FRAZER’S RUSE.
Dick ran to the door and opened it. In the hallway outside was the young
half-breed boy, whom Mr. Scott employed in various capacities.
“Yes, yes, Meschel, what is it?”
The boy’s eyes were round and staring.
“Mr. Scott here?” he cried. “Tell Mr. Scott to come quick. Fellow
downstairs very drunk, try to break in through the window.”
“Who was he?” demanded the factor, who now stood immediately behind
Dick. “But never mind, Meschel, I’ll be right down.”
He followed the half-breed below. Dick and Sandy joined him.
“Mr. Scott,” said Dick, “I think Meschel must be dreaming. Who would
break in at this time of day? They don’t need to. All they have to do is
to walk in through the front door.”
“So it would seem,” smiled the factor, “but after the many surprises
we’ve received in the last few days, I’m prepared for anything. What
window did they try to break in, Meschel?”
“Window at the back where you have your office,” the half-breed replied
promptly. “Two women come in an’ buy some cloth an’ right after I hear
some noise that seem like it come from your office. Just as soon as I
open the door, a man standing in front of the window outside, put down
the screen an’ run away. Screen lying on ground now. You see that for
yourself.”
It was just as Meschel had told them. Making their way into the little
office, the factor, Dick and Sandy stood looking at the evidence of the
marauder’s recent visit.
The factor turned to Meschel. “You must have seen who it was.”
“Not sure because I was very much scare.”
“Come now, Meschel, you know better than that. If he stood just in front
of the window facing you, you could easily identify him. You’ve already
told me that he was drunk. If you had that much eye for detail, surely
you can give me a description of him.”
The half-breed blinked and a slow flush of embarrassment mounted his
swarthy face.
“Yes, Mr. Scott, I know who it was. But I’m ’fraid tell you because you
go make that fellow trouble an’ afterward sometime he come kill me.”
A slight frown of perplexity appeared upon the factor’s thoughtful brow.
“What’s that, Meschel? You know who it is and won’t tell me? You’re
afraid of the consequences?”
“I tell you,” whimpered Meschel, “but I am very much ’fraid. Pierre
Mekewai—that’s the fellow I see.”
Mr. Scott swallowed heavily, commenced pacing back and forth. His face
was touched with pallor. He stopped before Dick and Sandy.
“Frazer’s work! Now what do you suppose he was up to?”
The disclosure acted upon Dick like a cold shower. He stood with lips
pressed, staring at the screen outside. Near him, Sandy clenched his
fists convulsively.
“Mr. Scott,” asked Dick at length, “have you any way to bar the windows?
It may be Frazer’s intention to burn down the post.”
“Not in broad daylight, surely. No, I think that more likely what they
were after were the company’s books. Another thing, as Frazer knows, we
often keep money in this room, valuable papers and accounts. It would be
a serious loss to this post if we should lose them. All the records
dealing with transactions with our fur customers are here. However, your
suggestion to bar the windows is a good one. I’ll send for the
blacksmith at once.”
“From now on,” said Dick, “we’d better keep close watch day and night.”
The factor nodded. “Two night watchmen armed with rifles. You and Sandy
can help me during the day.”
It was well that these precautions were taken. That same night, two
Indians, hired for the positions for night watchmen, repulsed three
efforts on the part of Frazer’s men to gain admittance. So persistent
were these attempts to enter the post, that Dick began to believe that
something even of more value than the company’s records were at stake.
At ten o’clock on the following morning, he and Mr. Scott were
discussing this phase of it, when a young half-breed bolted through the
open door of the trading room, shouting wildly.
“Fire, Meester Scott! The warehouse eet ees burn! Come queek!”
The factor tore around the end of the counter, his eyes blazing like two
lamps.
“My God!” he cried. “The fur! Thousands of dollars worth waiting for
shipment.” He raced to the door. “Come on!” he shouted.
The boys followed closely behind the racing form of the factor. They
could see the fire now. Dense volumes of smoke curled up from the eaves
of the building. As yet, no flame was discernible but the smoke was
thick. They had almost reached the burning building, when suddenly Dick
stopped. Through his mind there had flashed an appalling thought. The
trading post was unguarded. Everyone had rushed to the fire. Hadn’t the
warehouse been purposely set on fire with this end in view? For a
moment, he watched Sandy and the factor racing on, then turned quickly
and sprinted back to the trading room.
