DICK GOES TO THE RESCUE
The escape of the outlaws from the warehouse during the night was one of
those regrettable happenings that come occasionally when least expected.
On the following morning as Dick opened the door a deep silence greeted
him. The prisoners had gone. Investigation showed that part of the
flooring had been removed and that the outlaws had dug their way out
during the night. The shock of this discovery staggered Dick, who lost
no time in reporting to Constable Rand. The policeman received the news
calmly.
“Well, there’s no use worrying about it. I’m sorry, but it can’t be
helped. We have the ring-leaders—which is much more important. The
police will retake the others in the course of time. Right now, I’m
worrying more about Toma and the pack-ponies. What has become of the
fur? If we lose the fur, we’ll have no direct evidence against Murky.”
“Why,” said Dick in surprise, “I should think you could convict him
easily. What about the shooting of Pearly and the assault upon
Richardson?”
“True enough. But Murky didn’t commit these crimes.”
“No; but he ordered them done. He’s the person responsible.”
“Unfortunately, that may be rather hard to prove. It all depends upon
what attitude the other outlaws take.”
The forenoon was long and tedious. Lines of worry began to crease the
corporal’s forehead. Dick was driven to the verge of desperation. The
pack-train had not yet returned. Sitting in front of the campfire,
opposite the sailor and Nichols, with Rand pacing nervously back and
forth behind him, Dick pictured a hundred imaginary perils and disasters
that had befallen Toma. Sometimes he saw him languishing in a dark, foul
room, suffering all the tortures of imprisonment; and again he
visualized a limp, lifeless form, crumpled in the snow in the depth of
some forest solitude, around him the leering, grinning faces of the
outlaws. By three o’clock in the afternoon, Dick had become almost
desperate. He rose to his feet and drew the corporal aside.
“I can’t endure this much longer. Let’s do something.”
The policeman took the younger man’s arm affectionately.
“What would you suggest?”
“I don’t know,” wailed Dick.
“There is only one thing that I can propose—and you may not like that.”
“What is it?”
“You can stay here and watch these two vultures while I go out and try
to find Toma.”
Moisture had gathered in Dick’s eyes. Through a glistening film, he
looked up at the corporal.
“Will you let me go? This inactivity, this suspense is killing me by
inches. Corporal, I’ll promise to be very careful. But please let me
go.”
“All right, Dick, you can start. Take your blankets and a few
supplies—if you can find any. If you have not discovered any trace of
him by noon tomorrow, come back and report to me.”
Dick lost no time in making his departure. All that afternoon he trudged
through the snow, sometimes picking up the track of a pony and losing it
again, on other occasions, coming across human footprints or the charred
remains of a campfire. When darkness descended, he was miles back from
the coast, with nothing more encouraging to buoy up his spirits than the
thought that he must soon reach the main-travelled trail. His aching
legs carried him along the slope of a hill—up, up interminably; then he
struck out north by east in the direction he knew must eventually lead
him to the place he sought. But as the miles slipped past, he grew so
weary and footsore that he decided to make camp for the night. Just
ahead he could see what appeared to be the edge of a coulee—and he
struggled on with the intention of entering it, thereby gaining
protection from the chill, moist wind that blew in from the sea.
Imagine his surprise, upon approaching closer, to discover that it was
not a coulee at all, but a deep-set basin, looking somewhat like the
ancient bed of a lake. It was nearly three miles across, several hundred
feet deep, and thickly overgrown with red willow. Near its center, he
saw the twinkling light of a cabin.
An hour later, he approached the cabin and knocked timidly at the door.
A squint-eyed native, so old that his yellow face was a curious net-work
of wrinkles, admitted him.
“I want drink and food,” Dick informed the man, stumbling over the
Indian words.
The old man nodded acquiescence, leading the way into the house. He
clapped his hands together sharply and waited. From the loft above,
there came immediately the sound of shuffling feet, then a form, even
more senile than that of Dick’s host, slowly descended a rickety ladder,
emitting as it came a series of rheumatic groans. The woman, following
instructions from her husband and a half-timid stare at Dick, hobbled
into the adjoining room and returned presently, carrying an earthern
pot, which she placed upon the floor in front of her visitor. It was a
cold but not unsavory mixture of fish and vegetables and Dick, weak from
hunger, carried the food to a bench at one side of the room and began
eating with avidity.
Thus far, he had not been successful in finding any trace of Toma.
