Dr. Brady regarded Dick for a moment thoughtfully. There was, Dick observed, a certain hesitation about his manner.
“Before we left Fort Mackenzie,” the physician began, “your Inspector Cameron called me to his office. He told me about the epidemic. I remember that there was a large map that hung on the wall behind his desk, and to this map he frequently referred. The districts affected by smallpox he had encircled in red ink. All of these were north of the Mackenzie: one straight north, several northwest, but the largest area of all northeast, in a district which he called Keechewan.”
Brady paused to help Dick unharness one of his dogs, then continued:
“The circle on the map which he called Keechewan was, he explained to me, the country most dangerously affected by smallpox and contained the greatest number of people.
“‘This is to be your territory,’ he told me. ‘I’m giving you a most difficult task indeed. Not only will you experience difficulty in reaching your destination, but when you do reach it, you may have trouble with the natives there. There has been an uprising among several of the Indian tribes. Relations between the white people and the Indians are strained. There has been some bloodshed. Your work will not be easy. It is sure to be dangerous, and possibly, doctor, you may never come back.’
“I asked him if anything had been done to relieve the situation. He said that he had sent one of his men, a Corporal Rand, up to that region a few days before to take charge. He was to place the district under police rule.”
Dr. Brady cleared his throat.
“I guess that’s about all, Dick, but you can see what I’m driving at.”
“Yes,” Dick answered, “I think I know what you’re trying to tell me. Corporal Rand never reached his destination. Misfortune overtook him with the result that the uprising at Keechewan has never been put down.”
“Exactly. The district, when we reach it, will not be under police surveillance. We can expect trouble.”
During the trip from Mackenzie River barracks, Dick had learned to admire and respect the genial man whom he was conducting to Keechewan. Never had he occasion to doubt the doctor’s courage. In every emergency, he had not been found wanting. Yet in the present instance he seemed much worried. Was he really afraid? Dick decided to try him out.
“We may be risking our lives by going to Keechewan now,” he said. “Do you realize that, Dr. Brady?”
“Yes, I realize it.”
“I sometimes wonder,” Dick evaded the other’s eyes. “—I sometimes wonder if it is all worth while. Most of them are only Indians. They not only do not appreciate what we’re doing for them, but more than that, they resent and scorn our help. Why not,” Dick’s gaze was fixed on some object on the distant horizon, “leave them to their own devices, let them suffer the consequences?”
If Dick had struck Brady in the face, the good doctor could not have been more surprised. For a moment he actually sputtered.
“Richard Kent! Do you mean that? Do you really mean to say that you contemplate such a thing—would leave those poor devils in the lurch?”
Dick raised one hand and grinned mischievously.
“There, there, doctor! Such a thought hadn’t entered my mind, I assure you.”
“You rascal! So you were trying me out?”
Dick laughed as he turned the dogs loose And straightened up to take Brady’s arm.
“Well, what do you propose to do?”
“That’s just the question I want to ask you.”
“There’s only one thing that I can see: Do our work and Corporal Rand’s too.”
“Yes, that’s what I was thinking, why I came to you just now. I wondered if you had considered the situation.”
“To tell you the truth, I hadn’t. I’ve had so many other things to worry me.”
“We can’t be far from Keechewan mission now,” stated the doctor.
“Only a few more days. Those hills you see over there in the distance must be the divide Inspector Cameron spoke of. From there it is not very far to Keechewan, provided, of course, that we don’t get lost again, that our Indians know the way. We’ll soon enter the barren lands.”
For the time being, the subject was dropped. But Dick did not forget that interview. Often, during the next three or four days, he found himself contemplating the future with worried, thoughtful gaze. He took inventory of his munitions and his provisions. Not counting Corporal Rand, there were eight men in the party, really not a very strong force, yet he comforted himself with the thought that Corporal Rand had gone forth alone to cope with the situation.
One evening, after they had crossed the divide and had pitched their tents on a hill, dark with the shadows of approaching night, a driver drew attention to an unusual phenomenon. Far away, faint, yet plainly discernible, was the glimmering of many tiny lights. These lights blinked and beckoned to them—and a cry of elation went up from every member of the party.
“The mission!” boomed Sandy, throwing his parka high in the air. “Keechewan Mission!”
“Not more than eight miles away,” adjudged Dick.
“More than that,” said Toma.
“We’ll arrive there tomorrow forenoon sometime,” exulted the doctor.
That night, so elated were they, that they could hardly sleep. Dick and Sandy lay awake until a late hour, talking and planning. On the following morning, they rose early to waken the camp. Breakfast was hurried through, and they were on the trail nearly an hour before sunrise.
It was eleven o’clock by Dick’s watch, when they entered the mission village, their eyes feasting on the row of snow-roofed cabins that fronted the winding, narrow street.
Here and there, a face appeared at a window. Now and again, some incurious form opened a door and watched them go by. But no one was abroad on the single narrow street. Had it not been for the sight of smoke, circling upward from mud chimneys, one might have thought that the village was practically deserted. There hovered about it an atmosphere of loneliness. There was something ominous about it, too, something eerie and unnatural. Dick felt somehow as if he were proceeding through a village of the dead. This feeling was accentuated by the sight of many red flags, draped over windows, hanging from doors—mute tokens of a terrible visitation.
It was a mournful little party that drew up in front of the small but picturesque Catholic Church at the far end of the winding street. They stood there as if in doubt and perplexity, looking at each other, no one volunteering to be the first to move or make a suggestion. Finally, Dick called to Dr. Brady and the two strode across to a more or less pretentious two-storey dwelling, immediately beyond the church.
A little man, dressed in the flowing robes of a monk, answered Dick’s timorous knock. The priest started in surprise as he perceived who his visitors were, then his face brightened and, with a friendly gesture, he motioned them within.
“Ah!” he said, a slight but unmistakable catch in his voice. “White men! How do you do. You honor me, monsieurs. May I not bid you welcome?”
“Inspector Cameron of the mounted police sent us here to help you,” explained Dick. “This gentleman here,” indicating Dr. Brady, “is an Edmonton physician. I am Dick Kent.”
The priest nodded understandingly and led the way to a small but nicely furnished room, standing aside as his visitors entered. At one end of the room, a spruce log burned brightly in the mud fireplace. There were several comfortable chairs and a large bookcase, filled with row upon row of books. Near the bookcase was a desk, fitted with drawers, and on its smooth, highly-polished surface were papers, ink, and a small bronze statue of the Christ.
The atmosphere of the room was cheerful and inviting, and Dick and Dr. Brady immediately felt at ease. They took the chairs their host indicated, waiting for him to speak.
“I sent a message to Inspector Cameron,” the priest began fluently, “about six weeks ago. I am glad to see that he is sending help to my stricken people. You, doctor, are especially welcome. We have done all that we possibly can to check the course of the terrible disease, but our efforts, I am sorry to inform you, have not been very successful. Many, many deaths have taken place. The villagers are almost without hope. There are many bereaved, monsieurs, much suffering and,” he hesitated for a brief moment, “much complaining.”
