"THAT IS OUR CABIN. LET US COME IN, I SAY""THAT IS OUR CABIN. LET US COME IN, I SAY"
"THAT IS OUR CABIN. LET US COME IN, I SAY""THAT IS OUR CABIN. LET US COME IN, I SAY"
"Git,Isay!" Mitchell repeated. "After this, we'll shoot on sight. I give ye till I count three. One—two—"
"Back off. We 're caught!" Peter muttered.
They backed away slowly. When they were at the edge of the thickets, Mitchell shouted again:—
"When we're gone, you can come back! Now keep away for your own good!"
The cabin door closed as they stepped back into the undergrowth. Macgregor's face was black as he tucked the useless rifle under his arm. They were all boiling with rage and mortification.
"If we'd only turned those scoundrels out yesterday!" Peter muttered.
"We couldn't foresee this," said Maurice. "Those fellows evidently knew that the diamonds were here—or strongly suspected it. They must have heard of it from your sick Indian, or from the third trapper. They must have been astonished to find us on the spot."
"Very likely," said Fred, "but the present question is what we're going to do to-night."
"We must make the best camp we can in the snow," remarked Maurice.
"I don't see how we'll cut wood without an axe," said Peter. "It's going to be a savage cold night. We have no blankets, either. Lucky we shot those partridges."
But when they came to the spot where they had dropped the partridges, a fresh disappointment awaited them. The famished sledge dogs had found them. There was nothing left of the fourteen grouse except a litter of feathers and a few blood-stains on the snow.
Their night was to be supperless as well as cold, it seemed. Darkness was already falling, with the weird desolation that the winter night always brings down on the wilderness. It had been always impressive, but now, as they faced the night without food or shelter, it was appalling.
Destitute of an axe, they would have to make a camp where they could find fuel, and they scattered to look for it. It was rapidly growing too dark to search, but Fred presently came upon a large, dead spruce, lying half buried in snow, but spiked thickly with dry branches. He was breaking these off by the armfuls when the other boys came up in answer to his calls.
They trampled down the snow, gathered birch bark and spruce splinters, and laid the kindling against the big back log. Maurice set about pulling twigs for a couch, in case the temperature permitted them to sleep.
"How about matches? I haven't one on me," said Fred, in sudden anxiety.
Macgregor discovered four rather damp ones in his pockets; Maurice had a dozen or more, but the snow had got into his pocket, and wet them.
They used up five matches in lighting the fire, but finally the birch bark flared up, curling, and the spruce twigs began to crackle.
They were sure, at any rate, of a fire, and this little success raised their spirits wonderfully. They started at once to bring in all the loose wood they could find; but it proved to be little, for snow covered everything except the largest logs. However, they counted on the big spruce trunk to burn all night.
Without an axe, it was impossible to build any sort of shelter; so they sat down close beside the fire, and huddled together to escape the cold, which was growing hourly more piercing.
In spite of all their efforts, the fire was a poor one. The spruce trunk proved rotten and damp, and merely smouldered and smoked. The dead branches went off in a rapid flame, and they had to economize them to make them last the night out.
That was a terrible night. The temperature must have gone far below zero. A foot away from the fire, they could hardly feel its warmth; their backs and feet were numb, and their faces smoked and scorching.
Two of the boys were tired with a long snowshoe tramp, and all of them were hungry. Macgregor's feet were still far from being in a condition to stand further exposure; they would have frozen again easily, and he kept them as close to the wretched fire as possible. Sleep was out of the question, for they would have frozen to death at six feet away from the fire. They sat with their arms round each other, as close to the blaze as possible, and turned now their faces and now their backs to the warmth.
Fortunately, there was no wind. About midnight a pallid moon came up behind light clouds. Far in the woods they heard strange, lugubrious noises, moans, hootings, and once a shrill, savage scream.
Now and then they talked, but they were too miserable from the cold to say much. In spite of the cold, they grew drowsy. Fred could have gone dead asleep if he had allowed himself to. He got up, stamped, and engaged in a rather spiritless bout of wrestling with Peter. Then they all straggled off to try to find more wood.
Finally, that night of horror wore itself away. The light of a pale, cold dawn began to show.
Feeling twenty years older, they scattered to bring wood again. They built up the fire to a roaring blaze that gave some real warmth.
