The days that followed proved arduous for the guide. No longer, in lordly, domineering manner, was he permitted to ride on one of the sledges and point out the way. His hours of leisure were at an end. He took his turn in breaking trail, drove dogs, chopped wood, assisted in putting up and taking down the tents, and in many other ways became a useful and valuable member of the expedition.
His presence, distasteful as it was, had brought a quick change in the spirits of the party. Hope rose again in Dick’s heart, and his enthusiasm and energy were unbounded. He had ceased to worry about getting lost or even wandering from the trail. Threatened with the most dire punishment, Lamont was forced to set their course.
Shortly after the return of the guide, they came upon the first log cabin they had seen since leaving Mackenzie River. It stood in a thick clump of trees, and had been recently built judging from the freshly-scored logs and its general appearance of newness. A flutter of interest, not unmixed with awe and wonderment and curiosity, stirred the party. Necks craned suddenly, drivers deserted their teams to go forward to talk to other drivers, even the huskies raised their tawny heads, as if to sniff out this new mystery.
In the lead at the time, breaking trail, Sandy gave the cabin the benefit of one swift look of appraisement, then started forward on the run. He proceeded very rapidly for fifty or sixty yards, then stopped short so abruptly that the point of one snowshoe became entangled in the other and he fell headlong.
Dick and Dr. Brady both started to laugh, but the sound died on their lips. They watched Sandy rise and start back, waving his arms frantically. The driver of the first team pulled up short. The second team, close behind the first, also pulled up short, but not soon enough to prevent an entanglement, which led to a furious fight among the malemutes.
Dick and Dr. Brady ran to the driver’s assistance, reaching the scene of trouble just a moment before Sandy arrived breathless. White-lipped, the young Scotchman waited until the commotion had subsided.
“Dr. Brady,” he began, “I guess you——”
His words trailed off to a mumbling incoherence. He sat down on the sledge, gesturing a little wildly, his expression difficult to describe.
“Did you——” he inquired in horror-struck tones, “I say, did you see—see it, too?”
Dr. Brady nodded gravely. Dick stared, moistening his lips.
“A red flag,” said the physician. “We weren’t quite sure. There was something there just outside fluttering—— A cloth. A rag of some sort. Looked red.”
“Exactly,” Sandy spoke tersely with a deep intake of breath. “Smallpox!”
“Smallpox!” Dick echoed the word.
“I’ll go over,” announced Dr. Brady quite calmly. “Get my case, Dick.”
The case was brought. The physician took it smiling.
“Shall we go with you?” asked Dick.
“No; it isn’t necessary. You’d better stay here.”
The news quickly spread. Smallpox! Faces grew gray and anxious. One by one, the drivers slunk back to their places, while all talk ceased.
Finally, Sandy jerked his hand back in the direction of the cabin.
“We’ll see lots of that sort of thing before we return to the Mackenzie.”
“Yes, when we get to Keechewan. But I doubt if we’ll find another smallpox case this side of the Barrens,” said Dick. “Terrible business, isn’t it?”
Both, as if by a common impulse, looked up and stared over at the cabin. The red cloth fascinated them. It furled and fluttered softly, yet ominously, in the light breeze.
The boys wondered what Dr. Brady was doing. He had entered the cabin, closing the door after him. They both started as the door opened and their friend emerged. They saw him raise one arm, beckoning them to come closer. A little fearfully, Dick and Sandy obeyed. They were strangely excited. Stalking up before the door, they observed that the physician was very grave indeed.
“Well?” said Dick, the first one to speak.
Brady stepped away from the door and came toward them, his eyes evasive.
“There’s only one thing to do,” he announced in a curiously soft and gentle voice. “Set fire to the cabin. We’re too late.”
“Too late?” repeated Sandy.
“Yes, too late.”
“How—how many inside there?” whispered Dick.
“Two half-breed trappers—one young and one old.”
“And they both had it?” the boys asked in unison.
“Yes,” Dr. Brady’s mouth twitched at the corners. “They’re gone. We came too late. As I just said, there’s only one thing to do: Set fire to the cabin. Burn it down.”
“Burn it,” asked Sandy. “What for?”
“As a matter of precaution. To protect the lives of others. Now and again, some lone wanderer might chance this way.”
Sandy and Dick stood looking at the physician during an odd interval of silence. Of course, he knew best. They realized that. And it would save time. Dick touched Sandy’s shoulder and together the two friends moved toward the timber at the back of the house. They carried dry bark and branches, soon gathering a large pile, which they threw down in front of the door. Soon a fire was started. It mounted slowly at first, smouldering and cracking, but presently it leaped up, quickly spreading to every part of the building.
“That’s done,” Sandy sighed relievedly. “Let’s go back.”
It was a little awkward joining the party again. Yet no one questioned them. They were greeted with curious stares and frightened glances. At noon they were miles away and halted for a midday meal in the shelter of a spruce grove, through which there ran the wandering course of a tiny stream.
It occurred to Dick that this stream might be one of the tributaries of the Wapiti River, which they must cross ere long. He was discussing this possibility with Toma, shortly after lunch, when Sandy came up shaking his head.
“A pretty business! A pretty business!” he muttered, taking a place beside them. “They’re as frightened as sheep. Too bad we had to come across that cabin. Hope nothing serious grows out of this.”
“What do you mean?” asked Dick.
“Just look at them.”
Dick turned and looked toward the place Sandy indicated. The dog drivers were assembled there in an excited, gesticulating group.
“I overheard part of it,” said Sandy. “They’re telling each other that they don’t want to go on, that they’re afraid, that no white man’s medicine can save them from the horror of the plague.”
“But all of them have been vaccinated,” Dick protested.
“Sure. But they don’t realize what that means. They have guessed, somehow, that the men who lived in that cabin died. They know the meaning of that red cloth, and it has struck terror into their hearts. I heard Fontaine say that he, for one, intended to turn back.”
“Mere talk,” objected Dick. “They’ll get over it. The thing is fresh in their minds now and, of course, they’re worried. By tomorrow or the next day they’ll have forgotten all about it.”
“Do you think so. I can’t help feeling that in some way Lamont is at the bottom of this. He’s stirring them up.”
“I believe you’re right.” Dick stared moodily into the fire. “Come to think about it, I saw Lamont talking to them.”
“Well,” said Sandy, “we’d better watch him. And the others, too. You know what it will mean if they decide to leave us.”
Dick’s face shadowed, then brightened quickly. Such a possibility seemed remote. Surely, they’d do nothing of the kind. They wouldn’t dare.
“They’ll soon forget,” he said.
But in this, as it subsequently proved, he was mistaken. That night a deputation came to him. The face of each of the drivers was set and determined. Altogether they were an ominous crew. They gathered around him and abruptly Fontaine, who acted as their spokesman, spoke up:
“M’sieur Dick, these fellow,” indicating his following, “they tell me no want to go any farther. No want to die. Smallpox get ’em sure. You know that. You know everybody die pretty soon jus’ like them fellow in cabin.”
“Nonsense,” said Dick. “You’re all vaccinated.”
Fontaine shook his head with great emphasis.
“No good that. Nothing stop smallpox. Very bad. Make ’em all die, these fellow.”
“But you know better yourself, Fontaine. You know that isn’t true. We’re all safe enough. Tell them not to worry. They need not be afraid.”
A mutter of defiance ran around the little circle. Fontaine’s voice rose to a higher pitch.
“No good tell ’em that. They understand what you say. They know better.”
Dick was rapidly losing ground. In desperation, he raised one arm, calling for silence.
“But wait! Just wait!” he beseeched them. “I will bring the white doctor to you and he will explain. Dr. Brady will repeat what I have told you. There is no danger. If you do not believe me, surely you will believe him. He is a great medicine man.”
“That doctor him very much mistake,” a new voice broke into the discussion.
Turning quickly, Dick perceived Lamont standing at his elbow.
“Who asked you for your opinion?” Dick demanded hotly. “Lamont, keep out of this.”
The guide’s defective left eye rolled up in a way that made Dick shiver. The man stepped back, leering.