Neither had he seen any of the outlaws, although he was sure they must
be somewhere in the vicinity. Probably a few of them had even passed by
this cabin. Dick had learned a little Cree and he decided to question
the old Indian. After several unsuccessful attempts, he finally gained
the information that a number of pack-horses, in charge of three men,
had crossed the basin only a few hours previous.
Dick received the news with a joyous quickening of the heart. From the
native’s description, Toma was one of the party.
“Which way were they travelling?” came his next eager question.
He expected, of course, to hear that they were going east in search of
the remainder of the ponies, but to his surprise the Indian pointed
westward. This meant that he and Toma had passed each other only a short
time before. The guide, having completed a successful search, was
returning to the coast.
It was cheering information and Dick decided that as soon as he had
finished his welcome repast and had rested for a short time, he would
retrace his steps and rejoin his friends. Putting aside the empty dish,
he turned eagerly upon his host, just as that worthy stepped back from
his place by the door, fear and dismay depicted in his watery old eyes.
Almost simultaneously, there fell across Dick’s sensitive ears the sound
of approaching footsteps, then a voice that caused him to experience a
momentary sensation of chill.
With a finger on his lips as a warning to the native, Dick scurried up
the ladder, pulling it up after him. His hands were shaking. He
deposited the ladder on the floor, tiptoed across the loft and lay down
with his eyes at a crack.
The door of the room below was pushed rudely open, without even the
formality of a knock, and three men—all of them outlaws—entered. Of the
three, one was a white man—the sailor who had come ashore with the
captain of the yacht. He wore a gray cap and a much-soiled suit of
clothes—apparel too thin for that climate! He sat down shivering close
to the fireplace, extending his blue, unmittened hands toward the blaze.
He did not even look up as one of the other outlaws called loudly for
food and growled unpleasantly when it did not appear forthwith.
While they ate, Dick lay watching them. He hoped that none of the
outlaws would make a search of the house. Even if they did—now that the
ladder was pulled up—he was fairly sure they would not come to the loft.
He was feeling comparatively safe, until he became conscious of a step
behind him. Then he became panic-stricken. His tongue clove to the roof
of his mouth. He had hardly the strength to turn his head as the
apparition passed, a young Indian girl not over seventeen or eighteen
years of age. She had paused, looked at him in a sort of bewildered
manner, then moved forward, picked up the ladder, let it slip through
the hole in the floor, and proceeded to climb down to the room below.
Dick’s breath caught as he thought about the ladder projecting there
through the aperture, where the Indian girl had left it. It was a
strange trick of fate that had been played upon him at a most
inopportune time. The outlaws now had easy access to the loft. It would
be simple enough indeed to come up and take him like a rat in a trap.
Also, there was another horn to the dilemma. Unwittingly, the girl might
blurt out something about his presence there. And if she did, the
outlaws would hear it immediately and the game would be up. The very
imminence of the thing was not conducive to Dick’s peace of mind. Lying
there, not daring to stir, expecting at any moment to hear the ladder
creak under the weight of one or more of his enemies, he sweated in an
agony of apprehension. He had left his rifle below and, unfortunately,
his revolver was empty. Desperately, he looked about him for some sort
of weapon that he might use in his own defense. He could see nothing.
Except for the blankets in the far corner, the loft was bare. A small
pocket-knife was the only thing he had that would be of the slightest
service in a hand-to-hand encounter.
Soon afterward, one of the outlaws turned upon the Indian woman and
demanded more food. She shook her head, informing him in Cree that there
was nothing more in the house. The outlaw apparently did not believe
this and, in a sudden burst of anger, advanced and shook her roughly by
the shoulder.
The girl intervened. With a tiger-like spring, she bounded forward,
slapping him across the face. In a blind fury now, he attempted to
retaliate, but she eluded him and ran to the center of the room. Here he
caught her, but released her with a snarl, as her teeth sank into his
arm. Eyes blazing, he grabbed for her again, but she dodged past. His
long fingers caught in a string of beads, tearing it from her neck. Then
Dick’s heart seemed to stand still. She had started up the ladder, the
outlaw in hot pursuit.
During the next few moments Dick’s movements were performed
subconsciously—and with the speed of desperation. The girl’s head had
appeared in the aperture, when he jumped past her. Feet foremost, he
crashed into the repulsive up-turned face; crashed into it, then went
down—girl, outlaw and ladder together—landing with a terrific impact
that shook the house.
Stunned, he and the girl separated themselves from the confused muddle
and struggled to their feet. The outlaw, however, did not stir. When
Dick sprang forward and seized his rifle, the man still lay there, one
brown, claw-like hand still retaining three or four unstrung beads.