"Aren't those fellows likely to make off the first thing this morning, and take all our outfit with them?" said Maurice.
"They're almost certain to. We must keep watch on the cabin," said Fred.
"We must hope they don't," added Peter. "We'd have to follow them—follow them till we dropped or captured them. For they'd be taking away our lives with them."
In view of this danger, they sent Maurice at once to reconnoiter the place, which was not more than a quarter of a mile distant. He was gone nearly half an hour, and on his return reported that smoke was rising from the cabin, but that there were no signs that the men intended to depart.
And he had had a stroke of luck. A couple of partridges had flown up and perched stupidly on a log, so close to him that he had been able to knock one of them over with a cleverly thrown club.
In less than a minute that partridge's feathers were scattered on the snow, and it was cut up and roasting on sharp sticks before the fire. Too ravenous to wait until it was thoroughly cooked, the boys began to eat it, but Maurice made a wry face at his second mouthful.
"No salt!" he remarked.
The half-cooked flesh was nauseous without salt, and hungry though they were, they got it down with difficulty. It did them good, however, and they all felt more capable of facing the situation.
"The first thing we must do," said Peter, "is to find a better camping-place, put up some sort of shelter, and gather plenty of wood."
"Why, you don't expect to live like this long?" cried Fred, looking startled.
"It's hard to say. You know we're fearfully handicapped. Our only chance is to get those fellows off their guard, for if we strike once and fail, we'll probably never get another chance. We must lie low, and make them think that we've gone away, or that we're dead. We'll put our new camp half a mile away, or more, and one of us must keep watch near the cabin from sunrise to sunset."
It sounded disheartening, but they could think of no other plan. Eventually, Maurice went to stand guard, while Fred and Macgregor searched for a camp-site.
They could not find what they wanted. Dead timber in any quantity was scarce. At the end of a couple of hours Fred went to relieve Maurice, and found him walking round and round a tree in order to keep from freezing.
"I thought I might get a chance to collar the axe," said Maurice, with chattering teeth. "But they've carried it inside. They've taken in the rest of the venison, too, and they've even got the dogs inside the shanty. Afraid we'd shoot them, I suppose."
Maurice tramped off to aid Peter in his search, while Fred stamped about in the trees. No one was in sight about the hut, but after a long time one of the French Canadians came out and went down to the river with a pail for water.
It made Fred's blood boil to think of the warmth and comfort in that cabin, from which they had been so treacherously turned out. He puzzled his brain to devise some plan of retaliation, but he could think of nothing except setting fire to the place, and that would destroy the supplies of friend and foe alike.
His feet grew numb, and he adopted Maurice's plan of running round in a circle. He fancied that his ears and nose were frosted, and he rubbed them with snow. A long time passed; he wondered what had become of his companions. It was nearly noon when Maurice hurried up with his face full of consternation. "The fire is out," he said, "and we've used the last match!"
At this crushing news, Fred left his post and went back with Maurice, who explained what had happened.
They had found a good camping-ground, where wood was abundant, and had tried to light a fire. But the remaining matches proved to have been badly dampened; the heads were pasty or entirely soaked off. One by one they fizzled and went out. As a last hope, Maurice had hurried back to their night camp for fire, only to find that the wet log had smouldered down and gone dead out.
The spot was about two thirds of a mile away, south from the river. A great windrow of hemlocks and jack-pines had fallen together, and afforded plenty of wood. On one of the logs sat Macgregor, with his elbows on his knees, and his chin in his hands, the picture of despair; and at his feet was a litter of bark and kindling, and a dozen burnt matches.
They all sat down together in silence, and nobody found a word of comfort.
It was a brilliantly clear day, but the temperature had certainly not risen to zero, and a slight, cutting wind blew from the west. The sun shone in an icy blue sky, but there was no heat in its rays.
"If we only had a cartridge," said Fred, "we might make a fire with the gun flash."
They all made another vain search of their pockets, in the faint hope of finding a cartridge or an overlooked match head.
"If we don't find some way to make a fire before sunset," said Macgregor gloomily, "we'll have to attack the cabin to-night. I really don't believe we could live through a night without fire, with nothing to eat, especially as we had no sleep last night."
