TRACKS IN THE SNOW
“How,” inquired Dick in bewilderment, “did you ever manage to find me
here?”
Sandy sat down and put one arm around Dick’s shoulders.
“You miserable, deceiving old rascal,” he threatened, “if I could have
got my hands on you this morning, when I discovered the scurvy trick you
and Corporal Richardson had played upon me, you’d never be able to walk
over another trail again. I really mean it, Dick. I think it was the
most unfriendly act you have ever committed. If I wasn’t just naturally
patient and forgiving by nature, you and I would never have seen each
other again.”
“What would have happened to you?” grinned Dick.
Before replying, Sandy winked broadly and good-humoredly at Toma.
“I had a blamed good notion to go right out and join forces with the
Henderson gang. They need a lot of new blood now that Corporal
Richardson has taken so many of ’em into camp. Four dog teams and eight
men! Just think of it, Dick! He captured the whole outfit—lock, stock
and barrel—single-handed.”
“And the stolen fur?” Dick questioned breathlessly.
“He got that too,” answered Sandy, glad of the chance to tell the story.
“But first of all, I’m going to start at the beginning. Three hours
after you set out over the Run River trail, Toma and I, who were looking
out of the window and suspecting nothing, saw the four dog teams coming
into view. There is nothing unusual about a dog team up here in this
country, so we weren’t much interested. I had just turned away from the
window to start another search for you and the corporal—somehow, I
hadn’t gotten over the idea that you were skulking somewhere about the
place—when Toma poked me in the ribs. Dick, I wish you could have seen
it. It all happened so suddenly that no one knew just what was up.”
“Yes! Yes!” said Dick a little impatiently. “Go on, Sandy. What
happened?”
“They were just opposite us, travelling along merrily, when a man
slipped out of the brush on the far side of the trail, holding something
in each hand. They must have been startled all right. Corporal
Richardson told me afterward that they were taken completely by
surprise. At any rate,” Sandy went on, “the dog teams stopped and eight
men stepped forward with their arms in the air. It was a regular
hold-up.”
Sandy paused for breath.
“Both Toma and I very naturally jumped to the conclusion that the person
who had committed the hold-up was a bandit, probably in the employ of
Henderson. So we grabbed our rifles and hurried out to help. We ran
straight over in the direction of the dog teams, firing our rifles as we
went and yelling like mad.”
“You see,” explained Sandy, “we thought that the bandit would become
frightened and start running away. But,” admitted the young Scotchman, a
little shamefacedly, “he didn’t run. He stood right there like a statue,
keeping those men covered. All the time we kept getting closer and
closer, until finally Toma poked me in the ribs again and told me to
stop firing—that the bandit was Corporal Richardson himself.”
In spite of the discomfort and pain he endured, Dick roared with
laughter.
“What did Corporal Richardson say?” he asked.
Sandy smiled at the recollection.
“When we came up, he stared at us coldly.
“‘If you two young fools have finished with your celebration,’ he said,
‘you’ll please take charge of these dog teams while the rest of us
gentlemen retire to the post.’
“That’s all there is to tell you, I guess, except that Corporal
Richardson locked the men up in a big room at Fort Good Faith and that
we stored all the stolen fur in the company’s warehouse. Afterwards,
when the corporal had cooled off and was a little more friendly towards
me, he told me where you had gone and about the plan you had employed to
deceive Henderson’s spies.”
“I tell you, Dick,” Sandy went on, “you can’t imagine how much the
corporal likes you. He seemed worried stiff for fear that something
might happen to you. Finally, after we had bothered him a lot, he gave
us permission to go out and try to find you.”
“You found me all right,” Dick was forced to admit, “but I don’t see how
you ever managed to do it.”
“It was easy enough—for Toma. He found your tracks where you left the
Run River trail and we followed them up to a house.”
“The house of La Lond,” said Dick.
“I don’t know whose house it was. It was almost dark when we got there.
My plan was to walk right up, knock at the door and ask for you, but
Toma thought differently.”
