WHEN MOMENTS ARE ETERNITY
Sandy consulted his watch. His face was anxious. Little worried lines
showed under his eyes and at the corners of his mouth.
“It’s eleven o’clock, Dick,” he announced. “One hour to go. If they
aren’t here by twelve, they won’t come at all.”
“Yes,” said Dick miserably. “Eleven o’clock. But they may come, Sandy.”
The suspense was difficult to endure. In the last half hour, Sandy’s
watch had been jerked from his pocket no less than seven times. The
three boys sat in their billet and marked the slow passing of time. All
through the morning they had experienced a nervous tension, which was
becoming rapidly more and more acute. Toma paced up and down the floor,
paying little heed to what his two chums said. Occasionally, he looked
out through one of the frosted windows, straining his ears for the shout
that would announce the safe return of the two captives.
In his heart, Toma half-believed that Dick’s plan would work. He knew
the awe and reverence in which the mounted police were held. If Dr.
Brady and Father Bleriot were not sent back, it would be because the
Indians had come to the conclusion that Dick’s statement regarding
Corporal Rand was merely a bluff.
Sandy’s watch ticked off the seconds. Dick stepped forward to stir up
the fire. There came a timid knock at the door.
It was Father Michaud. He shuffled through the doorway, his robes
rustling about him, his thin bare hands rubbing each other to restore
their sluggish circulation.
“Ah, monsieurs,” he broke forth, “I have slept but ill. Et ees most
difficult theese slow waiting. Do you not think, monsieurs? All night I
worry veree much. Zen I pray, monsieurs. Et ees a great help.”
Sandy pulled forward a chair for their unhappy visitor.
“Sit-down, father. Take a place here close to the fire.”
“_Merci._ You are kind, monsieur.”
He half-turned in his chair.
“Do you think zey will come?” he asked, addressing Dick.
“I do not know.” Dick’s face was tragic. “I’m afraid, father, they may
not come.”
For twenty minutes the priest kept alive a failing conversation.
Occasionally, Sandy consulted his watch. Time slipped by.
“Twenty minutes to twelve,” said Sandy, at the end of what seemed like
an eternity.
Toma continued his pacing back and forth. Dick sat huddled in his chair.
The priest rambled on.
“Ten minutes to twelve,” Sandy informed them.
Dick could endure the suspense no longer. He rose, crossed the room, and
flung open the door. A cold draft of air whirled in across the floor.
Toma hurried over to where Dick stood and peered over his shoulder. They
heard a shout. It brought Sandy and Father Michaud to their feet.
Villagers were running in the street. A crowd had gathered.
“They—they’ve come back,” blurted Dick, darting through the door, Toma
right behind him. They joined the throng.
In the center of the crowd stood, not Dr. Brady and Father Bleriot,
but—and Dick’s heart sank at the sight of him—their captive of the night
before. In his hand he waved something—something white. With Toma acting
as his interference, and employing football tactics, Dick plunged
through, gaining a place by the side of the messenger. He seized the
piece of birch bark and scanned it eagerly. It was covered thickly with
Indian signs and symbols.
“Toma,” cried Dick, “can you make this out? Tell me, what does it say
here?”
Toma took the birch bark in his own trembling hands, studied it for a
moment, then in a fit of anger threw it at his feet, where with one foot
he trampled it in the snow.
“What does it say?” Dick’s voice was shrill, plaintive.
“It say,” stormed Toma, “that you tell ’em big lie about mounted police;
that Corporal Rand no come here at all. They make you big laugh.”
At that instant Dick bethought him of the messenger. Defy him, would
they? Well, he’d see about that. At least, he’d seize their messenger.
He sprang forward with this purpose in view, but the Indian slipped
under his arm, dodged behind the tall figure of one of the gaping
natives, and before anyone could prevent it, had made his escape. At
that moment, Sandy came plowing through the ranks of the spectators,
shouting hoarsely.
“Where is Dr. Brady?”
“He didn’t come back.”
“What’s all this rumpus about then?”
“That Indian prisoner I released last night came back with a defiant
message, which says that they, the Indians, don’t believe that the
policeman is here.”
“And the messenger?”
“He slipped away from me.”
Dick ordered the crowd back with an authoritative wave of his arm. His
feeling of hopelessness and despair had given place to anger, to a
consuming, burning rage. The Indians had defied him openly. They were
making a fool out of him. They had called his bluff.