"Surely if we went up to the cabin, they'd give us some fire," Maurice protested. "They wouldn't let us die in the snow."
"That's just what they count on us to do," said the Scotchman bitterly.
No one said anything about renewing the guard on the cabin. Nothing seemed to matter much—nothing except the cold. The morsels of half-raw food they had eaten that morning did not keep them from being ravenously hungry again, and an empty stomach is poor protection against Arctic cold.
Like the rest of them, Fred was heavily clad, but the cold seemed to find his skin as if he were naked. He began to feel numb to the bone, lethargic, incapable of moving. Then he realized his danger, forced himself awake, and tried to think of some expedient for making a fire.
Flints could not be found under three feet of snow. A burning-glass—if they only had one! It should have been included in the outfit.
And then an idea flashed upon him. He jumped up suddenly.
"Wait here for me, fellows!" he cried.
He rushed off toward the river, and came back in a few minutes with a piece of clear ice, almost as large as his palm, and an inch or two thick. He slipped off his mittens, and began to rub it between his hands, so as to melt it down with the heat of his skin.
"See what it is? Burning-glass!" he exclaimed.
"But you can't make a burning-glass ofice!" said Maurice.
"Why not? Anyhow, I'm going to try."
But before he had worked the ice long, he had to stop, for his hands seemed freezing. While he beat and rubbed them, Maurice, incredulous but willing, took the lump of ice, and shaped it down while the heat lasted in his hands. He then passed it on to Macgregor, who in turn handed it to Fred again. He finally succeeded in melting and curving it roughly into the proper shape.
He tried it on the back of his hand. An irregular but small and intensely hot spot of light concentrated itself there.
"I do believe it will work!" Peter cried.
They hastily collected a handful of fine, dry hair moss from the fir branches, and peeled filmy shreds of birch bark. Fred brought the "glass" to bear on the little heap. His numbed hands trembled so that he could hardly hold it still. For some time there was no result. Then a thin thread of smoke began to arise. The boys held their breath. The hair moss suddenly sparkled and flamed. A shred of bark caught. Peter interposed a large roll. It flared up.
"Hurrah! We've got it!" cried Macgregor. "Fred, you've saved our lives, I do believe."
They piled on twigs, branches, and heavy lumps of wood, and soon had a brisk fire going. Better still, they were now assured of having always the means of making one—at least, whenever the sun shone.
The magical influence of the fire gave back to them a little of their cheerfulness. They warmed themselves thoroughly, and then started to have another look at the outlaws, and to see whether they could find any small game. For now that they no longer suffered from the cold, their stomachs cried loudly for food.
Leaving the empty rifles by the fire, they armed themselves with clubs and poles for hunting, and had good hopes of being able to knock over a partridge or a hare. But the grouse seemed to have turned wild. They saw only two at a great distance. No hares showed themselves, nor could they find any trace of porcupines on the trees.
Skulking within sight of the cabin, they perceived one of the Frenchmen carrying in logs of wood for the fire—some of those that Fred himself had cut. Mitchell stood by, smoking his pipe, with a rifle under his arm. Fred fancied he could smell frying venison as the door was opened.
Plainly the outlaws were on the alert still. The boys crouched, unseen and unheard, among the hemlocks; but if they had been armed, they could easily have picked off the two men at the door. And they had come to such a state of rage and desperation that they would very likely have done it.
They found no comfort in the fact that the robbers showed no inclination to leave the place. The boys were perplexed at their staying, but probably the men had no reason to hurry, and, finding themselves comfortably placed, had decided to remain where they were while the extreme cold snap lasted.
In spite of the cold, the boys remained on watch for some time after the men had gone indoors. Suddenly Peter laid his hand on Fred's shoulder, and nodded backward.
A deer had come out of the thickets within thirty yards of where they lay,—a fine, fat buck,—and stood looking uneasily, sniffing, and cocking its ears in their direction. Then, without showing any particular alarm, it walked on, and passing within twenty yards of them, disappeared again.
They had to let it go; it was perhaps the cruelest moment they had lived through.
Deer might be out of the question, but if they were to keep alive, it was absolutely necessary that they should find something, and they separated in order to look for small game.
In the course of an hour or two they all straggled back to the camp fire, half frozen and empty-handed. Macgregor indeed had seen a partridge, but his muscles had been so benumbed that he missed his throw.