“Lamont know all about this,” Fontaine cut in quickly. “He tell me his father, two brothers die from smallpox four years ago. White doctor him there, too. Try help. No good. What you say about that?”
Dick had nothing to say. It was a lie, of course, A story to feed these frightened and credulous fools. He could see the purpose in it all.
“I tell you another thing,” Fontaine took up the thread of his plaint, now speaking triumphantly. “One of these fellows,” he pointed to a half-breed, who stood directly opposite, “think mebbe already he get sick. All afternoon his head hurt. Him feel very hot—deezzy.”
“Faugh!” grunted Dick. “It isn’t the smallpox. He wasn’t within three hundred yards of the cabin. And even if he were exposed, he wouldn’t get sick less than ten hours later.”
But the drivers were obdurate. Sandy, Toma, and later, Dr. Brady himself took turns in pleading and arguing with them, but to no avail. Fontaine insisted that one of their party had already contracted the disease, so the physician examined the man while the rest of the drivers went to their tents. Outside Brady’s tent, Dick, Sandy and Toma waited impatiently.
“Well,” asked Sandy, when the doctor finally appeared, “what is your verdict?”
“I’m not quite sure yet,” answered the physician. “But the symptoms are—smallpox.”
“How can that be? He’s vaccinated,” Dick protested.
“Yes, on several different occasions, but the vaccine took no effect. There are cases like that.”
Dick moved over to one of the sledges, too discouraged and alarmed to trust himself to speak. For several minutes he stood, gazing off across the white bleak waste of snow and wilderness. Back near one of the campfires, the drivers had come together again to discuss the all-important topic.
“You see what we’re up against, doctor,” Dick turned suddenly. “If they won’t listen to reason, we’re beaten.”
“Yes,” echoed Sandy, “we’re beaten. Licked. We can’t go on without drivers.”
The doctor rubbed his chin thoughtfully.
“The situation may not be quite as serious as you think,” he attempted to cheer them. “Before morning they’ll probably change their minds.”
Dr. Brady broke off a twig from a branch above his head and sat down on the sledge near Dick, commencing to trace queer patterns in the new, loose snow.
“It will soon be time to start on again, won’t it?” asked the doctor.
“It’s eight-thirty,” Dick replied. “We should have started a half hour ago.”
“Why not try taking a firmer hand with them,” suggested Brady. “Tell them that if they won’t go on with the party, they can return without supplies. That ought to frighten them.”
“I’ll try it,” Dick fell in with the suggestion. “Come on. We must do something. I want you fellows to back me up. Maybe there’ll be trouble.”
The drivers were still arguing amongst themselves as the four approached.
“Fontaine, come here.”
The spokesman drew away from his fellow conspirators.
“Yes, M’sieur Dick.”
“Tell the others to harness the dogs. It’s time to start.”
Fontaine’s eyes sought the ground.
“They no go, m’sieur,” he declared doggedly.
“What do they intend to do?”—brusquely.
“Nothing. They say go back to Mackenzie.”
“Utter nonsense. You’ll never make it. It’s hundreds of miles south of here. You’ll starve before you get there.”
“Starve!” exclaimed Fontaine. “But, M’sieur Dick, you mus’ be mistake. You have plenty grub here. Fellows no go back without grub.”
“That’s exactly what they’ll have to do if they leave this party—everyone of them. You’ll get nothing from me. I’ll shoot the first man that makes an attempt to take anything with him. Do you understand, Fontaine?”
The spokesman blinked and backed away. Here was a turn of events neither he nor any of the others had anticipated. It made their position somewhat untenable. It required careful consideration—more discussion. Quickly he turned and broke forth in Cree. It volleyed from him. He punctuated his talk with rapid-fire gestures.
When he had completed his oration, a deep silence fell. It was an angry silence. The half-breed drivers glowered.
“Well, what’s your decision?” Dick spoke sharply.
Fontaine was coldly deliberate.
“We eight men against four. We no go on. Fellows get supplies an’ start back to Fort Mackenzie.”
Dick was astounded. He looked up appealingly at Dr. Brady, his pulses quickening. He observed that Sandy’s hands trembled. A sudden movement among the dog drivers attracted his attention. All of them had started forward menacingly, then as quickly fell back. For a brief moment Dick wondered at this hesitancy on their part, but catching sight of Toma, the truth of the situation flashed over him. That young man stood, fondling an ugly-looking revolver, his eyes defying them to come on.
Sandy was quick to see their temporary advantage, and he, too, whipped out his gun. The mutinous dog drivers attempted to slink away, but Dick perceived their little ruse and stopped them peremptorily:
“No, you don’t. Stay right where you are until I relieve you of your guns.”
Three of the men carried revolvers, while all of them possessed knives. He quickly secured all these, placing them on one of the sleighs. Then, while Sandy and Toma kept the men covered, he and Dr. Brady hurried over to the tents and sledges, returning with three rifles and four more revolvers.
“Quite an arsenal,” puffed Dr. Brady.
“Yes, and they won’t get them back either,” Dick retorted. “Without arms, they’ll be helpless. During the day while we’re traveling, I’ll keep them on my sledge with the mail, and at night in my tent with a guard posted. That means we’ll have to take turn, the four of us, at sentinel duty.”
Placing their load of weapons on Dick’s sledge, they rejoined Sandy and Toma, who still guarded the mutineers.
“You can put away your guns,” ordered Dick.
“But what about these prisoners?” Sandy asked.
“I think they’ll be willing to go back to their teams now. Is it not so, Fontaine?”
The stalwart French half-breed pretended not to hear.
“Fontaine,” Dick raised his voice, “did you hear what I said? You can all go now. Take up your tents, harness your dogs the same as usual, and get ready to start.”
The dog drivers were at a disadvantage and they knew it. There was nothing to do but to obey. Yet it was with much muttering and grumbling, that they turned again to their morning’s routine. They would bide their time. The boys had gained the upper hand now, but this was only the first round in a battle of wits. Tomorrow, perhaps, they might be the victors.
“We’ll have to watch them day and night,” Sandy declared, shoving the revolver back in its holster and turning away. “Heaven help us, if they ever get a chance at those guns again—or those deadly-looking knives.”
“Yes,” agreed Dr. Brady, “I don’t like their looks. Naturally, they’ll resent this. I think that we can expect trouble. I’ll volunteer for the first night’s guard duty.”
“That’s splendid of you, doctor,” Dick smiled. “But we’ll let you off easy. You can stand guard from eight until twelve tonight, and I’ll take your place for the remaining hours until morning.”
The first day, following the events narrated above, passed without incident. On the second day, however, the driver, whom Fontaine said had contracted smallpox, and whom Dr. Brady later had examined, died suddenly. The morale of the party tottered. If ever the half-breeds had placed any faith in the medicine of the white man, they lost it now. Again they became panic stricken. The muttering and the complaining broke out afresh. Hourly, it grew more and more difficult to keep them at their work. Dick found it necessary to have either Sandy or Toma drive the last team in the line, with instructions to be ever on the alert, their revolvers always in readiness.
That night, fearing trouble, Sandy, whose turn it was to stand guard for the first part of the night, asked Dick to keep him company.
“I hope you don’t mind, old chap. The truth is, I’m a little bit afraid. I have a feeling that the time is nearly at hand for them to strike. I don’t like the way they’ve been acting.”
“Nor I,” said Dick. “They’re up to something. They gather about in little groups, whispering. Fontaine and Lamont keep stirring them up.”
“Their first move,” reasoned Sandy, “will be to try to get back their rifles and cartridges. With these in their possession, they’ll be able to take what supplies they want and return to Mackenzie.”
“A sorry day for them if they do,” Dick declared. “Inspector Cameron will know how to deal with them.”
“Of course, that is true. But they don’t stop to think about that. Their chief worry now is to get away.”
As usual, the mail and guns were taken to Dick’s tent, where the two boys stood guard. This constant vigilance was wearing upon them. The three boys and Dr. Brady suffered from lack of sleep, yet each day they were compelled to carry on. There was no help for it.
Despite Sandy’s presentiment, no attack was made that night, nor yet on the following day. Late in the afternoon, while crossing a low chain of hills, they perceived, about a quarter of a mile away, a small Indian encampment, consisting of four lonely tepees.
