THE MYSTERIOUS POKE
Dick and Sandy waited breathlessly. Thus far, no sound had come to them.
The forest was pervaded by a silence so deep and oppressive that the two
boys, waiting for Toma’s mysterious call, could hear the thumping of
their own hearts. They had crept forward through the dense thicket to a
point where, though still concealed themselves, they could see the cabin
plainly. In the sombre northern twilight its every detail stood clearly
revealed—the low, grass-grown sod roof, the tiny window and the crude,
rough door.
The boys found it difficult to restrain their gathering impatience. What
was Toma doing? Chafing over the delay, they crouched low, their gaze
sweeping the tiny clearing ahead. On Dick’s forehead beads of
perspiration gathered slowly, while the palms of his hands were moist
and warm.
“Can’t imagine what’s happened to him,” Sandy croaked in Dick’s ear.
“What’s he waiting for? What’s got into him, anyway? First thing we
know, Frischette’ll be here—and it’ll be too late.”
Dick did not reply. Just then he thought he had heard a slight sound in
the brush, directly in front of the house. Excitedly, he reached forward
and seized Sandy’s right arm.
“Ssh!” he whispered. “Keep still. Just look over there.”
Following his friend’s instructions, Sandy looked and immediately his
mouth gaped open, and he emitted a startled gasp.
Two men plunged out into the open—rough, desperate, evil-looking men,
who made their way stealthily forward. Each carried a knife and revolver
at his belt. One was tall and sinewy, the other short and thin. The tall
man proceeded ahead with long awkward strides, while the little man at
his side pranced along, like a small boy attempting to keep pace with
his elder.
Of the two, the face of the smaller man was, if such a thing were
possible, more sinister, malevolent and wicked than that of the other.
His features were twisted in an expression that was both horrible and
repellent. It was as if he had been overcome by some violent emotion:
rage that hungered for revenge, or cruelty inflamed by avarice. In all
their experience, the boys had never encountered a more terrifying pair.
The very sight of them caused Dick and Sandy to shiver and draw back in
a sudden panic.
“Ho-hope they don’t come this way,” shuddered Sandy.
“Toma saw them before we did,” whispered Dick. “That’s why he didn’t
attempt that call. Who do you suppose they are?”
In terror, Sandy shook his head.
“Keep down,” he trembled, “or they may see us.”
Dick grew suddenly tense. The two men had reached the door of the cabin,
and for a brief moment stood undecided. Then the tall man raised a
gnarled hand and struck the door so violently and unexpectedly that
Sandy and Dick both jumped back, as if they, instead of the rough pine
barrier, had received the full impact of that mighty blow.
The echo had scarcely subsided, when the tall man struck again.
“Open up! Open up!” he thundered. “Creel, open up this yere door.”
The door swung back on its rusty hinges, and then the boys saw Creel
framed in the aperture. But it was a different Creel than the man they
had seen previously. He looked much older. The stoop to his shoulders
was more noticeable. A pathetic figure now, a terror-struck human
derelict. At the very best he could offer but feeble resistance to these
two terrible fellows, who had come storming and raging upon him.
“Guess yuh know what we’ve come fer, Creel,” the little man snarled.
“Yuh can guess, can’t yuh? Quick now, an’ bring it out. We’re in a
hurry, I tell yuh. Quick!”
Creel made the fatal mistake of pretending he did not know what the
other was talking about. He raised a trembling hand.
“If you’ll explain a little more clearly, gentlemen, what you want
I’ll—”
The sentence was not completed. The tall man reached out with one arm
and caught Creel about the neck. Scarcely seeming to exert himself, he
lifted him completely off his feet, holding him dangling—head pressed
back against the frame of the door. For a brief moment the body of the
recluse remained pinioned there, then was suddenly released and fell
with a muffled thud across the threshold.
Dick and Sandy, who had been silent witnesses of the drama unrolling
before their eyes, caught their breath in anger. Much as they despised
and feared Creel, the unwarranted brutality of the tall man caused them
to experience a feeling of sympathy for the helpless old recluse. Dick’s
hand flashed to the revolver at his belt, and he had half-started to his
feet, when Sandy drew him back.
“Don’t be foolish, Dick,” he trembled. “Keep out of this. We can
accomplish more by remaining right here where we are. Look!”
Creel had stumbled dazedly to his feet, gripping the door for support.
“Now,” declared the little man grimly, “I guess yuh understand. Bring it
out.”
Creel staggered inside and appeared, a short time later, carrying the
box. Both men made a grab for it, but the smaller was the quicker of the
two. He flung open the lid of the small treasure-chest and both he and
his companion pawed through it excitedly, their faces distorted with
greed.