After warming themselves, they made another expedition—all but Maurice, who had neuralgic pains in his face, and who remained by the fire. But again Peter and Fred came back without game.
The sun had set by this time, and it was hopeless to try again. A hungry night was inevitable, but they tried so to arrange matters that at any rate they would be warm. They gathered all the wood that they could break off or lift. Then with their snowshoes they dug down to the ground, heaping the snow up in a rampart behind them, and piled in balsam twigs, and trusted that in this pit they would be able to sleep.
It grew dark rapidly, and the wind rose. The fire, flaring and smoking, drove smoke and sparks into their faces until their eyes streamed. It made the leeward side of the fire almost unbearable, whereas the windward side was freezingly cold.
The temperature was perhaps not quite so low as the night before, but the gale made it far more disagreeable. Regardless of smoke and sparks, they had to sit as near the fire as they dared, or risk freezing. Sleep was impossible.
All three of them were faint and sick with starvation, but the plight of Maurice was the most wretched. His neuralgia had grown agonizing; his face was badly swollen, and he sat with his head buried in his arms, and his inflamed cheek turned to the heat.
Much as they sympathized with him, they could do nothing to relieve him, except to try to keep up the fire. This task caused them endless trouble. The high wind made it burn furiously fast, and the small branches they had gathered were licked up like magic. They had thought there was enough fuel for the night, but soon after midnight Fred and Peter were foraging about in the deep snow and the storm for a fresh supply.
Toward morning their endurance broke down. They piled on all the rest of the wood, and went to sleep huddled up by the fire, reckless whether they froze or not.
Fred was awakened from a painful and uneasy slumber by Peter's shaking his arm.
"Your ears are frozen," the Scotchman was saying. "Rub them with snow at once."
While asleep, Fred had fallen back beyond the range of heat. It was broad daylight, and snowing fast. The fire was low. All of them were covered with white, and Maurice was still asleep, sitting up, with his head fallen forward on his knees.
Never in his life did Fred feel so unwilling to move. He did not feel cold; he hardly felt anything. All he wanted was to stay as he was and be let alone.
But Macgregor insisted on rousing him, dragged him up, protesting, and rubbed snow on his ears. Fred was very angry, but the scuffle set his blood moving again. His ears were not badly frozen, but the skin came off as he rubbed them. They bled, and the blood froze on as it ran, and made him a rather ghastly spectacle.
DRAGGED HIM UP, PROTESTING, AND RUBBED SNOW ON HIS EARSDRAGGED HIM UP, PROTESTING, AND RUBBED SNOW ON HIS EARS
DRAGGED HIM UP, PROTESTING, AND RUBBED SNOW ON HIS EARSDRAGGED HIM UP, PROTESTING, AND RUBBED SNOW ON HIS EARS
Maurice was awakened by the disturbance, and sat up stiffly. He declared that his neuralgia was much better.
They built up the fire again, and sat beside it, shivering. Fred felt utterly incapable either of action or of thought, and even his hunger had grown numbed. Maurice obviously felt no better, and Macgregor, who seemed to retain a little energy, looked at them both with a face of the gravest concern. Presently he rose, put on his snowshoes, took a long pole, and started away with an air of determination.
Maurice and Fred remained sitting by the fire in a sort of lethargy, and exchanged hardly a word. Macgregor was gone almost an hour; then he came back at a run, covered with snow, and carrying a dead hare. He skinned the animal, cleaned it, cut it into pieces, and set it to roast. At the odor of the roasting meat, the boys' appetites revived, and they began to take the fragments from the spits before they were half cooked. The scorched, unsalted meat was even more tasteless and nauseating than that of the grouse, but they all bolted it voraciously, and washed it down by eating snow.
Almost immediately afterward they were taken with distressing cramps and vomiting, which left both Maurice and Fred in a state of weak collapse. Macgregor suffered least, perhaps because he had eaten less incautiously. He alone bore the burden of the rest of that day. He brought wood, kept the fire up, and propped Fred and Maurice up on piles of hemlock branches. There were some small pieces of the hare remaining, and he finally made the boys chew them, and swallow the juice. It seemed to do them good; at any rate, the nausea did not return. Then the Scotchman spoke.