It occurred to him that he could recruit another attacking party and go
to the doctor’s rescue. But the memory of his experience of the night
before still rankled in his mind. No—if he were to accomplish anything,
it would be through his own efforts, and with the assistance of only
Sandy and Toma. He beckoned to his chums.
“Let’s go back to the billet,” he suggested, “and talk this thing over.”
As his two friends came up, he linked his arms in theirs and began:
“I can see now, Sandy, that I have made a terrible mistake. I’ve got
myself in a hole and may never be able to get out of it. Just the same,
I don’t intend to give up. I’m not licked yet. I want to know if you
boys will stand behind me.”
“Yes, Dick, we’re with you,” Sandy assured him.
“You depend on us,” added Toma.
Back in the billet again, they commenced to lay their plans. On the
previous night they had tried, by the superiority of their numbers, to
intimidate the enemy. They had failed. Now they would employ stealth.
That night, they decided, the three of them would creep up to the Indian
village and attempt a rescue.
“We may be successful,” said Sandy. “We have a chance, at any rate.”
“Our last chance, too,” declared Dick. “If we fail in this, it is all
over.”
A little later, Sandy went over to the mission store to purchase a few
supplies. Toma remained behind, his head bowed deep in thought. Silence
had come to the room, broken only by the breathing of the boys and the
crackling of the logs in the fireplace. After a time, Dick rose.
“I suppose we’d better be thinking about lunch.”
Of a sudden, Toma darted to his feet. He had sprung from his chair so
quickly, that Dick, who was looking at him, could scarcely follow the
lightning movement. Toma hugged himself in ecstacy. He seized Dick in a
smothering embrace, whirling him around and around.
“Dick, listen me,” he shouted. “I know what we do now. I think it all
out. It come to me in flash. Sandy no need go at all. Jus’ you, me go.
We go this afternoon. Hurry—you follow me quick!”
Blindly Dick followed the other. He trotted down the street in the wake
of his excited chum, wondering what it was all about. They hurried past
the mission school, reaching, finally, a low dwelling, into which,
without a moment’s hesitation, without even the preliminary of a knock,
Toma darted.
It was the house which harbored Corporal Rand. Upon the afternoon of
their arrival, the policeman had been placed here with an Indian woman
in attendance. He was here now, sitting propped up in a chair in front
of a pleasant fire.
“Good morning, corporal,” both boys greeted him.
The policeman turned his head. As he did so, the boys stopped abruptly.
A remarkable change had taken place in him. His cheeks were fuller now.
His eyes burned less brightly. The heavy beard-growth had been removed.
He smiled a wan greeting.
“Dick and Toma, as I live! Where did you come from?”
“We have a billet down the street,” answered Dick.
“Ah, yes; and I have been ill. Very ill. I can remember—it is so
difficult to remember—but I was on the trail, wasn’t I? A difficult
trail. And what is the name of this place, Dick?”
“Keechewan.”
“Keechewan! Keechewan!” Corporal Rand repeated the name. “It sounds
familiar, doesn’t it?”
Toma was beside him now—standing very close, looking down into the sick
man’s eyes. He suddenly stooped and whispered something into Rand’s
willing ears, then drew back smiling.
“It is all right,” he announced to Dick, who had come closer. “Corporal
Rand he say all right. Him willing we go. We must hurry very fast, Dick.
You go back to billet an’ pretty soon I go there too.”
And almost before he realized it, Toma had seized his arm and was
dragging him toward the door.
“Quick!” he commanded. “You go back to billet. I know place where I find
two horses. You get us something to eat in plenty hurry. Two rifles,
cartridge belts, revolvers——You work quick—plenty fast. So me too.”
“But Toma,” protested his bewildered companion, “I don’t see. I don’t
know——What——”
“No time ask ’em questions now. Do like I say. Quick! Hurry!”
Through the open doorway Dick was bundled, pushed, treated somewhat
roughly, considering that Toma was his friend. Outside in the chill air,
he had started to protest again, but the door was slammed in his face.
“You be good fellow. Hurry now!” the inexorable voice boomed at him
through the heavy barrier. “I be along mebbe eight, ten minutes.”
