Sandy repeated his call several times, then the cabin door opened, and as Dick had hoped, the scar faced Indian’s companion came out. He had a rifle in his hands.
Again Sandy’s cry rang out from a little further off. The man hesitated no longer, but stepped from the cabin door and walked across the clearing into the trees to investigate. He disappeared in the direction of Sandy’s unearthly wailing.
Dick ran forward across the clearing, his moccasins making no noise in the snow. He remembered that the scar faced Indian had been sitting at the table facing the window. Therefore, if he had not changed his position, his back would be to the door.
Pausing before the door, Dick found it open a crack. Cautiously he pushed it open a little more and peered in. The Indian still was sitting with his back to the door. He was idly shuffling the cards. Against the bunk where Toma lay bound, Dick could see a rifle leaning. One leap across the floor and he would have this rifle. It was a desperate chance, but he must make the best of it.
Swift as a panther, Dick threw open the door and leaped in. The astonished Indian was scarcely half out of his chair when Dick had the rifle in his hands.
“Hands up!” he cried.
Whether the Indian understood English or not, Dick did not know, but his words had the required effect. Slowly the scar-faced Indian turned his ugly face upon his captor, his mouth twisted into an evil, smirking grin. Dick stepped forward and drew the revolver from his captive’s belt and tossed it into a corner. Then he backed toward the bunk with the rifle still trained on the Indian. Quickly, he drew his knife and slashed Toma’s bonds.
“Ha! Now we got um!” Toma tore the gag from his mouth, leaned up and picked up the revolver Dick had thrown away. In a trice, then, Toma had lashed the scar-faced Indian to his chair.
Dick already was expecting the return of the Indian’s companion. With the Indian secured, both Toma and he turned their attention to the door. With bated breath they waited and listened for approaching footfalls.
Toma and Dick no longer could hear Sandy hallooing, and Dick judged that his chum was safely in hiding. Yet, as they waited, guns trained on the door, a rifle shot shattered the silence. It came from the direction taken by the man who had gone to investigate the calls for help. Dick’s face paled. What did it mean? Had poor Sandy fallen? Had the man found him?
“I’m going out,” Dick said tensely to Toma a moment later.
Whatever Toma’s reply was Dick did not hear it, for with an impatient leap he flung open the door and disappeared. Toma remained behind, not sure that his young white friend’s move had been wise, yet believing he could do more to help if he stayed in the cabin.
When Dick left the cabin he made straight for the point from which he thought the rifle shot had come. It was growing lighter. In the east a faint gray fan of light showed over the forest—dawn. He ran on for a little way, then he came upon tracks. Pursuing these at a run, he came in sight of the man who had left the cabin an hour before. The meeting was a surprise for both.
Dick dodged behind a tree as the other fired from his hip. The ball whizzed harmlessly over Dick’s head, and he shot hastily. His shot also went wild, but the other took to his heels. Dick did not pursue him, but began calling for Sandy. Presently he was rewarded by a distant shout and in a few minutes the chums were reunited.
“Did he shoot at you?” Dick queried anxiously.
“No, I don’t know what he shot at. Maybe he thought it was me,” Sandy replied. “I’m half frozen. Gosh, it seemed hours out here.”
“Let’s hurry back to the cabin,” Dick hastened. “Toma is there, and we’ve captured the scar faced Indian.”
Sandy was too cold to care how many Indians had been captured, and he hobbled along after Dick like a stiff, old man.
“I hope Toma is all right,” Dick said anxiously as they neared the cabin.
On the threshold of the cabin they stood a moment later in stark amazement. Toma lay bleeding and silent on the floor, and the scar faced Indian was gone!
“Well, if that doesn’t beat anything!” Dick ejaculated, rushing to Toma.
The young guide came to at the application of a little water. His head had been struck with something; an overturned chair revealed what the escaped Indian had probably used.
“He slip out ropes some way,” Toma explained when he could sit up once more. “I watch door when him jump on me. That all I know.”
“I’m glad you’re alive—that’s all I can say,” Dick said thankfully.
“Hello, what’s this?” Sandy hurried from the fireplace where he had been warming himself to the crude wooden table. A slip of paper with writing on it lay among the scattered playing cards. Dick also hastened forward and read the roughly scrawled words:
Pierre Govereau:Send Many-Scar Jackson and Swede to Big John Toma’s cabin. We want the black fox fur he has hidden there.BEAR HENDERSON.