Dick and Sandy, who were watching events with wide-open eyes, were
wholly unprepared for the next step in the little drama. In a sudden
fury of disappointment, the little man raised the box and sent it
crashing to the floor. His expression was awful to behold, his eyes like
two bright coals of fire. Nor did his companion contain himself much
better. With an oath, he spurned the box at his feet, sending it flying
within the room. His cheeks were livid.
“It ain’t here, Emery!” he almost screamed. “It ain’t here! That squaw
lied to us. We’re done for. MacGregor got it after all!”
But the other was not so easily discouraged.
“It is here!” he fairly howled in his rage.
With a lightning motion, he turned upon Creel, advancing with
outstretched hands—hands that looked like the talons of some huge bird;
hands that worked convulsively as they floated toward Creel’s throat.
Before the little man’s advance, the old recluse tottered back, throwing
up his arms in a defensive gesture.
“I’ll give yuh jus’ two minutes tuh bring out that poke,” the words came
screaming at him. “Yuh got it. I know yuh got it. If yuh don’t want to
make food fer the crows, yuh better trot it out.”
“Gentlemen—” began Creel, his voice deathly calm.
The little man’s right hand flashed out and for the second time Creel
measured his length across the threshold. This time, however, he did not
rise. In falling, his head had struck the sharp edge of the doorway,
rendering him unconscious. Without even as much as a glance at him, the
two men stepped over his prostrate body and disappeared into the room.
For a space of nearly five minutes they remained inside, while Dick and
Sandy sat in a sort of stupor and blankly regarded each other.
Then abruptly, Creel’s assailants re-appeared and from their expression
and behavior, the boys realized instantly that the search had been
successful. The big man guffawed loudly as he pushed Creel’s body to one
side with his foot and stepped out into the pale light of that Arctic
summer night.
“We got it,” gloated the little man. “That was a stroke o’ luck,
pardner. The squaw was right. We got it!”
As he spoke, he drew from his pocket a small object and fondled it in
his hands. Again the loud guffaw rang out, penetrating the silence.
Chattering and exulting, the pair made their way through the lush grass
that overran the clearing. Then, suddenly, they stopped. At the edge of
the clearing there had sprung up a frail but defiant figure.
“Stop!” cried a voice. “Put ’em hands up or I shoot you quick.”
Creel’s assailants, looking straight at the muzzle of Toma’s revolver,
had no other alternative. Their hands went high. Dick thought the pair
looked very foolish standing there. And he could hear very plainly their
astonished, burning oaths. He and Sandy leaped to their feet and hurried
to Toma’s assistance. They came up from behind and, with a nod to their
chum, quickly disarmed the murderous pair. But though they searched
everywhere, they could not find the poke. Dick paused in consternation.
“Big fellow got it in his hand,” said Toma.
“Give it to me,” Dick turned upon the outlaw.
The big man’s eyes gleamed with hatred, but with Toma’s revolver
threatening him, he was forced to obey.
“Take it,” he growled out an oath. “But I bet yuh don’t keep it long,
stranger. Yuh won’t never get away with it. Jus’ mark my words.”
Dick stepped back, laughing.
“That remains to be seen,” he answered the outlaw. “You fellows can go
now. If you know what’s good for you, you’ll leave this neighborhood as
quickly as you can. I have the description of both of you and will
notify the mounted police of this night’s affair.”
The partners struck off through the underbrush, calling out their
taunts. It was not long before silence came again. The three boys stood
in a little circle, looking at each other. Now that the tension had
relaxed, they were all more or less bewildered. Dick still had the small
poke in his hand, and as yet had scarcely deigned to give it a second
glance. Suddenly, Sandy’s voice rang out:
“Well, if you ask me, this is a peculiar night’s business. I’m almost
stunned. We’re indebted to Toma for the way everything has turned out.
Let’s see what’s in that poke, Dick. Why don’t you open it?”
Dick looked down at the small object in his hand. He turned it over and
over thoughtfully.
“No,” he said, “you can open it, Sandy. I’m too shaky.”
With the poke held firmly between two fingers, he reached out to hand it
to his chum. But in that moment a strange thing happened. A crackling of
brush, a lightning leap forward, a snarl like that of a beast—and the
thing was whisked from his fingers as it dangled there in the air. Then
a figure darted past them and disappeared in the darkness of the forest
beyond.
The three chums gaped at each other.
“Who was that?” gasped Dick.
Toma was the first to speak.
“I see ’em,” he spoke dolefully. “It was Frischette.”