THE MAN FROM CROOKED STICK RIVER
If, as Dick suspected possible, Pierre Govereau had overtaken them again
and somehow made off with Sandy, what then could they do? Corporal
Richardson must go on to the post at all hazards. The infection in the
officer’s wound would kill him unless medical aid were procured soon.
Yet Dick could not leave without knowing what had happened to Sandy, and
making a sincere effort to find his chum. And in that strange country he
could not find his way without the aid of Toma.
“I’ve a good idea what might have happened to Sandy,” Dick mused aloud a
little later.
“What you say?” Toma eagerly asked.
“He’s walked in his sleep two or three times in his life that I know
about, and last night he must have done it again. Now I’m sure he left
the fire after the wolves were gone. If he did then he might have fallen
into Govereau’s hands.” Dick strode back and forth in the snow, almost
beside himself.
“Oh! if some friend would only come along on the way to Fort Dunwoody,”
Dick exclaimed aloud.
“We take um sick fella to cabin,” Toma suggested. “We leave um there
when go look for Sandy.”
At his wit’s end Toma’s suggestion seemed the only way out. Dick felt
his duty to Sandy even greater than that to the minion of the northland
law, and he would not exactly be deserting the policeman if he left him
with food and firewood.
“That’s the thing to do,” Corporal Richardson spoke up from his
blankets. “The Indian has it right. The cabin is between six and eight
miles from here. You can take me there and come back and take up young
McClaren’s trail.”
Dick was glad to hear the officer’s voice, and to learn that he was once
more rational, with abated fever.
“If it’s all right with you, corporal, that’s what we’ll do. Toma, let’s
hurry.”
In a few minutes the camp where they had been held up a day and two
nights had been deserted and out across the vast, endless expanse of
snow, Toma and Dick toiled in the dog traces, dragging the wounded
policeman.
They had gone some two miles and were resting when suddenly they were
startled by the sound of a dog driver’s voice from over the knoll they
had just coasted down. Was it friend or enemy? Dick prayed it was a
friend as he hurried to the top of the little hill and looked.
A team of eight dogs, followed by a lone man, swinging a long whip, was
coming along the trail they had made in the snow. Dick waited till the
man had come a little nearer. Then he revealed himself. The man saw him
almost immediately, and drew his dog team to a slower pace. The stranger
seemed suspicious as to Dick’s identity, but the evident distress of the
young man on the hill reassured him. He came on to within hailing
distance, and stopped his team, raising his rifle.
“If you’re one of that Henderson gang,” called the man threateningly,
“I’ll plug you where you stand.”
Dick breathed a sigh of relief. “We’re bound for Fort Dunwoody,” he
replied. “We’ve got a wounded policeman on our sled and have only one
dog.”
Satisfied that Dick was telling the truth, the shouted to his dogs and
came on. A moment later he joined Dick and Toma alongside the sled.
“By gar, I tink I never get out of dat country.” the newcomer, appearing
to be a French-Indian, mopped his brow. “That Pierre Govereau one tough
customer. Yah!”
“You came in a nick of time,” Dick returned.
“One of our party has disappeared, we think he’s been captured. Now
we’re trying to get a wounded policeman to a place of safety while I and
my guide take a look for my chum. My name’s Dick Kent,” he held out his
hand.
“Me, I’m Gaston Leroi,” announced the stranger, shaking with French
warmth, “that Henderson’s man Govereau kill my partner up on Crooked
Stick River. I get away pretty lucky.”
“And it’s lucky for us you got away,” Dick replied with spirit. He
stepped to the sled and stopped over the wounded officer. “Corporal
Richardson, here’s a man who can help us out,” Dick told the officer.
“Thank God,” murmured the policeman. “What’s his name?”
“Gaston Leroi.”
“Gaston Leroi!” exclaimed the corporal with more strength in his voice
than had been there for hours. “Not the trapper Leroi. Hey! Bring him
around where I can see him.”
At the sound of the wounded man’s voice the French trapper had leaped
forward where he could see the officer’s face.
“By gar!” exclaimed Leroi. “George Richardson! What them fellers do to
you, George?”
Dick was overjoyed to discover the men were old friends.
“Gaston, you won’t mind doing something for me?” he heard the corporal
saying.
“Sacre diable! Do I mind!” Gaston exclaimed.
“It’s like this,” the corporal went on, “these young fellows want to go
back and look for their partner, but they won’t leave me. Could you haul
me to the fort?”
The trapper vociferously expressed his willingness to do this for his
friend, Constable Richardson.
“They’re out of ammunition too,” revealed the corporal. “Just had a long
fight with a pack of hungry wolves. Can you spare some ammunition,
Gaston?”
“What kind of gun you got?” the trapper turned to Dick.
“Ross 30.30,” Dick replied anxiously.
Leroi’s face fell. He turned to Toma.
“I got um 45.70 Winchester,” Toma anticipated the trapper’s question.
“Me, I use 45.70!” Gaston Leroi exclaimed with pleasure and turned back
to Dick, saying: “I use revolver. Like heem better dan rifle. I take
your gun. You take mine. Huh?”