“There may be smallpox there,” said Dr. Brady. “I’d better go over there.”
Leaving Sandy and Toma behind to watch the camp during their absence, Dr. Brady and Dick went forward to investigate. They were received warmly at the first tepee, and were informed that no one was ill. In fact, the Indians had not even heard of the epidemic. At each of the tepees in turn they were received graciously until they came to the fourth and last.
Here their reception was very cool indeed. The place was occupied by an aged Indian couple and by a young man, evidently their son. This young man became very angry upon their entrance. He sat opposite the entrance, blankets wrapped around him, and scowled continuously. When Dick questioned him, he refused to answer, pretending that he did not understand. The old Indian squaw seemed to be the only one equipped with vocal powers. Over and over, she kept repeating the words in English:
“Go ’way! Go ’way!”
“Don’t seem to be very popular here,” grinned Dr. Brady. “Well, there’s no use of staying very long. I’ll vaccinate them as quickly as I can and then we’ll be on our way.”
Yet when Dr. Brady opened his medicine case and attempted to vaccinate them, they repulsed him stoutly. They were afraid of the doctor. His instruments frightened them. It was evident that they believed that his ministrations were for no other purpose than to subject them to some new and mysterious torture. Finally, the young Indian rose threateningly and commanded them to depart.
As he did so, Dick drew back in surprise. The Indian wore boots, heavy top-boots—the service boots of the Royal Mounted Police—and, what was even more astonishing, a service revolver in its holster at his side. For a full moment he stared at the tell-tale articles, scarcely believing his eyes. Where had the Indian secured these things? Certainly not from the police—unless they had been taken by force or stolen. Dick’s arm trembled as he took Dr. Brady’s arm and pulled him toward the entrance.
“Come on, doctor, we’d better get out of here. It’s no use.”
Outside the tepee, he turned quickly upon his companion:
“I say, doctor, did you notice what that young Indian wore?”
“No,” replied Dr. Brady, “I didn’t notice particularly. Moosehide garments, weren’t they?”
“No. No. The boots, I mean—the revolver!”
“Yes, he did have boots. Rather queer, isn’t it? They usually wear moccasins.”
“Usually wear moccasins!” exploded Dick. “Why those were mounted police boots. They’re different. No one else wears them. And that revolver, holster and belt could have been obtained from no other person on earth except a policeman.”
“That’s strange. I wonder how he came by them?”
Dick did not answer immediately. His mind had turned to very sober thoughts. The more he dwelt upon this unusual circumstance—an Indian wearing mounted police boots and carrying a service revolver—the more he became perplexed. As they made their way back to their own party, his suspicions grew. A great fear tugged at his heart.
“Dr. Brady,” he began very soberly, “I don’t like this. I’m afraid——”
The physician turned and smiled.
“What? Still thinking about those boots? I wouldn’t worry, if I were you, Dick. The explanation is probably simple enough. The boots and revolver might have been discarded. Aren’t you troubling yourself needlessly?”
“No, I think not. You remember Corporal Rand, don’t you, the man Inspector Cameron spoke of, the one he sent up here ahead of us, and about whom he was so worried?”
“Why, yes,” said Dr. Brady. “Corporal Rand. The name is familiar.”
“Well,” trembled Dick, “I have a terrible suspicion that those boots and that revolver belong to him.”
It was Brady’s turn to become grave.
“And you believe that he——”
“I don’t know what to believe,” Dick filled in the pause. “It looks bad. They might have killed him. They——”
He broke off, overcome by such a probability.
“You see, doctor,” he resumed, “Corporal Rand wouldn’t carry an extra pair of boots and probably not an extra revolver along with him. Just remember that. If the Indian didn’t kill him, something or someone else did. He might have taken those things off Rand’s dead body. Somehow, I feel that I ought to go back and question him—make him talk. I don’t like the looks of this.”
They were now within a short distance of their own party, and an idea suddenly occurred to Dick.
“Tell you what I’ll do. I’ll get Toma to go with me. He speaks the Indian language more fluently. The two of us will go over there armed and compel that rascal to confess. And we won’t come back either until——”
Dr. Brady interrupted him. Dr. Brady had seized him by the shoulders and was staring into his face, his eyes wide with excitement. Then he swung the younger man in front of him, released him, and with one trembling hand pointed in the direction of their camp.
“Look at that! Look at that! What? I say——”
Instantly Dick’s body grew taut. The color drained from his cheeks. He shook off the restraining hand and started forward. He ran. He shouted out at the top of his voice, one hand fumbling with the holster at his side. In his haste to get forward quickly, he stumbled and fell. As he rose to his feet, he broke into an exclamation of dismay.
He was too late! The long-looked-for attack had taken place. The drivers had overpowered Toma and Sandy, had seized the guns, two of the dog teams and sledges, loaded with supplies, and were now hurrying back. They had accomplished their purpose and had made good their escape. When Dick reached the scene of disaster a few minutes later, he cried out in his rage and exasperation.
Thrown across one of the sledges were Toma and Sandy, bound securely hand and foot. A few yards away, lying helplessly in the snow, was the unconscious form of one of the drivers, who, upon closer examination, proved to be Lamont. Everywhere was confusion and disorder. Several of the sledges had been overturned, their loads scattered.
Dick took out his hunting knife and cut the rope which bound his two chums. They were both a little dazed, but had not been seriously hurt. They looked at him with sombre eyes.
“How did it happen?” asked Dick.
Sandy sat up and commenced rubbing his chafed arms and legs. Tears of exasperation trickled down his cheeks.
“It came so—so suddenly, Dick,” he choked. “I can’t begin to tell you. We were sitting on the mail sledge, when one of the drivers came along, passing about twenty feet away. He acted queerly. He commenced to groan, and then suddenly he fell down in the snow, just as if he had fainted dead away. It was a trick—but we didn’t know it. We rushed over to help him. We were stooping down when they came up from behind—the whole crowd of them, and seized us so quickly we didn’t have a chance. I’m so—so——”
Fresh tears trickled from his eyes again.
“But Lamont—what’s he doing there? What happened to him? If you didn’t have a chance to do anything, how did he receive his injury?”
“Toma—— When they grappled with him, he fired from his hip and got Lamont.”
Dr. Brady, who had come panting up in time to hear Sandy’s story, now turned toward the prostrate body of the guide, and with the help of Dick and Toma, carried him over and placed him on one of the sledges.
“He’ll never make the trip,” presently announced the doctor. “He’s hit in the shoulder—a dangerous wound—and will never be able to stand the jarring and jolting of one of the sledges. We’ll have to leave him here.”
“How can we do that?” asked Sandy. “He’d freeze. He’d—he’d——”
“There’s the Indian encampment,” suggested the physician. “They can look after him.”
“Good riddance,” declared Dick. “I, for one, won’t be sorry.”
There followed an awkward silence.
“The Indian encampment,” said Dick at length, “will be forced not only to look after Lamont but to supply us with several drivers. Perhaps one of them will know the way to Keechewan.”
He paused, gesturing hopelessly.
“In any event, we’ll have to push on. We can’t stop.”
Dr. Brady nodded grimly.
In front of a crackling wood fire, three men dried their wet and bedraggled garments. In spite of the close proximity to the blaze they shivered and their teeth chattered and they looked very unhappy and uncomfortable, indeed. Two of the men wore the conventional garb of white prospector or trapper, while the third, a tall, rather handsome fellow with clear blue eyes and a decisive chin, was arrayed in what might once have been a uniform of his majesty’s Royal North West Mounted Police.
“We gotta thank you,” said one of the men quite humbly, “fer gettin’ us out of that river. Yuh saved our lives all right, but our grub-stake an’ ever’thing we had is gone.”
“Yes,” he resumed mournfully. “Gone! It’s Bill’s fault.”
“I think,” said the man in the wretched uniform, “that it was partly my fault. I startled him. I shouldn’t have cried out to you. It drew his attention and for a moment he must have forgotten to steer.”
The maligned and unfortunate person referred to as “Bill,” drew himself up to a proud height and grunted his disdain. Then he turned his back haughtily upon his partner and addressed himself to the man in the uniform.
