A DESERTED ROAD-HOUSE
Frischette’s road-house was quiet. A casual passer-by, threading his way
along the shadowy forest trail, a trail arched by the branches of tall
poplar trees, might have thought that the place was deserted. There was
no sign of life anywhere, although a door and several windows stood
partially open. A young Indian, who approached the familiar landmark,
was struck by an overwhelming feeling of presentiment.
The morning was well advanced and yet there was no evidence of life
here. No smoke issued from the tall mud-chimney, which rose like a bleak
sentinel at one side of the building. Sitting on the projecting end of
the center ridge-pole, a hawk basked in the sun. Intense quiet reigned,
a funereal silence, that was broken only by the faint rustling of the
leaves and the nervous stirring of the tall grass, which encroached up
to the door of the cabin itself.
Toma rubbed one hand across his brow wearily. For four hours he had
walked steadily with this place as his objective, and in the hope of
finding his friend, the mounted police corporal. He knew that Rand ought
to be here. That had been their agreement, the understanding between the
policeman and the three boys.
When he had approached to within thirty or forty yards of the house,
Toma’s spirits fell. He was sure now that the road-house was untenanted.
No occupied dwelling, he reasoned, could be wrapped so deeply in that
tragic, sombre silence. The door stood invitingly open, yet Toma knew
before entering that no person recently had left it thus. He paused on
the threshold, staring into the room. It seemed to mock him. Except for
the few bare furnishings, it was entirely empty. With a quaking heart
and a trembling step, he passed through the main front room to the
kitchen at the back.
No one was about. In the kitchen there had been stacked up, on a long
work-table opposite the stove, a pile of dirty, unwashed dishes. He
glanced at them casually, then passed on out of the back door and made
his way over to the stable. Like the cabin, the stable was unoccupied.
Disconsolately, Toma walked over and, climbing up, sat down on the top
rail of the six-foot-high corral fence.
He didn’t know what to make of it all. The absence of Corporal Rand
might, of course, be accounted for. But what about Fontaine and Le
Sueur, his two friends? Since the death of Frischette, these two last
named young men had taken over the management of the road-house. They
had entered upon their duties with a good deal of enthusiasm, and it
seemed unusual that they should both be away now, neglecting their
business.
It was true, of course, that summer visitors were few. The bulk of
Frischette’s trade had come during the early fall and winter and just
before the spring break-up. However, even if there were no guests at the
road-house, there was always the chance that one might come—an
occasional straggler—and it was not reasonable to suppose that both
Fontaine and Le Sueur would leave the place for any length of time.
Yet, that was exactly what they had done. They were neglecting their
business. Toma scowled at the ground, and one moccasined foot beat an
impatient tattoo along the surface of the rail beneath him. He decided
after a time that, low on supplies, they had gone over to Fort Good
Faith to replenish their larder. But the absence of Rand was not so
easily explained, unless he was out searching for Burnnel and Emery.
Shaking his head, Toma hopped down off the corral fence and strode back
in the direction of the house. This time he had a purpose in mind. He
would enter the kitchen and prepare himself a belated breakfast. He had
not eaten since early the night before and was tremendously hungry. He
entered the kitchen, kindled a fire in the large iron cook stove and
methodically set about his task.
In the middle of his preparations he paused, pricking up his ears. Had
he heard something—a slight scraping sound? He stood perfectly still,
listening patiently. Then, as the sound was not repeated, he decided
that he had been mistaken. He returned to his task, and in a short time
breakfast was ready. He set a place for himself on the table in the
adjoining room, and was returning to the kitchen for his rasher of bacon
and pot of coffee, when he heard the sound again.
This time there was no doubt in his mind. He had heard aright. The sound
issued from the room which had formerly been used by Frischette for his
office and private sleeping apartment. It was the only room in the house
that he had not explored. He bounded quickly forward, seizing the knob
of the door. He bent his weight against it.
He stood back, scratching his head in perplexity. It was locked.
Something or someone was inside there. He called out softly. But,
although he imagined he heard the faint, scraping sound again, no voice
answered him.
Toma was not long in deciding upon his course of action. He hurried into
the kitchen, passed through the door at the back, picked up a small log,
about four feet in length and six inches in diameter and, returning with
it, he applied himself to the door.
At the first blow from his heavy battering-ram, the lock gave way. A
splintering and cracking of wood, and the door swung back. Looking
inside, Toma dropped his battering-ram.
Closest to the door, lay Rand, gagged, bound hand and foot. A few feet
farther on, sprawled the youthful figures of his two friends, Fontaine
and Le Sueur.
Following a little gasp of amazement, Toma strode into the room.