“Inspector Cameron,” said Dr. Brady, “told us about an uprising of some sort. Has the mission been attacked?”
“It has,” the priest nodded. “Twice there has been a general attack, which we repulsed. Since then we have not been left in peace. Skulkers come here at night and attempt to fire our dwellings. One man, a loyal and true friend of mine, was shot down in the street. We live in apprehension. Daily, there is some new outrage to add to the complexity of our other troubles.”
Dick looked across at the grave but patient face.
“We will do all in our power to help you,” he encouraged him. “We will attempt to deal with these skulkers and prevent an uprising. Does most of your trouble come from outside the village?”
“For the most part, yes. There are several Indian tribes in the vicinity. At first we went among them, caring for their sick, but lately we have not been able to do this because of their warlike attitude. On the last occasion one of us went there, Father Levereaux was treated most shamefully, subjected to many indignities, and finally left outside their village. He was hurt and unconscious when we found him. He has now, I am glad to inform you, recovered from his injuries, but I fear that he has contracted smallpox. Last night, when I went to his room, he was very ill.”
“I will attend him,” said Dr. Brady, while Dick rose to his feet.
“There are nine men in our party,” Dick said. “Perhaps there is an empty dwelling somewhere where we can stay.”
“There are several places,” the priest answered, “any one of which I can place at your disposal.”
He, too, arose. “I will lead you there. You must rest after your journey. I can see that you are very tired. I must find you something to eat.”
“No,” objected Dr. Brady, “we must start to work at once.”
“What do you propose to do first?” asked the priest.
“Vaccinate every person in the village. After that I’ll attend to those who already have the disease.”
“Have you plenty of medicines and supplies?”
“Yes.”
The other’s face wreathed in a smile.
“That is wonderful, monsieur. It was very kind of you to come. In my heart I thank the noble Inspector of Police. Praise God, I think we have come to the end of our trouble. I am very happy, monsieurs.”
And tears of gladness slowly trickled down his cheeks.
Dick and his party were billeted a few doors beyond the mission school in two houses, built of logs—warm and comfortable quarters. They found plenty to occupy their attention for the remainder of the day. They assisted Dr. Brady, gathered wood, delivered the mail, and in many other ways made themselves helpful and useful.
The trouble which the priest, Father Bleriot had spoken of—the impending danger of attack, the fear from the Indians in the hostile villages, not far from the mission—did not seem very imminent to them just then. But as night drew on and the villagers locked and bolted their doors and native sentinels commenced to patrol the streets, rifles in hand, the thing began to take on a different aspect.
Nearly every night, so they were informed, some depredation had been committed. A home was broken into and looted, a cabin fired, or a bullet sent crashing through one of the many darkened windows. Every morning the sentries, who seemed powerless to prevent it, reported the night’s happenings to one of the three priests, then went away with sorrowful, wagging heads, only to repeat the same performance twenty-four hours later.
Hearing of these things, the three boys and one of the Indian drivers decided to stay up that night to keep the sentinels company. Dick and the driver took up a position at the south end of the village, while Sandy and Toma patrolled the northern section, in the vicinity of the billet.
The first part of the night, from eight o’clock until midnight, passed without incident. Shortly before one, Dick and an Indian sentry entered the latter’s home for a cup of tea and a bite to eat before resuming their lonely vigil. Scarcely had they seated themselves around the rough board table, when the crash of a rifle brought them to their feet. They stormed outside, looking away in the direction from which the sound had come.
The bright moonlight revealed nothing at first, but presently, less than a block away, they perceived an angry red glare and a black funnel of smoke ascending from one of the cabins.
Outside in the snow were the shivering forms of women and children, while here and there, householders rushed frantically about attempting to put out the blaze. The incendiaries had escaped. It galled Dick to realize that they had crept up right under his nose unobserved. The shot they had heard, he soon learned, had not been fired by the invaders at all, but by one of the occupants of the burning cabin in an effort to bring help.
The cabin was doomed. Efforts to save it proved futile. The native sentry took the women and children in tow and conducted them along the street to the shelter of other cabins. Slowly, resentfully, the, crowd dispersed. The sentry returned, accompanied by Sandy and Toma and the dog driver. Together they repaired to the sentry’s home, where in gloomy silence they drank their delayed cup of tea and ate the hot biscuit their host set before them.
“You fellows’d better go back now,” said Dick finally, rising to his feet. “Nothing else may happen tonight, but it’s wise to be on our guard.”
Sandy grinned as he pushed his empty cup back from the edge of the table.
“I don’t want to rub it in, Dick,” he remarked, “but that was a good joke on you. The cabin that is burning down isn’t more than a block from here. Whoever set fire to it must have slipped right past you. What were you doing, Dick?”
Dick flushed, but did not reply.
“Didn’t you see anyone?” persisted Sandy.
“No. They caught us napping all right. But be mighty sure, Sandy, that they don’t come in on your side before the night’s over. Well, good luck to you. I’ll be along before daybreak.”
Sandy and Toma departed, and again Dick and his two companions took up their lonely patrol. This time, however, at Dick’s suggestion, they separated, each having under his surveillance a certain definite section of the village. Up and down, forth and back, through that cold and stilly night, their moccasined feet beat across the snow.
Then, suddenly, for the second time that night, a shot rang out. There came the sound of crashing glass and a woman’s startled scream.
It had all happened right in Dick’s beat, scarcely fifty yards away. Instantly he was alert and ready. This time instead of rushing away toward the cabin which had been fired on he cut obliquely across the street in the direction the invader would have taken in making his get-away. He fairly flew across the snow, dodged between two low buildings and came out on the farther side, panting for breath.
In the path of moonlight in the cleared space ahead, he saw a fleeting form, and, without even pausing for breath, started forward in swift pursuit.
Dick was a fast runner, as he had proved to his satisfaction many times before. In the present instance, he put all his heart and strength in the race. He exerted every ounce of energy. But if he was fleet of foot, excelling in this particular line of physical endeavor, so was his opponent. Try as he would, Dick seemed unable to gain upon him. Between buildings, across fields, over a narrow footbridge that crossed a brook, then along a trail that threaded its way south from the village, the two forms flew.
After a time Dick began to gain slowly upon his quarry. Foot at a time, he drew closer. He saw the Indian, tall and lithe like himself, cast one worried glance over his shoulder, see that he was being overtaken, then hurl his rifle to the snow, free from which encumbrance, he quickly regained his former advantage.
Somewhat reluctantly, Dick followed suit. He still carried his revolver at his belt. He puffed as he ran. The blood throbbed in his ears. The continued exertion had begun to tell. On and on he raced, slowly shortening the distance that separated them. Thirty yards! Twenty yards! He was only a rod or two behind him now, gaining at every leap. But with every leap his heart felt as if it would burst within his body. Finally, in despair, he had commenced to slacken his pace, when he saw the runner ahead stumble over some obstruction in the path and fall heavily.
