A MIDNIGHT PROWLER
To follow a man through Arctic twilight, to slink from tree to tree and
cover to cover, to keep hid always and make very little sound—is not an
easy accomplishment. At least, the three boys found that it was not.
They stole stealthily along about fifty yards behind Frischette,
attempting to keep within that distance, neither advancing too quickly
nor too slowly.
The wood they had entered was exceedingly dense, in places almost
impassable. Underbrush grew so thick that it choked out even the grass.
So thick indeed was the undergrowth, through which Frischette hurried,
that it was utterly impossible always to keep within sight of him. Now
and again they would see his hurrying form, only to lose it a moment
later. Sometimes the crackling of the underbrush would reveal his
whereabouts. At other times the boys would be in doubt as to where he
was, and would come to the conclusion that perhaps they had lost him.
Then they would hesitate about pressing on for fear that they might walk
boldly out in plain view of him.
Yet always they contrived to pick up his trail, either by finding his
footprints or by hearing some slight sound ahead. As they continued
their pursuit, their astonishment grew. Why did the Frenchman seek out a
hiding place so far from the house? Had his greed completely unseated
his mind? Already, Dick estimated, they had come at least two miles, and
yet Frischette showed no sign of stopping. He was walking at a furious
pace now, his nimble legs darting along over the uncarpeted forest path.
He hugged his treasure-box to him and fairly plunged through thicket and
across the open spaces, occasionally muttering to himself.
To the boys’ amazement, the chase ended abruptly. They had come out to a
small clearing in which stood a cabin. Frischette’s fingers stole to his
lips and a peculiarly soft, bird-like whistle sounded through the
forest. Then the Frenchman remained standing where he was until the door
opened and a slouching figure emerged.
At sight of the occupant of the cabin, the boys gasped in wonder. Never
before had they seen so unusual a person. He was bent and old, and
hobbled as he walked, in one hand a cane to guide him. His head was
hatless, covered with a thick, straggling crop of hair, some of which
fluttered into his face and over his shoulders. His beard was long and
heavy—of a peculiar reddish tinge, streaked with gray.
He approached Frischette, pausing a few feet from him, and looked up at
his visitor with eyes that peeped out from the shadowed depressions
between his beard and eyebrows like two black beads. The Frenchman was
the first to speak:
“I bring back ze box again, M’sieur Creel. You will take et an’ watch
over et. You are a faithful guardian, my friend. I weesh to compliment
you. Ever’zing ees here: ze money, ze treasure—ever’zing.”
The stranger spoke in a voice so low that, from their hiding place, the
boys could make out but a few words. Frischette spoke again:
“Et ees tonight.”
The old man shook his head vigorously, gesturing with his hands. The
Frenchman raised his voice: “Et ees tonight, I tell you. You will do as
I say.”
This time they heard the protest:
“No, no; I cannot come. Tonight I have other work. I cannot be there. I
refuse to do as you wish, Frischette, even for the sake of gain.”
The Frenchman’s face grew suddenly crimson with fury. He stooped and
picked up a club, advancing threateningly.
“I see ’bout that,” he fairly shouted. “I see ’bout that pretty queek.
You try fail me, m’sieur, I make you sorry.”
The other did not blink. He faced his antagonist calmly, scornfully,
presently breaking into an amused chuckle.
“You couldn’t hurt a fly. You are a coward, Frischette. I, an old man,
have far more courage than you.”
The road-house keeper’s sudden flare of fury quickly burned out. He
dropped his club and stepped back several paces, hugging his treasure to
him. Before the unwavering gaze of the old man he was helpless, and
possibly a little afraid. He glanced about sullenly.
“All right, et ees your own broth you brew, monsieur. I shall keep ze
box. Et ees all mine. Do you hear? Et ees mine.”
“Faugh! A bluff! You wouldn’t dare. I ask you to try it.”
The Frenchman clutched the box still more tightly.
“Et ees mine,” he persisted stubbornly.
“You try it,” warned the other.
“No more will I come to you,” Frischette informed him. “We are through.
I shall keep ze box.”
“Fool!” cried the other in vexation, beginning to relent “I suppose that
I must humor you always. Very well, it shall be as you say. I give you
my promise. But it will cost you a pretty penny this time.”
Suddenly they began to barter.
“Half,” said the Frenchman.
“Two-thirds,” insisted the man with the beard.
Frischette gave vent to a shriek of anguish.
“Two-thirds,” he howled. “What? Are you crazy? I will not leesen to zat.
Et ees outrageous, m’sieur.”
Sandy poked Dick cautiously in the ribs.
“Both mad!” he announced. “Can you make anything out of that gibberish?
What are they talking about?”
“I’ll confess,” Dick whispered, “that I’m at a loss to know.”
In the end, the two conspirators came to an agreement
“One-half it shall be,” they heard the old man mutter.
Having won his point, Frischette beamed. He thrust the box into the
other’s hands.
“Take et, m’sieur. I am sorry ef I speak cross. We must be friends. We
must understand each other. En a ver’ few weeks we go to Edmonton an’ we
shall be rich, m’sieur.”
Creel grumbled something through his beard, seized the box with eager
hands and half-turned as if to depart.
“Tonight then?”
“Yes, tonight.”
The boys scrambled back quickly, for Frischette was beginning his
journey homeward. A moment later, from the deep shadow of a heavy
thicket, they watched him pass. He was shaking his head and talking to
himself in a complaining undertone. Not long afterward he had
disappeared in the tangle of greenery, and over the woodland there
settled a deep and impressive silence. Dick looked at Sandy and Toma and
smiled.
