THE ATTACK ON THE FORT
The tepees of the Indian village were arranged in a hollow square, and
in the midst of this were gathered more than fifty warriors, arrayed for
battle.
“Isn’t it a fearful sight!” exclaimed Sandy.
“I’d hate to have them catch me alone in the forest,” Dick responded.
“They’ll help us do for Henderson,” Sergeant Brewster remarked at their
elbow. “The spy came in an hour ago. He reports that Henderson has about
ten half-breeds and thirty Indians holding the fort. They don’t dream of
an attack. Henderson thinks Govereau is taking care of the police.”
“Did the spy find out anything about Uncle Walter?” Sandy queried
anxiously.
“I was coming to that,” continued the sergeant. “It seems that Henderson
has imprisoned him in a cave about a mile from the fort. The spy
believes he can find the cave from what he overheard while inside the
stockade. I’ll detail you fellows to go after the factor. But don’t
leave until we’re sure we’ve taken the fort—that comes first. Toma and
Malemute Slade will accompany, with the spy as a guide.”
They were interrupted by Malemute Slade and Constable Marden driving up
with the dog team.
“Wal, boys,” grinned Malemute Slade, “we’re off for another tussle. As
f’r me I can’t get to it too soon.”
Dick and Sandy laughed and fell into line. The band of Indians already
had started out. They left the village amid the lamentations of Indian
women and the loud barking of the dogs.
They traveled slowly, Sergeant Brewster explaining that they must not
reach Fort Good Faith until nightfall, if they were to surprise
Henderson. Scouts were sent on ahead to report any appearance of
Henderson’s men.
Just before dark the war party came to a halt on the slope of a hill,
from the top of which they could see Fort Good Faith not far away. Dick
and Sandy gazed upon the stockade in awe. They had traveled more than
six hundred miles since leaving Fort du Lac, and at last within sight of
the post, they felt rewarded for all the hardships they had gone through
in an effort to rescue Sandy’s uncle.
“We’ll have to keep out of sight till after dark—that’s all that bothers
me,” chafed Sandy. “I wish we were climbing the stockade right now.”
Sergeant Brewster called to them just then. “Here’s the spy,” he
presented a somber Indian. “He’ll stay close by you until it’s time for
you to go after your uncle. Take your orders from Malemute Slade.”
Worked up to a frenzy by their war dances, the warriors were eager to
attack, and it was all the policemen and the chiefs could do to hold
them back until nightfall.
The minutes seemed like hours. But darkness slowly fell, and the hour of
the attack approached. The Indians grew quieter then. At a word from the
sergeant the war party started on toward the fort.
All was silent until they were under the very walls of the stockade,
then the Indians gave vent to a horrible war cry, and like so many
chipmunks clambered over the stockade. The first inside rushed the guard
at the gate and swung it open for the rest of the party. Rifles and
revolvers flashed in the darkness everywhere, and combined with the
cries of the Indians, made a deafening racket.
Dick dropped down from the top of the palisades on the heels of Malemute
Slade, Sandy and Toma following him. Suddenly he heard Sandy cry out:
“Help, Dick!”
Dick turned and ran toward the sound, his rifle clubbed in his hands. In
the gloom he could see Sandy struggling in the grip of a brawny
half-breed, Dick’s gun stock swept down, and Sandy’s adversary rolled
over and lay still.
“Come on, Sandy. Let’s not lose Malemute,” Dick called.
They could see the policemen concentrating their attack on the door of
the post residence, which had been hastily barricaded.
“Up an’ at ’em,” Malemute bellowed as he rushed to join the mounted
police. Three half-breeds leaped out of the shadows and barred the big
scout’s way. Malemute fired once, swung his fists twice, and the
half-breeds were trampled underfoot.
The surprise attack was over as quickly as it had begun. Dick and Sandy
saw a huge, long-haired man come to the door in answer to the sergeant’s
demand for surrender, and watched the handcuffs snapped upon the
outlaw’s wrists. It was the first look at the man behind all the
trouble. Henderson’s name fitted him, they decided. He looked much like
a grizzly in man’s clothing.
“That wasn’t half a fight,” Malemute Slade complained. “Now if that
pesky spy would show up we’d skip out for the prisoner.”
“There he is!” Dick exclaimed.
The Indian spy and Toma both were approaching at a run.
“Lead on there,” Malemute sang out to the spy. “We’ll be a’ter the
factor now—double quick.”
Led by the spy, the five left the stockade in the hands of the mounted
police, and hurried off into the night.
It was hard going through the deep snow, but the spy seemed to be sure
of the way. Only once did the Indian seem confused. Then he paused while
the rest waited impatiently. Then they were off again.
Presently they came to a narrow canyon. Dick, Sandy and Toma were
running close together. Malemute Slade and the Indian spy were slightly
in the lead.
Suddenly the spy stopped dead, emitting a guttural exclamation.
“Down!” cried Malemute.
Scarcely had all five dropped flat when a hoarse voice sounded,
seemingly out of the wall of the canyon:
“Who’s there?”
“You’ll shore find out in a minute,” retorted Malemute boldly. “Jest
come out where we can see the color o’ y’r whiskers.”
“If you think much of y’r hide you better skidaddle,” replied the voice,
threateningly.
“Haw, haw,” called Malemute. “You’ll be the one to do the skidaddlin’
when we finish with yuh.”
Silence followed, while Dick strained his eyes to see from whence the
voice came.
“It’s from the cave,” Sandy whispered.
Nerves at snapping pitch, the young adventurers awaited the orders of
the scout, who was mumbling to himself. Malemute was about to order a
blind advance, when four dark forms leaped out of the rocks behind them.
Dick Kent had a momentary vision of Malemute Slade pinned under two men,
then something crashed down upon his head and all went black.