ON CREEL’S TRAIL
The search for Creel had taken the boys southward. They were not sure
that he had gone that way; it merely seemed the most likely direction.
He had taken the contents of his money-box and had decamped, leaving no
trail. Just before starting, they had found the empty chest in the room
which he had occupied.
Being a fugitive from justice, and with a considerable amount of money
in his possession, the natural deduction was that he was making his way
out to Edmonton. His chance of escaping was good. He had at least six
hours’ start. He was not known to be a criminal. Almost anywhere he
would have passed unchallenged. As yet, the police had had no
opportunity to telegraph ahead in an effort to secure his apprehension.
The boys had discussed his probable route, deciding that he would go by
way of Peace River Crossing. Boats of the Hudson’s Bay Company plied up
and down the river during the spring and summer months, and it was only
reasonable to suppose that he would secure passage on one of these,
ascend the river to Peace River Crossing, where he could purchase a
ticket to go by rail to Edmonton.
All this, of course, was mere conjecture. They had no real assurance
that it was the route that the old recluse would take. For all they
knew, he might still be in hiding somewhere in the vicinity of the
road-house. The only way to determine whether or not he was on his way
south, was to set out along the trail, making inquiries wherever
possible.
Dwellings were few and far between. Sixteen miles due south of
Frischette’s, they arrived at Meade’s Ferry, where there was a
road-house and small trading-post, conducted by Hampton Meade, a kindly
veteran of the North. Here Fortune befriended them. They learned that
their assumption had been correct. Creel had spent the night there.
“And he left early this morning,” Meade’s son, a handsome young man of
about Dick’s own age, informed them. “Queer old beggar, isn’t he?”
Dick nodded.
“Did he leave here on foot?”
“Yes.”
Dick considered for a moment thoughtfully.
“Would it be possible to obtain a horse or two? Are there any here? We
had our own ponies when we arrived at Frischette’s stopping-place. We
turned them out to graze and they have disappeared. If you have any, I
will pay you handsomely.”
“There are two ponies,” answered the young man,“—one of them mine, the
other, father’s. You may have the use of them.”
The boys were overjoyed at this unexpected stroke of luck. It would be
necessary, of course, for one of them to remain at Meade’s, while the
other two went on after Creel. They drew straws. It fell to Sandy’s lot
to wait at the road-house until his two chums returned.
“I don’t expect we’ll be away very long,” declared Dick a short time
later, as he and Toma mounted the two borrowed steeds. “We ought to be
back before night.”
Creel had a few hours start of them, but he was walking. With light
hearts, feeling confident of success, the boys cantered away. Soon the
miles wound away behind them. They pressed their ponies forward, urging
them to their greatest speed. Time passed quickly. They had now begun to
scan the trail ahead, in the expectation of seeing the queer, shambling
figure of the old recluse. They galloped past a party of Indians, then
two prospectors, trudging along, weighted down by heavy shoulder-packs,
and finally drew up at a wayside cabin, inhabited by a half-breed
trapper. Dick questioned him:
“Did an old man stop here not so very long ago? Walked with a stoop,
face covered with a heavy beard, hair straggling in his eyes. Did you
see him?”
“_Oui_, m’sieur. I see him two, three hour ago. Him ver’ fine fellow.
Plenty money. I have nice horse. He buy et.”
Dick had not expected this. The news had come as a shock. He blinked.
“Rotten luck!” he exclaimed irritably.
“What you say, m’sieur?”
Dick did not answer. He was making a rough calculation. They had already
come fifteen or sixteen miles at top speed. No longer were their ponies
fresh. Creel had the advantage. It would be absolutely impossible to
overtake him now. Apparently, Toma held the same opinion.
“No use go on now,” he declared grimly.
Dick turned to the half-breed.
“You haven’t any more fresh horses?”
The half-breed looked surprised.
“Know where we can get any?” Dick persisted.
“Not many ponies ’round here,” explained the trapper. “Why you no like
those pony there?”
“Tired out,” answered Dick. “And we want to go fast.”
He relaxed in the saddle, and just then an idea came to him.
“How far is it from here to Fort Wonderly?”
“’Bout twelve mile.”
Dick thanked the half-breed, motioned to Toma, and they set off again.
“Well,” announced Dick, “we’re going over to the fort.”
“Why you go there?” Toma stared blankly. “Fort Wonderly off trail. Creel
him no go that way. I no understand why you do that.”
“I’ll tell you, Toma,” Dick spoke despondently. “We haven’t a chance now
to overtake Creel. But at Fort Wonderly there’s a government telegraph
office, and I’ll give a message to the operator, warning everybody along
the route. There is another detachment of the mounted police at Peace
River Crossing, and they’ll send out a man to intercept him.”
So it was late that night when Dick and Toma returned to Meade’s Ferry
and reported the outcome of their journey.
“It’s too bad,” Sandy commented, “I was sure that when you got back
you’d have Creel with you. But you showed a lot of good sense when you
sent that message. If Creel manages to slip through the police lines
farther south, he’ll be a wizard.”