"Look here," he said, "we've got to do it this very night—get back into the cabin, I mean. We've gone almost too far now, and by another day we'll be too weak to move."
"But how'll we do it, Peter?" asked Fred weakly.
"There's only one way. We'll wait till after midnight, when they'll be asleep, and then burst in the door, aim our rifles at them, and get hold of their guns before they can recover their wits."
"They'll have the door barricaded. We'll be shot down before we can break in."
"I know it's a long chance, but we're living by a succession of miracles as it is. It can't last, and I'd as soon be shot as frozen to death. I'm most afraid of the dogs. They'll make an awful uproar, and probably spring at us as soon as we get in."
As far as Fred was concerned, he felt ready for the attempt, or rather, perhaps, that it made no difference what he did. Maurice also assented, but their force seemed a pitifully small one with which to oppose four able-bodied, well-armed men.
It was then late in the afternoon. Peter began to work energetically at gathering wood enough to last until they should try their desperate chance, and Fred and Maurice tried to help him. It had stopped snowing and had cleared. The night promised to be intensely cold.
Suddenly, faint and far, but very distinct, the sound of a rifle-shot resounded through the trees. They listened, and looked at one another.
"One of those ruffians has gone hunting," Maurice remarked.
"So he has," said Peter. "And see here," he added, with a suddenly brightening face, "this gives us a chance. Let's ambush that fellow as he comes in. We'll knock him down and stun him. That'll make one less against us, and we'll have his rifle and cartridges. Perhaps he'll have something to eat on him. Boys, it doubles our chances."
The plan did look promising. At any rate, it would, if successful, give them a firearm. The shot must have been fired fully a mile away; but they put on their snowshoes at once, and hastened in the direction of the cabin.
The light was failing fast as they stopped about two hundred yards from the hut, trying to guess just where the returning hunter would pass. It was very still, and they would be able to hear his footsteps for a long way.
But they waited for nearly half an hour, and the woods were dusky when at last their strained ears caught the regular creak, crunch, and shuffle of snowshoes in the distance. They were posted too far to the right, and they had to run fifty yards in order to cross the man's path. There they crouched behind the hemlocks, in great fear lest their enemy had heard their steps. But in another minute they caught sight of him. The man was alone, muffled in a greatcapote, carrying a rifle over his shoulder, and something on his back—possibly his game. His face was indistinguishable, but he looked like one of the French Canadians.
On he came with a steady stride, now in sight, and now concealed by the thickets. He passed within ten feet of the ambush where the boys crouched palpitating.
"Now! Tackle him!" Macgregor cried.
The three boys plunged at the man together. He stopped short, and made a motion to lower his rifle; but he was too late. The boys had fastened on him as wolves fasten on a deer. He uttered a single, stifled cry; then they all went down together in a mass of kicking snowshoes and struggling limbs. The hunter's efforts were feeble, and the boys had no trouble in over-powering him. Fred pinioned his arms, and Maurice sat on his legs.
Macgregor peered into the man's face. "Why, this isn't one of that gang!" he cried.
It had grown almost dark. Fred bent forward to look at the man.
"It's my brother!" he cried. "It's Horace!"
"What? It can't be!" cried Peter and Maurice together. They let go their hold on their prisoner in order to look closer.
"I declare, I believe it is!" said Macgregor, stupefied.
It really was Horace Osborne, but he was almost unrecognizable in his mufflingcapote, long hair, and a three months' growth of beard. He had no idea who had thus attacked him, and he was in a towering rage.
"What do you mean by all this? Who are you, anyway?" he exclaimed, sitting up in the snow. Then he looked more closely at his brother, who was trying to say something, inarticulate, half laughing and half crying.
"Fred!" he cried, in amazement. "Is that you? What on earth are you doing here? Who's that with you? Peter Macgregor—and Maurice Stark!"
"We thought you might be dead!" Fred cried, and Peter and Maurice cut in alternately:—
"Heard you were sick with smallpox—"
"Came up to find you—"
"Came in on skates, and—"
"A gang of outlaws turned us out of the cabin—"
"Found your diamonds."
"I don't half understand it all," said Horace, "but I see that you fellows have acted like good friends. We can't get in the cabin, you say? Well, you've a camp somewhere, haven't you?"