Pierre Govereau:
Send Many-Scar Jackson and Swede to Big John Toma’s cabin. We want the black fox fur he has hidden there.
BEAR HENDERSON.
Dick and Sandy read it aloud to Toma.
“This my big brother’s cabin,” Toma explained simply. “Last night I see no one when look in window. I go in. That Many-Scar and other fella come in, ketch me. I not know where Big John is. They not find um black fox. Big John sell um black fox t’ree weeks go by.”
Dick and Sandy dropped their eyes. They now felt sure who the man was that Dick had fallen over—the dead man. How could they tell Toma? At last Dick took the guide’s arm. Silently they went out, Sandy following.
Toma showed no emotion as they showed him the body partly covered with snow. He might have been a wooden image as he said quietly:
“Him Big John Toma; I know before I see. I feel he dead. That Many-Scar——” something choked off his voice. His dark eyes suddenly flashed and glowed like coals of fire.
“I wouldn’t give ten cents for Many-Scar’s life, slick as that Indian is,” Sandy whispered.
Dick nodded.
Though all felt they had no time to lose, since Govereau’s men might be expected to follow them, they could not leave Toma’s brother without burial.
All three set to work under the spruce trees, hacking through the frozen soil with axes. In a half hour they had dug a shallow grave. Wrapped in blankets, they gently lowered the body of Big John Toma to its last resting place.
Dick fashioned a rude cross from two saplings, which he showed to Toma. The young Indian nodded. “Good; him Christian—me too,” said the guide.
When they had placed the last sod on the mound, Dick and Sandy left their friend alone by the grave and went to the cabin to prepare for continuing their journey. They found much pemmican and dried fish, upon which Big John Toma had existed, but nowhere any flour or coffee. By the time they had arranged shoulder packs and had donned whatever warm clothes they had found, Toma had joined them. He seemed his old self once more, though Dick and Sandy knew that behind his mask of indifference was deep sorrow and a mighty resolve for the redskin’s revenge upon the murderer of his brother. The guide refused to take the money Dick offered him for the food and clothing they had taken from Big John’s cabin.
“We three days from Fort Dunwoody now,” Toma told them when they were ready for the trail. “Not sure we make um three days. Big blizzard come pretty soon now. Mebbe tomorrow. We get um dog sled then. Need um bad.”
All that day Toma led them due southeast, across higher ground, where vegetation was sparse. They crossed one shallow valley where there were no trees at all, and upon a ridge at the other side made camp. It was an advantageous spot from which to watch the back trail, and before they started on they were disturbed by the sight of three tiny figures. The men were undoubtedly on their trail. Straight across the valley they toiled and they were coming fast.
“I’ll bet it’s Govereau!” Dick exclaimed in alarm.
“Yes, and it looks as if we were only about three miles ahead of him,” Sandy declared. “Let’s get a move on. I don’t want to get mixed up with him again.”
“Neither do I,” Dick heartily agreed.
Toma was of the same mind, and they all set off at a fast pace when once more they took to the trail. They felt confident they could lengthen the lead on their pursuers, but two hours after noon, when they paused to rest on a high ridge, they looked back and were astounded to see the three men not more than a mile behind them.
“Them best trail men Govereau got,” Toma protected his own prowess on finding that he had been outpaced.
They started on again, doubling their former speed. A half hour more brought them to the banks of a river.
“Him Saskatoon River,” Toma told them. “Him full slush ice. We make um raft in hurry; get over, then we safe from Govereau.”
Dick and Sandy looked off across the sullen expanse of the Saskatoon. As Toma had said, it was filled with a slow-moving mass of slush, formed by night freezes and day thaws.
They fell to work like Trojans on a raft, lashing dead logs together with tiny saplings and tough vines. It was a cumbersome raft that they at last shoved out into the icy stream. With poles to propel the unwieldy craft, they began the perilous trip across the river. The delay caused by the building of the raft had given their pursuers time to overtake them, and at any moment they expected to hear a shout or rifle shots from the shore they were slowly leaving behind.
One side of the raft was heavier than the other, and out in the current they came near being spilled off, before they followed Toma’s example and balanced the logs by shifting their weight from side to side.