“Bad men him live there,” interrupted Toma, moving closer to the fire.
“I know him Baptiste for bad fellow. Me see that man many times an’ no
like at all. I ’fraid mebbe he kill you an’ hide body. So I listen at
door. I find out something.”
“What did you find out?” asked Dick.
“Me find out you been there an’ go ’way again. Baptiste very mad an’
talk in loud voice. He say I kill him that fellow bye-’n’-bye. Drink
much rum an’ shout all time. No have trouble to listen.”
Sandy started to speak but Dick motioned to him to be silent. He was
anxious to learn what the young Indian had found out, and wanted to hear
the story from the lips of Toma himself.
“Did he mention the name of Henderson at all?” he inquired.
Toma nodded. “Yes,” he answered, “him talk about Henderson too. Him say
he go see Henderson pretty soon. Then get scouting party an’ find you
where you hide in the woods. Talk like Henderson no live very far away.”
“That’s exactly what I wanted to make sure of,” Dick explained to Sandy,
“and I’m almost certain that I know where the outlaw’s camp is.”
“Did you see the camp?” asked Sandy.
Dick shook his head. “No, I didn’t see it. Baptiste told me where it
was.”
“But why did he do that? I should think he’d want to keep its location a
secret.”
“He wanted me to go there and directed me to the place because he knew
that the moment I walked into the outlaw’s camp Henderson would either
kill me at once or make me his prisoner.”
In a few words Dick related his experiences at the house of the Brothers
La Lond, of his escape, and, finally, of the accident that had befallen
him.
“You’re hurt!” cried Sandy, suddenly jumping up. “Why, Dick, you should
have told us before.”
The faces of Sandy and Toma were very grave as they stooped to untie his
moccasin and examine the injured foot.
“Very bad sprain,” said Toma, straightening up. “I help you fix him, so
after while you feel very much better. Sandy,” he ordered, turning to
his still gaping companion, “you start build shelter right away. You, me
work all night mebbe to make nice warm place. Dick stay here with bad
foot one, two days, I think.”
In less than an hour, his foot properly attended to, Dick was resting
more easily. Around him a shelter was being hurriedly constructed. He
could hear Sandy and the young Indian guide walking back and forth,
gathering huge arm-loads of brush, spruce boughs and moss, occasionally
calling out to each other in bantering tones. The fire, which had been
replenished, blazed brightly in front of the opening of the shelter. Its
welcome heat succeeded in making Dick drowsy and presently he fell
asleep.
When he awoke on the following morning, he rubbed his eyes in
astonishment. All about him was the green, circular wall of a large
tepee, so closely woven together with spruce boughs and moss that it was
impossible to see even the faintest shaft of light coming through from
the outside. The opening had been hung with a small blanket, but, what
astonished Dick more than anything else, was that the fire, which had
formerly been outside, was now inside the shelter. Smoke from an
arm-load of burning branches rose straight up, escaping through a vent
at the top of the tepee.
The shelter was warm and cozy, fragrant with the smell of spruce. Over
the fire a small kettle of snow water was bubbling merrily. Dick threw
back the four-point Hudson’s Bay blanket, which covered him, and clapped
his hands with delight. What a miracle Toma and Sandy had wrought during
the night! They had worked like Trojans to make things pleasant and
comfortable for him.
He wondered where they were now. Except for the crackling of the fire
and the sound of the water boiling in the kettle, there was nothing
whatsoever to break the deep hush of that winter morning. He sat up and
endeavored to examine his ankle. It felt better, he thought. There was
no pain worth mentioning, and he was quite sure the swelling had gone
down.
“I don’t mind staying here in the least,” he informed himself, twisting
around and making his way over to the inviting blaze. “It will be great
sport to live in a green wigwam like this with Sandy and Toma for
company.”