“Thomas here,” he declared deprecatingly, jerking one thumb over his shoulder, “ain’t allers responsible fer what he says. I wasn’t the only one that’s been a steerin’ o’ that boat. He was a helpin’ too. An’ he kep’ puttin’ me off, Thomas did, with his jabbin’ here an’ there in the water, like the crazy fool what he is.”
“No such thing,” remonstrated Thomas. “Did yuh tell the officer what yuh done yisterday? I ’spose that wuz all my fault too—you runnin’ aground.”
Bill wheeled about so swiftly that his dripping garments sprayed water in every direction. For a moment even the fire sputtered.
“A lie!” shouted the now infuriated Bill. “I wuz asleep in the boat an’——”
He paused for breath.
“Asleep when yuh wuz supposed to be on duty,” his partner completed the sentence for him. “That’s the trouble with you, Bill. You don’t pay no ’tention to nothin’. Yuh don’t use your brains; yuh don’t look; yuh don’t listen. Yuh go ’round dreamin’, with your head up in the air an’ your intelligence in the seat o’ your pants. An’,” Thomas completed his lecture defiantly, “I won’t take that back neither.”
The conversation had reached a critical, dangerous stage, and the man in the frayed uniform thought it wise to intervene.
“If you’ll pardon me, gentlemen, I believe I can settle this dispute. I’ve been thinking it over, and the more I think about it, the more clearly it appears to me that the responsibility is all mine. It was my shout that startled both of you, that put you off—that caused all the trouble. I’d like to apologize.”
“It wuz a terrible shout,” admitted Thomas.
“Sounded like the howl of a madman,” declared Bill. “But yuh saved our lives an’ that’s somethin’ I won’t forget in a hurry. We’d be down in the bottom of the river now, keepin’ company with our rifles an’ our grub-stake, if it hadn’t been for you.”
The man in the uniform acknowledged the compliment with a somewhat weary smile.
“I’m afraid I saved you from one disaster only to plunge you into another. What are you going to do now?”
“Jus’ what do yuh mean?” asked Bill.
“How will you manage without rifles and supplies?”
Bill shook his head mournfully and turned to his partner.
“He’s askin’ yuh a question,” he upbraided him, “can’t yuh hear?”
Thomas immediately applied himself to the problem in hand. He stared gloomily at the fire. Suddenly he brightened. He addressed the mounted policeman:
“But you got grub, ain’t yuh? You can sell us a little—enough to take us over to Half-Way House.”
“I’m almost in as bad straits as you are. I have a little flour—five or six pounds. I’ve had trouble too.”
“Five or six pounds o’ flour ain’t very much fer three hungry men like us,” ruminated Bill.
“Worse than nothin’,” said Thomas bitterly. “An’ that’s all yuh got?”
“All. Absolutely all! Found it in a cabin back here in the woods. I’m very sorry, gentlemen.”
Thomas dismissed the matter with a wave of his hand.
“If it can’t be helped—it can’t. I been plenty hungry before this.”
“Me too,” murmured Bill.
An interval of silence, during which three men shivered and shook before the fire—a fire that had commenced to burn itself out. Red, angry embers blinked up at them.
“Your turn to gather more wood,” Bill informed Thomas.
Thomas scowled at the unpleasant imminence of this chilly duty and spat disgustedly into the lowering flames.
“Yuh better hurry,” implacably his partner spurred him on. “We’ll soon be freezin’ entirely. There ain’t enough heat here to warm a sparrow.”
Thomas grunted out an oath before he departed, purposely bumping against Bill as he lumbered past.
“Yuh can see the sort o’ disposition he’s got,” Bill complained to the policeman. “I been aputtin’ up with this sort o’ thing fer ten years now—ten years this comin’ March since we become partners.”
In spite of the fact that he was shivering, uncomfortable, worried, suffering untold agonies from his feet, the man in the frayed uniform smiled quietly to himself.
“Why don’t you break your partnership?” he suggested.
“Eh—what? What did yuh say, officer? Break up——”
For a moment Bill was so amazed, so utterly dumfounded at this simple solution to his difficulties, that he could not find words to express himself.
“That’s what I said. Break up your partnership. Quit each other. Each go your own way,” elucidated the policeman.
It was an appalling thought. Unthinkable. Bill tried to picture a bleak pattern of existence from which Thomas had become erased. It filled him with a sense of loss so tremendously acute that it positively hurt. Little shivers of dismay ran up along his spine and seemed to settle there.
“Oh, Thomas ain’t so bad, once yuh get used to him,” he said. “Thomas got a queer way about him, an’ he’s cantankerous an’ stubborn, but he really don’t mean nothin’. Besides, I don’t rightly know what Thomas’d do after I left. He’s sort o’ helpless without me. He’s got so he sort o’ depends on me. Wouldn’t be worth his salt. I’d hate fer his sake——”
Thomas himself interrupted the conversation at this point by striding up with a huge armful of wood and throwing it angrily down upon the fire.
“Yuh can toast your shins now,” he declared angrily, glancing at Bill. “But next time it’s your turn.”
“Next time it’s my turn,” admitted Bill pleasantly. “I won’t ferget.”
“You’ll likely be asleep by then,” sputtered Thomas. “Great guns!—but ain’t that wind cold?”
“Winter’ll soon be here,” Bill croaked, humping up his shoulders and fighting back the smoke that drifted up around his head and into his eyes. “Six pounds o’ flour between three men an’ winter, an’ five hundred miles to the nearest tradin’ post.”
“Keechewan Mission is closer than that,” Thomas corrected him. “I ’spose we can go that way.”
“Not me,” shivered Bill. “I’m as close to Keechewan Mission as I intend to get.”
“Did you come from there?” sharply inquired the policeman.
“No,” answered Thomas, “but we heard about it. It’s rotten with smallpox an’ boilin’ with trouble like a hot teakettle. It ain’t no good place fer a white man to be.”
“I’m going there,” said the policeman.
“Yuh don’t say?” gasped both men in one voice.
“If I can make it on two pounds of flour,” appended the policeman.
“You said yuh had six,” remembered Thomas.
“I’ll divide with you in the morning.”
Bill and Thomas exchanged glances of genuine wonder and admiration.
“I’d like tuh shake hands with you,” declared Thomas in an awed voice, offering one dirty paw.
“Me too,” said Bill, extending a hand equally as dirty. “You’re a real man an’ no mistake about that. What’s your name, officer?”
“Corporal Rand.”
“Where from?”
“Mackenzie barracks.”
“If I ain’t gettin’ personal, where’s your boots?”
“A Nitchie stole them one night while I slept.”
“The dirty skunk!”
“An’ your revolver?” noticed Thomas.
“Stole that too.”
“Yuh mean to tell me,” exploded Bill, “that you’re goin’ up to Keechewan like that—no boots, two pounds o’ flour an’ nothin’ to protect yourself with when them rampagin’ Nitchies catch sight o’ yuh? If cold an’ hunger don’t get yuh, the smallpox will, an’ if the smallpox don’t get yuh, the Nitchies will. Yuh got about as much chance to come back alive as I have o’ jumpin’ up to the moon.”
“You’re a fool to try it,” grumbled Thomas.
“I have my instructions,” said Corporal Rand, and then remembered suddenly that this was not the truth. “I mean to say, I did have my instructions.”
“An’ yuh lost ’em?”
“No. The inspector changed his mind. He decided to go himself.”
“Why didn’t yuh let him?”
“It was either his life or mine.”
Thomas was puzzled. He appealed to Bill.
“I can’t make nothin’ out of this, can you?”
Bill came to the rescue. He picked up the thread of discourse, where the other had let it fall.
“Do yuh mean to say that this here inspector’s life is worth more to you than what your own is? That don’t seem reasonable.”
“I intend to give you four pounds of flour in the morning,” Corporal Rand smiled. “Now do you mean to tell me that your lives are worth more to me than my own. Just figure it out.”
Bill and Thomas exchanged worried, doubtful glances, and commenced to figure. For twenty long minutes they threaded their way through a deep and abysmal mental swamp.
“I can’t make it out,” acknowledged Thomas.
