them. Their spirits rose. Toma had then convinced Govereau of his sincerity.
It was growing dark now, and at any moment Dick expected Govereau to call for him again. The Frenchman seemed to have a personal enmity for Dick, perhaps because of the young man’s refusal to be cowed by browbeating.
“What if Toma really does turn traitor?” Sandy broke a long silence. “I heard Uncle Walter say these Indians couldn’t be trusted too far.”
“I don’t know why, but I trust Toma absolutely,” Dick replied confidently, “that Indian is smarter than we think. If Govereau really is convinced that Toma is going in with him we’ll soon be out of here. When I think what your uncle may be going through up there, I can’t sit still.”
“Well, he couldn’t get much worse than we have already,” Sandy returned grimly. “Gee, I never thought we’d come to this when we left Fort du Lac.”
“I could stand it better if I wasn’t so hungry and thirsty,” Dick declared.
“You said it,” Sandy heartily sanctioned. “I guess they’re going to starve us too.”
“Do you notice it’s growing colder?” Dick asked presently.
“I thought maybe it was because we didn’t have any fire.”
“I remember Toma said we were due for a blizzard,” Dick recalled.
“Funny why Govereau doesn’t call one of us out again,” Sandy mused.
“He’s after his men I expect. An Indian reported they were drinking while I was being questioned. The fellow saved me from being tortured.”
Engaging in a wandering conversation, Dick and Sandy whiled away two more long hours, in which they managed to untie each other’s wrists, and kept warm by walking back and forth and swinging their arms. They were almost certain now that Govereau had gone. If so, then if Toma hadn’t been forced to go with the Frenchman, he would be more able to help them.
It was along toward morning when Dick started up out of a doze to hear the sound of a blow and the muffled fall of a body in the front room. There was a sharp stifled cry. Then Dick shook Sandy to wakefulness.
“What is it?” whispered Sandy, leaping to his feet.
“S-s-sh,” Dick cautioned.
Through the darkness in the room they could hear the heavy wooden bolt on the door of their prison sliding backward.
With bated breath Dick and Sandy awaited some sign of the identity of the person who was entering so stealthily. Was it the scar faced Indian coming for vengeance, or was it—the warmth from the other room was rushing in. It was Toma’s voice that came to them.
“Quick! Come! Govereau gone long way.”
Hearts leaping with joy, Dick and Sandy joined the young guide in the darkness. He led them out into the larger room, picking his way with a certainty that revealed he could see in the dark.
“Watch for one fella on floor. I hit him on head with rifle,” Toma whispered. “Govereau’s men all go to post ten miles south where they drink fire-water. Govereau heap mad. Him after them. They come back anytime. He take me long with um. I run away. He know what I do now. You bet he know.”
Toma swung open the cabin door, and Dick and Sandy followed him out. It was so cold their teeth commenced chattering almost immediately. They buttoned up their jackets and hurried off into the night.
“We’ll make Fort Dunwoody yet,” Dick shivered, almost gladly.
“I’ll say we will,” Sandy came back.
Then they fell silent as they took Toma’s tireless, jogging pace, beneath a cloudy sky. Again the Indian’s trail wisdom came in like a God-send. Dick and Sandy did not know where they were going, but they had a feeling that Toma certainly did.
How long they ran they did not know when they began to feel damp spots on their cheeks and hands.
“It’s snowing,” Dick panted over his shoulder.
“I know it,” wheezed Sandy.
“Ought to cover our trail,” Dick came back.
“I guess so, but I can’t talk. I’ve got to save my wind. You must be made of iron.”
Dick said no more, and presently Toma slowed down. It was snowing heavily now, and with the going getting harder underfoot, Dick and Sandy were grateful for the slackening of the pace. Yet they sensed something unusual ahead had been the cause of it, and were not perfectly at ease by any means.
Finally Toma came to a dead stop at the edge of a clearing. Peering ahead through the gloom and the falling snow, they could see the lights of a cabin twinkling.