Pushing on desperately, they reached midstream, when their pursuers reached the river. But the few shots that were fired fell short. The boys had poled the raft out of range. Waving their hands to the chagrined men they reached the other shore and, abandoning their raft, hastened on.
Once more snow was spitting out of the gray heavens, and it was growing steadily colder. They hiked for three miles, then Toma advised a halt The guide began immediately throwing up a shelter of boughs. Dick and Sandy helped with a will, and they finished none too soon. With the fall of night the blizzard Toma had prophesied swept down upon them like a thousand, shrieking demons.
When the boys awoke on the following morning, numb and stiff from cold in spite of the protection of their crudely constructed shelter, a full six inches of snow covered the surface of their blankets.
“Snow make um much warmer to sleep,” Toma explained to them, as he crawled out of his bed, very much as a husky gets out of a snowdrift.
Dick turned his eyes towards the open door of the shelter and shivered. Contrary to his expectations the storm had not abated during the night. A shining, white wall of snow almost shut out any view of their camp surroundings, while the wind continued to howl furiously.
To all appearances, the boys were shut in by the high, white walls of a snow prison. Snow sifted in the door of their shelter and through the numerous cracks in the walls.
“I’m not crazy about getting up,” Sandy observed, with a seriousness that brought a laugh from Dick and Toma. “Anyhow, nobody can get anywhere in a storm like this.”
“The wind, she blow from northwest,” Toma cut in. “No get lost when wind blow hard like that. Keep wind on left side. No like—but better than stay here.”
The young guide counted slowly on his fingers, and went on:
“Me know place where young Indian live. Him called Raoul Testawich. Got um cabin nice and warm, an’ mebbe we ketch um good dog team there.”
“Fine!” exclaimed Dick, “we’ll make a try for it. Sure you won’t get lost?”
Toma shook his head.
“No,” said the guide, with assurance. “I find way all right. Best thing we go.”
Somewhere in the back of Dick’s mind there was some doubt as to the advisability of facing such a storm, yet he had implicit faith in the prowess of Toma, and he did not question the young Indian’s ability.
“It’ll be great to get near a warm fireplace again,” said Dick. “What do you say, Sandy?”
Sandy’s answer was to spring up out of his blankets and commence immediate preparations for breakfast. A fire was started with considerable difficulty, and less than an hour later the three boys were on the trail again, walking Indian file with Toma in the lead.
But the storm was worse even than they had anticipated. It was fury unleashed, it sucked the very breath out of their mouths and blew through their mackinaws as if they had been cheesecloth. Dick imagined that the weight of the snow-laden air alone was sufficient to prevent any long continued trek across that blinding field of white.
Taking turns breaking trail, they proceeded at a slow pace, puffing with exertion. And always they kept the wind on their left, Toma calling out encouragement from time to time to keep up the spirits of his less-hardened and less-experienced comrades.
Moisture froze on their coat collars, formed by the warmth of their breath against the freezing wind. Breathing became more and more difficult, and Sandy, the weaker physically of the three, began to complain of aching muscles and finally stopped short, panting heavily.
“I’m tired out,” he gasped, “——all in. Dick, I don’t believe I can go a step further. Can’t we sit down and rest?”
Dick was on the point of acceding to Sandy’s request, when Toma, several paces in the lead, came back, crying out his disapproval.
“No! No!” shouted the guide above the howling of the wind. “No do that; get um legs all stiffened up. Bye an’ bye can’t move. Mebbe we better go slower, but no sit down.”
“I’ll try to go on,” declared Sandy bravely, “but you fellows better stop now and then to give me a chance to breathe. I tell you I’m all in.”
And so they went on, bracing themselves against the fury of the wind, shuffling forward through mounting drifts, in places piled waist high, as if to block their progress. On several occasions, so violent was the storm that it was impossible to see anything. Once, fighting their way through a smothering fog of white, Toma shouted out a warning.
They were traveling down a sharp incline at the time, attempting to reach a river bottom, where towering cliffs would protect them somewhat from the force of the wind. Toma shouted to them. His keen ears had detected a sound other than that made by the blizzard. It was a different sound, and he had heard it before—a queer rumbling, followed by a mighty roar.
With a quickness born of desperation, the guide seized Dick and Sandy by the arms and pulled them out of the path of an almost certain death.
