A DUSKY FRIEND
No sooner had Dick picked up his rifle than he realized that he could
not possibly escape the second half-breed and the sailor who stood by
the fireplace. The odds were against him. The sailor had covered him
with an ugly-looking automatic, while the breed’s rifle was held at a
threatening angle. He put down his gun as quickly as he could, deciding
to face the situation squarely. Reaction from his first spasm of fear
had left him calm and cool, his mind on the alert.
“You’re too many for me. I’ll give up.”
“You showed a lot of good sense there,” approved the sailor. “We sure
would o’ drilled you, Buddy, if you’d made another move. Looks as if
you’d done about enough damage now.”
Dick turned his head and looked again at the crumpled form of the girl’s
assailant.
“I’m sorry this had to happen. I guess he’ll recover.”
“Playing the hero stuff, eh?” leered the sailor. “She ought to feel
pretty proud o’ your work. I must say you made a good job o’ it.”
Dick flushed, but did not reply. He was watching the half-breed, who had
advanced upon the old Indian and had demanded a rope with which to bind
his prisoner. He saw the old man shake his head. The watery old eyes,
set in the curious net-work of wrinkles, roved fearfully from face to
face. Would the outlaw please believe him? He spoke the truth. God was
his witness.
The half-breed considered the problem for a short space, his crafty gaze
darting here and there around the room. In spite of his host’s assertion
to the contrary, he was sure that the old man was not telling the truth.
He walked into the kitchen and came back, shaking his head. He scrambled
up to the loft, where Dick heard him prowling around, muttering to
himself. He reappeared, at length, carrying a thick woolen blanket,
which he had taken from the girl’s bed. Producing a hunting knife, he
cut this into strips about two inches wide, and in a short time had Dick
bound as securely as if he had used moosehide thongs or manilla rope.
“Kind o’ hard on you, ain’t it, Buddy,” sympathised the sailor. “If it
was me now, running this show, I’d let you go free. ’Cause we ain’t got
no particular quarrel with you. But his nibs here seems to think that
you require special attention.”
Dick and the sailor kept up a desultory conversation for the next two or
three hours, the sailor doing most of the talking. He bitterly regretted
the circumstances that had brought him here. He spoke contemptuously of
his two companions. They were not his sort. He liked neither of them.
During the day he had suffered from cold and exposure and had undergone
a terrible agony caused by blistered feet. This was no country for a
white man.
“If I had my wish right now, Buddy, I’d be aboard the ‘Elenore,’
steamin’ down along the coast,” he declared presently.
“You should have remained behind when the outlaws broke out of the
warehouse,” Dick reminded him.
“What! Stay there, an’ later on get throwed into jail? I should say not.
Even if I do have to suffer now, I can mebbe make my way back to the
States somehow.”
“They’ll get you sooner or later,” Dick argued.
“Mebbe so, but I’ll take my chances.”
The room became more quiet. The old Indian and his wife and daughter
retired to the loft, leaving the outlaws in full charge. The man, whom
Dick had hurt in his leap from the top of the ladder, had recovered
consciousness, but was as yet too dazed and shaken to do more than lie
groaning in the corner, where he had been carried. His friend—he who had
bound Dick—paid little attention either to this manifestation of
suffering or to the conversation between Dick and the sailor. In a short
time he had begun to drowse, chin on his chest, eyes half open. With a
friendly nod to Dick, the sailor rose from his place by the fire, and,
using his coat as a pillow, lay down upon the hard floor.
Two candles furnished light for the room. One had been placed on a shelf
on the wall, the other on a small table by the door, leading to the
kitchen. Except for the ruddy glare from the fireplace, there was no
other light. When the other occupants of the room had fallen asleep,
Dick rolled restlessly from side to side. Occasionally, his gaze fell
upon the candles. Both had burned low, now flickering and fluttering
eerily. The shadows deepened. When he awoke, following a fitful nap, one
of the candles had gone out. The fire also had burned low. Its feeble
red glow cast a weird and ghastly shaft of light across the floor. As
Dick turned his face to the wall, the remaining taper sputtered and
burned down.
Again sleep claimed him—this time deep and unbroken for several hours.
He was startled into wakefulness by a loud banging at the door. A match
flared through the darkness, footsteps sounded across the floor, the
bolt was slid back to admit two muffled forms. The two newcomers,
accompanied by the man who had bound Dick, strode over to the fireplace
and piled on more fuel. In the ruddy glow that sprang up shortly
afterward, Dick recognized them both—two more of the packers who had
escaped from the warehouse.
For nearly an hour, the three jabbered unabatingly in Cree. Dick was
able to understand a good deal of what was said. He followed their long,
rambling discourse with increasing interest. Here was news indeed! A
plot! The eavesdropper caught his breath, felt his pulses leap quickly.
