THE FIRST ENCOUNTER.
The first night on their return trip to Half Way House the boys camped
twenty miles south of the lake. Here they received their first set-back.
In the morning they awoke to find their canoe was gone. Rage in their
hearts, they gathered in a little group and stared at the place where it
had been. They guessed immediately what had happened. After the first
shock, Dick scowled and looked at his two chums.
“Well, we know where we stand now,” he declared grimly.
“Three against two,” blurted Sandy. “They can’t stop us.”
Dick mopped his moist forehead and dug the tip of one moccasin into the
loose sand.
“That may be true. We have the advantage in numbers. But I’d also like
to point out to you that even though that is so the odds are in their
favor, nevertheless. We never know when to look for them. They’ll strike
when we least expect it and always from under cover. They’ve already won
the first round. Poling up the river in a raft is a tedious and
disheartening undertaking. It will take us three times as long to reach
our destination. I don’t know as I’m in favor of going on in that way.”
“Why not?”
“Too much danger.”
“Not any more danger than there was in the canoe,” objected Sandy.
“Probably not. But until this moment we haven’t been sure in our own
minds that Wolf Brennan and Toby McCallum have taken the offensive. Now
we know. There’s absolutely no question about it. They’ve struck once
and they’ll strike again too. The next time it may be a stray shot that
will get one of us.”
“What do you mean by a stray shot?” demanded Sandy.
“If one of us gets killed it might as well be a stray shot, mightn’t it?
I mean, it will be a difficult thing to prove that we were deliberately
fired on and that those two miscreants did the firing.”
“You propose then to walk back?”
“Yes, I think it will be safer.”
“But they can shoot us just as well while we are going through the woods
as they can if we were aboard a raft.”
“I don’t agree with you there. There’s no better mark that I can think
of then three standing figures on a raft, no obstructions of any kind to
check the progress of a bullet, the best sort of cover along the shore
in which they can hide.”
“Well, I don’t mind walking,” said Sandy. “But what about our luggage
here? We can’t carry all of that. I’m mighty glad now we left those
tools back there at the island of the dinosaur.”
“I’d suggest that we make a cache, right here, of what we can not carry.
If we are to travel swiftly, we ought not to pack more than fifty pounds
each. Isn’t that right, Toma?”
The Indian nodded. “Not more than fifty pounds. That way we travel
quick. Think much better like you say not to pole up river in raft. Next
time Wolf Brennan him not be so easy on us.”
Sandy suddenly clapped his hands. His face brightened and he laughed
gleefully.
“Cracky! I’ve just had an inspiration. We’ll beat them at their own
game. We won’t set our course along the river. We’ll go a more
roundabout way and put them off our trail entirely.”
“But how?” questioned Dick, greatly interested.
“I just happened to remember,” explained Sandy, “that sixty miles
southwest of here is the Clear Spring River. It’s a large stream, fairly
navigable. On this river, near what is called the Great Heart Portage,
is an old trading post, now deserted, once the headquarters for an
independent fur company. If I remember correctly, Uncle Walter said that
this independent company has been out of business for something like
eight years. But their stores and warehouses are still there. These have
been made over into dwelling houses and are occupied by half-breeds and
Indians during the winter months. If we proceed in a straight line
toward this old trading post, we ought to reach it in two days. When we
arrive there, the chances are, we may find Indians in the vicinity and
may be able to purchase another canoe. If we do, we’ll proceed up the
Clear Spring River to Halstead’s Island, which will bring us about
fifteen miles west of Half Way House.” Sandy paused and regarded Dick
and Toma questioningly. “What do you think of that for a plan?”
“Good,” declared Toma.
“I like it very much,” smiled Dick. “It ought to throw Brennan and
McCallum completely off our trail. They’ll be waiting for us somewhere a
short distance up the river and, when we fail to put in an appearance
either by raft or on foot, they won’t know what has become of us. I
doubt if they’ll ever tumble to the fact that we’ve gone over to the
Clear Spring River. When they do come back here to investigate and
stumble upon our trail, we’ll be so far away they won’t be able to
overtake us.”
While Dick had been talking, Toma paced restlessly back and forth near
the campfire. For some unexplainable reason, he felt uneasy. For several
minutes now, he had been watching closely a thicket of elders as a cat
might watch a mouse. On two different occasions the leaves and branches
of the elders had stirred gently. A light breeze flowed down along the
river valley, yet it was so vagrant and listless that it scarcely could
be felt fanning one’s cheek. Yet he had distinctly seen the elders
moving. His quick eye had noted this and his first thought had been that
possibly a squirrel was playing there. Catching up his rifle, he strode
straight over to the clustered thicket and parted the branches. As he
peered within, for one fleeting moment he was under the impression that
he had caught sight of something brown. Then he heard a stealthy
movement, followed, by the unmistakable crackling of dry branches.