They started for the camp in the snow, and on the way Fred gave his brother a somewhat incoherent account of what had taken place.
"You fellows certainly have acted like friends to me—like brothers, rather!" said Horace. "I'll never forget it, boys!"
And he shook hands with them all round.
"Not a bit!" said Maurice, in embarrassment. "We were hoping that you'd let us in on the ground floor of a diamond mine. Fred says there was a whole bagful of diamonds that you had hidden in the cabin. What do you suppose they're worth?"
"If they're all diamonds, perhaps a hundred thousand dollars," replied Horace.
"Gracious!" gasped Maurice, and said no more.
But Fred's attention had been fixed on the pack that his brother carried.
"What have you there, Horace?" he asked.
"Grub. Bacon, hardtack, tea, cold boiled beans. Why, I never thought of it, but you must all be as hungry as wolves. Well, there's enough for a square meal here, anyhow, and to-morrow we'll find some way of getting those rascals out of the camp."
They built up the camp-fire, and Horace got out his provisions, together with a couple of partridges he had shot late that afternoon. But Macgregor, as medical adviser, refused to let them eat as much as they wanted. A little tea and a few mouthfuls of meat were all he permitted them to have; he promised, however, that they should have a full meal in a couple of hours. He took the same ration himself; but Horace ate heartily.
"But where have you been since you left the cabin?" Fred asked.
"At a lumber camp on the Abitibi, about forty miles from here," Horace replied. "I've been convalescing."
"If we'd only known that there was anything of the sort so near," remarked Peter, "we'd have made for it ourselves."
"I stumbled on it by chance. However, I'd better explain in detail. As you seem to have heard, I came sick to this trappers' shack. I'd been in an Indian camp a week before, on the Nottaway River, where they had had smallpox, but I've been vaccinated four or five times, and never dreamed of danger. I didn't know what the matter with me was, in fact, till the red spots began to appear.
"Of course the trappers were badly scared, especially after one of them caught the disease and died. I can't tell you how sorry I was for that death. I suppose I wasn't to blame, but I felt somehow responsible.
"The Indian cleared out, and I couldn't blame him. But I couldn't afford to let the third man go. I was over the worst of it by that time, but I was as weak as a kitten, and could hardly feed myself. If he'd deserted me I should have died. I offered him any sum of money if he would stick to me, and told him that I'd shoot him if I saw any sign of his making off.
"I couldn't have aimed straight enough to hit him at a yard just then, and I suppose he knew it. Anyhow, he disappeared one morning before I was awake. He didn't take much with him except his gun and ammunition.
"I was gaining strength fast, and I was able to stagger about a little. I could get water, and there was some grub in the shack. I knew that I must get out at once, lest snow should come. I stayed four days; then I took what grub I could carry, my rifle and a dozen cartridges, and started. I left all my specimens, notebooks and everything, for I didn't dare to carry an ounce more than I could help."
"But the diamonds? They didn't weigh many ounces," interrupted Maurice.
"I struck for the Abitibi," went on Horace, paying no attention to the question, "and I was so weak that I couldn't make much speed. I had been out five days, and my grub was pretty nearly gone, when I stumbled into the lumbermen. They treated me like real Samaritans, took me in and fed me, and I've been there convalescing ever since. Day before yesterday I started back here to get my things. I had to travel slowly, for I'm not overstrong yet, and I was hurrying on to get to the cabin to-night when you pounced on me."
"If you had only taken the diamonds with you!" Fred lamented.
"I did," said Horace. He looked at the boys with a smile, and then went on:—
"Those stones, my boy, that you saw in the cabin aren't diamonds. They are quartz crystals and rather curious garnets, worth a few dollars at the most. Here are the diamonds!"
He took a small leather pouch from an inner pocket; the boys jumped up in excitement to look. From the pouch he took a small paper package, unfolded it, and revealed nine small lumps, which ranged in size from a small shot to a large pea. They looked like lumps of gum arabic, but their edges and angles reflected brilliant sparks in the firelight.
"Those little things? Are they diamonds?" cried Fred, in some disappointment.
