MACKENZIE’S LANDING
The plunge into the river revived both Dick and Sandy. Gasping, they
came up for air, only to breathe the choking smoke and gases of the
burning forest. They knew that the canoe was upside down and that their
packs were in the bottom of the river. The bear was nowhere to be seen.
“Are you all right, Sandy?” called Dick, hoarsely.
“You bet,” Sandy replied, a bit faintly.
Among the burning brands sizzling in the water, and the flying sparks,
they struggled with the canoe. In a few minutes they had righted it,
though it was half full of water. The paddles, they could see, had gone
with the packs.
“Look for a paddle!” shouted Dick. “They must be floating around
somewhere.”
“There! I see one,” Sandy dived off as he spoke, and swam back quickly
with a paddle in one hand.
But look as they did they could not locate the other paddle.
“We can’t look any longer. We’ll have to change off with one paddle,”
Dick called a little later.
Dick paddling, they started on. The heat still was stifling, but they
felt that the air was growing cooler. The wind seemed in their faces,
which would tend to bear the fire back along the river. Wild animals of
all kinds still could be seen in the water, wallowing along the shore or
swimming the stream. But they had no more dangerous encounters with the
frightened beasts.
Two hours of paddling, shifting the paddle back and forth between them
as soon as one grew tired, and they came to a comparatively clear
stretch of water. Here the fire was deeper in the forest, and had not
eaten out to the bank yet. In greedy gasps, Dick and Sandy drew in the
gusts of cool, pure air that were wafted over them.
“Look back, Sandy,” Dick called.
The whole sky was a mass of red flames behind them, and an ocean of
smoke was rolling ceaselessly upward.
“Mackenzie’s Landing can’t be much further,” Sandy said when they had
looked their last upon the great fire.
“No, we ought to make it by night. We’ll have to make it or camp without
grub or blankets. I prefer going on,” Dick stated.
“So do I,” Sandy rejoined.
Some distance further on, as they rounded a huge bend in the stream,
they could not suppress a cheer. In the distance they could see the
shoulder of a high, barren bluff which was the ten-mile landmark on the
trip to Mackenzie’s Landing.
It was late in the afternoon when in the distance they at last viewed
the stockade and roofs of Malcolm Mackenzie’s trading post. Blackened
and disheveled, nearly exhausted, they guided their canoe to the pier,
where three half-breeds were watching them curiously. The half-breeds
helped them secure their canoe, and listened without comment to some of
their story of the eventful journey.
“Malcolm Mackenzie, he sick,” one of the half-breeds told them. “No can
go. Him burned bad when fight with fire.”
“Did you hear that?” Dick turned to Sandy.
“Yes—just our luck. Now what?” Sandy returned, a little disheartened, as
the half-breeds led the way into the stockade.
“We can talk to Mr. Mackenzie, can’t we?” Dick asked one of the men, as
they entered the post.
“Yah, I guess.”
Presently, they were ushered into a room smelling of liniment and
arnica. On a bunk lay Malcolm Mackenzie, his head and one arm swathed in
bandages. Evidently he was suffering considerably from serious burns. He
turned his head as the boys came in.
“Bear Henderson has captured Fort Good Faith,” Dick blurted out. “My
friend’s uncle has been imprisoned. Mr. MacLean sent us to you. He said
you would lead us to the mounted police post at Fort Dunwoody.”
“I’ve feared this,” Malcolm Mackenzie’s eyes narrowed, “but you see how
it is with me, boys. I can’t travel. Got some bad burns while fighting
that forest fire. But I can send an Indian who knows the trail.” He
turned to one of the half-breeds, who was standing behind Dick and
Sandy. “Send in Little John Toma,” he commanded.
A little later Dick and Sandy saw a young Indian enter. He was handsome
in a dark, inscrutable way, and though not very tall, was powerfully
built. He stood respectfully at attention, seeming more intelligent than
many of his kind.
“Toma,” Mackenzie spoke, “I want you to lead these young men to Fort
Dunwoody as fast as you can. Travel light. You ought to make it in four
days if everything goes right.” He turned back to the boys. “Did MacLean
say anything about a cache of grub along the way?”
“Yes,” Dick reached into his pocket and drew out the map the trader had
drawn indicating the position of the cache of food on the trail to Fort
Dunwoody.
