SERGEANT RICHARDSON’S THEORY
For the second time since coming to the room, Corporal Rand strode to
the door and opened it.
“I must be nervous today,” he declared. “I pop up here every few minutes
like a jack-in-the-box. Somehow, I can’t get over the feeling that there
was really someone prowling about the hallway a short time ago.”
“I didn’t hear anything,” reassured Dick.
“Possibly I am mistaken. There are times when a thing like that will lay
hold of you, and you don’t seem to be able to shake it off.”
“I’ve often experienced the same feeling,” confessed Dick. “It isn’t
very pleasant.”
Closing the door, the mounted policeman helped himself to a glass of
water from a pitcher that stood on the table.
“I’ve given you a brief outline of Richardson’s theory,” he stated, “but
I’m afraid I haven’t made everything quite clear. Are there any
questions you’d like to ask?”
“Yes—about Hart and O’Connell,” Dick responded quickly. “According to
what you have said, these men have given Nichols money. After listening
to your story, that part of it doesn’t seem reasonable. If Murky uses
their outfits to transport stolen goods to the coast through Blind Man’s
Pass, I should think he’d be under obligation to them, that he’d pay
them money instead of their paying him.”
“So it would seem,” Corporal Rand smiled approvingly. “That was my
contention. I claimed it was the one weak spot in Richardson’s
theory—but, of course, the explanation is simple enough.
“Hart and O’Connell’s are freighters. They go everywhere. They have
almost a monopoly on the transportation business. They have the
government mail contract from here to Edmonton. Occasionally, perhaps
not more than once or twice a year, they have business that takes them
to the west coast—across Dominion Range. As you know this is a long and
roundabout trip, requiring weeks, sometimes months for its completion.
Consequently the transportation rates to the west coast are high. No one
realizes this condition of affairs any better than Nichols. He takes
advantage of it for his own gain. He draws up an agreement with the two
packers to handle all the west-coast business himself, charging a very
nominal rate for this service, and killing two birds with one stone. You
can see how diabolical, how very clever the arrangement is. The freight
that goes through Blind Man’s Pass is a mixed shipment. Part of it is
stolen fur, the other part is merchandise which the original shipper has
entrusted to the care of Hart or O’Connell.
“The scheme works beautifully,” smiled Rand. “Both parties to the
transaction reap a lovely profit. Hart or O’Connell charge the shipper
the same price that he would have to pay if his merchandise went all the
way round to the west coast through the Yellowhead Pass. Murky can smile
up his sleeve too, because all expense of taking out his contraband
falls upon the willing shoulders of the two packers.”
“I never heard of anything so clever,” declared Dick. “Of course, Hart
and O’Connell are aware of the existence of Blind Man’s Pass. You don’t
suppose they know where it is themselves?”
“No, that’s Murky’s own secret. Otherwise the packers would never have
entered into such an agreement.”
“I can see it all very clearly now,” said Dick, “and I’m anxious to know
in what way I can be of help.”
Corporal Rand hesitated for a moment before making a reply. He sat in
the chair opposite and regarded Dick with appraising eyes.
“We haven’t definitely decided just what we are going to do ourselves,
but we intend to use you in some capacity. I’m waiting now to hear from
Sergeant Richardson. However, unless something unforseen occurs, I
imagine our program will be something like this: Malemute Slade will
continue in his search for the pass; Constable Pearly—a new man just
recently transferred here from the Peace River Detachment—will be
detailed to keep close tab on Hart and O’Connell, while Sergeant
Richardson and myself will study every movement of the two half-breeds
and Murky.
“It may take weeks, possibly months, before we’ll be able to accomplish
much. We are compelled to move very, very cautiously. If Nichols
discovers our interest in his affairs, we’ll lose our only chance of
getting him. He’s as slippery as an eel, and as crafty as a fox. I don’t
believe there is another person in the North with a wider acquaintance,
or a more thorough knowledge of conditions.”
“But wouldn’t Hart and O’Connell squeal if Murky should refuse to take
any more of their shipments through Blind Man’s Pass?”
“In the first place they won’t dare to, because the shippers will hear
of it and refuse to give the packers another dollar’s worth of business.
Remember Hart and O’Connell have been reaping a golden harvest at the
shippers’ expense. In the second place, even if they do squeal, we’ll
have no direct evidence against Nichols.”
“How then do you propose to catch Murky?”
“There are several ways: One would be to find the pass ourselves and
then wait for Murky to come through; another would be to follow a
west-coast shipment from the time it leaves the hands of Hart and
O’Connell; still another, to locate Murky’s cache of stolen fur, and
awaiting the next shipment through Blind Man’s Pass.”