There was nothing left for him to do except obey. Shaking his head,
wondering what new form of insanity had seized hold of his friend, he
wheeled about and struck back towards the billet. There he gathered up a
bundle of food, secured the rifles, cartridges and revolver—exactly as
he had been instructed—and sat down to wait.
In a remarkably short time Toma appeared. His coming was heralded by the
clatter of hooves. Dick heard a voice calling to him.
Toma did not even dismount, as Dick thrust his head through the doorway.
“Is that my horse?” asked Dick, feeling a little foolish.
“Your horse. Bring ’em rifles an’ grub an’ jump up into saddle quick.”
Sandy was just coming down the street, his arms loaded with provisions,
when the two horses, their flanks quivering, nostrils dilated, leaped
from the trodden snow around the doorway and galloped away like mad.
They turned off on the north trail, whirling past an open-mouthed
sentry, who, in his hurry to get out of the way, stepped back in a huge
snowdrift and sat down. They streaked over a narrow bridge, spanning a
creek, shot up the steep embankment on the farther side and, at
break-neck speed, headed for the open country in the direction of the
Indian village. It was not until they were two miles out, that Toma drew
in his horse.
“We stop here for a few minutes,” he informed Dick.
“What for?”
Toma produced a bulky package, deftly opened and shook out—a frayed
crimson tunic of the mounted police.
“What’s that for?” Dick gasped.
“You put ’em on—quick! You Corporal Rand now. Indians be much afraid
when we ride up.”
Trembling, Dick removed his own coat and put on the crimson garment.
They rode on again.
It was all that Dick could do to sit erect in his saddle, much less
simulate a quiet determination, a bravery he did not feel. The two miles
dwindled into one. The remaining mile to the village—how quickly did it
seem to slip away past them, bringing them closer and closer to that
unwavering row of brown tepees.
Their horses went forward at a walk. From the tiny dwellings emerged
human figures. Malevolent eyes were watching them. Dick caught the flash
of sunlight on some bright object, probably a rifle barrel, and he grew
rigid in the saddle, instinctively reaching toward the holster at his
side. Toma detected the motion and soberly shook his head.
“No do that,” he advised promptly. “Mounted police never pull gun ’til
other fellow get ready to use his. What you say we make horses go fast?
Gallop right up to village.”
Dick approved the suggestion. For one thing, a flying mark is more
difficult to hit. Another thing, it gave a touch of realism to their
bluff. It was exactly what a mounted policeman would do.
So, when less than fifty yards from the nearest tepee, they dug their
heels into their ponies’ flanks and cantered briskly up. They approached
the first two tepees and passed them without mishap. But Dick’s heart
was in his throat now. His cheeks were drained of color. With increasing
difficulty, he kept his place astride his plunging horse.
Indians were pouring out of their domiciles, like disturbed bees from a
hive. A low murmur came to the boys’ ears. Form after form they flashed
by, scarcely conscious of where they were going until, by chance, they
perceived that toward the center of the encampment there had gathered an
excited crowd of natives, who were watching their approach. Toward this
crowd, they made their way at a quick gallop.
Dick felt a little dazed as they came to a sudden halt. The Indians had
fallen back, yet did not disperse. Deep silence greeted them. It was so
deeply and intensely quiet that Dick could almost believe that the
Indians were statues of stone.
He tried to speak, but his tongue clove in his mouth. Fear had settled
upon him and he seemed powerless to shake it off. At the crucial moment,
when everything depended upon his actions and deportment, he was failing
miserably. Fortunately, he had the good sense to see this and tried
desperately to control himself. He sat up more rigidly in the saddle,
his mittened hands clenched.
“Make ’em talk,” whispered Toma.
Dick flung up one arm in a commanding gesture.
“Bring the two white men here at once,” he ordered.
Then suddenly his gaze seemed to waver. The crowd became a blur—a
shadowy something before his eyes. In their place rose up the stern
figure of Inspector Cameron—the worn, austere face, the steel-gray eyes,
the decisive chin. Again Dick threw up his arm. A strange calmness
pervaded him.
“Bring them here,” he repeated in a voice of gathering impatience.
A murmur rose from the crowd. Suddenly it fell back, hesitated for a
brief interval, then hurried away to do the white chief’s bidding. The
tension had relaxed. As he slowly turned in his saddle to meet the gaze
of his friend, a ray of sunlight fell across Toma’s face.
“Bye-’n’-bye they come!” he cried happily.