When the Indian rose choking to his knees, Dick stood over him, revolver in hand.
“I’ve got you, you human greyhound,” he panted. “You can come back with me now. The race is over.”
The Indian, of course, did not understand a word of English. He rose, brushing the snow from his garments.
“Come back with me, brother of the deer,” ordered Dick in Cree. “Come over on the path here and start back toward the village.”
His captive obeyed. They marched back, puffing like two locomotives, one a little shamefacedly, the other exultantly.
“You run very fast,” said Dick admiringly, as he drove the other on, feeling very magnanimous in his victory.
The other grunted.
“You have feet more swift than a wolf,” Dick went on. “It was unfortunate for you that you fell.”
Again the Indian grunted.
“Why do you come bothering these people?” Dick took a new tack. “They have done nothing to hurt you. They are your friends. Why do you attack them and set fire to their homes and send bullets crashing through their windows?”
For the third time the Indian grunted. Dick gave up. He could learn nothing from this sullen fellow. Very well then, he could go back and cool his heels behind the guarded door of some village dwelling.
They reached the place where Dick had thrown down his gun, and, farther on, he also picked up the weapon belonging to his prisoner. Not long afterward they made their appearance in the village, where they were met by a number of people, including Sandy and Toma.
Ordinarily Sandy would have come forward to compliment Dick upon his achievement, but this time, for some reason, he refrained. And Sandy’s appearance and behavior were strange. He stood and stared at Dick almost dully. Toma’s attitude was equally peculiar and inexplicable.
“Well,” said Dick, “I’ve brought him back.”
No one replied.
“Sandy,” stated Dick, “this is the Indian who fired that shot a while ago. I ran him down. What do you think we’d better do with him?”
“I don’t know,” Sandy muttered, in a voice that might have come from the depths of some subterranean vault. “I don’t know, Dick. This is terrible. What will we do?”
Dick flushed angrily.
“Do,” he snapped out testily, “why we’ll do what we’ve been doing for the last two months—the best we can. What makes Toma stand there like a lump on a log, eyeing me so queerly? What have I done? Why, you all act as if I had committed a crime, instead of bringing this man back to answer for his misdeeds.”
Sandy emerged from his despondency at this unexpected verbal attack, the light of battle in his eyes.
“What have you done?” he demanded sharply. “What have you done? Well, I’ll tell you. You’ve done just what the rest of us have done. Made a fool out of yourself. Permitted yourself to become a dupe—a-sucker.”
“A sucker! See here. I’ve had about enough of this. I——”
But Sandy went inexorably on:
“Father Bleriot and Dr. Brady have been captured.”
“But, Sandy!——” gasped Dick.
“They’ve been captured, I tell you.”
“But look here, Sandy——”
“Keep quiet, will you, and let me finish. Do you know why this Indian fired that shot?”
“No.”
“To draw all the guards to this end of the village so that another attacking party could swoop down from the other side and play general havoc They got Brady and Father Bleriot and two of the Indian servants. No one was there to stop them. They had plenty of time to get away. Toma and I and the other guards came down here, while you were chasing away across country after your friend. Now, I ask you, what are we to do about it?”
Dejectedly, Dick put one of his rifles on the ground and sat down upon it. He was breathing hard, but not from the effects of the race. His triumph had been short-lived. He leaned forward and put his head in his hands.
“The villagers are panic stricken,” Sandy informed him. “They’re about done for. They’ve lost all hope, and I don’t think they’re to be blamed very much either.”
Dick raised his eyes. A crowd had gathered round him. It was a silent crowd. Dejection showed in every face. Somewhere, at the edge of the gathering a woman was crying softly. Dick staggered to his feet.
“Her husband was one of the servants the Indians took,” Sandy explained. “Everyone here believes that we’ve seen the last of those four men. They’ll all be murdered.”
Dick found his voice.
“Does anyone know which way that attacking party left?” he demanded.
“There are plenty who can testify to that. They went north into the barrens.”
“Is there an Indian village up that way?”
“Yes, about four miles from here. What do you suggest doing, Dick?”
“We can do one thing only,” Dick’s tone was tragic. “I’ll call for a party of volunteers and set out in pursuit.” He raised his voice: “Come now, who will be the first to go with me?”
Toma stepped forward.
“I go,” he said.
Sandy was scarcely a foot behind him.
“I’ll be one.”
A moment’s hesitation, then the tall form of a villager drew away from the crowd.
“I will accompany my white brothers,” he asserted.
Others also came forward. By ones and twos they shambled up—tragic-eyed men, frail, hollow-cheeked youths, white-haired veterans of a hundred trap-lines. Steadily they came and took their places at Dick’s side.
Four miles is not far. In the north country, where distance plays such an important part in the lives of the inhabitants, four miles would be accounted but a step, a unit of space hardly worth considering. Yet to Dick and his party, who had set out in pursuit of the Indian invaders, it seemed a long way indeed. It was a weary trail and a hard one. It was fraught with danger, with grave foreboding.
It seemed to the young leader, as they fared forth across that ghastly moonlit field, that his life had been spent on trails. Daily he walked along some trail. At night he slept beside one. When chill morning broke across a bleak snow-covered land, it was only to resume that never-ending, continuous trek.
It was a sort of Nemesis that haunted him. Somehow he couldn’t get away from it. The trail!——It was there always. It beckoned to him. It defied him. It led him wearily, doggedly on to new dangers and disasters.
On the night in question, the four miles seemed inconceivably long. The feet of his party dragged. A moody silence hung about them. No one laughed. Conversation had ceased. Behind him came the monotonous crunch, crunch, crunch of scores of snowshoes, beating out a path. Crunch, crunch, crunch—tired, laggard feet moved hesitatingly, moved fearfully, ready at the slightest pretext to turn and flee.
Neither Dick nor his two chums believed that in case of an attack, any of the Indians, comprising their party, would make a stand. They were too fearful. In the final crisis, so Dick believed, he would be forced to depend solely upon his two friends and himself. Yet in numbers there is strength. Their imposing array would be sure to impress the enemy.
They reached the village. They bore down upon it, forty strong, shouting their defiance. With their rifles ready, they entered the outskirts, laggard steps becoming more laggard, frightened faces becoming more frightened as the crisis approached. They were offered no resistance. Could it be that the village was asleep? A few huskies sniffed at their heels. A papoose cried in one of the tepees they passed. Still they went on.
In the brilliant star-sprinkled sky a few clouds were visible. One particularly dark cloud passed across the moon. Shadows fell athwart the tepees. It was darker now. The forms of Dick’s followers became shrouded in gloom. Along the white snow surface crept a huge dark stain, an immensity of shadow that blotted the earth.
