  Dick ran to the door and opened it. In the hallway outside was the young half-breed boy, whom Mr. Scott employed in various capacities. “Yes, yes, Meschel, what is it?” The boy’s eyes were round and staring. “Mr. Scott here?” he cried. “Tell Mr. Scott to come quick. Fellow downstairs very drunk, try to break in through the window.” “Who was he?” demanded the factor, who now stood immediately behind Dick. “But never mind, Meschel, I’ll be right down.” He followed the half-breed below. Dick and Sandy joined him. “Mr. Scott,” said Dick, “I think Meschel must be dreaming. Who would break in at this time of day? They don’t need to. All they have to do is to walk in through the front door.” “So it would seem,” smiled the factor, “but after the many surprises we’ve received in the last few days, I’m prepared for anything. What window did they try to break in, Meschel?” “Window at the back where you have your office,” the half-breed replied promptly. “Two women come in an’ buy some cloth an’ right after I hear some noise that seem like it come from your office. Just as soon as I open the door, a man standing in front of the window outside, put down the screen an’ run away. Screen lying on ground now. You see that for yourself.” It was just as Meschel had told them. Making their way into the little office, the factor, Dick and Sandy stood looking at the evidence of the marauder’s recent visit. The factor turned to Meschel. “You must have seen who it was.” “Not sure because I was very much scare.” “Come now, Meschel, you know better than that. If he stood just in front of the window facing you, you could easily identify him. You’ve already told me that he was drunk. If you had that much eye for detail, surely you can give me a description of him.” The half-breed blinked and a slow flush of embarrassment mounted his swarthy face. “Yes, Mr. Scott, I know who it was. But I’m ’fraid tell you because you go make that fellow trouble an’ afterward sometime he come kill me.” A slight frown of perplexity appeared upon the factor’s thoughtful brow. “What’s that, Meschel? You know who it is and won’t tell me? You’re afraid of the consequences?” “I tell you,” whimpered Meschel, “but I am very much ’fraid. Pierre Mekewai—that’s the fellow I see.” Mr. Scott swallowed heavily, commenced pacing back and forth. His face was touched with pallor. He stopped before Dick and Sandy. “Frazer’s work! Now what do you suppose he was up to?” The disclosure acted upon Dick like a cold shower. He stood with lips pressed, staring at the screen outside. Near him, Sandy clenched his fists convulsively. “Mr. Scott,” asked Dick at length, “have you any way to bar the windows? It may be Frazer’s intention to burn down the post.” “Not in broad daylight, surely. No, I think that more likely what they were after were the company’s books. Another thing, as Frazer knows, we often keep money in this room, valuable papers and accounts. It would be a serious loss to this post if we should lose them. All the records dealing with transactions with our fur customers are here. However, your suggestion to bar the windows is a good one. I’ll send for the blacksmith at once.” “From now on,” said Dick, “we’d better keep close watch day and night.” The factor nodded. “Two night watchmen armed with rifles. You and Sandy can help me during the day.” It was well that these precautions were taken. That same night, two Indians, hired for the positions for night watchmen, repulsed three efforts on the part of Frazer’s men to gain admittance. So persistent were these attempts to enter the post, that Dick began to believe that something even of more value than the company’s records were at stake. At ten o’clock on the following morning, he and Mr. Scott were discussing this phase of it, when a young half-breed bolted through the open door of the trading room, shouting wildly. “Fire, Meester Scott! The warehouse eet ees burn! Come queek!” The factor tore around the end of the counter, his eyes blazing like two lamps. “My God!” he cried. “The fur! Thousands of dollars worth waiting for shipment.” He raced to the door. “Come on!” he shouted. The boys followed closely behind the racing form of the factor. They could see the fire now. Dense volumes of smoke curled up from the eaves of the building. As yet, no flame was discernible but the smoke was thick. They had almost reached the burning building, when suddenly Dick stopped. Through his mind there had flashed an appalling thought. The trading post was unguarded. Everyone had rushed to the fire. Hadn’t the warehouse been purposely set on fire with this end in view? For a moment, he watched Sandy and the factor racing on, then turned quickly and sprinted back to the trading room. Purposely leaving the door open behind him, revolver in hand, he concealed himself behind the counter and waited. Through the door and open windows