DEBTS OF GRATITUDE
Malemute Slade kicked a branch of burning wood into the center of the
roaring campfire and turned eagerly to address the scarlet-coated figure
of Corporal Richardson.
“It couldn’t o’ come out any better if we’d done the thing ourselves,”
he drawled complaisantly. “I guess there ain’t anybody what can deny
that. Here’s the mine—an’ there’s Dick an’ Sandy an’ that young scamp of
a Toma—all as safe an’ happy an’ contented as if nothin’ had ever
happened.”
As he spoke, Slade pointed to the ruins of the log cabin, around which
the three boys had gathered. In the center of the charred and littered
space, one could make out, even at that distance, a gaping hole
partially filled with debris. But no one, unless he had made a more
thorough investigation, might have guessed that the hole, instead of
being the cellar or basement of the ruined cabin was, in reality, the
main shaft leading to a very valuable gold mine.
The ruined cabin was the one and only grim reminder of a night of
tragedy. Slade eyed it contemplatively as he continued in his drawling
tone:
“It kind o’ makes me shudder when I think o’ what might have happened if
Dick hadn’t fought Baptiste, when the Frenchie knocked down the Indian
kid. It’s the only thing that saved ’em. Them Indians is as friendly now
as the friendliest Cree in the settlements along the Peace. The chief’s
son was over here ’bout an hour ago to pay his respects to the boys an’
to promise ’em that they needn’t worry ’bout bein’ molested. That’s what
I call gratitude.”
“When the boys told their story I could hardly believe it,” Corporal
Richardson spoke reminiscently; “I can imagine how they felt when the
Indian attack took place. Sandy said that the three of them were so
struck with terror, that for a long time they didn’t move a foot away
from their bed-rolls. The attack was nearly over before they plucked up
sufficient courage to make an attempt to escape.”
Malemute Slade drew out his pipe and grinned across at the mounted
policeman.
“At any rate, them Indians has saved you an’ me a whole lot o’ trouble.
I don’t imagine we’ll ever hear from Henderson again. His band is pretty
well broke up. I sometimes wonder how many o’ them outlaws escaped.”
“No one knows except the Indians, and I doubt very much whether they do.
The outlaws left everything behind, including those precious moose-hide
sacks, and a large quantity of supplies and provisions. The boys have
food enough to last them for seven or eight months.”
He broke off suddenly, as a familiar figure emerged from a small canvas
tent in the space to the right and came over to join them. Advancing,
Factor MacClaren waved an arm cheerily.
“I’m getting things in order over at my private hotel,” he laughingly
called out. “At my age, gentlemen, personal comfort means everything. It
is as necessary and important to my well-being as excitement and
adventure is to those three young scallawags over there at the mine.
There they are puttering about, entirely oblivious of the fact that it’s
fully three-quarters of an hour past our regular lunch time.”
“I’ll call ’em,” said Malemute Slade, placing two fingers in his mouth.
“Now watch ’em race!”
At the shrill summons, three jostling forms scrambled over the rocks
near the site of the former cabin, and sped forward for a few yards,
neck and neck. Then the race became a hard fought contest in which Dick,
panting and out of breath, won by a narrow margin from Toma. Sandy was
grumbling as he came up.
“They had to push me, of course. I’m protesting this race on the grounds
that two of the contestants presumed to take unfair advantage.”
“I’ll look into it,” laughingly promised Corporal Richardson. Then he
turned to the victor. “Dick, how are operations progressing at the
mine?”
“Fine!” panted Dick. “We’ll clear the shaft before night. Once we’re
able to get into the mine, work’ll go along more quickly.”
“There’s one thing I don’t understand,” Sandy’s uncle declared, as he
pulled a grub-sack closer to the fire. “Your mine hasn’t a dump. What
becomes of the rock and shale?”
“We asked ourselves that very same question,” replied Dick, “but we
discovered the answer the first time we descended into the mine. We have
water pressure to carry away everything except the pure ore itself.”
“But I don’t understand,” puzzled the factor. “What do you mean by water
pressure?”
“There’s an underground river which flows below the mine,” explained
Dick. “One of the passageways slopes down to a wide opening, through
which one can hear the sound of rushing water. The former owners of the
mine dumped all of the refuse here and it was quickly carried away.
Sandy and I have figured out that the source of the river is the deep
lake, near the wooden cross, two miles to the east of us. You remember
seeing it.”
“Yes,” answered the factor.
“You boys are rich now,” congratulated Corporal Richardson. “What are
you going to do with all your wealth?”
“Well, we have some pressing obligations,” hinted Dick.
“What are they?”
“Our first debt is to the Indians. We’ve decided to give them half
ownership in the mine. Papers will be made out in the regular way and a
guardian appointed.”
“Who will be the guardian?” asked Factor MacClaren.
“The Royal North West Mounted.”
“But they may not care to accept such a responsibility,” smiled the
corporal.
“O they’re all pretty decent fellows,” teased Sandy. “I don’t think
we’ll have very much difficulty on that score.”
Corporal Richardson laughed.
“Are yuh really serious ’bout this, Dick?” demanded Malemute Slade. “Yuh
don’t mean you’d give half the mine to them Indians?”
“We don’t mean anything else,” Dick spoke very quietly. “They spared our
lives. We wouldn’t be here now if it wasn’t for them. When we went to
school back in the States, our history books told us how white men have
been taking land and valuable resources away from the Indians for the
past three hundred years. Here’s one case where the Indian is going to
receive what’s coming to him.”
“Here! Here!” shouted the factor. “Good boy, Dick! If you and Sandy and
Toma can manage to carry out your plan successfully we’ll all be proud
of you.”
Dick flushed with embarrassment, then hurried on:
“The debt to the Indians is not the only one. There are three persons,
all of them white men, who are entitled to share in our good fortune.
These men are Factor MacClaren, Corporal Richardson and Malemute Slade.”
The right hand of the mounted policeman stole over to Dick’s shoulder.
“We appreciate your kindness, Dick, but I’m afraid that you’ll have to
wipe out a part of that debt. As members of the force, we—Malemute Slade
and myself—have no right to accept anything at all. We’ve already been
paid for any service we may have rendered you. It is a part of our
regular duty.”
“If that’s the case, will you and Malemute Slade accept our thanks for
all you’ve done for us,” blurted out Sandy.
“Gladly! It is nothing at all. We wish you every success in your new
undertaking.”
“Thank you,” said Dick and Sandy in unison.
A short silence ensued. Presently Sandy walked over to the grub-sack and
stooped down to untie the string.
“I’m hungry as a bear,” he grumbled. “It’s getting so there’s no system
around this camp. Who’s cook?”
“I suppose,” said Corporal Richardson with a sly twinkle in his eye,
“that when the ghost of Scar-Face or Henderson or Baptiste La Lond comes
back here to visit you, he won’t recognize your thriving mining town as
the place of his former misfortunes.”
“You bet he won’t!” emphatically declared Sandy.
Dick laughed—a cheery, boyish laugh—as he picked up a frying pan and a
slab of bacon, opened his hunting knife and then squatted down in front
of the fire.
THE END
Transcriber’s Notes
--Copyright notice provided as in the original—this e-text is public
domain in the country of publication.
--Silently corrected palpable typos; left non-standard spellings and
dialect unchanged.
--Replaced the otherwise unknown Sandy MacPherson by Sandy MacClaren.
--Added a Table of Contents based on chapter headings.
--In the text versions, delimited italics text in _underscores_ (the
HTML version reproduces the font form of the printed book.)
End of Project Gutenberg's Dick Kent in the Far North, by Milton Richards