The tepees were black blotches now against a dark background. Out of this obscurity, coming as unexpectedly as a fire-siren, shrieking its warning, there rose a blood-curdling, hideous yell. Dick literally froze in his tracks. A cold sweat broke out upon his face. He had scarcely the strength to stand upon his tottering legs.
The yell was followed by the cracking of rifles, the whining of bullets. Appalled, his men drew back. For a brief moment they stood their ground, then broke and fled in confusion. The retreat became a rout. Panic spread, rifles were hurled to one side, and a few minutes later Dick’s valiant supporters disappeared from view, swallowed up in the semi-darkness.
Dick saw the absolute futility of attempting anything further that night. Moving more leisurely, he and his two chums followed his defeated column. Again the trail oppressed him. Hope had gone glimmering. He had reached the end of the road. He heard Sandy speaking in mournful tones:
“Well, I guess there isn’t much we can do now. It’s all over. I wouldn’t give one whoop for Dr. Brady’s chances now, or the priest’s either. What do you think about it, Toma?”
For once the young Indian was at a loss to know what to say. He shook his head and walked on beside them.
“I’m tired of it all,” said Dick. “Our luck has deserted us. There used to be a time, Sandy, when we could stumble through difficulties blindly. But I’m afraid that that time has passed. We’re up against a solid rock wall. We can’t scale it. It’s too high for our puny strength. We’re helpless.”
“And yet,” said Sandy, almost reverently, “Corporal Rand came up here single-handed to accomplish what we have failed to do with forty men. Have you stopped to think about that?”
“Yes, but Corporal Rand is licked too.”
“The trail did that. I’m willing to bet that if Corporal Rand were here now, he’d dare to go back to that Indian village alone, and would probably be successful too.”
“I realize that. But how do they do it? It’s a thing I’ve often wondered at.”
“I can’t explain it myself,” said Sandy, “unless it is the awe in which they are held. You see, Dick, all the people who live in this north country know what wonderful men they are, how brave and determined. They’re afraid of them. But it’s something more than fear. It goes deeper than that. It’s—it’s——I can’t tell you what it is. It isn’t exactly awe or reverence or fear. Perhaps it is a mixture of all these things. I really can’t tell you.” They struggled on, soon reaching the village, where they were met by Father Michaud, who was now in charge of the mission. Father Michaud carried a lantern. He was a much older man than either of his two associates. He held the lantern out before him, and as the boys came closer, peered up anxiously in their faces.
“Ah, monsieur, is it not terrible. Ees everyone safe? Are there no dead? So terrible—so terrible!” he lamented. “Even from here I hear those awful shouts an’ ze sound of ze rifles. Did you make a brave ree-sistance?”
“How could we?” answered Sandy. “Everybody ran away. At the first sound of firing, our brave little army vanished like a flock of frightened sheep.”
“An’ you saw nothing of ze Father Bleriot an’ ze good Dr. Brad-ee?”
“No. We saw nothing of them.”
“Et ees so terrible,” wailed the priest “Tomorrow will you go again?”
“I’ll have to think that over,” Dick replied. “But what is the use. If you can supply me with some really brave and courageous men, I’ll undertake to bring the good father and Dr. Brady back.”
“Ah, but my people, zey are so prostrate, so heavy with grief. Ze spirit has gone out of them.”
“Well, I’m not surprised at that,” said Sandy, a little more charitable.
“Et ees to be regretted zat ze policeman ees seeck. He ees a wonderful man, zat Corporal Rand. Nothing on earth can stop zat man.”
“What did I tell you,” whispered Sandy, nudging Dick’s arm. “He knows it too.”
“What will monsieur do now?”
“First of all, we’ll have something to eat and a few hours sleep. After that, we can make our plans. To be perfectly frank, Father Michaud, I don’t know what to do.”
Dick’s shoulders seemed to droop as he made the assertion. He was feeling the weight of his responsibilities, had reached the point where it seemed impossible to go on.
And then, suddenly, there flashed through his mind the grim figure of the Inspector of Police. The steel-gray eyes were regarding him.
“If I didn’t have implicit faith in you, I wouldn’t send you on this expedition.”
Implicit faith in him! Yet he wondered if Cameron, knowing of the odds against them, would have held out hope for their ultimate success.
“Et ees too bad zat Corporal Rand ees ill,” Father Michaud repeated. “Zey would be afraid of him; monsieur. Zey see ze mounted police an’ zey are afraid.”
Suddenly Dick had an idea. He turned quickly to the priest.
“Father Michaud, where is the man I captured earlier in the night? Where is he now?”
“In one of ze cabins. Zey have put a guard over him.”
“Father, will you lead me to that cabin?”
The priest nodded. He commenced hobbling down the road. They followed him and turned into the narrow street, with the row of cabins on either side. They hurried on through the dim light of early morning, presently drawing up before a low structure, in front of which stood a native, a rifle clutched in his hands.
“Open the door,” said Dick in Cree. “I wish to see the prisoner.”
They entered the dark interior. The guard struck a match and lit the tiny taper that had been placed on the mantle above the fireplace.
In front of the fire, rolled in a blanket, which had been provided him, lay Dick’s former track-mate. Toma aroused him by shaking his shoulders none too gently, yanking him to an upright position. The man daubed at his eyes, looking sleepily about him.
“What is your name?” asked Dick in Cree.
“Tawanish.”
“All right, Tawanish, I’m about to release you. You can go back to your own people.”
“Dick, are you mad?” suddenly interposed Sandy. “Have you taken leave of your senses? Do you realize what you are saying? No, Dick, we will hold him here as a hostage. They have Dr. Brady and Father Bleriot. We have this man.”
Dick turned almost angrily upon his chum.
“Please, Sandy, don’t interfere. I know what I’m doing.”
He turned again to the Indian.
“Tawanish, I am sending you back to your own people. You can go free.”
“It is very good of my brother,” stammered the Indian, blinking at his liberator.
“You will carry a message to your people,” Dick went on. “Do you understand that, Tawanish—carry a message. You must remember what I say, else it will go hard with you and them.”
“What is the message?” Tawanish asked.
“You must tell them,” Dick replied, choosing his words carefully,”—you must tell them, Tawanish, that the mounted police have arrived. Corporal Rand is here. Tell them that they must release the good father and the white medicine man. As soon as you return and tell them this, they must release these two men and give them a convoy back to this village. Do you understand what I have told you?”
“Yes,” answered the Indian. “I understand.”
“This Corporal Rand,” Dick resumed, “is a terrible man. He is one of the greatest among all of the mounted police. If you do not comply with his request, his vengeance will be sure and certain. Do you follow me, Tawanish?”
“I understand what you have said. It shall be done.”
“Very well,” said Dick. “Know you then that if the good father and the white doctor do not return to us before the time of the noonday sun, Corporal Rand will proceed to your village.”
Sandy and Toma stared in open-mouthed amazement.
