THE RIFLED CACHE
Dick and Sandy had crouched in hiding for upwards of a half hour before
Toma returned. He came as he had gone, silently, like a ghost almost, so
stealthy were his movements, so clever his woodcraft.
“What did you find?” whispered Dick, anxiously.
“Two, t’ree—five bad fellas,” Toma counted on his fingers. “One Pierre
Govereau lead um. They got um spring for tonight. We go round um. Got
to. Them fellas friends Bear Henderson. They watch um trail for police.
’Fraid police go to Fort Good Faith.”
Dick and Sandy exchanged glances. Their weariness was temporarily
forgotten in this new peril. They began to understand the far-reaching
power of the man who had captured Sandy’s uncle and had taken possession
of Fort Good Faith on the edge of the northern wilderness.
“We go,” Toma urged, his only excitement revealed by the swift movements
of his eyes as they roved this way and that.
Silently the Indian guide melted into the underbrush, Dick immediately
behind him, Sandy in the rear. For nearly two hundred yards they went
onward, almost at snail’s pace. It was twilight now. Long shadows of
tree and bush stretched everywhere.
At last Toma signaled for them to stop. Dick and Sandy dropped flat. Not
more than three hundred feet ahead a campfire twinkled through the
trees, and, motionless, between them and the fire, stood a silent
figure, with rifle on his shoulder. It was a guard. Dick divined the
figure, so like the tree trunk against which it stood, had even escaped
the sharp eyes of Toma at first.
Four men were sitting around the campfire, and they could hear the
mutter of gruff voices. Once or twice a louder than usual exclamation in
French arose above the other sounds. It seemed the leader of the party
was haranguing his men, or disciplining one of them.
Suddenly Dick started and clutched Sandy’s arm.
“That guard!” he exclaimed under his breath. “It’s the scar faced
Indian!”
Sandy paled a little. It seemed almost impossible that the Indian could
have gotten ahead of them. His appearance was as mysterious as had been
their glimpses of him at Fort du Lac and along the Big Smokey river.
Toma was motioning for them to bear to the right. They crawled off after
the guide in that direction.
Neither Dick nor Sandy knew which of them made too much noise, or
revealed some part of his body, yet they had crawled no further than a
dozen paces when the guard moved, turned and looked straight at them.
Toma, watching over his shoulder, fell flat, Dick and Sandy following
his example. Had they been seen?
The guard, his rifle ready for use, started slowly toward them. Tensely,
Dick and Sandy watched Toma for a sign as to what course to take. They
saw Toma slowly turn to his side. The guide swung his rifle to his
shoulder as he lay.
Just as the guard cried out, Toma fired.
The scar faced Indian whirled, dropped his rifle and fell to his knees,
clutching at one shoulder. Dick and Sandy got a glimpse of the men at
the fire leaping up and snatching their rifles, as they took to their
heels after Toma.
For several minutes they sprinted in the wake of the young Indian’s
flying heels, hearing behind the crash of their pursuers through the
underbrush, and their cries to one another.
Then, before a hollow tree, half covered by the dead branches of a
lightning-blasted pine tree, Toma halted suddenly. He motioned to them
to follow and disappeared into the half-obscured hole in the tree. Dick
and Sandy slipped in after him. There was barely enough room in the tree
for three to stand upright, but they managed to crowd in, while Toma
quickly arranged the dead branches over the hole until their hiding
place was entirely covered from view.
The distant shouts grew louder, as the men beat the brush looking for
them. Two came closer and closer, until at last they stopped before the
hollow tree, so near that the three hidden feared their heavy breathing
might be heard.
“I thought I saw ’em go this way,” one said, in a harsh voice.
“Mebbe so,” the other, apparently an Indian, answered. “It look like
they jump in air an’ fly away.”
“Pierre sure will give us the devil if we let ’em get away,” said the
first. “Can’t blame him. Henderson will skin him alive if these trails
aren’t kept clean of Hudson’s Bay men and mounties.”
“I see bush move over d’er!” the Indian ejaculated.
The two men moved off in another direction, and the boys in the hollow
tree breathed easier.
“No go yet,” Toma advised. “Wait till all quiet.”
The minutes passed slowly while they waited in their cramped position.
The shouts of the searchers grew fainter as they apparently abandoned
the chase. Presently all was still. Toma peeped out through the branches
covering the entrance to the hollow tree. After looking carefully about,
the guide pushed back the branches and stepped out. Dick and Sandy
followed. They were learning lessons in woodcraft every hour from this
child of the forest.
“I think we ought to go back to the camp, steal up close and see if we
can’t learn something of your Uncle Walter, Sandy,” Dick announced.
“Is it worth the risk?” Sandy came back. “Can’t we do better by hurrying
on to Fort Dunwoody?”