They proposed on the following morning to set out for the warehouse to
rescue Murky and the others. But it was more than a mere rescue. It was
to be an ambuscade. From different directions they would creep up within
rifle range of the policeman and, when the first opportunity presented
itself, would riddle his body with bullets. Later on, they would shoot
Toma. As soon as Murky had been released, they would recover the fur and
travel south.
Then, with a start, Dick heard them mention him. He too would meet the
same fate as the others—only much sooner. Was it not a tedious business
to drag along a prisoner? Much more simple to dispatch him with a knife
or bullet before starting. Anyway, it was no more serious an offense to
kill three men than two. The punishment would be the same if they got
caught. But that was unthinkable. They would escape easily this time. It
would be very simple.
“Is not all this true, brothers?” inquired the chief conspirator.
There came guttural assent. Emphatic nods of confirmation.
“Is there anything to eat in the house of this doddering old spy?” one
of the newcomers wished to know.
The answer came in the negative.
“Or drink?”
“There is nothing, my brother.”
“Then we will sleep.”
They proceeded to do this with a celerity that was astonishing. Soon
their heavy snoring rumbled across the stillness of the room.
The hours passed slowly, seeming interminable. Dick slept by fits and
starts. Once he awoke, conscious of a strange feeling. Had he heard
someone moving about? He lay very still, endeavoring to catch the sound
again, but although he listened for a long time, it was not repeated. He
was almost asleep again when soft footfalls issued from the loft. A
faint cushion-like tread, a creak of the ladder, then a vague form
groping about the room.
The person, whoever it was, paused and remained perfectly still for
several tense moments. Again the soft footfalls. Another pause. The
ghostly visitor was getting closer now—almost within reach of Dick’s
arm, had he been able to use it. The figure advanced another step; a
hand groped forth experimentally. Dick’s heart almost stopped beating.
Dark as it was, he caught the gleam of a knife.
The Indian girl! A surge of elation swept over him. She stooped down and
a moment later his bonds were cut. He was free! It seemed incredible. He
was free! He could move his numb and aching limbs. Under the stress of a
great emotion, he reached up and patted his rescuer’s soft cheek. Just
then he could have shed tears of happiness.
Not even a whisper had passed between them. The girl pressed the knife
in his hand, and then, to his utter astonishment, a bulky object, which
he knew immediately was his own automatic. Abruptly she left him. The
soft footfalls across the floor, the faint creak of the ladder, a rustle
in the loft above—followed by a deep, unearthly silence. Dick lay, eyes
open wide, staring out across the room. The girl had not been heard. The
whilom packers still slept, as their deep breathing attested. His chance
had come!
He sat up cautiously, his gaze turned in the direction of the door. It
was about twelve feet away. To reach it, it would be necessary to pass
the sleeping form of the half-breed who had bound him. Trembling, he
arose, feeling his way ahead but had gone only a few steps when he
stopped short in uncertainty. No longer could he hear the man’s deep
breathing. Was he awake? Fully five minutes passed before Dick again
essayed to move, to dare take the risk. Then, gaining more confidence,
he tiptoed straight to the door, one hand reaching out to shoot the
bolt.
Two spurts of flame stabbed the dark, a hurtling form missed him by a
scant three inches as he swung open the door. He leaped outside and
started away on a run. The wind tore at his clothes. His parka slipped
from his head and fell to the ground. Through the smothering obscurity
of the night he raced wildly, in his terror imagining that he could hear
plainly the patter of footsteps behind. Never once did he slacken his
speed until he had reached the foot of the slope, leading up from the
ancient bed of the lake. Here he stopped short, choking for breath,
listening fearfully for the sound of his pursuers.
Dick did not deceive himself in believing that no attempt would be made
to recapture him. Even now the outlaws had probably left the cabin and
were in swift pursuit. He paused in the shelter of a bush to strike a
match and consult his watch. To his surprise, it was now nearly six
o’clock. Dawn would soon break and it behooved him to put as many miles
between him and his pursuers, as possible.
He went on through the pitchy darkness that obscured the earth. He had a
fair sense of direction, but at length he became confused. For all he
knew, he might be travelling miles off his course. When the first faint
light of day streaked the east, he paused in dismay. His fears were
confirmed. He had been walking south instead of west, and it would be
necessary to retrace his steps. His heart was heavy as he turned to the
right and struck off through a wilderness of rocks and trees that
encompassed him on every side.
Daylight found him on the shore of a small river, not yet frozen over,
whose icy waters cascaded down from the hills. He knew that if he
followed this stream, it would lead him eventually to the ocean. He
struggled on, conscious of fatigue and hunger. His feet were blistered
and sore. His clothing was torn. An unexpected fall on a slippery rock
had wrenched his right wrist, causing him excruciating pain. He was
moving slowly along, wondering how much farther he would be compelled to
go before he reached the coast, when a tall figure stepped out from its
concealment of rocks, less than fifty yards ahead. It was one of the
outlaws.
For a time despair choked him. Then he jumped quickly to cover and
hurried back over the selfsame route he had come.