“Suits me,” replied Dick gratefully.
Leroi dived into his packs and soon brought out several boxes of
ammunition, with which Dick and Toma filled their pockets.
A half hour later Dick and Toma bid goodbye to Gaston Leroi, and watched
his dog team, hauling the wounded corporal, disappear over a long hill.
Then the two boys set out over the back trail at a jog trot. They were
determined not to rest their heads until they had discovered what had
become of Sandy.
“Do you think it was Govereau?” Dick asked Toma as they hurried along.
“I not know,” replied Toma, who was slightly in the lead. “Tracks show
only two fella keetch Sandy. Hope snow no more; if not we trail um
easy.”
They did not speak again until they had reached the scene of their
battle with the wolves, where they picked up the trail.
“They’re going north,” Dick spoke, after studying the tracks. “It must
be some of Henderson’s men, though it seems queer Govereau would come
this far south.”
“That Govereau, he bad fella; he go everywhere. No ’fraid anybody. Mebbe
I see that Many Scar.”
Dick fell silent at the mention of the scar faced Indian. He knew Toma
was thinking of his dead brother, and was planning revenge if he met the
murderer, who he believed to be the scar faced Indian. Dick knew nothing
to say which would change Toma’s mind in this respect, so he said
nothing as they forged onward at a mile-eating pace.
They had traveled nearly ten miles into a deeply wooded vicinity, when
the tracks began to grow fresher, and they slowed their pace. Presently
they rounded a bend, and in a tiny valley, drained by a winding, frozen
creek, they came upon an Indian village of a dozen tepees.
Toma seemed as surprised as Dick at the discovery.
“Um war party,” Toma replied immediately. “No good Injun if um fight
White Father.”
“How can you tell they’re a war party?” inquired Dick.
“No squaws, no papooses,” replied Toma abruptly.
As Toma had said there were no women or children to be seen in the camp.
And at different points along the fringe of trees around the clearing,
Dick made out dusky sentinels, armed with long rifles, with feathers in
their beaver bonnets.
“The tracks lead down into the village, so Sandy must be there
somewhere,” Dick mused aloud.
The larger portion of the party of Indians who had thrown up their
caribou hide tepees in the valley, seemed to be absent. Here and there a
warrior squatted before a cooking fire, his rifle leaning close beside
him.
“Look!” Dick suddenly pointed.
A white man had come out of one of the tepees and was walking slowly
toward the creek.
“I see um,” said Toma. “Guess him one Govereau’s men. Huh? Him Henderson
got plenty bad Indian work for him.”
“Then Govereau has joined forces with these Indians,” Dick’s spirits
fell. “It will be one big job getting Sandy away from him now. I wonder
which tepee he is in—er—” he was about to wonder if Sandy was alive, but
dared not trust the words on his tongue. It was too horrible to speak
of—that Pierre Govereau had murdered his chum.
“We wait till dark,” Toma voiced the resolve of both.
At twilight the boys saw a large party come in from the north, in which
there were a number of whites. They were loaded down with furs, which
they probably had stolen. Dick thought he recognized the figure of the
half-breed Pierre Govereau, but could not be certain at that distance.
Slowly darkness fell and the campfires flung out flickering shadows on
the sloping walls of tepees and over the figures of the warriors
squatted around them.
“I make believe I one of them,” Toma whispered presently. “I go
down—find out where Sandy is.”
“It’s an awful risk,” Dick tried to object, “and you aren’t dressed like
they are.”
“I fix that. You wait here—no, you come down closer. Be ready to shoot,
you hear trouble. Jump ’round when you shoot. Make um think you whole
army. I ketch um Sandy.”
Though Dick feared Toma would come to grief, he could do nothing but let
the courageous young guide take the chance, hoping, if worst came to
worst, and Toma was discovered, that he might draw the attention of the
Indians long enough for his red friend to escape.
Toma crawled off down the slope toward the camp, Dick followed him for a
little way, until he reached a heavy copse of brush where he felt he was
within good rifle range of the camp. Toma went on and disappeared,
Dick’s whispered wish of “good luck” following him.
As Dick lay there waiting he could see on the side of the camp nearest
him, the shadowy figure of a warrior sentinel, standing motionless by a
tree, silhouetted by the light of one of the fires. Dick raised his
rifle and drew bead on the guard. It was this warrior who would discover
Toma, if any did, and Dick watched intently for a motion that would
indicate the guard had seen something unusual.
He watched for possibly five minutes, when of a sudden another figure
arose between him and the shadowy guard. There was a swift movement of
the two shadows; they swayed violently, then the guard fell and the
other stooped over him. Then both disappeared in the dark underbrush.
Dick held his breath. Toma had attacked the guard and knocked him down.
In a flash Dick saw Toma’s plan—the young Indian would change clothes
with the warrior and creep into the camp, casually joining the others.
Gripping his rifle, Dick awaited developments. What would happen in the
next hour he did not know, but he hoped for the best.