"Little things? Why, if they were all perfect stones, they'd be worth a small fortune. Unfortunately, the biggest has a flaw in it that you can see even without cutting it, and some of the others are yellowish and off color. It will take an expert to say what they 're worth. But the great triumph is to have found diamonds up here at all."
"Yes, and there must be more where these came from," said Maurice, brightening. "If you've discovered the beds—"
"I haven't, though," Horace returned. "Three of these stones I bought from a camp of Ojibwas. The rest I found in the gravel of the creek-beds, mostly along the Nottaway River, but none of them within a quarter of a mile of another. Whenever I thought the gravel looked promising, I sifted some of it. But I didn't find a trace of the blue soil that always forms the diamond-beds; if there are diamond-beds up here, they must be somewhere beyond the region that we have explored."
"But they must be here somewhere," cried Peter, "and there must be more diamonds where you found those! I'll certainly come up here next summer and try my own luck."
"I've thought of doing so myself; that is, if this lot turns out to be any good. But getting back to town is the present problem, and we've got to consider how to recapture the cabin and your outfit of supplies."
"But not before we eat again," said Fred.
Macgregor, who was as famished as any of them, consented, and they prepared such a banquet as the three castaways had not seen since they left the cabin. It almost exhausted the supplies that Horace had brought, but it did them all a great deal of good. With a new feeling of being able to grapple with the problem, they settled down to consider the question of war.
"We might set fire to the cabin," Fred suggested, "and try to capture the fellows when they rush out."
"Out of the question," declared Peter, "for, even if it worked, the provisions would be burned up. I had thought of stopping up their chimney during the night. The smoke would suffocate them in their sleep, and we could go in and drag them out insensible."
"I am afraid it would waken them first," said Horace. "We'd have them coming out with rifles. Now I'd been thinking that if we only had some of your formaldehyde fumigator we could get them under control very easily."
"So we could. A can of that stuff let through the roof would put them into a dead stupor without waking them. The only risk would be that of killing them all outright. There was a can of it left, too, but it's in the cabin."
"No, it isn't!" cried Fred. "I put it outside in a hollow tree, so as not to have the stuff in the house. I could get it in ten minutes."
"Fred, you're a diamond yourself!" Peter exclaimed. "If it's as you say, we'll have them out of that cabin in a jiffy."
"Shall we try it to-night?" Maurice asked.
"Why not? It's nearly midnight, and they must be asleep," said Horace. "I've no fancy for spending another night and day shivering here in the snow. Besides, we're out of grub."
After some consultation, they put on their snowshoes and tramped off toward the cabin. It was intensely cold, and very still and clear; a brilliant moon had come up over the pines.
Fred easily found the hollow tree in which he had hidden the disinfectant, and came back with the apparatus. There was an unopened tin of formaldehyde complete with its little lamp almost full of spirit.
For some time they reconnoitered the cabin cautiously. A faint glow shone through the skin window, but no sound either of man or dog could be heard within.
It would not be possible to introduce the fumigator through the door or window, and if it were lowered down the chimney, the draft would carry the gas out again. But Maurice recollected the hole he had patched in the roof; it could easily be opened again. He volunteered to set the "smoker" going.
This was really the most dangerous part of the undertaking, for a slight sound might bring out the ruffians, who would probably shoot without much hesitation. Maurice took off his snowshoes, and carrying the fumigator, plunged through the drifts toward the cabin.
Twenty yards away the party watched him from the thickets; Horace kept the door covered with his rifle. The snow had drifted so deep that Maurice climbed easily to the roof, crawled up the slope on hands and knees, groped about, and began to scrape away the snow.
A moment later, he drew out the deer-hide patch, peered down the hole, and then waved his hand reassuringly toward the woods. He struck a match, lighted the spirit lamp, and then lowered the can cautiously by a string about a yard long.
In another minute he was back with his friends. "They're dead asleep," he said, joyfully. "I could hear them snore. The formaldehyde began to smell strong before I let it down. How long shall we leave it?"
"We don't want to kill them," said Horace.
"No danger," Peter remarked. "The draft from the big chimney will keep clearing the air. I'd leave it till all the stuff is vaporized—say, a couple of hours. The only thing I dread is that some one may wake up; but then, he wouldn't know what the smell was, and the spirit flame is so pale that it's almost invisible."