“Me neither,” grumbled Bill. “You’re a bloomin’ martyr an’ no mistake.”
“We ain’t got nothin’ we can give you,” lamented Thomas, feeling in all of his pockets.
Then suddenly his face brightened.
“Here,” he announced proudly, presenting it, “is somethin’ yuh can have. Take it. Yuh never can tell. Mebbe it’ll save your life.”
Corporal Rand received the gift in the spirit that it was given. Nor did he belittle such a gift. Too well he knew the vagaries of the North, the unexpected turns of fortune, good and bad, the little inconsequential things upon which hinge life or death itself. Moisture had gathered in his eyes as carefully, almost lovingly, he put the gift away in an inner pocket:
Three fishhooks and a ball of string!
Dick, Sandy and Toma hurried over to the Indian encampment in the afternoon of the same day the dog drivers had deserted them. Toma, it was decided, would act as interpreter, while Sandy—as he expressed it—merely trailed along to lend his moral support and to give advice.
“You must offer them unheard of wages for the trip,” reasoned Sandy. “We must give them presents and supplies. These Indians don’t know the meaning or value of money, so you’d better make them an offer they can understand. I’d start out by offering each one a brand new rifle and a winter’s grub-stake, also some bright-colored cloth for the squaws.”
“That not bad idea,” Toma approved. “I tell ’em that. I do my best. I say plenty. Make ’em good speech.”
“You can say anything you like,” Dick instructed him, “but don’t promise them anything we can’t give.”
So Toma, in his role of employment agent, made a round of the tepees. He was received warmly and, thus encouraged, waxed eloquent. He described to them the vast number of beautiful and useful things that could be obtained in the stores at the mission: Fruits (dried), of delicious flavor, from lands beyond the seas; meat from animals they had never tasted (pork); flour in large quantities for the making of bannock; sugar, both brown and white. Then, taking a new tack, for the benefit of the women, he told them about the multi-colored fabrics of wool and silk and cotton, of ornaments for the fingers and beads for the neck, of things that pleased and delighted the eye.
The Indians sat in open-mouthed wonder as Toma went breathlessly on with his fanciful description of the gifts that might be theirs if only the young men would assist them in driving the dog teams to Keechewan. And in order to convince them of the sincerity of his intentions, at Dick’s request, he offered each of the families a small quantity of tea, sugar and bacon, to be delivered at once.
The leader of the Indians at the encampment made a quick calculation. Besides himself, he told Toma, there were eight able-bodied hunters. They could spare a few of these. Perhaps half could go. They would be very glad to help their white brothers. They would appreciate the gifts described. Toma and his friends could be assured of their co-operation.
A surge of happiness ran through Dick as he listened to the leader’s words. Then he bethought him of Lamont, and his face clouded.
“Toma,” he directed in English, “tell the leader about Lamont. Ask him if we can leave him here until we return.”
After the request had been made, the boys waited expectantly.
“Who is this injured brother?” demanded the chief.
“A worthless dog,” replied Toma. “He was a traitor to us. He and his companions fought us, and during the encounter I was compelled to shoot him.”
The Indian’s face darkened.
“Will my brother promise not to shoot any of my people?”
Toma hastened to set his mind at rest. Then he asked:
“When will your young men be ready to start? We are very anxious to proceed on our journey.”
“Tomorrow morning,” answered the leader.
In high spirits, the three chums left the Indian encampment and went back to their own camp. Dr. Brady greeted them anxiously.
“What luck?” he asked.
“I think we have been successful,” Dick informed him.
“How many men?”
“The leader said four.”
“And will they look after Lamont?”
“Yes, they gave us their promise. I think we’d better take him over there right away and pitch our tents. Might as well be there as here. Saves running back and forth, and besides, we promised the Indians a small quantity of provisions.”
The remainder of the day passed quickly. A place was made for Lamont, and Dr. Brady succeeded in extracting the bullet and washed and dressed the wound. The guide had recovered consciousness by this time and lay staring up at the brown walls of the tepee with dark malevolent eyes.
When morning came, the boys rose early and went over to the leader’s tepee, pleased when they found him and his household already awake.
“Are your young men ready?” asked Toma. “We wish to start.”
For some inexplicable reason, during the night the Indian’s manner had cooled. He received them with little of his former cordiality.
“Are your young men ready?” persisted Toma.
The leader fixed them with a sombre stare and, to the boys’ surprise and astonishment, shook his head.
“They have asked me to inform you that they have changed their minds.”
“Changed their minds!” Sandy started back in dismay, while Dick rubbed his eyes, under the impression that he had not heard aright.
“They have decided not to go,” repeated the leader.
“Toma,” said Dick in hoarse undertones, “tell him to summon those young men and we will talk to them. They must go. They have promised.”
The Indian complied with the request. Soon the young men appeared before them and stood awkwardly and shyly beside their leader. But every argument failed to move them. No, they would not go. They must look after their trap-lines. They were very sorry to disappoint their white brothers, but the thing was impossible.
In desperation, Toma made a brief summary of his speech of the day before. They were foolish to spurn his offer. He would even increase his reward. Instead of one rifle, he would give them two, and many traps and cartridges.
This time, however, his oratory suffered from repetition. The young men were very much interested but not enthusiastic. Only one of the four stepped forward to announce that he would go. Further argument proved useless.
“Well,” said Dick, turning to Dr. Brady, “one man is better than none at all. We’ll manage somehow, I suppose. I wonder if this young man knows the way to the mission?”
Upon being questioned, the Indian declared that he did.
“I will show you the way,” he informed Toma.
Disappointed, the boys made their preparations for the start. Soon they were on the trail, their teams doubled up—twelve dogs in one string, pulling two sleighs; ten in another, while the only single team were the six malemutes who pulled the mail sledge. However, they were scarcely out of sight of the encampment, when, looking back, Sandy saw two figures on snowshoes, following them at a rapid rate.
“Stop!” he shouted to his companions ahead, immediately checking his own team.
They waited until the two figures came up to them, two Indians from the encampment: the leader and, to the boys’ surprise, the young Indian, who wore the service boots and revolver of the mounted police.
“What do you want?” demanded Toma.
“This young man,” replied the leader, pointing to his companion, “wishes to go with you too.”
For a moment, Dick was in a quandary. He required the fellow’s assistance, yet he was afraid to include him in their party. The Indian might be a murderer or a thief. His appearance was against him. He might prove to be a worse customer than Lamont. The leader noticed Dick’s hesitation.
“He is a very good man on the trail,” he hastened to assure them. “You will not be sorry if you take him.”
“All right,” decided Dick, “he can come along.”
After all, he reasoned, it would be just as well if he did. Perhaps they might be able to discover the mystery of those boots.
Again the party started forward. With the acquisition of the man in the mounted police boots, they were now able to send one of their number forward to break trail. They hurried quickly along, and by noon had reached a height of land, looking down from which, they perceived the rugged valley of the Wapiti River. At sight of it, the boys’ delight was unbounded.
“We’re getting along splendidly,” remarked Sandy. “If only the weather will stay like it is, it won’t be very long now until we reach Keechewan.”
“I hope weather get cold,” said Toma. “Weather been warm now for two, three days. If it get cold, make ’em crust on snow. No need to break trail. Then we be able to go along very fast—mebbe fifty, sixty miles in one day. Dogs run all time.”
“Yes, that’s true.”
But it was not until three days later, after they had crossed the Wapiti and were proceeding northward across a level, wind-swept district, that colder weather actually arrived. A fierce Arctic blast beat down upon them, chilling their blood. Particles of frost hung in the air. Trees cracked, as the intense cold penetrated within, freezing the sap. Yet, though the weather was almost unendurable, Toma’s prophecy had come true, and they were able to speed across the level waste, the miles dropping away behind them.
One night, following an intensely bitter spell of cold, they drew up to make camp in the lee of a tree-covered hill. All night long they took turn in replenishing the fires. But even with this help, and wrapped in blankets, fold on fold, they had difficulty in keeping warm. They were glad when morning came.
“I hope,” shivered Dick to Sandy, muffling his face in the collar of his fur coat, “that the weather moderates a little before night. This is terrible. It must be fifty below.”
