  The first intimation Dick and Sandy had that Toma had arrived opposite the outlaws’ camp was when they saw Wolf Brennan spring to his feet, rifle in hand, and call sharply to his two friends. Immediately after that, a crackling in the brush, made by Toma, came to their ears. “A moose!” shouted Wolf Brennan, pointing. The other two, disturbed from their slumbers, scrambled to a place beside Brennan, their attitudes that of tense watching. Breathless with excitement, Dick wondered if Toma’s ruse would work. The three men stood there immobile as three statues. The crackling noise up along the slope continued. Finally, when the boys had begun to believe that the outlaws were too clever for them, Wolf Brennan turned upon his two compatriots, growling: “Toby, yuh stay here while me and Willison take a run up there tuh see what’s up. All ready, Willison, grab your gun.” Willison obeyed implicitly, following Wolf Brennan up along the slope to the first ridge on the ascent. Toby McCallum, one hand against a tree, stood and watched them depart. Dick nudged Sandy. “Now!” he whispered tersely. “You drag down the canoe while I attend to McCallum.” They clambered up the low embankment, moving swiftly and quietly. Reaching the canoe, Sandy paused while Dick gathering momentum, leaped straight over a low barricade of scraggy brush and hurled himself straight at his adversary. Turning in time to see Dick leaping for him, McCallum instinctively raised one arm to ward off the attack. However, this defensive action came too late. With all his weight behind it, Dick struck McCallum in a flying tackle just above the knees. The outlaw crashed down like a sack of wheat. He was somewhat stunned by the impact of the fall, but, even then, tried to reach out for his rifle, lying on the ground barely two feet away. In the meantime, perceiving both Dick and McCallum struggling on the ground, locked in each other’s arms, Sandy dropped the bow of the canoe and hurried to the rescue. Just as Dick succeeded in pinioning McCallum’s arms under him, Sandy caught up the outlaw’s gun. “Quick, Dick!” he shouted. “I’ve got it.” Dick released his hold and staggered to his feet. “Glad you came, Sandy,” he panted. “McCallum, lay right there,” he ordered savagely, “if you know what’s good for you.” While Sandy covered their prisoner, Dick stooped and unbuckled the cartridge belt from around McCallum’s waist, placed it about his own, then took the rifle from Sandy’s trembling hands. “Hurry, Sandy!” he blurted. “Go over and pull down that canoe. I’ll watch McCallum here until you’re ready.” The prospector’s face was livid with rage and humiliation as Sandy departed. Suddenly, to Dick’s surprise, he opened his mouth and shouted at the top of his voice. It was a warning, clarion call that echoed and re-echoed through that quiet forest place. Dick’s cheeks blanched. “Yell all you like,” he told McCallum. “We’ll get away just the same.” From his position there on the ground, the outlaw glared up, his face crimson with fury, and broke into a torrent of abusive oaths. “Yuh’ll pay for this,” he snarled. “Yuh ain’t got safe back tuh Half Way House yet. It’ll take a hull lot more than one canoe and one rifle tuh get yuh there. Remember that.” “Yes, I’ll remember it,” said Dick tensely, “and I’ll be on the lookout for you too.” “Yuh better,” growled the other. Dick did not reply. Out of the corner of one eye he was watching Sandy’s progress toward the shore. The moment the canoe slid across the belt of yellow sand, he addressed himself to McCallum. “If you get off the ground before I reach the river, I’ll take a pot-shot at you,” he threatened. “We’re desperate—and I mean business. Just try it if you like.” Evidently McCallum took Dick at his word, for he did not so much as move a muscle as Dick sped down to the shore where Sandy awaited him. He jumped into the canoe and Sandy pushed off. Putting down his rifle, he seized one of the oars and began paddling frantically. The canoe rocked and swayed as it darted over the water. Spray dashed up around them. They swept into the central channel, desperately bucking the swift current. It was a race against death. Any moment now Wolf Brennan would return and commence firing from shore. In the glare of the sun, the river roared about them. They paddled as they had never paddled before. The shoreline gradually receded. On and on they swept. Perspiration poured out upon their foreheads and trickled into their eyes. Their breath struggled in their throats. Zip! A bullet whistled between them and spat viciously into the water. Crack! A puff of smoke from shore, and Dick’s paddle leaped out of his hands, punctured by a speeding pellet of destruction. With a quick, convulsive movement of his arm, Dick retrieved his paddle and as he did so he caught a glimpse of three figures running along the shore. “Make for the opposite side!” he screeched to Sandy. “We must get out of rifle range.” “But Toma—” faltered Sandy. “He’ll look after