“You’re mad!” sputtered Sandy.
“If you will come with us, Tawanish, I will give you back your gun. Then you can start at once.”
They filed from the room. Outside Dick dismissed the guard, then led the way to his own billet, where he had left his captive’s rifle. Extracting the cartridges, he handed it over to Tawanish.
“Go,” said Dick, “and give your chief and your people my message.”
The Indian’s departure was sudden and abrupt. He streaked for the door. Father Michaud touched Dick’s arm.
“I hope,” he declared, “zat you have not made a serious meestake, monsieur. Do you think zey will heed your request?”
Dick sat down on the edge of his bunk, under the accusing gaze of his two chums.
“I don’t know,” he answered. “There’s a chance.”
The pent up rage and anger, which had been seething within Sandy’s breast, suddenly broke forth.
“You fool! You fool! Of all the unthinking, crazy actions I’ve ever witnessed, this is the worst. Do you realize what you’ve done? Do you know what will happen now? Wouldn’t listen to me, would you? Nor Toma? Nor Father Michaud? You—you——”
Sandy’s tirade ended in a choking and sputtering wholly unintelligible.
“What have I done?” asked Dick.
“You haven’t the sense to see it, so I’ll tell you. The Indians might hesitate about killing Dr. Brady and Father Bleriot as long as we had one of their own people here. They’d be afraid that if they did commit such an act, we’d retaliate by taking the life of that Indian.”
He paused, clearing his throat.
“Now, by your colossal blunder, you have made the way easy for them. They can kill them with perfect impunity. Dick, how could you be so thoughtless. Your plan won’t work. You acted on impulse. I’m sure,” more kindly, “that if you’d paused to reason it all out in your mind, you’d never have taken that step.”
Dick had nothing to say. It did seem as if Sandy were right. It was an awful moment.
“Well,” said Sandy, “we might as well go to bed. There is nothing more that we can do now. Come on, Dick, let’s tumble in.”
The priest turned away quietly and left the room. They could hear the crunch of his footsteps outside. Toma and Sandy sat down and commenced pulling off their moccasins. But Dick did not stir. His hopeless, tragic eyes stared into the fire.
Sandy consulted his watch. His face was anxious. Little worried lines showed under his eyes and at the corners of his mouth.
“It’s eleven o’clock, Dick,” he announced. “One hour to go. If they aren’t here by twelve, they won’t come at all.”
“Yes,” said Dick miserably. “Eleven o’clock. But they may come, Sandy.”
The suspense was difficult to endure. In the last half hour, Sandy’s watch had been jerked from his pocket no less than seven times. The three boys sat in their billet and marked the slow passing of time. All through the morning they had experienced a nervous tension, which was becoming rapidly more and more acute. Toma paced up and down the floor, paying little heed to what his two chums said. Occasionally, he looked out through one of the frosted windows, straining his ears for the shout that would announce the safe return of the two captives.
In his heart, Toma half-believed that Dick’s plan would work. He knew the awe and reverence in which the mounted police were held. If Dr. Brady and Father Bleriot were not sent back, it would be because the Indians had come to the conclusion that Dick’s statement regarding Corporal Rand was merely a bluff.
Sandy’s watch ticked off the seconds. Dick stepped forward to stir up the fire. There came a timid knock at the door.
It was Father Michaud. He shuffled through the doorway, his robes rustling about him, his thin bare hands rubbing each other to restore their sluggish circulation.
“Ah, monsieurs,” he broke forth, “I have slept but ill. Et ees most difficult theese slow waiting. Do you not think, monsieurs? All night I worry veree much. Zen I pray, monsieurs. Et ees a great help.”
Sandy pulled forward a chair for their unhappy visitor.
“Sit-down, father. Take a place here close to the fire.”
“Merci. You are kind, monsieur.”
He half-turned in his chair.
“Do you think zey will come?” he asked, addressing Dick.
“I do not know.” Dick’s face was tragic. “I’m afraid, father, they may not come.”
For twenty minutes the priest kept alive a failing conversation. Occasionally, Sandy consulted his watch. Time slipped by.
“Twenty minutes to twelve,” said Sandy, at the end of what seemed like an eternity.
Toma continued his pacing back and forth. Dick sat huddled in his chair. The priest rambled on.
“Ten minutes to twelve,” Sandy informed them.
Dick could endure the suspense no longer. He rose, crossed the room, and flung open the door. A cold draft of air whirled in across the floor. Toma hurried over to where Dick stood and peered over his shoulder. They heard a shout. It brought Sandy and Father Michaud to their feet. Villagers were running in the street. A crowd had gathered.
“They—they’ve come back,” blurted Dick, darting through the door, Toma right behind him. They joined the throng.
In the center of the crowd stood, not Dr. Brady and Father Bleriot, but—and Dick’s heart sank at the sight of him—their captive of the night before. In his hand he waved something—something white. With Toma acting as his interference, and employing football tactics, Dick plunged through, gaining a place by the side of the messenger. He seized the piece of birch bark and scanned it eagerly. It was covered thickly with Indian signs and symbols.
“Toma,” cried Dick, “can you make this out? Tell me, what does it say here?”
Toma took the birch bark in his own trembling hands, studied it for a moment, then in a fit of anger threw it at his feet, where with one foot he trampled it in the snow.
“What does it say?” Dick’s voice was shrill, plaintive.
“It say,” stormed Toma, “that you tell ’em big lie about mounted police; that Corporal Rand no come here at all. They make you big laugh.”
At that instant Dick bethought him of the messenger. Defy him, would they? Well, he’d see about that. At least, he’d seize their messenger. He sprang forward with this purpose in view, but the Indian slipped under his arm, dodged behind the tall figure of one of the gaping natives, and before anyone could prevent it, had made his escape. At that moment, Sandy came plowing through the ranks of the spectators, shouting hoarsely.
“Where is Dr. Brady?”
“He didn’t come back.”
“What’s all this rumpus about then?”
“That Indian prisoner I released last night came back with a defiant message, which says that they, the Indians, don’t believe that the policeman is here.”
“And the messenger?”
“He slipped away from me.”
Dick ordered the crowd back with an authoritative wave of his arm. His feeling of hopelessness and despair had given place to anger, to a consuming, burning rage. The Indians had defied him openly. They were making a fool out of him. They had called his bluff.
It occurred to him that he could recruit another attacking party and go to the doctor’s rescue. But the memory of his experience of the night before still rankled in his mind. No—if he were to accomplish anything, it would be through his own efforts, and with the assistance of only Sandy and Toma. He beckoned to his chums.
“Let’s go back to the billet,” he suggested, “and talk this thing over.”
As his two friends came up, he linked his arms in theirs and began:
“I can see now, Sandy, that I have made a terrible mistake. I’ve got myself in a hole and may never be able to get out of it. Just the same, I don’t intend to give up. I’m not licked yet. I want to know if you boys will stand behind me.”