“Seems more like seventy-five below to me,” grumbled Sandy, stirring the fire with a long poplar stick, his eyes blinking as a flurry of wind caught the smoke and sent it whirling around him.
At this juncture, Dr. Brady came hurrying up, gesturing excitedly.
“I’ve more bad news for you, Dick. Just found out. Toma and I made the discovery.”
Dick was conscious of a sudden sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach.
“What is it, doctor?” he finally managed to articulate.
“Your team of malemutes is gone, and——”
“Oh, you must be mistaken,” interrupted Dick. “They’re here somewhere.”
“And the mail sledge is gone too, including all that quantity of vaccine.”
Sandy threw up his hands in a gesture of hopeless surrender.
“Is that all?” he groaned.
“No,” answered the physician more calmly, “the Indian with the mounted police boots is gone too.”
Dick gave way to his feeling of despair. He put his head in his hands and rocked back and forth.
“I knew it! I knew it!” he moaned. “I knew all the time that I ought not trust that—that miserable thief. I hesitated when his services were offered to me. I’m a fool. Why did I take him?”
“What I can’t understand,” Sandy broke forth, “—what I can’t understand, Dick, is why he should take the sledge with the mail. There isn’t a single thing on that sledge that would be of the least value to him.”
“Of course, he didn’t know that,” Brady spoke up. “To his simple ignorant mind, those pouches of mail must have contained something of immense value. He’ll be a very sorry, disgusted and probably repentant Indian when he discovers his mistake.”
“He’ll be a repentant Indian when I get my hands on him,” stormed Dick, jumping to his feet and pulling his parka in place. “Well, I might just as well go after him.”
“He has about three hours start of you,” said Dr. Brady. “The only time he could have left this party was between four and five o’clock, when he was awakened to take his turn in replenishing the fires.”
“I’ll unload one of the sledges and take the swiftest team we have,” decided Dick. “Travelling light, I ought to be able to overtake him.”
“Can I go with you, Dick?” Sandy asked eagerly.
“I’d like to have you, Sandy, but Toma is better on the trail. I must hurry. Every minute counts. Dr. Brady, will you help Sandy pick out and harness a team, while Toma and I unload a sledge? We’ll take our rifles and a few days’ provisions.”
In less than twenty minutes, they were ready. The dogs strained at their harness, eager to start. Toma took his place in the front of the sledge, Dick behind. A whip cracked. The voices of Dr. Brady and Sandy called out an encouraging farewell.
The huskies leaped forward.
A cold bitter wind hurled its defiance along the slope, its shrieking voice trumpeting through the pines. In the sky—a vast canopy flung over a frozen world—the sun shone wanly. On either side of the sun hung sun-dogs. In the air—frost. Below, a limitless, monotonous expanse of snow.
In the sledge, which flew along over the hard snow-surface, Dick and Toma sat muffled to their ears. From time to time, they beat their arms about their shivering bodies and urged on the dogs. Already they had come eight or ten miles along the faint trail they had made on the previous day.
In their pursuit of the Indian they had expected, quite naturally, to go southwestward in the direction of the Indian encampment. With their lighter load and swifter team; they would rapidly gain on him. Before night, surely, they would overtake him. It was all simply a matter of time and patience and perseverance. In the end, they would be successful.
Much to their surprise, the thief chose a different route entirely. Apparently he had no intention of returning to his home and friends with his ill-gained booty. A few miles farther on, he had set his course to the west, following a hill-chain that ran parallel to the Wapiti River.
The boys turned sharply and continued the pursuit. The sledge tracks of the thief could be discerned quite plainly.
“I can’t imagine where he’s going,” mused Dick. “It isn’t to his own home. Where do you suppose, Toma?”
“Mebbe up in the hills somewhere to another encampment. Mebbe him ’fraid to go back to his own people.”
“Or,” guessed the other, “perhaps his purpose is to make a secret cache up there in the hills. He thinks, no doubt, that the mail sacks and medicine chests are filled with valuable provisions. I’d like to see his face when he opens one of them.”
Toma broke into a low chuckle.
“It make me laugh if he try drink medicine an’ get very sick. Mebbe him fool enough to think medicine some new kind of whiskey.”
“God help him, if he does. I don’t know what sort of medicine Dr. Brady may have there. There’s vaccine for smallpox and drugs of all kinds. I’m sure that some of them are deadly poison. He’s apt to be more than sick if he tries it.”
Presently the trail wound into the hills. It went up and up and up, and then down and then up again. It skirted deep ravines and dangerous precipices. It crossed the wide basin of a lake. It continued on—the rutted tracks of that thief’s sledge—with the unbroken insistence of the passing of time itself.
“He’s certainly travelling and no mistake. He must be going almost as fast as we are,” complained Dick. “He’ll kill that team of mine.”
“Don’t you worry, we catch him. Pretty soon we catch him.”
“We will, of course, if we don’t lose his trail. The fool will be compelled to stop soon for something to eat.”
“Sometimes Indians go days without stop for something to eat,” commented Toma.
“Not if he thinks he has a store of precious things aboard,” grinned his companion. “His fingers will be itching to get at those sacks. He’ll want to explore the mystery of those medicine chests.”
Again Toma chuckled.
“This mail all same like ’em paper?” he inquired.
“It is paper,” replied Dick. “Envelopes, hundreds of envelopes, bulging with paper. Then, in the second-class mail pouches, there’ll be circulars and catalogs and newspapers, hundreds of pounds altogether to tempt his mounting appetite. I think he’ll relish the stamps too. They’ll be green and red, with a picture of King George on one side and mucilage on the other. The mucilage has a sweet, toothsome taste he’ll like.”
Toma doubled up in a paroxysm of laughter.
“I think that very good joke on that Indian. Mebbe him find out it bad thing to steal.”
“I don’t know about that. He looks as if he were beyond redemption.”
Toma cracked his whip, and the huskies sprang forward, scrambling up an incline. It was steep here, so Dick got out and trotted behind. The exercise warmed his feet and sent the blood racing through his body.
When he tumbled back on the sledge again, Toma half-turned and with the butt of his whip pointed excitedly at the dogs.
“Look!” he cried.
The sudden change in the behavior of the huskies was very noticeable. Their ears were pricked higher. The leader, a beautiful long-haired malemute, so much resembling a wolf that it was almost impossible to tell the difference, had commenced to whine softly, straining at her harness in fitful, nervous leaps.
“Somebody close ahead,” Toma whispered. “We see ’em pretty quick now.”
Dick leaned forward and picked up his rifle, and commenced fumbling with the breech. His expression had grown suddenly tense. He rose to a position on his knees, swaying there from the motion of the sleigh, his gaze set unwaveringly, expectantly, on the trail ahead.
At a furious rate of speed, they descended another slope, then, more slowly, began circling up around the next hill, emerging to a sparsely wooded area, which, in turn, at the farther side, dropped abruptly to a deep tree-covered valley.
Abruptly, the boys turned toward each other. Toma muttered something under his breath; Dick relaxed to a sitting position, whistling his astonishment.
“I didn’t expect anything like this,” remarked Dick, recovering somewhat from his surprise. “An Indian village! Look, Toma, there are scores of tepees down there. No wonder he came this way.”
Again they started—but not at the sight of those tepees, strung along the floor of the valley, nor yet at the sight of the Indians themselves, here and there plainly distinguishable—but at the appearance of a loaded sledge behind a team of gray malemutes, proceeding quickly toward the village.
“He isn’t very far ahead of us,” exulted Dick. “He’ll soon be cornered. He can’t get away. We’ve won, Toma.”
Toma’s eyes were shining.
“Him big fool to come here. What you think?”
“He may have friends. Perhaps they’ll want to shield him.”
The young Indian’s answer was to crack his whip and to shout to the huskies. The sledge leaped forward. It threw up a quantity of loose snow, through which it plowed. It rocked perilously as it negotiated the top of the valley slope, then, in spite of Dick’s foot pressed hard on the brake-board, shot down, almost running over the dogs.
Taking a steeper but more direct route to the village than had been attempted by the thief, they were only a few yards behind him when they made their final whirlwind spurt through the orderly row of tepees and the gaping crowds, and came to a jarring but dramatic halt.