As the boys stood trembling and appalled at the deafening tumult about them, what seemed at first a vast mountain of snow, went shooting past, carrying everything before it. The snowslide left in its wake nothing but a wide belt of barren ground—even huge rocks had been torn away from the earth and hurtled on into the storm.
“That was close enough to suit me,” declared Sandy in a tragic whisper, as the boys continued their descent. “I’ve never seen a snowslide before, and I don’t wish to see another one. Do you feel shaky, Dick?”
“Yes, I do,” admitted Dick, his cheeks slightly pale. “I thought the entire upper part of the valley wall was falling in on us.” He turned to Toma. “Do you suppose,” he inquired, “that it’ll be safe to go down?”
The Indian lad shook his head thoughtfully.
“Me no can tell. Mebbe more snowslide after while. We take chance—that’s all.”
Dick and Sandy hesitated.
“Perhaps we’d better not go down to the river,” said Dick. “It may be a wiser plan to keep up above, where there isn’t the danger from these avalanches. No use to risk our lives needlessly,” he pointed out.
Their guide grunted something under his breath, then looked up, his sober, dark eyes twinkling.
“Snowslide catch us in the valley,” he pronounced. “Big blizzard catch us on top. Which way you like die best?”
At any other time the two boys would have seen the humor in the situation, but at that particular moment neither Sandy nor Dick felt that there was anything funny about it. For a brief interval they stood, deep in thought, their two youthful faces clouded with apprehension.
“It makes no difference to me which way I die,” declared Sandy at length, kicking disconsolately at the trunk of a small tree, which had been uprooted by the force of the snowslide. “We’re more than half way down to the river now, so what’s the use of turning back. My choice is the valley. At least, we can travel faster down there, with more protection from the storm.”
“You’re right,” agreed Dick, “I choose the valley, too. Do you think we can reach your friend Raoul’s place before dark?”
“Best we can do it take three hours from here,” replied Toma, “an’ night come early. One hour more mebbe an’ then we no see at all. Dark all ’round. Travel very slow then. Raoul him live on top of river bank ten, fifteen miles from here.”
Without further word, the three boys made their way quickly down to the floor of the valley and proceeded on their way. Beneath their feet was the frozen course of the Bad Heart River, winding forth through a white world of weird, irregular cliffs, now deeply mantled with snow.
“This is better,” Sandy growled, looking up to where the storm broke above their heads. “I never would have thought it would make so much difference being down here. You can actually see a little and hardly feel the wind at all.”
“Fine!” answered Dick. “But save your breath, Sandy. You’ll need it.”
Monotonously, heavily, the moccasined feet of the three snow-covered figures crunched along the unbroken trail. In the lead, Toma glided ahead with an untiring energy that filled Dick with admiration. He wondered what the young half-breed was thinking about. Was he, too, secretly fearful of some new impending danger lurking in their path?
He noticed presently that the shadows, flung across the floor of the valley, were gradually becoming darker and darker, a heavy dusk had settled around them. Toma, barely four feet away, was a vague, indistinct blur, completely shutting off his view of the trail in front of him.
That the fury of the blizzard had not abated, was easily apparent. He could still hear the wind howling above their heads, and feel the snow as it sifted quietly down. At every step his feet sunk into the soft, yielding surface, and his heart pounded like a trip-hammer from the continuous, never-ending exertion.
“How much farther?” Sandy demanded, a note of despair in his voice. “How much farther, Toma?”
“No can tell.”
Sandy mumbled and complained to himself. He came stumbling and panting behind Dick, keeping up an incessant babbling or muttering that filled his friend with alarm.
“How much farther?” he asked again.
Toma grunted.
“No can tell.”
A snort of fury seized upon Sandy. With a strangled, despairing cry, he sprang forward past Dick and seized Toma by the shoulder.
“Listen to me you, you—Indian. I’ve got a right to know how far we’ve gone. Come on, now—out with it!”
Toma turned as if to brush off the detaining hand, when Sandy struck out with all the force of his right arm. It was an unexpected blow which sent the young Indian guide staggering to his knees. Aghast, scarcely believing his senses, Dick stood in bewilderment for a moment unable to move. With incredible speed, his companion had sprung forward again, his fumbling, eager hands encircling Toma’s throat.
