OUTWITTED
Dr. Brady broke off a twig from a branch above his head and sat down on
the sledge near Dick, commencing to trace queer patterns in the new,
loose snow.
“It will soon be time to start on again, won’t it?” asked the doctor.
“It’s eight-thirty,” Dick replied. “We should have started a half hour
ago.”
“Why not try taking a firmer hand with them,” suggested Brady. “Tell
them that if they won’t go on with the party, they can return without
supplies. That ought to frighten them.”
“I’ll try it,” Dick fell in with the suggestion. “Come on. We must do
something. I want you fellows to back me up. Maybe there’ll be trouble.”
The drivers were still arguing amongst themselves as the four
approached.
“Fontaine, come here.”
The spokesman drew away from his fellow conspirators.
“Yes, M’sieur Dick.”
“Tell the others to harness the dogs. It’s time to start.”
Fontaine’s eyes sought the ground.
“They no go, m’sieur,” he declared doggedly.
“What do they intend to do?”—brusquely.
“Nothing. They say go back to Mackenzie.”
“Utter nonsense. You’ll never make it. It’s hundreds of miles south of
here. You’ll starve before you get there.”
“Starve!” exclaimed Fontaine. “But, M’sieur Dick, you mus’ be mistake.
You have plenty grub here. Fellows no go back without grub.”
“That’s exactly what they’ll have to do if they leave this
party—everyone of them. You’ll get nothing from me. I’ll shoot the first
man that makes an attempt to take anything with him. Do you understand,
Fontaine?”
The spokesman blinked and backed away. Here was a turn of events neither
he nor any of the others had anticipated. It made their position
somewhat untenable. It required careful consideration—more discussion.
Quickly he turned and broke forth in Cree. It volleyed from him. He
punctuated his talk with rapid-fire gestures.
When he had completed his oration, a deep silence fell. It was an angry
silence. The half-breed drivers glowered.
“Well, what’s your decision?” Dick spoke sharply.
Fontaine was coldly deliberate.
“We eight men against four. We no go on. Fellows get supplies an’ start
back to Fort Mackenzie.”
Dick was astounded. He looked up appealingly at Dr. Brady, his pulses
quickening. He observed that Sandy’s hands trembled. A sudden movement
among the dog drivers attracted his attention. All of them had started
forward menacingly, then as quickly fell back. For a brief moment Dick
wondered at this hesitancy on their part, but catching sight of Toma,
the truth of the situation flashed over him. That young man stood,
fondling an ugly-looking revolver, his eyes defying them to come on.
Sandy was quick to see their temporary advantage, and he, too, whipped
out his gun. The mutinous dog drivers attempted to slink away, but Dick
perceived their little ruse and stopped them peremptorily:
“No, you don’t. Stay right where you are until I relieve you of your
guns.”
Three of the men carried revolvers, while all of them possessed knives.
He quickly secured all these, placing them on one of the sleighs. Then,
while Sandy and Toma kept the men covered, he and Dr. Brady hurried over
to the tents and sledges, returning with three rifles and four more
revolvers.
“Quite an arsenal,” puffed Dr. Brady.
“Yes, and they won’t get them back either,” Dick retorted. “Without
arms, they’ll be helpless. During the day while we’re traveling, I’ll
keep them on my sledge with the mail, and at night in my tent with a
guard posted. That means we’ll have to take turn, the four of us, at
sentinel duty.”
Placing their load of weapons on Dick’s sledge, they rejoined Sandy and
Toma, who still guarded the mutineers.
“You can put away your guns,” ordered Dick.
“But what about these prisoners?” Sandy asked.
“I think they’ll be willing to go back to their teams now. Is it not so,
Fontaine?”
The stalwart French half-breed pretended not to hear.
“Fontaine,” Dick raised his voice, “did you hear what I said? You can
all go now. Take up your tents, harness your dogs the same as usual, and
get ready to start.”
The dog drivers were at a disadvantage and they knew it. There was
nothing to do but to obey. Yet it was with much muttering and grumbling,
that they turned again to their morning’s routine. They would bide their
time. The boys had gained the upper hand now, but this was only the
first round in a battle of wits. Tomorrow, perhaps, they might be the
victors.
“We’ll have to watch them day and night,” Sandy declared, shoving the
revolver back in its holster and turning away. “Heaven help us, if they
ever get a chance at those guns again—or those deadly-looking knives.”
“Yes,” agreed Dr. Brady, “I don’t like their looks. Naturally, they’ll
resent this. I think that we can expect trouble. I’ll volunteer for the
first night’s guard duty.”
“That’s splendid of you, doctor,” Dick smiled. “But we’ll let you off
easy. You can stand guard from eight until twelve tonight, and I’ll take
your place for the remaining hours until morning.”