“I’ve been thinking about Creel all day,” said Dick. “I’ve been blaming
myself continually for my negligence. We should never have permitted him
to escape. I’m positive now that your theory is correct, and that he’s
going south, not only with the money that was in that box, but the
contents of Dewberry’s poke as well. I really believe that if we had our
hands upon him now, and searched him, we’d find everything.”
“No doubt, you’re right. Well, I suppose there’s only one thing to do
now: Return to Frischette’s road-house. Corporal Rand must be back by
now. He’ll know what to do next.”
The two boys were joined later by Toma, Meade and his son. The
free-trader, a tall, imposing figure, complacently smoked a pipe and now
and again engaged the boys in conversation.
“I understand that you’ve come from Fort Good Faith,” he said.
“Well, not exactly,” Dick replied. “We live there. Factor MacClaren is
Sandy’s uncle; but for the last few days we’ve been stopping at
Frischette’s roadhouse.”
Meade’s clear blue eyes shadowed.
“Friend of his?”
“Not exactly,” answered Dick evasively.
“Queer character,” commented Meade.
“He’s dead,” said Sandy.
“Dead!” The free-trader straightened in his chair, removed the pipe from
his mouth and stared. “What happened to _him_?”
“Took his own life.”
Meade received this information with a slight raising of his eyebrows.
“Queer! That road-house will soon have an evil name. First Dewberry and
now Frischette.”
For a time conversation languished. Everyone seemed to be occupied with
his own thoughts.
“I was interested in the Dewberry case,” Meade finally broke the
silence. “You see, I knew him; knew him better probably than most folks.
Sort of unusual fellow, Dewberry was. One of the quietest, queerest men
I have ever met.”
Dick locked across at Meade sharply.
“Not very many people really knew Dewberry,” he stated.
“I knew him,” said Meade, “and I was sorry to hear of his death.”
“Where do you suppose Dewberry was going?” Sandy spoke up. “I mean just
before the tragedy. No one seems to know.”
Meade smiled. “There’s no secret there. Dewberry often passed along the
trail, and sometimes remained here for several days at a time. He was a
queer duffer. But once you got to know him, his eccentricities passed
unnoticed. Not many folks knew it, but Dewberry’s time was divided
between this country and Peace River Crossing. Usually, about six months
of the year, he lived at the Crossing. He owns property there. Has a
little house, overlooking the Hart River, and for weeks at a time he’d
shut himself up in it. A lot of folks couldn’t understand why he chose
to do that. Neither could I, until one time, when I happened to be in
Peace River Crossing, I met him on the street.”
For a time Meade lapsed into silence, gazing reminiscently away in the
direction of the river.
“He invited me up to the house,” he continued. “Tidy little place, I
found it. Nicely furnished. Piano, violin, books. Books!—there were rows
upon rows of books. Special bindings, shelf upon shelf, I tell you, and
strange old volumes, musty with age. He loved them. That’s where he
spent most of his time. Read from morning ’til night, and when he wasn’t
reading, he was fiddling away on the violin or thumping on that piano. I
stayed there two days, and I want to tell you that I’ve never enjoyed
anything more. His company. His talk about the books. The music he made
on that piano.”
“Too bad he’s gone,” said Sandy.
The free-trader nodded.
“He was reputed to be very wealthy,” said Dick.
“I guess that is true,” Meade answered thoughtfully. “You see, he was
one of the best prospectors that ever came into the North. There are
some folks who say that his luck was phenomenal. At any rate, he had no
occasion to worry. In recent years, it was more for the love and
excitement he got out of the game than the necessity of making more
money that induced him to take those long, lonely treks out there in the
foothills.”
“After what you have told us about him,” puzzled Sandy, “there is one
thing rather difficult to understand. Why did a person of his
intelligence carry so much wealth about his person.”
“I don’t think he did,” declared Meade.
“If that is so,” persisted Sandy, “why did they follow him and plan the
robbery and murder at Frischette’s?”
“Well, there is no doubt that he had a considerable amount of money and
gold with him, but no more, probably, than the average prospector. I am
positive that he didn’t carry his entire wealth with him. ‘Rat’
MacGregor, or whoever it was that committed the robbery, merely
suspected that such was the case.”
Sandy abandoned the issue. Yet neither he nor Dick was convinced. There
was that tell-tale poke.
As they sat there, watching the shadows steal out from the darkening
woodland beyond, they were presently made aware of a newcomer.
An Indian pony, a pinto mare, left the turn of the trail near the fringe
of trees, bordering the river, and came slowly forward. A woman sat
astride the pony—a young woman, unmistakably an Indian or half-breed.
Meade rose as she reined up in front of the cabin and slowly dismounted.
The boys were not particularly interested. They had never seen the woman
before.
“Who is that?” Sandy inquired listlessly.
Both boys started at the unexpected answer.
“Heaven help me,” growled Meade, “if it isn’t ‘Rat’ MacGregor’s wife!”