“Stop it!” shrieked Dick.
A shrill, unearthly shout, terrible in that utter desolation, seemed to freeze Dick’s blood. Toma and Sandy were at grips, struggling, rolling—a dark, almost indistinguishable ball against the gray background of billowing drifts.
“Stop it!” roared Dick again, and, jumping in, endeavored to separate them. He was still somewhat dazed over the sudden, unexpected turn events had taken. What had happened to Sandy? What was the meaning of that unwarranted attack upon the kindly young Indian guide? Had the hardship and severe nervous strain of the past few days, proved too much for his friend? Desperately he tugged and pulled at the two combatants, finally breathing a sigh of thankfulness as Toma rolled on top, successfully pinning the arms of his assailant.
“Fight all gone,” declared the victor between gasps of exhaustion, raising one hand to wipe away the blood trickling from a cut over his left eye. “Hm, poor fellow go sleep bye an bye. Trail too much. Worry too much. All make him mad like grizzly caught in trap, an’ fight like grizzly till strength all gone.”
Toma arose, brushing the snow from his clothing, then placed a still trembling hand on Dick’s arm.
“Him lay there all night—huh?” he inquired. “What you think we do next? What you think?”
Disconsolately, Dick gazed out into the black pall of darkness which had gathered around them.
“Toma,” he inquired presently, “do you believe Sandy will feel better after a while? Will he be able to get up and walk again?”
“Him walk no more tonight,” stated Toma with conviction.
“In that case, there’s only one thing to do. I’ll camp here with Sandy while you go on to your friend’s house for help. Do you think you can make it, Toma?”
“You start ’em fire here,” instructed the Indian. “Me make it all right. Get back two, three hours, mebbe, with dog team and take poor Sandy to warm bed. Please no worry if I be little late.”
“No,” answered Dick, gulping down a hard substance in his throat. “Good-bye and good luck to you, Toma. I’ll be here when you return.”
Not a suspicious moisture, but real tears were standing in Dick’s eyes a few minutes later as he and the young half-breed separated over the recumbent body of Sandy. A single, warm hand-clasp, then Toma was away, his footfalls sounding faintly through the dark.
Several hours had passed since Toma’s departure, and the fire Dick had kindled had burned down to a mass of glowing, red embers. The still falling snow hissed and sputtered over the coals. Off in the distance a few wolves howled. Sandy lay stretched out at Dick’s feet and the owner of the feet himself drowsed and nodded in a futile effort to keep awake.
He recovered consciousness a few moments later, however, when a half-burned stick, lying on the outer edge of the fire, crackled forth suddenly like a cap in a toy pistol. In an instant he was wide-eyed and alert, his eyes straining towards the outer rim of darkness. He could see nothing.
“Dreaming again,” he grumbled to himself, looking down at Sandy, and wondering how much time had elapsed since the young Indian guide had set out on his perilous journey through the storm. Then his thoughts turned to the happenings of the day.
One thing that bothered Dick, and which he had not yet explained entirely to his own satisfaction, was Sandy’s strange behavior a few hours previous. The young Scotchman’s violent and unwarranted attack upon Toma was not in the least like the usual happy-go-lucky conduct that Dick had ascribed to his friend. Of course, he had heard many times before, of similar cases where men, driven to the limit of physical exertion, had acted queerly. It was a sort of temporary mental breakdown preceding physical collapse. What Sandy needed was a good sleep, followed by a day or two of complete rest. He’d probably feel better in the morning.
For the next few minutes Dick busied himself in gathering more wood for the fire. His first duty was to keep himself and Sandy warm, as warm as possible in their hastily improvised camp there in the inadequate shelter of the river bottom.
“Toma will be back in an hour or two,” he thought to himself, “and then everything will be all right.”
He looked down at Sandy, whom he had bundled up in their two blankets and hoped devoutly that nothing had happened which might delay the young Indian’s safe return. Although not in the least doubting the guide’s prowess, Dick had learned to his sorrow that Govereau’s opposition was not the only factor to be considered in the successful carrying out of their plans.