there came to him the frenzied shouts of the fire fighters. Even in the trading room he could detect the rancid smell of smoke. He wondered if he had been foolish in coming here when his assistance was so urgently required back there at the warehouse. He crouched low, his thought a conflicting whirl. Once he half started to his feet, deciding that his suspicions were groundless and that he must hurry to the aid of his comrades. But again he thought better of it and stooped still lower, breathlessly waiting. A step sounded outside. Whispering voices, then the stealthy movement of feet across the floor. He gripped his revolver convulsively. He dare not look up for fear that he might be discovered. He did not wish to confront them yet. What were they here for? Why had they made those repeated attempts to break in? The door of the factor’s office opened and closed. He could hear muffled voices in there, the faint shuffling of feet, the creaking of what sounded like a drawer. Stealthy as a cat, he rose to an upright position, tip-toed around the counter and, with desperate caution, made his way over to the door of the factor’s office. His hand stole tremblingly to the knob. Just before he closed over it, he heard a husky voice. “Quick! Someone may come back any moment. It’s here! You take one and I’ll take the other.” Steeling himself for the ordeal, Dick turned the knob and kicked the door open. A wicked, pock-marked face, with wolfish fangs bared, confronted him. Behind Henri Mekewai stood the figure of Donald Frazer. “Make one move,” said Dick in a voice of deathly calm, “and I’ll blow your brains out.” The renegade Indian snarled like a cornered beast. Frazer’s first spasm of fear was followed by a low cry of rage. His unsteady, sinister eyes squinted into Dick’s, then with a lightning motion his hand flashed toward his belt. The room roared with the explosion. Frazer’s revolver clattered to the floor. He held up a bleeding hand, like one scarcely crediting the evidence of his senses. “Next time,” Dick growled, “I won’t be so easy on you. Move back to the wall, Mekewai, if you make another move like that, I’ll shoot you where you stand. Stand back!” Wincing with pain, the former factor hurriedly obeyed. The Indian followed him. As they did so, Dick’s gaze flashed to the open roll-top desk and on that instant his eyes popped. There on the flat surface in front of him were two large leather pokes—prospector’s pokes, bulging with gold. At sight of them, his heart leaped. He was so startled and astonished at seeing them there, that for a period he was off guard. Perceiving the momentary laxing of vigilance, the Indian dove headlong, straight toward Dick, who, recovering his presence of mind, tried to slip to one side and fire at the same time. The revolver exploded harmlessly, the bullet crashing into the wall opposite. Hurled back through the door, Dick landed in a heap just inside the trading room, Mekewai on top of him. But even then, Dick had not lost the instinct of self-preservation. His opponent’s head was just above him and he struck out boldly with his clubbed weapon. Mekewai groaned, went limp and slipped to one side. Dick scrambled to his knees just in time to dive furiously for the speeding form of Frazer, who had bounded through the open office door. It was a glancing tackle, yet it was almost sufficient to knock Frazer from the perpendicular. Crashing up against the wall, the fleeing man inadvertently dropped one of the pokes and was trying to reach it when Dick made a second lunge for him. Almost cornered, Frazer leaped frantically straight over Dick’s head and darted for the door. A bullet whistled after him, missing him by a scant two inches. Dick groped to his feet, stepped over the prostrate heap on the floor and stumbled back into the little office, where he picked up Frazer’s revolver. Then returning quickly, he got the poke Frazer had dropped, slipped both revolver and gold under the counter in the trading room and was just stooping down to examine the unconscious prisoner, when the door of the loft opened and Toma, his face flushed with excitement, staggered toward him. “Dick,” he trembled, “What happen? You shoot this man—you——” “Toma, get back to bed,” Dick interrupted whirling about, confronting his chum. “Don’t worry—everything all right—now. Frazer and Mekewai—I—I tried to capture both of them and—and Frazer got away. My fault too. I was careless.” “Why they come?” the young Indian demanded, steadying himself by holding on to the counter. “Gold! In the office, Toma. Frazer had it concealed there.” Dick’s chum stood and stared incredulously. “They get ’em?” he croaked. “Part of it.” Then, without explaining further, Dick strode over, procured a rope from the company’s stock and commenced binding up his unconscious prisoner. |
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