The thief was unaware of his danger, had not even a premonition of the near presence of his pursuers, until, with a certain amusing dignity, he slipped from the top of his precious load and waved an exaggerated greeting to the crowd.
His triumph was short-lived. Out of the corner of one eye, he saw two figures who looked strangely familiar. In order to make sure, he turned his head and in that moment his self-confidence poured from him like water out of a bucket.
A tiny squeak, of the sort a mouse makes under the heel of an enraged householder, and his mittened hands went straight up. He came forward, bellowing for mercy. Tears of terror welled into his eyes. Never before had Dick seen any person more craven, cowardly-weak and utterly disgusting than he. Somehow, it blunted the edge of his own and Toma’s victory to take a man like that. It was too easy.
Startled at first, the onlookers broke into a roar of laughter. They were quick to grasp the situation. In a trice, the two boys and their prisoner were the pivot around which circled and revolved a jeering, highly-amused crowd.
“They ask ’em me to make ’em talk about how it all happen,” Toma shouted in Dick’s ear.
“Tell them that we’ll explain later,” Dick instructed. “Say that we want something to eat. Tell them——”
He broke off as the milling throng unexpectedly drew back, making a path for a white-haired old man, who carried himself with great dignity.
“Chief,” said Toma.
“You talk to him.”
“What I say?”
“Tell the truth, Toma. Nothing else. Explain to him that this man is a thief, that we followed him here to recover valuable mail and medicine for the sick. I’m sure he’ll believe you. Be honest and straightforward, Toma.”
Dick found it utterly impossible to keep his place at his chum’s side. A forward surge of the inquisitive swept him and his prisoner this way and that, while shoulders bumped shoulders and curious eyes peered into his. He was glad when the interview came to an end and the chief motioned for the crowd to disperse. Toma sought him out, smiling with satisfaction.
“Ever’thing all right, Dick. Chief him know this man for very bad fellow. He say him very glad if you leave him to be punish.”
“Does he belong to this tribe?”
“Yes.”
“I’ve a good notion to do it. It will save us a lot of trouble and worry. By the way, did you remember to tell him about the police boots and revolver?”
“Yes, I tell him that too.”
“What did he say?”
“After while I tell you.”
“Why not now, Toma?”
“You understand bye-’n’-bye. You come with me pretty soon to chief’s tepee.”
“All right. Well, they can have this cowardly sneak if they want him. I’m sure I don’t.”
A little later, escorted by one of the headmen of the village, Dick and Toma arrived at the tepee of the chief. On hands and knees, they crawled through the aperture, over which hung a wide strip of tanned moose-hide, soft as chamois. Bear-skins covered the earth floor within, except in the center space, where a wood fire burned cheerfully. It was warm inside the tepee and clean and tidy. A faint odor of wood smoke mingled with the more pungent and appetizing smell of broiling meat.
Dick’s first impression was that it was pleasant to be there in so warm and comfortable a place; his next, a condition accentuated, no doubt, by the boiling kettle, was a feeling of hunger and weariness. Presently curiosity induced him to examine the interior more closely. Looking about, he perceived several persons of both sexes. One was the white-haired chief, who had interviewed Toma. Behind the chief, at a respectful distance, an aged squaw—probably the chief’s wife, and beyond her an individual of such unusual appearance that Dick’s eyes, resting upon him, remained there as if transfixed.
The man was emaciated, worn almost to a skeleton. From the depths of sunken sockets, burned two feverish eyes. A heavy beard-growth covered, but did not conceal, the deep hollows under the protruding cheek bones.
Dick continued to look at the man for several minutes, conscious of a steadily increasing horror. The person’s forehead was ghastly white, curving up to a matted crop of straw-colored hair. Around the drooping shoulders a blanket was held in place with considerable difficulty by a thin, wasted hand.
Dick was about to turn his gaze toward something less pathetic and terrible, when the effort of holding the blanket in place, proved too much for the unfortunate creature, and it slipped down over one thin shoulder, revealing—to Dick’s unutterable amazement—a crimson, tattered garment, the tunic of the royal mounted police.
Reaching out, Dick seized Toma’s arm, holding it in a vice-like grip.
“May God help him! Is that Rand?”
“Yes,” said Toma, his voice seeming to come from a great distance, “it Corporal Rand. All time, before I come here, I knew that. The chief him tell me all about it. Indian hunter find ’em Corporal Rand two days ago, where he lay down in the snow. Half dead, feet froze, no eat, no rifle—nothing. He get much better after while. Bye-’n’-bye mebbe all right. Get his sense back. Jus’ like crazy man now.”
Dick gulped down a lump in his throat, and hurried to the side of the mounted policeman. Gently, he placed one hand on the corporal’s head.
“Corporal Rand.”
No answer.
“Corporal Rand.”
Still no answer.
“You know me, corporal. This is Dick Kent. Toma is here, too. Look up at me, corporal. Look up! We’re here to help you. Look up!”
Corporal Rand looked up.
“This is Dick Kent,” beseeched that young man. “Don’t you understand—Dick Kent.”
“Of course,” muttered the mounted policeman, and his eyes burned into Dick’s, “I’ll remember that—certainly. Tomorrow, gentlemen, we’ll divide the flour. Two to Bill, two to Thomas, two to me. That’s all there is. You’re welcome, I’m sure. It was my fault entirely.”
Rand paused, mumbling to himself, wholly unaware that a tear had fallen from somewhere above to the thatch of straw-colored hair. His chin dropped forward until it rested on his chest. His eyes closed wearily. For a moment he seemed to doze. But only for a moment—then——
“Provoking, isn’t it?” he made a pathetic attempt at a smile. “I’d begun to fear I’d lost them.”
“Lost what?” gulped Dick.
“Boots,” came the prompt rejoinder, “a pair of boots.”
“Yes! Yes! But what else?”
The answer was disappointing:
“Three fishhooks and a ball of string. I’m very sorry, gentlemen.”
Two courses of action were open to Dick, yet which one to follow, he did not know. They had found Corporal Rand, but just what were they going to do with him? It was a difficult problem to solve, Dick thought. The corporal was in serious plight and required medical attention. It was a fortunate thing that they had found him. It was a fortunate thing, too, that Dr. Brady was in the vicinity and would be able to attend him. But the problem—and it was not easy to decide—was whether to bring Dr. Brady here to the village, or to take Corporal Rand over to the physician, when he and Toma returned that afternoon.
He decided finally in favor of the latter course. They would take Rand with them. Surely if he were wrapped warmly in blankets and placed in the empty sleigh, he could endure the cold, would be safe and comfortable.
Then suddenly he remembered that he needed that sleigh upon his return. That morning he had unloaded it for the purpose of pursuing the Indian thief. Either he must secure another one here at the village, together with a team of huskies, or abandon his plan.
To his great joy and happiness, therefore, upon making inquiry, he and Toma were informed that not only would the chief gladly sell them a team and sleigh, but also would lend them three of his best drivers, men who could absolutely be depended upon to help them on their journey to Keechewan. More than that—an act of generosity, which struck both boys almost dumb with gratitude—he would present them with caribou meat and a goodly supply of frozen fish for the dogs.
In the end, Dick purchased two dog teams and sledges in place of one. They left the village just as the sun slipped down below the rim of the valley and abrupt Arctic night drew on. Across the lonely face of the hills, they speeded on their way. The Northern Lights hissed and cracked above their heads. About them beat the trembling pulse of a vast and impenetrable silence.
It was after midnight when they reached their destination, shouting and happy, storming down upon the row of chilly white tents. Their furious halloos soon brought Sandy and Dr. Brady shivering outside.
“That you, Dick?” called out Sandy’s anxious voice. “Who’s with you?”
“Friends,” came the jubilant answer. “Stir up the fires, Sandy, we’re almost famished. No!—Come over here, you and Dr. Brady. I have a surprise for you.”
“What’s that?”
Sandy and the physician looked down at the sleeping form, then across at Dick and Toma in perplexity.
“Guess.”
“The Indian with the boots. You’ve half-killed him.”
“Wrong. Guess again.”
