TOMA AND A COLD SNAP
With bated breath Dick and Sandy awaited some sign of the identity of
the person who was entering so stealthily. Was it the scar faced Indian
coming for vengeance, or was it—the warmth from the other room was
rushing in. It was Toma’s voice that came to them.
“Quick! Come! Govereau gone long way.”
Hearts leaping with joy, Dick and Sandy joined the young guide in the
darkness. He led them out into the larger room, picking his way with a
certainty that revealed he could see in the dark.
“Watch for one fella on floor. I hit him on head with rifle,” Toma
whispered. “Govereau’s men all go to post ten miles south where they
drink fire-water. Govereau heap mad. Him after them. They come back
anytime. He take me long with um. I run away. He know what I do now. You
bet he know.”
Toma swung open the cabin door, and Dick and Sandy followed him out. It
was so cold their teeth commenced chattering almost immediately. They
buttoned up their jackets and hurried off into the night.
“We’ll make Fort Dunwoody yet,” Dick shivered, almost gladly.
“I’ll say we will,” Sandy came back.
Then they fell silent as they took Toma’s tireless, jogging pace,
beneath a cloudy sky. Again the Indian’s trail wisdom came in like a
God-send. Dick and Sandy did not know where they were going, but they
had a feeling that Toma certainly did.
How long they ran they did not know when they began to feel damp spots
on their cheeks and hands.
“It’s snowing,” Dick panted over his shoulder.
“I know it,” wheezed Sandy.
“Ought to cover our trail,” Dick came back.
“I guess so, but I can’t talk. I’ve got to save my wind. You must be
made of iron.”
Dick said no more, and presently Toma slowed down. It was snowing
heavily now, and with the going getting harder underfoot, Dick and Sandy
were grateful for the slackening of the pace. Yet they sensed something
unusual ahead had been the cause of it, and were not perfectly at ease
by any means.
Finally Toma came to a dead stop at the edge of a clearing. Peering
ahead through the gloom and the falling snow, they could see the lights
of a cabin twinkling.
“You stay here; I go on,” Toma instructed in a low voice. “My brother
live here. Him give us warm clothes. I see if all right first. Wait for
me.”
Dick and Sandy hovered in the undergrowth and watched Toma’s figure melt
away into the gloom in the direction of the cabin.
“I hope he gets some clothes for us,” Sandy chattered.
“And I’m glad Govereau didn’t take my wallet,” said Dick. “We can pay
for what we get now.”
“The Frenchman didn’t think we had any money, I suppose,” Sandy opined.
They fell silent then, for against the lighted window they could see a
head silhouetted through the falling snow. Toma was peering in at the
window. For an instant the guide’s head was outlined there, then it
disappeared. Presently a shaft of light shot out over the snow as the
door opened and closed. A moment later the door opened again, though the
boys could not see who entered.
Dick and Sandy expected Toma to come back for them almost immediately,
or at least signal that all was right. But the minutes passed and the
guide did not return nor make a sign. The boys began to worry.
“What do you suppose is keeping him?” Dick wondered.
“I don’t know,” Sandy replied, “but I do know I can’t stand still in
this cold much longer.”
“We’ll circle around the cabin and come in closer,” Dick directed. “If
something has happened we want to be sure we don’t get into trouble,
too. Toma’s brother may have been killed by Henderson’s men. The country
seems to be alive with the villains.”
Silently they started around the cabin. Half way around, Dick stumbled
and fell over something in the snow. Sandy stopped dead and a gasp of
horror came from his lips.
“Dick!” he exclaimed. “You’ve fallen over a dead man!”
Dick got up, more shaken by the identity of the thing he had fallen over
than by the fall.
Covered by the light film of snow that had fallen, and which was
steadily growing heavier, was the body of a man. In the gloom they could
not distinguish his features, but they were put on their guard. Armed
only with their hunting knives, they felt that the utmost caution must
be exercised in further advances.
“Toma’s in trouble. I know it now!” Dick ejaculated.
“Well, it’s up to us to get him out,” Sandy retorted.