“There is always this blamed wilderness to contend with,” ruminated Dick. “Treacherous rivers, forest fires, wild beasts, the danger of freezing to death in the extreme cold or getting lost in a blizzard. Sometimes I think——”
Exactly what Dick thought will probably never be recorded. He woke suddenly from his preoccupation, a look of fear in his eyes, every nerve tingling as if tiny electric wires ran close to the surface of his skin. A slight sound somewhere out there in the enveloping darkness had caught his attention. In addition, there had quickly come over him a vague feeling that he and Sandy were not alone, that an actual presence, either an animal of some sort or a human being, had intruded within the circle of their campfire and was ready to pounce down upon them.
For a brief second Dick could scarcely suppress the cry of terror that had sprung to his lips. He wanted to turn his head to look at the thing he knew to be immediately behind him, but, for some unknown reason, his body seemed incapable of action. Instead he sat there, weak and trembling, the blood pounding in his throat with a force almost suffocating.
With a truly mighty effort he contrived finally to twist and squirm around so that his gaze could discern the thing that menaced him, and in that instant he caught wildly at the trunk of the up-rooted tree upon which he sat, so frozen with horror, that the person who stood immediately opposite—probably no more than ten or twelve feet away—might easily have advanced and overpowered him without encountering even the slightest resistance.
In all his life, Dick had never seen so strange an apparition. His first sickening impression was that he was confronted not by a man at all but by a real ghost, fashioned out of a substance as hard and unyielding as a block of ice. In the glare of the campfire, the person’s body gave forth a peculiar gleam or sparkle that so amazed and confounded Dick that he found himself putting up his hands to his eyes in an effort to shut out the unusual sight.
“Toma, he tell me come,” issued a friendly voice from the ghost-like figure, standing there in front of him. “You no ’fraid me.”
Dick came to with a start.
“No,” he mumbled weakly.
“Toma one mile down river,” continued the voice. “Him stuck in ice with huskies. Mebbe no get sled out.”
“What’s that!” demanded Dick. “I don’t think I understand you.”
“Ice thin where river runs quick. Toma, me, drive on river too close to rapids. Hurry up get back here for sick fella. We go fast. Toma, me, sit in sled. All at once ice break. Toma, huskies, me, sled—everybody fall in river.”
Dick sat and stared incredulously at the speaker. He understood now. This was Raoul Testawich, Toma’s friend, who, in his broken English, was trying to describe what had taken place that night farther up the river. Dick shivered at the thought of that unexpected, icy-cold plunge when the sled with its two occupants had broken through into the river. No wonder that young Testawich looked like a ghost, his clothing a glistening ice and snow-covered mantle of white.
“Is Toma safe?” he questioned eagerly.
“Yes,” nodded the half-breed, “Toma all right, but sled gone. Cut harness away from sled to save huskies. Toma stay back there now and watch dogs. What you think; you, me take sick fella along that far?”
“We can try,” answered Dick in an awed voice. “How far did you say it was?”
“About one mile,” said Raoul.
“We can do it!” Dick stated with conviction. “I know we can—even if we are compelled to drag and carry him all the way.”
There was admiration and wonder in Dick’s eyes now as he looked at the ice-clad form of the half-breed. What tremendous endurance Toma and this man must have. It seemed almost incredible.
He rose quickly, fired with new determination, walked over to the spot where Sandy lay and, as gently as possible, attempted to arouse him.
“Wake up! Wake up, Sandy!” he called.
Several minutes elapsed before Dick succeeded in dragging his friend to an upright position. Sandy swayed on his feet, mumbling incoherently, glaring about him with blood-shot, unseeing eyes. Supported by a friendly arm on either side, he moved forward, almost a dead weight between them.
“We get there sooner you think,” encouraged Raoul. “Bye an’ bye we turn bend in river an’ then you see Toma’s campfire. Little fella pretty sick.”
They mushed on in silence. Step by step, slowly, at what seemed to Dick a snail’s pace, they plodded through the darkness towards the place where the courageous young half-breed guide awaited them. The snow had ceased to fall. The roar of the storm above their heads had died down to a faint murmuring. Presently Raoul spoke:
“I see light now. Pretty soon we get to campfire. Then dogs pull sick fella rest of way to my home.”
“But we haven’t any sled,” interposed Dick.
“Toma tie poles together for sled by time we get there. Make ’em pole sled for sick fella.”