“One of our former dog drivers—probably Fontaine,” said Dr. Brady.
“No. You’re not right either. I’ll give you one more chance.”
“Look here,” Sandy growled impatiently. “Enough of this. You’re not a child any more. Who is it?”
“The man who owns the boots.”
“The Indian owns the boots,” exclaimed Sandy triumphantly. “I guessed right after all.”
“No, you didn’t. The Indian don’t own the boots. He stole them.”
“Pshaw! I know now,” sudden light dawned upon the young Scotchman. “It’s—it’s a mounted policeman.”
“You’re right. Corporal Rand.”
Breathlessly, Sandy leaned forward over the sledge. A parka concealed the sleeper’s face. Blankets, many thick folds, enwrapped him. None of the features was visible. Yet Sandy had seen enough to convince him that this man was not Rand.
“I don’t see why you should try to deceive me, Dick,” remonstrated Sandy. “That isn’t the corporal at all. Too thin. Don’t attempt to fool me.”
“It is the corporal,” insisted Dick. “But he’s changed a lot. I met him face to face, and at first didn’t even recognize him. He must have had a terrible time. He was picked up two days ago by an Indian hunter, where he’d fallen in the snow. His feet were badly frozen.”
“What did he say to you?”
“Well, not much. You see, Sandy, he didn’t know me. He’s out of his head. I brought him over here so that Dr. Brady can help him. We’ll have to take him along with us.”
“We’d better not disturb him tonight,” Dr. Brady cut in. “I wonder if it will be possible, when you unhitch that team of dogs, to push this sledge inside one of the tents. He might wake up if you attempt to lift him up. In the morning, I’ll make my examination.”
“A good idea,” said Dick, moving forward to unharness the team.
Sandy followed him excitedly and touched his shoulder as he stooped forward. He pointed one arm in the direction of the other sleighs and dog teams, where the forms of men were seen hurrying here and there through the half-light.
“What’s all that?” he demanded. “Two extra teams and more men! I see you’ve recovered the mail sledge. Who are those fellows, Dick?”
“Those,” answered Dick, happily, “are our new drivers. And the teams and sledges I purchased over at the Indian village, where we captured the thief.”
“What Indian village do you mean?”
“It’s up in the hills to the westward, that chain of hills you saw on this side of the Wapiti. They run parallel with the river. We followed the tracks of the thief all the way there, and overtook him just as he pulled up at the village. He’s a renegade member of that tribe and the chief will punish him. He’s the same man who stole Corporal Rand’s boots and revolver.”
Sandy straightened up, glaring about him angrily.
“Too bad we didn’t find that out before.”
“It’s a good thing for that Indian that we didn’t.”
“I think I’d have shot him,” Sandy bristled, “although shooting’s too good for him. He ought to be flayed alive, tortured, the way they used to do.”
Fires were quickly re-kindled, and a lunch prepared. It was nearly two o’clock before everyone finally retired and the camp became hushed in sleep.
On the following morning the sun had already risen, when Toma, the first to awake, crawled wearily from his blankets into the bitter air of forty below and proceeded to arouse his comrades. Immediately there began again the monotonous routine of building fires and preparing breakfast, assembling the dogs, and making ready for the day’s journey. But on this occasion, there was in evidence much more spirit and enthusiasm than at any time during the preceding two weeks. Dick was reminded of the day they had left the Mackenzie. Now and again one might hear the cheery whistle or laugh of one of the drivers. During breakfast, conversation flourished, and, after the meal, there took place a keen rivalry as to who would be the first to harness his team and take his place at the head of the column.
By mutual arrangement, it fell to the lot of Sandy to drive the team which conveyed Corporal Rand. Dr. Brady had completed his examination earlier in the morning.
“It is a pitiable case,” he told the boys. “Rand’s condition was caused by hardships, privations, hunger and exposure. He has a wonderful constitution, or he would never have been able to endure the half of it. I don’t wonder that his mind has become unhinged. Yet, I haven’t the least doubt but he’ll recover his memory and his reasoning powers as his health improves.”
“So you really think he’ll get better?”
“Yes. I don’t believe there is any question about that. But he’ll never be able to take his place again in the ranks of the mounted.”
A deep silence followed this statement. Both Dick’s and Sandy’s face fell.
“What’s that? You really mean that, doctor? Will have to give up his duties—— Won’t——”
Dick left the sentence incompleted as he turned beseechingly to the physician.
“No, he’ll never be able to resume his duties,” Brady answered gravely.
“But why?” argued Sandy. “You just said that he’d recover, would get well again. You said——”
“But I never said that he’d ever walk again,” the doctor reminded him. “His feet—terrible! Frozen, bruised and cut. I may possibly have to amputate them. Even if I don’t, they’ll never be right again. But,” and the doctor looked from one grave face to the other, “we can be mighty thankful that his life has been spared, that with proper care and attention, he’ll soon recover his full mental and physical powers.”
Dick turned his head to hide the tears that had come unbidden to his eyes. Sandy kicked disconsolately into a drift of snow, his gaze searching the ground. Both boys left immediately to take their places within the line of waiting teams and sledges.
“I still insist that we ought to go back and string up that Indian who stole Corporal Rand’s boots,” Sandy declared savagely as he and Dick parted, the former to go to the invalid’s side, the latter to the mail sledge. “The way I feel now, I could gladly tear that sneaking thief limb from limb.”
“Mush! Mush!” The words floated down along the waiting line. “Mush, boys, mush!”
A creaking of sledges, the cracking of whips, a shout here and there—and they were away, an orderly column which, after the first forty or fifty yards, gathered momentum until it had gained its maximum of speed, then settled down to a steady, unchanging pace.
Whatever enjoyment the others might have had at the commencement of that exhilarating ride, it was not shared by Dick. For him the day, which had begun so propitiously, was entirely spoiled. Dr. Brady’s assertion had wrung his heart. Time and time again, he turned his head and glanced back at Sandy’s sledge to the helpless form lying there, and sighed bitterly.
“He may never walk again,” the sentence haunted him. “A pitiable case! He’ll never be able to take his place again in the ranks of the mounted.”
He wondered what Cameron would say when the news had been brought to him. And Sergeant Richardson—what would he say? Rand! One of the noblest, bravest spirits that had ever come into that land of noble and brave spirits. No longer a policeman? That seemed incomprehensible. Rand in civilian clothes? Dick snorted at the mere suggestion. To think of the service at all, was to think of Rand. Rand might have his feet frozen, yea, and his arms too, and his body hopelessly crushed; yet, notwithstanding this, in spirit, in reality, in fact, he would still be a policeman, and nothing else. A mounted policeman. A scarlet-coated, high-booted, undaunted and courageous soul.
He was still brooding over this when they pulled up at the noon hour, hilarious and joyful. They had made a record run that morning, in spite of the late start. Drivers shouted at each other as they stepped from the back of their sledges and dropped their whips. Dick moved automatically, and he, too, dropped his whip. But he did not shout. He did not even smile.
“Hello, Dick.”
“Hello.”
“We made good time, didn’t we?” The voice was that of Dr. Brady.
“I guess we did.”
“Hope this keeps up.”
“Yes.”
“Good gracious, boy,” exclaimed Brady in alarm, “you look—why you look positively ill.”
“I—I guess I’m tired,” said Dick.
“Well, a good sleep for you tonight. I’ll prescribe it. You’ve been worrying too much lately. It isn’t good for you. Yet here I’ve come, blundering ass that I am, to sprinkle a few more gray hairs in your young head.”
“I thrive on responsibility,” Dick smiled a little, “so you’d better trot it out. What’s wrong? Did you lose your medicine case?”
Dr. Brady laughed.
“Sometimes I almost wish that I could lose it. No, this worry isn’t related to so trivial a thing as a mere medicine case. It’s more important than that. I’m not fooling now, Dick. I’m in earnest. I’ve been thinking——”
“And the more you think, the worse you feel,” interrupted Dick, a little bitterly.
“Come now, that’s not very kind of you.”
“I didn’t mean it that way,” Dick flushed. “I was referring to—to—— Oh, hang it all, doctor, I’m all upset about Rand.”