“Yes, Dick, we’re with you,” Sandy assured him.
“You depend on us,” added Toma.
Back in the billet again, they commenced to lay their plans. On the previous night they had tried, by the superiority of their numbers, to intimidate the enemy. They had failed. Now they would employ stealth. That night, they decided, the three of them would creep up to the Indian village and attempt a rescue.
“We may be successful,” said Sandy. “We have a chance, at any rate.”
“Our last chance, too,” declared Dick. “If we fail in this, it is all over.”
A little later, Sandy went over to the mission store to purchase a few supplies. Toma remained behind, his head bowed deep in thought. Silence had come to the room, broken only by the breathing of the boys and the crackling of the logs in the fireplace. After a time, Dick rose.
“I suppose we’d better be thinking about lunch.”
Of a sudden, Toma darted to his feet. He had sprung from his chair so quickly, that Dick, who was looking at him, could scarcely follow the lightning movement. Toma hugged himself in ecstacy. He seized Dick in a smothering embrace, whirling him around and around.
“Dick, listen me,” he shouted. “I know what we do now. I think it all out. It come to me in flash. Sandy no need go at all. Jus’ you, me go. We go this afternoon. Hurry—you follow me quick!”
Blindly Dick followed the other. He trotted down the street in the wake of his excited chum, wondering what it was all about. They hurried past the mission school, reaching, finally, a low dwelling, into which, without a moment’s hesitation, without even the preliminary of a knock, Toma darted.
It was the house which harbored Corporal Rand. Upon the afternoon of their arrival, the policeman had been placed here with an Indian woman in attendance. He was here now, sitting propped up in a chair in front of a pleasant fire.
“Good morning, corporal,” both boys greeted him.
The policeman turned his head. As he did so, the boys stopped abruptly. A remarkable change had taken place in him. His cheeks were fuller now. His eyes burned less brightly. The heavy beard-growth had been removed. He smiled a wan greeting.
“Dick and Toma, as I live! Where did you come from?”
“We have a billet down the street,” answered Dick.
“Ah, yes; and I have been ill. Very ill. I can remember—it is so difficult to remember—but I was on the trail, wasn’t I? A difficult trail. And what is the name of this place, Dick?”
“Keechewan.”
“Keechewan! Keechewan!” Corporal Rand repeated the name. “It sounds familiar, doesn’t it?”
Toma was beside him now—standing very close, looking down into the sick man’s eyes. He suddenly stooped and whispered something into Rand’s willing ears, then drew back smiling.
“It is all right,” he announced to Dick, who had come closer. “Corporal Rand he say all right. Him willing we go. We must hurry very fast, Dick. You go back to billet an’ pretty soon I go there too.”
And almost before he realized it, Toma had seized his arm and was dragging him toward the door.
“Quick!” he commanded. “You go back to billet. I know place where I find two horses. You get us something to eat in plenty hurry. Two rifles, cartridge belts, revolvers——You work quick—plenty fast. So me too.”
“But Toma,” protested his bewildered companion, “I don’t see. I don’t know——What——”
“No time ask ’em questions now. Do like I say. Quick! Hurry!”
Through the open doorway Dick was bundled, pushed, treated somewhat roughly, considering that Toma was his friend. Outside in the chill air, he had started to protest again, but the door was slammed in his face.
“You be good fellow. Hurry now!” the inexorable voice boomed at him through the heavy barrier. “I be along mebbe eight, ten minutes.”
There was nothing left for him to do except obey. Shaking his head, wondering what new form of insanity had seized hold of his friend, he wheeled about and struck back towards the billet. There he gathered up a bundle of food, secured the rifles, cartridges and revolver—exactly as he had been instructed—and sat down to wait.
In a remarkably short time Toma appeared. His coming was heralded by the clatter of hooves. Dick heard a voice calling to him.
Toma did not even dismount, as Dick thrust his head through the doorway.
“Is that my horse?” asked Dick, feeling a little foolish.
“Your horse. Bring ’em rifles an’ grub an’ jump up into saddle quick.”
Sandy was just coming down the street, his arms loaded with provisions, when the two horses, their flanks quivering, nostrils dilated, leaped from the trodden snow around the doorway and galloped away like mad.
They turned off on the north trail, whirling past an open-mouthed sentry, who, in his hurry to get out of the way, stepped back in a huge snowdrift and sat down. They streaked over a narrow bridge, spanning a creek, shot up the steep embankment on the farther side and, at break-neck speed, headed for the open country in the direction of the Indian village. It was not until they were two miles out, that Toma drew in his horse.
“We stop here for a few minutes,” he informed Dick.
“What for?”
Toma produced a bulky package, deftly opened and shook out—a frayed crimson tunic of the mounted police.
“What’s that for?” Dick gasped.
“You put ’em on—quick! You Corporal Rand now. Indians be much afraid when we ride up.”
Trembling, Dick removed his own coat and put on the crimson garment. They rode on again.
It was all that Dick could do to sit erect in his saddle, much less simulate a quiet determination, a bravery he did not feel. The two miles dwindled into one. The remaining mile to the village—how quickly did it seem to slip away past them, bringing them closer and closer to that unwavering row of brown tepees.
Their horses went forward at a walk. From the tiny dwellings emerged human figures. Malevolent eyes were watching them. Dick caught the flash of sunlight on some bright object, probably a rifle barrel, and he grew rigid in the saddle, instinctively reaching toward the holster at his side. Toma detected the motion and soberly shook his head.
“No do that,” he advised promptly. “Mounted police never pull gun ’til other fellow get ready to use his. What you say we make horses go fast? Gallop right up to village.”
Dick approved the suggestion. For one thing, a flying mark is more difficult to hit. Another thing, it gave a touch of realism to their bluff. It was exactly what a mounted policeman would do.
So, when less than fifty yards from the nearest tepee, they dug their heels into their ponies’ flanks and cantered briskly up. They approached the first two tepees and passed them without mishap. But Dick’s heart was in his throat now. His cheeks were drained of color. With increasing difficulty, he kept his place astride his plunging horse.
Indians were pouring out of their domiciles, like disturbed bees from a hive. A low murmur came to the boys’ ears. Form after form they flashed by, scarcely conscious of where they were going until, by chance, they perceived that toward the center of the encampment there had gathered an excited crowd of natives, who were watching their approach. Toward this crowd, they made their way at a quick gallop.
Dick felt a little dazed as they came to a sudden halt. The Indians had fallen back, yet did not disperse. Deep silence greeted them. It was so deeply and intensely quiet that Dick could almost believe that the Indians were statues of stone.
He tried to speak, but his tongue clove in his mouth. Fear had settled upon him and he seemed powerless to shake it off. At the crucial moment, when everything depended upon his actions and deportment, he was failing miserably. Fortunately, he had the good sense to see this and tried desperately to control himself. He sat up more rigidly in the saddle, his mittened hands clenched.