“You stay here; I go on,” Toma instructed in a low voice. “My brother live here. Him give us warm clothes. I see if all right first. Wait for me.”
Dick and Sandy hovered in the undergrowth and watched Toma’s figure melt away into the gloom in the direction of the cabin.
“I hope he gets some clothes for us,” Sandy chattered.
“And I’m glad Govereau didn’t take my wallet,” said Dick. “We can pay for what we get now.”
“The Frenchman didn’t think we had any money, I suppose,” Sandy opined.
They fell silent then, for against the lighted window they could see a head silhouetted through the falling snow. Toma was peering in at the window. For an instant the guide’s head was outlined there, then it disappeared. Presently a shaft of light shot out over the snow as the door opened and closed. A moment later the door opened again, though the boys could not see who entered.
Dick and Sandy expected Toma to come back for them almost immediately, or at least signal that all was right. But the minutes passed and the guide did not return nor make a sign. The boys began to worry.
“What do you suppose is keeping him?” Dick wondered.
“I don’t know,” Sandy replied, “but I do know I can’t stand still in this cold much longer.”
“We’ll circle around the cabin and come in closer,” Dick directed. “If something has happened we want to be sure we don’t get into trouble, too. Toma’s brother may have been killed by Henderson’s men. The country seems to be alive with the villains.”
Silently they started around the cabin. Half way around, Dick stumbled and fell over something in the snow. Sandy stopped dead and a gasp of horror came from his lips.
“Dick!” he exclaimed. “You’ve fallen over a dead man!”
Dick got up, more shaken by the identity of the thing he had fallen over than by the fall.
Covered by the light film of snow that had fallen, and which was steadily growing heavier, was the body of a man. In the gloom they could not distinguish his features, but they were put on their guard. Armed only with their hunting knives, they felt that the utmost caution must be exercised in further advances.
“Toma’s in trouble. I know it now!” Dick ejaculated.
“Well, it’s up to us to get him out,” Sandy retorted.
Drawing their knives they started stealthily for the cabin. They could hear no sound of life, and the knowledge of what was lying behind them under the snow made the atmosphere doubly fearsome.
At last they reached the single window through which they had seen Toma look into the cabin. Dick cautiously raised his eyes over the sill. He looked only an instant, then he quickly ducked downward.
“It’s the scar faced Indian!” he made the astounding disclosure to Sandy. “And there’s another with him. They have Toma bound. He’s lying on the bunk. I could see his eyes. They’re playing cards and talking. How in the world did they ever catch Toma?”
“That Indian again,” muttered Sandy. “How the deuce did he get here anyway. We saw him last at Govereau’s camp. It’s ghostly the way that fellow shows up everywhere.”
“Govereau must have sent him here on some dirty business,” Dick decided. “Perhaps Toma’s brother had valuable furs stored here.”
With mutual consent they crawled away from the cabin and hid in the trees at the edge of the clearing, where they tried to decide on a plan by which to rescue Toma. That they had a good chance of success they were sure. The scar-faced Indian had the use of but one arm since the wound Toma had given him, so they had but one real man to deal with. Still they were as well as unarmed. What could they do?
“I’ll tell you what,” Dick was speaking fast. “You go out into the woods and begin calling for help, anything to get one of them out of the cabin. Then I’ll slip in and see if I can’t take care of the other one and get hold of a rifle. The Indian will probably stay inside, and wounded as he is I’m sure I can handle him.”
“Gee! That’s a ghostly job you have for me to do,” Sandy whispered ruefully.
“We’ve got to do it, Sandy,” urged Dick. “It won’t hurt to try. You keep hidden, and when one of them comes out to see what’s wrong, keep quiet. I’ll do the rest.”
Dick and Sandy gripped hands, then parted. Dick crept around to a point opposite the door of the cabin, waiting tensely until Sandy began his part of the ruse. He did not have to wait long. Presently, from afar in the forest, a shriek as of some one in mortal agony, arose. Sandy was doing well.
“H-e-l-p, oh, h-e-l-p,” his voice rang out, high and shrill.