himself. Quick, Sandy!” His own paddle clove the water again just as a third bullet whistled above their heads. In a few minutes more their danger perceptibly decreased. The fire from the two on shore was now going more wide of its mark. Soon it ceased altogether. They were close to the opposite shore now, still paddling desperately. “Dick, I can’t stand this pace much longer,” Sandy gasped “All right, ease up. We’ll run ashore for a minute or two.” When Sandy had grunted his approval, Dick turned the bow of the canoe sharply and the light, graceful craft grated upon the white sand and came to a full stop. “Good gracious, Dick,” Sandy gurgled, springing out, “that was a close call. I’m afraid they’re going to capture Toma.” Dick shook his head. “Not that boy. He’s too clever for them,” he replied, still breathing heavily. “But how will we ever manage to pick him up again?” blurted the young Scotchman. “Have to await our chance. Toma will keep an eye on us. He’ll make his way along the opposite shore. When he thinks the time is propitious, he’ll give us a signal.” “I hope so,” said Sandy prayerfully. “If it wasn’t for him, we wouldn’t be where we are now.” “True. But don’t worry about him. He’s clever, as you ought to know by now. I haven’t the least fear that Brennan will ever succeed in capturing him.” “What do you propose to do now?” asked Sandy. Dick pursed his lips. “When we are rested, we’ll paddle along this side of the river slowly so that Toma will have plenty of time to keep up with us. We’ll go up the river a mile or two and then stop for the night. We’ll build a fire close to the shore so that Toma will know just where we are, what we are doing. We’ll have to take turns sleeping tonight. I don’t think there is any danger that Brennan’s party will build a raft and come over, yet it will be wise to be on our guard. Now that they know we have a rifle, they’ll think twice before they try a stunt like that.” The remainder of the afternoon passed uneventfully. They saw no more of Brennan and his friends, neither did they catch a glimpse of Toma. Just before dusk they disembarked in a sheltered spot and by means of the fire stone soon had a blazing campfire near the shore. While Dick watched it and gathered more drift-wood and dry branches, Sandy took the rifle and went up along the slope in search of game. Within twenty minutes he came back carrying a rabbit. “Wish Toma was here to enjoy it with us,” he stated a little sorrowfully. “Dick, I’m terribly afraid that something has happened to him. I try to make myself believe that he’s safe, but the feeling still persists.” Dick laughed away Sandy’s fears while he prepared supper and later as they gathered brush for a high bon-fire. The fire would keep them warm that night, Dick explained. Also it would be a beacon to let Toma know just where they were. “We’ll keep it burning brightly until morning,” he told Sandy. “What part of the night would you like to keep watch?” he inquired. “From now until a little after midnight,” replied Sandy. So it was decided. A pale dusk covered the earth when Dick stretched out by the fire and went to sleep, but it was much darker than usual when he was awakened by his weary chum and notified that it was his turn to stand guard. “Keep the fire going good, Dick,” Sandy instructed sleepily. “It’s chilly and I’d like to have an unbroken sleep.” The young Scotchman was slumbering deeply, curled up alongside the comforting blaze, by the time Dick had returned with his first arm-load of wood. The older boy smiled as he looked down at him. What an eventful day it had been, he mused. No wonder Sandy was so tired. The difficulties and hardships of the past week had tested strength, endurance and nerve to the utmost. They couldn’t go on indefinitely like this. The hard pace had begun to tell. By the look of him, Sandy couldn’t stand much more of it. His cheeks were sunken and there were deep hollows under his eyes. The young leader sighed and sat down with his back to the fire, his gaze wandering. Up overhead the clouds seemed to be gathering for rain. Through a narrow rift shone a handful of brilliant stars and a white half-circle of moon. Down below, glinting mysteriously, was the wide path of the river. Tonight its song was as mournful as the weird music of an Indian lullabye. Dick continued to sit there half musing, half dreaming, until suddenly down near the shore he heard a loud splash. He bolted to his feet and ran for his rifle. Wolf Brennan—was his first thought. Wolf Brennan and Toby McCallum! They had made a raft and come over after all! He caught the rifle to him, when a muffled figure staggered up over the bank, shaking himself like a dog that had been thrown into a mill-pond—shaking and blowing and shivering, and beating his arms to quicken the circulation in his body. Dick gave one short, sharp cry, dropped his rifle and darted forward, arms outstretched. “Toma! Toma!” he called. |
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