Again they went on in silence. The light of Toma’s campfire gradually grew brighter as they advanced. Presently Dick discerned the lonely figure of the Indian guide and after a time, five blotches in the snow, five furry forms that snarled and howled as they waited impatiently for the return of their master.
“We’ve made it!” howled Dick, unable to suppress his exultation. “We’ve made it, Toma, old boy. Yip! Yip!”
Toma’s answering shout was drowned out by a deafening chorus from the huskies.
The cabin of Raoul Testawich, which stood in a sheltering grove of spruce a few miles back from Bad Heart river, loomed up through the darkness several hours later as Toma, Raoul and Dick, with the team of huskies in the lead, crossed a narrow coulee about thirty yards away from the house and plunged on through heavy drifts to the narrow, cleared space immediately in front of the door.
Wrapped in blankets, Sandy still lay on the hastily improvised sled. As his three comrades gathered about him, a heavy door squeaked open and a sleepy voice, in Cree, called out a welcome. In an incredibly short time they had lifted Sandy from the sled and had carried him within, gently placing him in a bunk at one end of the room.
A young Indian girl, whom Dick judged to be Raoul’s wife or sister, closed the door after them and advanced swiftly to the mud fireplace where, over crackling spruce logs, a heavy iron pot sent forth the pleasant aroma of steaming moose meat. Close by, with growing interest and enthusiasm, Dick beheld a small table laden with food.
“We eat this time for sure,” grinned Toma, nudging Dick’s arm. “Mebbe you no want eat now.”
“Like fun, I don’t,” laughed the other. “There are two things I want—food and sleep. I’m so blamed tired that Raoul will have to wait until sometime tomorrow before I buy his dog team. I believe I could sleep for three days.”
“You sleep long you like,” conceded Toma, as Raoul left the room to look after the dogs. “Him, Raoul, my very good friend. Fine fella. Like ’em sister, too. Mebbe some day marry girl.”
The far away expression in the young half-breed’s eyes drew a laugh from Dick.
“I’m glad to hear that,” he said, “and I want to congratulate you. When do you expect to get married?”
“Four—five—six years,” he answered, counting laboriously on his fingers. “Father Girard he tell ’em me at mission too young yet. No marry till get older. Get older very slow,” he concluded, casting woebegone eyes in the direction of the young lady of his choice.
The re-entrance of Raoul cut short any further reference to the subject of Toma’s tender affair of the heart. It was well, too, for the face of the owner of the huskies wore a look of concern as he strode forward and commenced to remove his outer garments, still thickly encrusted with ice and snow. As he fumbled with the buttons of his moose-hide coat, he broke forth excitedly in Cree, pausing now and again to make quick, explanatory gestures with his hands.
“What’s the trouble?” demanded Dick, who though not understanding one word that had been spoken, could tell from the Indian’s expression that something out of the ordinary had taken place. “What did he say, Toma?”
“He say,” interrupted the guide, “that he no like way huskies act. Huskies tired but no want to lie down and make bed in snowdrift. Huskies afraid of something, very much afraid.”
“That not all,” Toma continued as a relieved expression brightened Dick’s eyes. “Raoul him not sure, but see track mebbe made by snowshoe. Look like snowshoe track only wind blow snow over it. Raoul think Govereau’s men come here tonight and look for us. What you think? Mebbe camped not far away.”
For a brief moment, a look of apprehension, of fear, swept through Dick. The supposition was not entirely impossible. Experience had taught him that Govereau was both an experienced woodsman and an implacable enemy, a man who had the disconcerting habit of putting in an appearance at times when one least expected him. On the other hand, Dick could not help but believe that the hated French half-breed had not yet succeeded in catching up with them. The incident at the river when he, Sandy and Toma had crossed through the ice floe successfully, must have delayed him considerably.
“I don’t think he has had time to overtake us yet,” said Dick. “If any one has been here today, it must be someone else.”
Toma shook his head.
“Mebbe you right. I like think so. All same Govereau make you surprise once in a while. Fool ever’body.”
“That’s true,” rejoined Dick, “but if Govereau really is here, he’s here and that’s an end to it. There’s nothing that we can do except to fight him and take our own risks. I think that you and Raoul had better get into some dry clothes as quickly as possible. A good supper and a sound sleep afterwards are the first things to be considered. I wonder if I’d better wake Sandy?”