“You really think Murky has such a cache?”
“If our theory is correct, he must have. In all likelihood, he has two
of them.”
“Two of them!” gasped Dick. “What makes you think that?”
“It stands to reason that he has. In fact, it’s quite obvious. The
stolen fur must be stored somewhere before it is shipped. When it
reaches the coast, it must be stored again.”
“Why not sold?”
“There’s only one place to sell it—at the Hudson’s Bay Company’s post at
Fort Pennington—and Murky isn’t foolish enough to take that risk.”
“You mean,” asked Dick in amazement, “that he’d continue to—that he’s
been hiding it out there on the coast year after year, making no attempt
to sell it?”
“Yes and no! We believe he hides it out there all right. But we’re
pretty sure that he sells some of it occasionally. We do know that two
years ago last summer he went to Seattle. He was away about six months.
When he returned he was rolling in money and told a very interesting
story about a legacy he had received from a brother, recently deceased.
We believed the yarn then—but we don’t now! In fact,” Rand spoke
sarcastically, “we’re somewhat inclined to the opinion that while he was
there he met one or two unscrupulous gentlemen who offered to accompany
him up the coast for the fun and profit to be derived.”
“I shouldn’t wonder,” laughed Dick.
“He probably hasn’t sold any of the fur since then. I think that when
you go out there, you’ll find that Richardson’s theory is correct.
There’ll be a big cache—”
“When _I_ go out there?” interrupted Dick, staring in astonishment at
the policeman.
“Yes—you, Sandy and Toma. Surely, you’d be willing to do that much for
us, Dick. Sergeant Richardson said that you’d jump at the chance.”
“But—but—”
“We’re so sure that you’ll find the cache, that we’re willing to pay all
the expenses of the trip—and a liberal reward in the bargain. What do
you say?”
“Say!” choked Dick. “I can’t say enough. What I want to know is—do you
really mean it?”
“I was never more serious in my life.”
Dick rose to his feet and paced agitatedly back and forth. His heart had
jumped a few wild beats before he could compose himself sufficiently to
make another effort to speak.
“When do you want us to start?” he asked.
“As soon as it can possibly be arranged. Toma knows the route to the
Yellowhead Pass; but after that you’ll have to chart your own course. We
can depend on you then?”
“So far as I’m concerned—yes. I won’t presume to speak for Sandy and
Toma, yet I’m pretty sure they’ll go.”
A few minutes later, Corporal Rand and Dick returned to the trading
room, which was crowded. Stalwart, dusky half-breed trappers, eager to
purchase supplies for impending excursions to favorite trapping grounds,
pushed and elbowed their way through the throng awaiting their
opportunity to confer with Factor MacClaren. Indian women, resplendent
in bright shawls, bright-faced children from the Catholic Mission, here
and there the dark, expressionless face and sinewy form of Cree hunters
and rivermen from the south—all of this queer blend of humanity jostled
forth and back, chattering excitedly.
At one side of the room, surrounded by an admiring group, a tall, lanky
half-breed youth was playing a violin. Glancing that way, Dick’s eyes
lighted up as he perceived the familiar figures of his two friends,
Sandy MacClaren, the factor’s nephew, and John Toma, the young Indian
guide.
Toma, Sandy and Dick, following several years of interesting adventures
in the North, had become greatly attached to each other. They were three
inseparables, who had learned to take the trials and hardships of
wilderness life as a matter of common experience. In spite of many hard
knocks, they were still as eager to embark upon new adventures as in the
days when Dick and Sandy were newcomers to that remote and inhospitable
land.
Dick lost no time in rejoining his two chums. With a friendly nod to
Corporal Rand, he darted through the crowd and administered a resounding
whack on the backs of Sandy and Toma.
“Well, you’ve returned at last,” he greeted them joyfully. “Did you have
any luck?”
Sandy turned eagerly.
“You bet! We shot two moose,” and the young Scotchman immediately
commenced a somewhat rambling and disconnected account of their
experiences.
At its conclusion, Dick feigned scepticism, winked broadly at Toma.
“Pah! The whole thing sounds fishy to me. I don’t believe you shot
anything. If you actually killed a moose it was because the poor thing
fell down and broke a leg. At two hundred yards a blind man with a bow
and arrow could out-shoot you.”
“All right, wait and see. An Indian packer is bringing over our two
moose tomorrow.”
“How much did you pay him for them?”
In attempting to evade Sandy’s friendly upper-cut, Dick stepped back
just in time to be knocked flat by a person hurrying across the room.
From his position on the floor, he looked up to see the man spring to
the door, open it, and dart outside.
It was the half-breed, who had received the roll of money from Murky
Nichols!