They watched the cabin intently. All remained deathly quiet. It was very cold as they crouched there in the snow. Horace kept his rifle ready, but finally his vigilance slackened. They walked about to keep from freezing, talked in whispers, and still watched the silent hut.
Suddenly Horace clutched Fred's arm.
"Look!" he cried. "The cabin's on fire!"
A thin stream of smoke was rising from the hole in the roof of the cabin. From the chimney volumes of vapor had suddenly begun to pour out into the moonlight. The dim glow at the window now and then flared up brightly.
"That spirit lamp must have set fire to something. Those men will be burned to death. Come, we must try to get them out!" Horace cried.
They rushed together to the cabin door. It was barricaded on the inside; they battered it with kicks and blows for a good half-minute, and at last it yielded.
A gush of smoke and suffocating fumes burst out into their faces, and the boys staggered back. The inside of the cabin appeared to be all in flames, but it was so obscured by smoke that they could see nothing clearly.
With the opening of the door the fire seemed to burn more fiercely. It seemed impossible that anything could be alive in that place; but Fred shut his eyes and dashed blindly in.
He stumbled over the body of a dog, and kicked it outside the door. Choking with the smoke and the formaldehyde fumes, he took another step, and his foot struck something soft; it was the body of a man.
Fred stooped and tried to pick the body up by the shoulders. Suddenly through the smoke Peter appeared at his side, and helped him; together they got the man out and laid him down on the snow. He was one of the French Canadians, apparently lifeless.
"Is he dead?" gasped Fred to Macgregor, who bent over the prostrate form.
The medical student peered under the man's eyelids, and felt his wrist. "No," he said, "he'll come round all right in the fresh air. It's the smoke more than the gas."
Horace came out at that moment, dragging Mitchell's limp body. The red-bearded ruffian was alive, but unconscious; the boys placed him on the snow beside his companion. Then all four of them rushed into the cabin together, and succeeded in getting out the remaining two French Canadians.
"Now the dogs! We must get them out!" cried Peter. That was not hard to do, for the animals were lying close to the door.
The strong draft from the door to the chimney had by this time cleared the atmosphere a good deal, and the boys saw that the fire was burning chiefly among the couches of balsam boughs. The spirit lamp must have scorched through the cord by which it hung, and dropped into a heap of dry twigs.
The boys had no means of putting the fire out; the immediate need was to rescue the provisions. They rushed in again, and each dragged out an armful of supplies. They took a breath of fresh air, and then hastened in again. Fred was reaching for a slab of bacon, when suddenly something exploded almost under his hand.
He jumped back, almost fancying he had been shot at.Crack! crack! bang!went several other reports in quick succession, and this time he realized what it must be.
"Run! The ammunition's going off!" he shouted, and rushed for the open; as he ran, however, he caught up the piece of bacon.
Some of the rifle cartridges were exploding, one by one, and then two or three together, and suddenly, with a tremendous bang, a whole box seemed to go off.
Then the firing ceased, and after a short interval, the boys set to work again to get out more provisions. The cabin was stifling now from powder smoke, but they got what they could lay their hands on—a bag of flour, a quantity of canned stuff, a kettle, a rifle; soon a great heap of rescued supplies lay on the snow outside.
The flames, unable to ignite the solid logs of the cabin, were now dying; evidently they would soon burn themselves out.
Mitchell at this moment gave signs of returning life. He opened his eyes, stirred, and began to cough violently. They placed him in a more comfortable position, and at the same time took the precaution of tying his wrists and ankles securely with strips of deer-hide. The man seemed dazed; he looked at the boys in amazement, and did not utter a word.
Two of the French Canadians were also reviving, and the boys tied them up in the same way. The fourth was in bad shape, and it took vigorous rubbing to restore him to consciousness: if he had been neglected a little longer he might have died.
They laid the captives out in a row on a pile of hemlock branches, and lighted a roaring fire to keep them from freezing. Horace then went through Mitchell's pockets, and recovered the sack of stones that Fred had seen. He poured the glittering crystals into his hand, while Mitchell looked on in black disappointment.
"My friend," said Horace, "you've taken a vast amount of trouble, risked committing murder, and almost lost your own life for these pebbles. Here, I'll give them to you." He poured the crystals back into the pouch, and then flung the sack into the man's lap.