“Make ’em talk,” whispered Toma.
Dick flung up one arm in a commanding gesture.
“Bring the two white men here at once,” he ordered.
Then suddenly his gaze seemed to waver. The crowd became a blur—a shadowy something before his eyes. In their place rose up the stern figure of Inspector Cameron—the worn, austere face, the steel-gray eyes, the decisive chin. Again Dick threw up his arm. A strange calmness pervaded him.
“Bring them here,” he repeated in a voice of gathering impatience.
A murmur rose from the crowd. Suddenly it fell back, hesitated for a brief interval, then hurried away to do the white chief’s bidding. The tension had relaxed. As he slowly turned in his saddle to meet the gaze of his friend, a ray of sunlight fell across Toma’s face.
“Bye-’n’-bye they come!” he cried happily.
“You’ve won, Dick. Dr. Brady says that you were absolutely wonderful. The way you sat on your horse, the way you ordered that crowd of natives about—your calmness, your courage. You were every inch a policeman!”
Dick laughed.
“I wonder what Dr. Brady would say if he knew the truth. I wonder what he would say if he knew that I was quaking inside like a jelly-fish. It is true that I sat on my horse, but the credit is due the horse, not me. If he had moved as much as one front leg, he’d have shaken me out of the saddle. Our cause would have been lost.”
“Come! Come! You’re fooling, Dick.”
“Not at all. I was never more frightened in my life, and I never want to be as badly frightened again. I was trembling like a leaf. When the chief brought out Father Bleriot and Dr. Brady and turned them over to us, I very nearly collapsed.”
“But the Indians were frightened too. They were afraid of you.”
“Perhaps they were. Everyone was more or less frightened, I guess, except Toma. Cool! Honestly I think he enjoyed it. He egged me on, encouraged me. I never would have had the nerve to enter that village if it hadn’t been for him. There’s a young man, Sandy, who was born without fear. He doesn’t know what it means.”
Sandy rose and threw another log on the fire. Then he rubbed the palms of his hands together and grinned.
“Well, I’ll grant that. He doesn’t. He loves action and excitement. He eats it. I suppose he’s off somewhere now, worrying because we haven’t much left here to do.”
“I know where he is,” laughed Dick. “He went back to the Indian village with Dr. Brady. Brady is finishing his work there this afternoon. Toma is his interpreter.”
A moment of silence. Then:
“Dick, were you over to see Corporal Rand this morning?”
“Yes.”
“Better, isn’t he?”
“Much better. I never saw anyone improve so rapidly.”
“But you didn’t talk with Dr. Brady. Did he tell you, Dick—did you hear——”
In his excitement, Sandy pulled forward a chair and plumped himself into it, putting both hands on Dick’s knees.
“Dr. Brady admits that he was wrong. His first examination was—er—well, a little hasty. Those feet, for example. Bad, of course, but——”
“Do you mean to tell me he’ll walk?”
“Exactly.”
“Will be well enough to return to his duties?”
“Dr. Brady believes so now. He was quite enthusiastic this morning. It’ll take months, of course—months before he’ll be around again. First, he must go to Edmonton and have an operation—skin grafting and all that sort of thing.”
“And his mind is all right too?”
“Yes. Almost.”
“Almost!” snorted Dick. “You don’t mean that, surely. Why, he was perfectly rational last night, when I had a talk with him. He remembered everything. He told me about his troubles on the trail. He asked me if we were intending to take the Keechewan mail back with us. We had a long talk together. His mind is as bright as a new silver American dollar. What made you say that?”
Sandy rose again and pushed back his chair. He walked over and stood with his back to the fire.
“It’s getting colder, Dick.”
“Look here, you gay young deceiver, you didn’t answer my question.”
Sandy looked up blankly.
“Eh, what? Question?”
“Yes. My question. Why do you think that Corporal Rand hasn’t fully recovered his mental powers?”
“He hasn’t—quite,” Sandy wagged his head dolefully. “He sometimes suffers from hallucinations. Dr. Brady and I both noticed it.”
“What are they?”
“There was one in particular. It would have amused me, only I feel so sorry for him. He’s—he’s—well, he thinks he’s going to be placed under arrest. Can you imagine anything so absurd? And by Inspector Cameron, too. He’s really worrying about it.”
Dick’s roar of laughter echoed to every part of the room. Tears of merriment chased each other down his cheeks.
“I don’t think that is so very funny,” Sandy declared with great dignity. “You ought to pity the man.”
“You chump! You chump!” howled Dick. “Why that—that isn’t an hallucination; it’s a fact. Corporal Rand may be arrested. He probably will be, but I don’t believe Cameron will be very severe with him. Not this time.”
“What’s he done?” blinked Sandy.
“Disobeyed orders. He came up here against the inspector’s wishes. You see, Cameron intended to come himself.”
“Oh,” said Sandy, much relieved, “the inspector has probably forgotten all about it.”
“Not he! Cameron never forgets.”
“But he won’t be hard on him.”
“Of course not. He’ll impose a light fine along with a severe lecture. Then he’ll reach in his pocket and give Rand the money to pay the fine.”
Sandy laughed.
“Why don’t you tell Rand that? I think it will relieve his mind.”
“Guess I will.” Dick rose. “I’ll take a run over there now and cheer him up.”
Dick had readied the door, when Sandy called him back.
“I say, Dick.”
“Yes, Sandy, what is it?”
“Remember the night when you released the Indian—sent him back to his people with that message?”
“Yes, I remember.”
“I—I called you some names, Dick. I’m sorry about that. I guess I was a bit angry and overbearing. You’ll overlook it, won’t you?”
Dick took his chum’s hand and gripped it firmly.
“Why—I’d forgotten about it. Anyway, it’s all right. Everything is all right,” he smiled.
“And you’re all right, too,” declared Sandy.
Which, considering everything, was as fine a compliment as Dick had ever received.
A dog train waited outside the Keechewan Mission. It was a long train—ten teams of malemutes and huskies—an impatient train, too, for not only the dogs but the drivers as well, waited impatiently for the word of command that would set it in motion. Brake-boards were passed firmly into the snow, the feet holding them in place becoming cramped as the moments passed and still the leader did not appear.
Presently a door creaked open and a tall young man, laden with two heavy mail sacks, emerged to the street. It was Dick Kent—and he was smiling. Behind Dick came Dr. Brady and the cassocked figure of a Catholic priest, Father Bleriot. The two last named persons walked side-by-side, talking and laughing. The priest’s right arm was thrust in friendly fashion through that of the physician’s, and, as the three figures came to a halt directly opposite the sledge, to which a team of beautiful gray malemutes were harnessed, the doctor declared:
“So we’re to go back at last. I see you have everything ready, Dick. Nothing to do now except pull our worthless freight out of here.”
“Monsieur does himself an injustice,” beamed the priest. “You have reason to feel proud—you and your friends. Hope and happiness and tranquility have come again to Keechewan.”