“The farther we go into this thing, the stranger and more perplexing it
becomes. I wonder who that man is? In what way is he associated with
Frischette? Why is he guarding the box? Now what do you suppose they
were arguing about?”
“I can’t imagine,” answered Sandy. “What do you think, Toma?”
The Indian youth rose and broke off a twig from a branch above his head.
“I think him bad fellow just like Frischette.”
“Yes,” agreed Sandy, “probably his accomplice.”
“It doesn’t look as if we would open that box now,” grimaced Dick.
“Not unless we overpower the old man.”
Dick too arose, glancing back at the cabin.
“I’d like to think it over before we attempt it. Possibly some plan may
occur to us tomorrow. At present we’d better go back to the road-house
before Frischette becomes suspicious. I wouldn’t be in the least
surprised if he attempts to relieve me of that roll tonight.”
“I can agree with you there,” said Sandy. “Did you notice his eyes when
you pulled it from your pocket?”
“Yes.” Dick smiled at the memory.
They started back along the trail, for a time walking in silence.
Presently, however, Sandy turned toward Dick, his face thoughtful.
“Supposing,” he inquired, “that Frischette really does attempt the
robbery tonight. What will we do? Let him have the money? Or do you want
to catch him in the act?”
“We’ll let him have it.”
“But there’s nearly sixty dollars of our money. I’m not so rich that—”
“We’ll get it back somehow, Sandy,” Dick interrupted. “The police will
see to that. I’ve marked the bills so that we can identify them.”
“Good!”
“We’d better remain awake, all of us,” continued Dick. “I’ll take the
lower bunk in the corner near the door. You can sleep in the upper one.
Toma can occupy the lower bunk next to mine. Just before we retire,
while Frischette is still in the room, I’ll remove my coat and throw it
over the back of a chair.”
“We’ll all keep perfectly still,” said Sandy, “when he enters the room.
Remember, Toma, that you are not to make any effort to stop him.”
The young Indian nodded:
“Yes, I understand. Me do nothing.”
Later, when they had retired for the night, they were in an excited
frame of mind. Had they been ever so tired, it is doubtful whether they
would have been able to relax for sleep. Dick lay, facing the doorway,
so that he could command a view of the entire room. Frischette’s
sleeping apartment, almost directly opposite, opened on to the large
bunk-hall they occupied. If the Frenchman planned to take the roll, it
would be necessary for him to pass through the doorway, directly across
from Dick, and steal stealthily along the row of bunks to the chair,
over which Dick had carelessly flung his coat.
The bunk-hall was shrouded in a partial darkness. Outside the night was
clear, and a half-moon rode through a sky sprinkled with stars. To the
ears of the boys, as they lay quietly awaiting the Frenchman’s coming,
there floated through the open windows the droning sounds of the forest.
An owl hooted from some leafy canopy. The weird, mournful cries of a
night-bird, skimming along the tree tops, could be heard distinctly. The
curtain, draping the window on the west side of the room, fluttered
softly as it caught the rippling, nocturnal breeze.
As time passed, Dick became conscious of an increasing nervous tension
and restlessness. He found it difficult to lay still. He turned from
side to side. The strain upon his eyes from watching the door so
continuously had caused a blur to appear before them, and only with
difficulty could he make out the various objects in the room. Time and
time again, he imagined he could hear a slight sound coming from
Frischette’s apartment. Yet, as he lay there and the door did not open,
he realized that he must have been mistaken.
At length he decided that the road-house keeper would make no effort to
come that night. Reasoning thus, he lay very still, his eyes closed,
drowsiness stealing over him. Through his mind there flashed confused
pictures of the day’s happenings. In imagination, he was threading a
woodland path, following the fleeing form of a man, who clutched to him
a mysterious wooden box. Again he saw the angry, distorted face of
Frischette, who was standing there, one arm raised threateningly above
the stooped form and uncovered head of Creel—the queer old recluse.
Tossing restlessly, his eyes came back to the door, and suddenly his
nerves grew taut. The door, he perceived, was now slightly ajar. It was
opening slowly. A few inches at a time it swung back, and at length a
muffled form stood framed in the doorway, then moved noiselessly nearer.
Unerringly, it padded across the floor, straight towards Dick’s bunk. It
paused near the chair, scarcely four feet from where Dick lay.
With difficulty, Dick suppressed a cry. The skulking, shadowy form was
not that of Frischette—but Creel! Creel, a horrible, repellent figure in
the half-darkness. Long, straggling locks of hair fell over his eyes,
while the heavy beard formed a mask for his repulsive face. Dick could
almost imagine that he could see Creel’s deep-set eyes shining from
their sockets. They were like those of a cat.
Previously it had been agreed between the three boys that in the event
of Frischette entering the room and attempting to steal the money, no
effort would be made to prevent him. Now Creel, and not Frischette, was
about to commit the crime. For some unknown reason Dick felt that he
could not lay there inactive. Resentment and anger suddenly burned
within him. As Creel cautiously lifted up his coat, Dick found himself
sitting bolt upright, and, to his amazement, heard himself shout out:
“Drop that coat if you don’t wish to get in trouble. Drop it, I say!”
Creel started so quickly, dropped the coat so suddenly, that the chair
overturned and crashed to the floor. There came the sound of moccasined
feet pattering away! Dick had sprung from his bunk, as had also Sandy
and Toma. For a time confusion and excitement reigned. Frischette
appeared in the doorway, and upon his heels came Fontaine and Le Sueur,
rubbing their eyes.
“What ees ze matter?” Frischette inquired in a frightened voice. “What
has happen?”
“Someone came in here a moment ago,” cried Dick angrily, “and tried to
steal my money. I tell you, Frischette, the thief is in this house!”