“It’s true we can’t do much without the aid of the mounted police,” Dick
studied. “Yet I’d like to know, if it’s possible, just what has been
done with your uncle—how they’re treating him.”
Dick asked Toma what he thought of trying to learn something by
eavesdropping. “If you think um best thing do,” Toma replied. “That scar
face got best ears of all. He wounded now. Not much good; what say I
try?”
“No, you’ve done plenty of this already, Toma,” Dick was firm. “I’ll go
this time. You wait here where you can cover me with your guns if I am
detected.”
Toma, assured Dick was determined to go, grunted his assent, and a
moment later Dick disappeared into the bushes on his perilous venture.
Sandy and Toma crawled back to within gunshot of the camp, where the men
had gathered again, gesticulating to one another, plainly undecided what
to do.
When Dick left his chum and the guide he realized the danger he faced.
Yet he knew any information he might gain would be more than valuable to
the police when once he got in touch with them. Govereau’s men were
talking so loudly that he had little trouble in overhearing them. The
leader’s heavy voice broke out in French, which disappointed Dick, for
he knew very little French. Then Govereau changed to broken English,
evidently for the benefit of a member of his band who did not understand
French.
“We go on queeck, ketch them,” Govereau was saying. “Sure t’ing them
fella are zee ver’ ones come from Fort du Lac. That devil Many-Scar an’
them others—they let zem get through Little Moose, I bat. We go.”
The four began breaking camp hurriedly. The scar faced Indian was
reclining with one arm in a crude sling. He arose with the others and
rolled up his blanket with one hand, as if nothing were wrong with him.
Dick was disappointed in not hearing anything regarding the situation at
Fort Good Faith. But, as he could think of nothing to do about it, he
edged about and crept back to Sandy and Toma.
“They’re breaking camp,” he told his companions. “They think we’ve gone
on ahead. Suppose we fool them and camp right here after they leave.”
Toma’s face lighted up and Sandy was jubilant at the chance to rest his
weary legs. A few minutes later, hidden in the bushes, they watched
Govereau and his four men string out on the trail and quietly disappear
into the forest. They got a close look at the leader of the band as he
passed, and Dick and Sandy could not suppress a shiver of dread. The man
had an exceedingly evil and cruel face.
Dick hid his disappointment in learning nothing of Henderson’s movements
and of Sandy’s uncle in his elation at this opportunity to camp where
Toma had planned. They would be fresh for a long hike next day, which
would take them to the hidden cache of provisions.
Toma said little while they prepared their scanty meal, which was for
the most part, bear steak. Every now and then the guide looked up at the
sky and sniffed the air.
“Storm pretty soon. Winter come. Heap big blizzard few days,” he finally
confided to Dick and Sandy.
“That means we’ve got to make a raise of a dog team,” Dick said, tearing
off a huge hunk of cold bear meat.
“Good thing Mr. MacLean gave you that money,” Sandy observed.
Dick agreed with his chum, stifling a yawn. Already his eyes were
closing. Toma consented to take the first watch, and in a few moments
Dick and Sandy were sound asleep in their blankets.
The night passed without incident, Dick and Sandy taking their turns on
watch. At dawn they were on the trail again, leaving camp hungry. They
hesitated to shoot at any small game for fear Govereau’s men might be
near. Toward noon, however, Dick’s gnawing stomach got the better of his
caution, and he knocked over a partridge. They made a short stop,
broiled the partridge and divided it.
Appetites a little appeased, they were off again, hoping to make the
cache of provisions on Limping Dog Creek by nightfall. Late in the
afternoon they trudged down into the canyon designated by MacLean on the
map.
It was twilight when the canyon walls widened and grew less precipitous.
Toma said they were nearing Limping Dog Creek. Sandy was hobbling from a
slight sprain received when he tripped over a root, and Dick was far
from fresh.
“Flapjacks will sure taste good,” Dick murmured.
“Amen,” Sandy groaned in answer.
When at last they came in sight of the creek, Toma stopped to compare
landmarks with the map.
“There um three trees,” Toma pointed to some huge balmagiliad trees that
stood out from the smaller jack pines like giants.
They hurried forward. Martin MacLean had said the cache was in the third
of the three big trees nearest the creek. They speedily reached the tree
and Toma climbed it. He was gone for some time, Dick and Sandy straining
their eyes upward through the dark foliage.
Toma came down much slower than he had gone up. As he dropped to the
turf, Dick and Sandy awaited anxiously his report.
“Him gone,” said Toma briefly. “Cache not there!”
Dick’s eyes narrowed, and Sandy’s countenance grew glum indeed.
“Maybe this isn’t the tree,” Dick ventured.
“Him right tree,” Toma was certain.
“It must have been Govereau’s men,” Dick spoke, after a short silence.
“Mebbe so,” Toma grunted.