The first day, following the events narrated above, passed without
incident. On the second day, however, the driver, whom Fontaine said had
contracted smallpox, and whom Dr. Brady later had examined, died
suddenly. The morale of the party tottered. If ever the half-breeds had
placed any faith in the medicine of the white man, they lost it now.
Again they became panic stricken. The muttering and the complaining
broke out afresh. Hourly, it grew more and more difficult to keep them
at their work. Dick found it necessary to have either Sandy or Toma
drive the last team in the line, with instructions to be ever on the
alert, their revolvers always in readiness.
That night, fearing trouble, Sandy, whose turn it was to stand guard for
the first part of the night, asked Dick to keep him company.
“I hope you don’t mind, old chap. The truth is, I’m a little bit afraid.
I have a feeling that the time is nearly at hand for them to strike. I
don’t like the way they’ve been acting.”
“Nor I,” said Dick. “They’re up to something. They gather about in
little groups, whispering. Fontaine and Lamont keep stirring them up.”
“Their first move,” reasoned Sandy, “will be to try to get back their
rifles and cartridges. With these in their possession, they’ll be able
to take what supplies they want and return to Mackenzie.”
“A sorry day for them if they do,” Dick declared. “Inspector Cameron
will know how to deal with them.”
“Of course, that is true. But they don’t stop to think about that. Their
chief worry now is to get away.”
As usual, the mail and guns were taken to Dick’s tent, where the two
boys stood guard. This constant vigilance was wearing upon them. The
three boys and Dr. Brady suffered from lack of sleep, yet each day they
were compelled to carry on. There was no help for it.
Despite Sandy’s presentiment, no attack was made that night, nor yet on
the following day. Late in the afternoon, while crossing a low chain of
hills, they perceived, about a quarter of a mile away, a small Indian
encampment, consisting of four lonely tepees.
“There may be smallpox there,” said Dr. Brady. “I’d better go over
there.”
Leaving Sandy and Toma behind to watch the camp during their absence,
Dr. Brady and Dick went forward to investigate. They were received
warmly at the first tepee, and were informed that no one was ill. In
fact, the Indians had not even heard of the epidemic. At each of the
tepees in turn they were received graciously until they came to the
fourth and last.
Here their reception was very cool indeed. The place was occupied by an
aged Indian couple and by a young man, evidently their son. This young
man became very angry upon their entrance. He sat opposite the entrance,
blankets wrapped around him, and scowled continuously. When Dick
questioned him, he refused to answer, pretending that he did not
understand. The old Indian squaw seemed to be the only one equipped with
vocal powers. Over and over, she kept repeating the words in English:
“Go ’way! Go ’way!”
“Don’t seem to be very popular here,” grinned Dr. Brady. “Well, there’s
no use of staying very long. I’ll vaccinate them as quickly as I can and
then we’ll be on our way.”
Yet when Dr. Brady opened his medicine case and attempted to vaccinate
them, they repulsed him stoutly. They were afraid of the doctor. His
instruments frightened them. It was evident that they believed that his
ministrations were for no other purpose than to subject them to some new
and mysterious torture. Finally, the young Indian rose threateningly and
commanded them to depart.
As he did so, Dick drew back in surprise. The Indian wore boots, heavy
top-boots—the service boots of the Royal Mounted Police—and, what was
even more astonishing, a service revolver in its holster at his side.
For a full moment he stared at the tell-tale articles, scarcely
believing his eyes. Where had the Indian secured these things? Certainly
not from the police—unless they had been taken by force or stolen.
Dick’s arm trembled as he took Dr. Brady’s arm and pulled him toward the
entrance.
“Come on, doctor, we’d better get out of here. It’s no use.”
Outside the tepee, he turned quickly upon his companion:
“I say, doctor, did you notice what that young Indian wore?”
“No,” replied Dr. Brady, “I didn’t notice particularly. Moosehide
garments, weren’t they?”
“No. No. The boots, I mean—the revolver!”
“Yes, he did have boots. Rather queer, isn’t it? They usually wear
moccasins.”
“Usually wear moccasins!” exploded Dick. “Why those were mounted police
boots. They’re different. No one else wears them. And that revolver,
holster and belt could have been obtained from no other person on earth
except a policeman.”
“That’s strange. I wonder how he came by them?”
Dick did not answer immediately. His mind had turned to very sober
thoughts. The more he dwelt upon this unusual circumstance—an Indian
wearing mounted police boots and carrying a service revolver—the more he
became perplexed. As they made their way back to their own party, his
suspicions grew. A great fear tugged at his heart.