“Him better sleep long time an’ wake up himself. Him be all right then.”
Dick heeded this advice from Toma and a few minutes later sat down to one of the most enjoyable meals he had eaten in weeks. Then he and the young Indian guide tumbled into the bunk above Sandy and were almost instantly fast asleep, their weary limbs stretching out in the luxurious softness of a white rabbit sleeping-bag.
They woke on the following afternoon and clambered down from their perch. To his amazement, Dick beheld Sandy, somewhat pale but otherwise quite his usual self, sitting at the table, opposite their host. He was eating gruel from a bowl and conversing in low tones to Raoul.
“Why, Sandy!” exclaimed Dick, unable to conceal his delight. “What has happened?”
“What do you mean?”
“You’re up.”
“Sure I’m up,” the voice of the young Scotchman rose in jovial good humor as he glanced across at his two friends, who were dressing hurriedly. “Didn’t expect me to lie in bed all night and all day too, did you?”
“Yes, but how do you feel?”
Sandy put down his spoon and swung round to meet Dick’s inquiring gaze.
“A little shaky, I guess, but otherwise about the same as usual. By the way, Dick, what happened yesterday? When I woke up this morning, I couldn’t imagine where I was. And funny thing—I can’t remember very much of what took place on the trail. Did I get hurt?”
“Didn’t Raoul tell you?”
“Not yet.”
Dick picked up his moccasins and began absently to turn them in his hands. For Sandy’s benefit, it had occurred to him to gloss over the events of the previous day, to give his friend as little information as possible. It was not that Sandy’s breakdown was anything to be ashamed of, considering what he had been through. It was not that, Dick told himself. It was the possible effect the news might have on him. For Sandy was proud, and the knowledge of even a temporary weakness on his part would be sure to cause him a good deal of humiliation.
“You played out on the trail, Sandy,” Dick stated evenly. “I was all in myself. I hope we never again have so many obstacles and difficulties to contend with. I can’t imagine what would have happened to us if Toma hadn’t gone for help. We have Toma and Raoul to thank for getting through safely yesterday.”
“Toma is always doing remarkable things,” said Sandy. “I can’t help but admire the way he broke trail through that storm. Wish I had half his endurance.”
“You no talk about me so much,” Toma broke forth, pretending to be angry, but grinning in spite of himself. “Me no like ’em all big words. Mebbe make fun of me.”
“You hurry up dress,” interposed Raoul. “My sister wait in next room to bring something to eat. Pretty soon we have breakfast middle of the night.”
“All right,” laughed Dick, “we’ll hurry. I’ll be ready as soon as I put on these moccasins.”
He was looking at Raoul as he spoke, but was hardly prepared for what suddenly ensued. The young Indian was abruptly on his feet and had dashed forward to one side of the room, where he caught up a rifle, which had been leaning there against the wall. Amazed at first, Dick quickly caught the significance of Raoul’s actions, as there came to his ears the dull tromping of feet outside, followed quickly by a loud thumping at the door. A moment later, a towering, heavy form broke into the room and stood blinking across at them.
“What you want!” demanded Raoul, flourishing his rifle.
The intruder closed the door behind him, his shifting eyes regarding each of them in turn. He was a big man, clothed almost entirely in fur, a parka concealing the lower part of his face. As the four other occupants of the room stood or sat watching him, he shook off his heavy mitts, kicked the snow from his feet and removed his parka. His general appearance, Dick observed, was far from prepossessing.
“What you want!” repeated Raoul.
“You don’t need to be afeered o’ me,” finally grumbled their unexpected guest, rubbing one burly hand against his bearded cheek. “Put down yer gun, brother, I ain’t gonna hurt nobody. I jes’ came in to get warm an’ ask fer something to eat. Been hoofing it all the way from Twin Brothers Creek, near the Big Smokey. Left there this morning. Stranger in these parts. My name’s Bill Watson. Guess you don’t know me.”
Dick was conscious of a feeling of relief to learn something of the intruder’s identity. At least, he was not one of Govereau’s men. Then Dick felt Toma’s face brushing close to his own.
“No like him,” breathed the guide in a scarcely audible whisper. “Ever’body watch out. See him one time before with Govereau. He come to find out if you and Sandy here.”
Toma drew back quickly as the stranger’s gaze turned again in their direction.