“Have you any message that I can take to Inspector Cameron?” Dick asked.
“It is there in the sack,” Father Bleriot pointed to one of the mail pouches Dick had placed in the empty sleigh. “A letter, monsieur, written from my heart and sealed with tears of thankfulness. All one night I sat and wrote that letter, page after page, to the good inspector, and when I had finished, monsieur, I found that I had expressed not even one small part of what I wished to say.”
“Cameron will understand,” Dr. Brady reassured him.
“And now you go,” said the priest regretfully. “You embark upon a difficult journey. You go south without even a pause to rest.”
“It will not seem so far this time,” stated Dick, turning toward his sledge. “Well, thank you Father, for your kindness and hospitality. We must go now. Dr. Brady, you’ve worked hard, so we’re giving you the place of honor here with the mail.”
They shook hands again. Dr. Brady was bundled into the sleigh. At a signal from Dick, impatient feet were lifted from brake-boards, whips cracked, and the train whirled away amid a flurry of fine snow. Father Bleriot, a somewhat lonely figure, stood and waved his farewell, his expressive dark eyes lighting with satisfaction, as there came to him the cheers of scores of happy householders, who lined the streets to watch the party go by.
Speeding southward, the dog train soon left the village behind. The bleak landscape of the Barrens settled around them. Rolling drifts of crusted snow stretched away to the horizon. The wind shrieked up from behind, a cold wind which froze the hot breath of the huskies, and painted their lean, gray flanks with a white coat of frost.
Hour after hour, then day after day, the cavalcade bore on. The Barrens vanished. A streak of dun-colored forest slowly advanced and silently enwrapped them. The forest led them to a chain of hills. The hills carried them begrudgingly to a valley. The valley flung them into a meadow, which, in turn, by various stages, brought them to another forest, another valley, across lakes, down ravines, over rivers, on and on and on, until at last, when they had almost begun to believe that the trail would never end, weary yet exuberant, they drove into the compound at Fort Mackenzie.
There followed a scene which to Dick at least seemed somewhat confused and vague. He remembered helping to carry Corporal Rand into the barracks. He recalled a good deal of shouting and laughing. A throng pressed forward, sledges were unloaded, drivers darted here and there. Sandy and Toma joined Dick, and they were standing there, talking excitedly, when a crimson-coated figure pushed his way through the crowd and approached them.
“Welcome back,” Constable Whitehall shouted. “Glad to see you all home again. The inspector is waiting for you.”
The three boys followed the police orderly to Cameron’s office, followed him in a state of mind in which excitement, happiness and relief intermingled. They had expected to find the grizzled police official sitting, as was his wont, sternly erect in his chair, lips pursed, steel-gray eyes levelled upon them. But to their surprise, as the door swung open, revealing the room beyond, the inspector was standing—not behind—but in front of his desk.
The grim look was not there. True, his eyes were upon them, and he did not speak for a moment, as they filed in and halted awkwardly in front of him. Then Dick noticed the smile: warm and friendly, a sort of paternal smile that wholly transfigured and enlivened his features, that had the curious effect of making the boys forget their shyness and feel at ease. And while Dick was making a mental note of this, Cameron had suddenly come forward and was shaking them by the hand, talking and joking, winking slyly at Constable Whitehall.
“You young rascals! No need to tell me that everything didn’t come out all right. Don’t try to deceive me. I see it—see it shining in your eyes. Constable Whitehall, bring over those chairs. That’s better. Sit down. Now, Dick—— Sit down, I tell you, while Richard here relates his experiences.”
In a few words, Dick told his story. Yet he was out of breath when he had finished, and a little incoherent when he tried to answer the few sharp questions Cameron fired at him.
“At any rate,” smiled the inspector, “you got there, and you came back. From what you’ve already told me, I gather that you had trouble at Keechewan. Was that the only trouble you had?”
“Yes, sir,” answered the bewildered young leader.
“Why, Dick,” Sandy reminded him, “we had trouble on the trail—lots of it.”
“So we did,” remembered Dick. “I’d forgotten about that. We picked up Lamont on our way back, but Fontaine and the rest left us—skipped out.”
“They’re here,” said Cameron grimly, “—in jail! We can eliminate them. Now, about this Lamont?”
“I shoot him,” declared Toma briefly.
“You did?”—sharply.
“Yes, sir.”
“Why?”
“Him bad fellow.”
Cameron’s mouth twitched at the corners.
“Is he hurt badly?”
“He’ll be all right in a few weeks, inspector,” Dick came quickly to his chum’s rescue.
“Was Toma justified in doing this?” Cameron inquired, turning to Sandy and Dick.
Two young men quickly nodded their affirmation.
“Well, that’s all I want to know. I’ll overlook it this time, Toma. You’ve already told me, Dick, about Corporal Rand. Took him to the barracks, you say?”
“Yes.”
Inspector Cameron rose from his chair and paced slowly up and down the room. For a time he seemed oblivious of their presence. He had become grim and forbidding now, stern and austere—not at all the companionable and affable person he had been at the beginning of their interview. Dick and Sandy exchanged questioning glances, then their eyes stole furtively toward the door.
The footbeats came to a sudden pause in front of them.
“I’m grateful to all of you—very grateful! I’m proud of you. Of course, I’ll pay you well. You deserve it.”
Cameron was smiling again. His voice had lost its sharp edge.
“Now, if there is anything that I can do. If——”
Dick interrupted him. It was the opportunity he had been looking for.
“There’s one favor, inspector,” he cleared his throat. “There’s one thing we’d like—Sandy and Toma and I. You see, we’ve talked it over. We don’t want the money. Money isn’t everything. We were glad to help out in an emergency. Glad—but——”
“Yes; yes, my boy. What is it?”
“We’d be ever so much obliged to you, sir, and thankful, if you’d dismiss the charge against Corporal Rand.”
If Dick had hurled a bomb under Cameron’s desk it could not have caused more consternation and surprise. Whitehall started back and his mouth gaped open. Inspector Cameron blinked, gulped several times, and attempted to cover his confusion by blowing his nose. A deep and oppressive silence settled over the room.
Not until then, did Dick realize that he had committed an unpardonable breach of official etiquette. He had smashed precedent and dignity to bits. He had violated the code. He had taken advantage of his position. As the full consciousness of the enormity of his crime came over him, he hung his head, his cheeks flaming to match the color of the inspector’s tunic.
Suddenly the tension snapped. Inspector Cameron broke into a roar of laughter. He slapped his thighs and still choking with merriment, turned to his orderly.
“Whitehall, you—you see how helpless I am. I ask you to become my witness. I’m powerless. This is blackmail. Conduct these young ruffians outside. And, Whitehall——” he paused abruptly.
The constable’s heels clicked as he came sharply to attention.
“Yes, sir.”
“Tell Corporal Rand that I’ll see him at once.”
The End