“Dr. Brady,” he began very soberly, “I don’t like this. I’m afraid——”
The physician turned and smiled.
“What? Still thinking about those boots? I wouldn’t worry, if I were
you, Dick. The explanation is probably simple enough. The boots and
revolver might have been discarded. Aren’t you troubling yourself
needlessly?”
“No, I think not. You remember Corporal Rand, don’t you, the man
Inspector Cameron spoke of, the one he sent up here ahead of us, and
about whom he was so worried?”
“Why, yes,” said Dr. Brady. “Corporal Rand. The name is familiar.”
“Well,” trembled Dick, “I have a terrible suspicion that those boots and
that revolver belong to him.”
It was Brady’s turn to become grave.
“And you believe that he——”
“I don’t know what to believe,” Dick filled in the pause. “It looks bad.
They might have killed him. They——”
He broke off, overcome by such a probability.
“You see, doctor,” he resumed, “Corporal Rand wouldn’t carry an extra
pair of boots and probably not an extra revolver along with him. Just
remember that. If the Indian didn’t kill him, something or someone else
did. He might have taken those things off Rand’s dead body. Somehow, I
feel that I ought to go back and question him—make him talk. I don’t
like the looks of this.”
They were now within a short distance of their own party, and an idea
suddenly occurred to Dick.
“Tell you what I’ll do. I’ll get Toma to go with me. He speaks the
Indian language more fluently. The two of us will go over there armed
and compel that rascal to confess. And we won’t come back either
until——”
Dr. Brady interrupted him. Dr. Brady had seized him by the shoulders and
was staring into his face, his eyes wide with excitement. Then he swung
the younger man in front of him, released him, and with one trembling
hand pointed in the direction of their camp.
“Look at that! Look at that! What? I say——”
Instantly Dick’s body grew taut. The color drained from his cheeks. He
shook off the restraining hand and started forward. He ran. He shouted
out at the top of his voice, one hand fumbling with the holster at his
side. In his haste to get forward quickly, he stumbled and fell. As he
rose to his feet, he broke into an exclamation of dismay.
He was too late! The long-looked-for attack had taken place. The drivers
had overpowered Toma and Sandy, had seized the guns, two of the dog
teams and sledges, loaded with supplies, and were now hurrying back.
They had accomplished their purpose and had made good their escape. When
Dick reached the scene of disaster a few minutes later, he cried out in
his rage and exasperation.
Thrown across one of the sledges were Toma and Sandy, bound securely
hand and foot. A few yards away, lying helplessly in the snow, was the
unconscious form of one of the drivers, who, upon closer examination,
proved to be Lamont. Everywhere was confusion and disorder. Several of
the sledges had been overturned, their loads scattered.
Dick took out his hunting knife and cut the rope which bound his two
chums. They were both a little dazed, but had not been seriously hurt.
They looked at him with sombre eyes.
“How did it happen?” asked Dick.
Sandy sat up and commenced rubbing his chafed arms and legs. Tears of
exasperation trickled down his cheeks.
“It came so—so suddenly, Dick,” he choked. “I can’t begin to tell you.
We were sitting on the mail sledge, when one of the drivers came along,
passing about twenty feet away. He acted queerly. He commenced to groan,
and then suddenly he fell down in the snow, just as if he had fainted
dead away. It was a trick—but we didn’t know it. We rushed over to help
him. We were stooping down when they came up from behind—the whole crowd
of them, and seized us so quickly we didn’t have a chance. I’m so—so——”
Fresh tears trickled from his eyes again.
“But Lamont—what’s he doing there? What happened to him? If you didn’t
have a chance to do anything, how did he receive his injury?”
“Toma—— When they grappled with him, he fired from his hip and got
Lamont.”
Dr. Brady, who had come panting up in time to hear Sandy’s story, now
turned toward the prostrate body of the guide, and with the help of Dick
and Toma, carried him over and placed him on one of the sledges.
“He’ll never make the trip,” presently announced the doctor. “He’s hit
in the shoulder—a dangerous wound—and will never be able to stand the
jarring and jolting of one of the sledges. We’ll have to leave him
here.”
“How can we do that?” asked Sandy. “He’d freeze. He’d—he’d——”
“There’s the Indian encampment,” suggested the physician. “They can look
after him.”
“Good riddance,” declared Dick. “I, for one, won’t be sorry.”
There followed an awkward silence.
“The Indian encampment,” said Dick at length, “will be forced not only
to look after Lamont but to supply us with several drivers. Perhaps one
of them will know the way to Keechewan.”
He paused, gesturing hopelessly.
“In any event, we’ll have to push on. We can’t stop.”
Dr. Brady nodded grimly.