Pushing his way within the thicket, he paused to listen. He could hear
no further sound. Yet something told him that that fleeting glimpse of
something brown had not been of an animal but of a man—Wolf Brennan or
McCallum!
He took a few steps forward, critically examining the ground. A barely
audible sound escaped his lips. He stooped quickly over the faint
imprint of a moccasined foot. Satisfied, his suspicions confirmed, he
dashed on through the thicket, emerging at its farther side, just as two
figures topped a low hill not thirty feet ahead. Toma raised his rifle
to his shoulder in a lightning motion, then came a blinding explosion
and the two men ducked their heads as a bullet whistled between them.
The skulkers did not hesitate for even a fraction of a second. They
dashed down the hill toward the thicker growth just below. Just as they
entered this welcome barrier, a second bullet clipped the leaves above
their heads.
In the wild scramble that followed, Wolf Brennan lost his hat. Cursing,
he started back for it when still another lead pellet whizzed past, so
close to his face that he thought better of it, turned and plunged on
after his companion.
Soon afterward, Toma strode back into camp as calmly as if nothing
happened. His expression was reserved and dignified. Except for a faint
sparkle in his eyes, one could never have guessed that only a short time
before he had been so busy.
“What were you shooting at?” Dick and Sandy demanded.
The young Indian smiled faintly.
“A wolf,” he answered.
“Where did you see it? Pshaw, you’re joking,” accused Sandy. “A wolf!
One seldom sees a wolf during the summer.”
“I see ’em wolf,” declared Toma, “an’ I shoot at him one, two, three
times.”
“Yes, we heard you,” said Dick. “Hit him?”
“I not try very hard. I have lots fun scare that wolf. Wolf no good to
eat unless one pretty near starve. Why for I kill him?”
“I’d kill a wolf any time I had a chance,” declared Dick. “I hate them.”
Sandy started to say something, then suddenly paused. Of a sudden his
eyes had grown very round and he stared at Toma as if fascinated. He was
looking straight at the young Indian’s hip pocket. From it a bulky
object protruded. The object was brown and it was a little difficult to
tell just what it was, nevertheless, Sandy had his suspicions. He strode
forward quickly and yanked it from his chum’s pocket. He smoothed it and
held it out for better inspection.
“Where did you get it?” he demanded.
At the sharp question, Dick turned and he, too, stood goggling.
“I no tell you a lie,” Toma explained. “That fellow him wolf all
right—Wolf Brennan.”
Dick turned pale. “Did you kill him?” he cried in horror. “Tell the
truth, Toma, you didn’t hit him, surely? You wouldn’t do that.”
“I just tell you I like make ’em run. Wolf Brennan, Toby McCallum do
very fast run back there in the trees,” Toma pointed away in the
direction he had just come. “Mebbe next time them fellows think twice
before they try spy on our camp.”
For a brief interval, Dick and Sandy grinned over the mental picture of
those two racing figures, but their mirth was short-lived. The same
thought came to each at the same time.
“I’ll bet they heard what we were talking about,” gasped Sandy.
“Sure they did,” said Dick.
“In that case, no use going to Clear Spring River. Might as well go on
the way we planned in the first place”—dolefully.
“Might as well.”
Toma, who had been gazing up and down along the shore, suddenly broke
forth:
“What you think them fellows do with our canoe?”
“Set it adrift, of course,” grunted Sandy. “It’s probably miles away by
this time. Might even have reached the Lake of Many Islands.”
Toma rubbed his forehead with a grimy hand.
“Mebbe not. Mebbe current take it close in to shore an’ that canoe not
very far away this minute.”
“Possible, I’ll admit,” agreed Dick, “but not very probable. More likely
they took it out here in mid-stream and sunk it.”
“If you fellow stay here,” suggested Toma, “I very willing to walk back
to see if mebbe I find it.”
“No,” said Dick, “I wouldn’t want you to do that. I mean it isn’t fair
that you should take all the risks and do all the work, Toma. Let’s toss
a coin to see who goes.”
It was agreed. They tossed the coin and Dick lost. A few minutes later,
carrying his rifle and a few emergency rations, he waved good-bye to his
two chums and started out.