Drawing their knives they started stealthily for the cabin. They could
hear no sound of life, and the knowledge of what was lying behind them
under the snow made the atmosphere doubly fearsome.
At last they reached the single window through which they had seen Toma
look into the cabin. Dick cautiously raised his eyes over the sill. He
looked only an instant, then he quickly ducked downward.
“It’s the scar faced Indian!” he made the astounding disclosure to
Sandy. “And there’s another with him. They have Toma bound. He’s lying
on the bunk. I could see his eyes. They’re playing cards and talking.
How in the world did they ever catch Toma?”
“That Indian again,” muttered Sandy. “How the deuce did he get here
anyway. We saw him last at Govereau’s camp. It’s ghostly the way that
fellow shows up everywhere.”
“Govereau must have sent him here on some dirty business,” Dick decided.
“Perhaps Toma’s brother had valuable furs stored here.”
With mutual consent they crawled away from the cabin and hid in the
trees at the edge of the clearing, where they tried to decide on a plan
by which to rescue Toma. That they had a good chance of success they
were sure. The scar-faced Indian had the use of but one arm since the
wound Toma had given him, so they had but one real man to deal with.
Still they were as well as unarmed. What could they do?
“I’ll tell you what,” Dick was speaking fast. “You go out into the woods
and begin calling for help, anything to get one of them out of the
cabin. Then I’ll slip in and see if I can’t take care of the other one
and get hold of a rifle. The Indian will probably stay inside, and
wounded as he is I’m sure I can handle him.”
“Gee! That’s a ghostly job you have for me to do,” Sandy whispered
ruefully.
“We’ve got to do it, Sandy,” urged Dick. “It won’t hurt to try. You keep
hidden, and when one of them comes out to see what’s wrong, keep quiet.
I’ll do the rest.”
Dick and Sandy gripped hands, then parted. Dick crept around to a point
opposite the door of the cabin, waiting tensely until Sandy began his
part of the ruse. He did not have to wait long. Presently, from afar in
the forest, a shriek as of some one in mortal agony, arose. Sandy was
doing well.
“H-e-l-p, oh, h-e-l-p,” his voice rang out, high and shrill.
Sandy repeated his call several times, then the cabin door opened, and
as Dick had hoped, the scar faced Indian’s companion came out. He had a
rifle in his hands.
Again Sandy’s cry rang out from a little further off. The man hesitated
no longer, but stepped from the cabin door and walked across the
clearing into the trees to investigate. He disappeared in the direction
of Sandy’s unearthly wailing.
Dick ran forward across the clearing, his moccasins making no noise in
the snow. He remembered that the scar faced Indian had been sitting at
the table facing the window. Therefore, if he had not changed his
position, his back would be to the door.
Pausing before the door, Dick found it open a crack. Cautiously he
pushed it open a little more and peered in. The Indian still was sitting
with his back to the door. He was idly shuffling the cards. Against the
bunk where Toma lay bound, Dick could see a rifle leaning. One leap
across the floor and he would have this rifle. It was a desperate
chance, but he must make the best of it.
Swift as a panther, Dick threw open the door and leaped in. The
astonished Indian was scarcely half out of his chair when Dick had the
rifle in his hands.
“Hands up!” he cried.
Whether the Indian understood English or not, Dick did not know, but his
words had the required effect. Slowly the scar-faced Indian turned his
ugly face upon his captor, his mouth twisted into an evil, smirking
grin. Dick stepped forward and drew the revolver from his captive’s belt
and tossed it into a corner. Then he backed toward the bunk with the
rifle still trained on the Indian. Quickly, he drew his knife and
slashed Toma’s bonds.
“Ha! Now we got um!” Toma tore the gag from his mouth, leaned up and
picked up the revolver Dick had thrown away. In a trice, then, Toma had
lashed the scar-faced Indian to his chair.
Dick already was expecting the return of the Indian’s companion. With
the Indian secured, both Toma and he turned their attention to the door.
With bated breath they waited and listened for approaching footfalls.