A dull tramping in the snow outside, caused him to raise his head and
turn his eyes toward the opening. The blanket was pushed aside and Sandy
appeared, crawling on hands and knees, trailing his rifle and a large
rabbit. Toma, who entered immediately behind, had two rabbits and a
ptarmigan. The eyes of the two youthful hunters glowed from the
excitement and pleasure of their successful foray.
“We eat good breakfast,” Toma announced, holding out the rabbits and
ptarmigan for Dick’s inspection.
“When did you wake up?” Sandy wanted to know. “Thought you’d sleep for
an hour yet.”
“It’s wonderful!” Dick voiced his appreciation and nearly choked in the
effort. “You fellows are certainly two good pals. When I woke up I could
scarcely believe my eyes.”
“It took us nearly all night,” said Sandy. “I don’t suppose I could ever
have done it alone. Of course, I don’t need to tell you that Toma was
the architect.”
“My people build ’em like that many times,” Toma modestly explained.
“Plenty warm even when weather very cold. See many like that on Indian
trap-line.”
“How long were you away hunting?” Dick asked.
“About an hour, I think. Game seems to be fairly plentiful around here.
And, O Dick!——” Sandy paused as he turned somewhat eagerly toward his
friend, “a mile from here, just across a narrow ravine, Toma came across
snowshoe tracks. He says they were made by a white man.”
“Baptiste or Phillip,” guessed Dick, shivering a little.
Toma shook his head.
“Me no think so. Tracks at least two days old. Some white man he go by
here day before yesterday.”
“But how,” sceptically inquired Dick, “do you know it was a white man?
Surely you’re not able to tell that. Are the tracks so very much
different?”
The Indian guide laughed as he nodded his head in the affirmative.
“Easy to tell. White man no use ’em snow shoes same like Indian. Tracks
turn out. Indian tracks go straight ahead.”
“I think there’s something in it,” Sandy volunteered, “because after
Toma had told me, while we were still out there on the trail, I noticed
that Toma’s tracks were different from mine.”
Although still a little sceptical, Dick was sufficiently well acquainted
with Toma and his ability and prowess, not to doubt that the Indian lad
might be correct in his surmise. Very rarely, indeed, did Toma err in
matters of this kind. A natural-born tracker and scout, versed in the
ways of the wilderness, he had often startled his two young friends by
his almost unlimited knowledge of wood-lore.
“And that isn’t all,” Sandy’s voice broke the lull in their
conversation. “We discovered something else besides those tracks. I
almost hate to tell you, Dick.”
“What was it?” his friend asked wonderingly.
“Blood stains!” Sandy enlightened him. “The man’s tracks were sprinkled
here and there with tiny red spots. He must have been hurt or wounded,
Dick. It makes me shiver to think about it.”
“Perhaps he was carrying some animal he had killed,” suggested Dick.
Again Toma shook his head.
“No,” he stated with conviction, “man hurt very bad. Him not go many
miles like that. Toma feel plenty sorry for that man.”
In alarm, Dick looked from one to the other of his two friends. A hurt
or wounded man out there on the trail alone—it made him feel weak and
sick himself. He recalled his own helplessness and horror on the
previous night, when he had fallen and sprained his ankle.
“Isn’t there something we can do?” he finally blurted out. “Just think
what it may mean, Sandy.”
Sandy did not answer. Neither did Toma. The three boys were looking at
each other now in a gloomy silence.
“You mustn’t forget your own condition, Dick,” Sandy reminded him. “We
can’t leave you here alone, can we?”
“One of you could go after we’ve had breakfast. Why couldn’t you, Toma?”
He turned appealingly to the Indian guide. “What do you say?”
To Dick’s surprise, Toma drew back and raised one arm in a gesture of
protest.
“What you think poor Toma make crazy altogether?” he inquired. “Sandy
an’ me both stay here to fight ’em Henderson’s men when they come. What
good you think just one against two, three, four—mebbe six, ten men?” he
demanded hotly.
It was, indeed, a poser. Dick sat with his head in his hands and Sandy
turned wearily away to commence the preparation of breakfast.