Mackenzie took the map, glanced at it and handed it to Toma. “It’s on
Limping Dog Creek,” said Mackenzie, “just where that gorge you follow
intersects the stream. You know the place.” To Dick and Sandy:
“Introduce yourselves and get acquainted. Toma will get everything ready
for you to go on. Take a rest as soon as you eat. Oh, Calico, Calico!”
he called to some one.
As the boys and Little John Toma passed out, a large, waddling Indian
woman came in. They heard Mackenzie instructing her to get a meal ready
for his visitors before the bear-skin curtain dropped behind them and
they found themselves in the spacious living room of the post.
Dick and Sandy awkwardly introduced themselves to the young Indian who
was to be their guide.
“Glad to meet,” Toma surprised them by saying, his teeth flashing
whitely in a smile.
Dick and Sandy quickly felt that they were going to like Toma.
“I’ll bet he’s the son of a chief,” Sandy said to Dick, when the young
Indian had gone, and they were busy at the wash bench, scrubbing off
some of the smoke and ashes of the forest fire.
The boys ate heartily of the food the Indian woman placed before them on
the rough board table. As soon as they were through they were shown to a
comfortable bunk behind moose-hide curtains. Scarcely had they lay down
when they fell into sound slumber.
It seemed to Dick Kent that he had only been asleep a moment when a
hand, gently shaking his shoulder, awakened him. He looked up into the
smiling face of Toma, the young guide.
“Time to go,” said Toma. “You wake up other fella.”
As the curtains fell, and Toma disappeared, Dick turned and shook Sandy.
An hour later they bid goodbye to Malcolm Mackenzie and wished him
speedy recovery from his burns. The canoe lay ready packed with
provisions at the landing when they arrived there. Toma was starting to
push off. Dick and Sandy hopped in, and Toma sprang lightly into the
bow.
“Now for Fort Dunwoody,” Dick breathed a sigh of relief.
“If I wasn’t an optimist,” Sandy added, “I’d say we aren’t there yet by
a long shot.”
Toma silently sculled the craft into the center of the river, and they
were once more floating down the stream. The boys marveled at Toma’s
deftness with the paddle, though they themselves were experts. The young
Indian seemed able to make the canoe fly with his quick, powerful
strokes.
A half hour of paddling and the roofs of Mackenzie’s Landing had
disappeared in the haze of the morning, and once more the walls of the
silent spruce forest closed in on either side of them.
Late that night they camped some twenty miles from the trading post, in
a little clearing at the river’s edge. Toma mentioned “bear sign,” and
so they hung up their flour and bacon on a tree bough for fear a bear
might get it.
Sandy kept first watch while Toma and Dick slept.
It was a dark night. Only the stars were out, and when the fire died
down Sandy scarcely could see a dozen paces from the camp. Occasionally
he glanced into the shadows, listening to the mysterious sounds of the
forest, and starting up at each crackle of a twig or rustle of
undergrowth.
Sandy wondered if the men on their trail had been thrown off, and
imagined what he would do if they would suddenly attack. As he thought
of the dangers threatening Dick and him, his hand tightened on his
rifle.
It was nearly eleven o’clock, the time he was to call Toma for the
second watch, when Sandy became conscious of some sinister presence.
Before he really saw or heard anything, he shivered and looked fearfully
about into the gloom of the forest.
A scratching and grunting noise attracted his attention to the tree
where they had hung up the flour and bacon. It seemed he could hear the
shuffle of heavy feet and the wheeze of giant lungs as he listened
intently.
“I won’t call Dick and Toma,” thought Sandy. “It may be only my
imagination. I’ll go see what it is.”
Heart beating wildly, Sandy commenced to creep toward the point he had
heard the noises. He could see nothing in the dark, yet as he strained
his eyes it seemed to him that one portion of the blackness was blacker
than the rest.
Suddenly, he heard the crashing of a splintered tree bough. A low,
vibrating growl followed, and Sandy dropped upon his stomach. There came
a slapping, thumping sound, then an angry growling and tussling. The
dark blot lurched downward. Sandy raised his rifle and blazed away at
the shape. A rambling roar rose in the night.
“Dick! Toma!” cried Sandy, as he turned about and fled, hearing behind
him the rush of a heavy body pursuing him.