Purposely leaving the door open behind him, revolver in hand, he
concealed himself behind the counter and waited. Through the door and
open windows there came to him the frenzied shouts of the fire fighters.
Even in the trading room he could detect the rancid smell of smoke. He
wondered if he had been foolish in coming here when his assistance was
so urgently required back there at the warehouse. He crouched low, his
thought a conflicting whirl. Once he half started to his feet, deciding
that his suspicions were groundless and that he must hurry to the aid of
his comrades. But again he thought better of it and stooped still lower,
breathlessly waiting.
A step sounded outside. Whispering voices, then the stealthy movement of
feet across the floor. He gripped his revolver convulsively. He dare not
look up for fear that he might be discovered. He did not wish to
confront them yet. What were they here for? Why had they made those
repeated attempts to break in?
The door of the factor’s office opened and closed. He could hear muffled
voices in there, the faint shuffling of feet, the creaking of what
sounded like a drawer. Stealthy as a cat, he rose to an upright
position, tip-toed around the counter and, with desperate caution, made
his way over to the door of the factor’s office. His hand stole
tremblingly to the knob. Just before he closed over it, he heard a husky
voice.
“Quick! Someone may come back any moment. It’s here! You take one and
I’ll take the other.”
Steeling himself for the ordeal, Dick turned the knob and kicked the
door open. A wicked, pock-marked face, with wolfish fangs bared,
confronted him. Behind Henri Mekewai stood the figure of Donald Frazer.
“Make one move,” said Dick in a voice of deathly calm, “and I’ll blow
your brains out.”
The renegade Indian snarled like a cornered beast. Frazer’s first spasm
of fear was followed by a low cry of rage. His unsteady, sinister eyes
squinted into Dick’s, then with a lightning motion his hand flashed
toward his belt.
The room roared with the explosion. Frazer’s revolver clattered to the
floor. He held up a bleeding hand, like one scarcely crediting the
evidence of his senses.
“Next time,” Dick growled, “I won’t be so easy on you. Move back to the
wall, Mekewai, if you make another move like that, I’ll shoot you where
you stand. Stand back!”
Wincing with pain, the former factor hurriedly obeyed. The Indian
followed him. As they did so, Dick’s gaze flashed to the open roll-top
desk and on that instant his eyes popped.
There on the flat surface in front of him were two large leather
pokes—prospector’s pokes, bulging with gold. At sight of them, his heart
leaped. He was so startled and astonished at seeing them there, that for
a period he was off guard. Perceiving the momentary laxing of vigilance,
the Indian dove headlong, straight toward Dick, who, recovering his
presence of mind, tried to slip to one side and fire at the same time.
The revolver exploded harmlessly, the bullet crashing into the wall
opposite. Hurled back through the door, Dick landed in a heap just
inside the trading room, Mekewai on top of him. But even then, Dick had
not lost the instinct of self-preservation. His opponent’s head was just
above him and he struck out boldly with his clubbed weapon. Mekewai
groaned, went limp and slipped to one side. Dick scrambled to his knees
just in time to dive furiously for the speeding form of Frazer, who had
bounded through the open office door.
It was a glancing tackle, yet it was almost sufficient to knock Frazer
from the perpendicular. Crashing up against the wall, the fleeing man
inadvertently dropped one of the pokes and was trying to reach it when
Dick made a second lunge for him.
Almost cornered, Frazer leaped frantically straight over Dick’s head and
darted for the door. A bullet whistled after him, missing him by a scant
two inches.
Dick groped to his feet, stepped over the prostrate heap on the floor
and stumbled back into the little office, where he picked up Frazer’s
revolver. Then returning quickly, he got the poke Frazer had dropped,
slipped both revolver and gold under the counter in the trading room and
was just stooping down to examine the unconscious prisoner, when the
door of the loft opened and Toma, his face flushed with excitement,
staggered toward him.
“Dick,” he trembled, “What happen? You shoot this man—you——”
“Toma, get back to bed,” Dick interrupted whirling about, confronting
his chum. “Don’t worry—everything all right—now. Frazer and Mekewai—I—I
tried to capture both of them and—and Frazer got away. My fault too. I
was careless.”
“Why they come?” the young Indian demanded, steadying himself by holding
on to the counter.
“Gold! In the office, Toma. Frazer had it concealed there.”
Dick’s chum stood and stared incredulously.
“They get ’em?” he croaked.
“Part of it.”
Then, without explaining further, Dick strode over, procured a rope from
the company’s stock and commenced binding up his unconscious prisoner.