  When Corporal Rand came out of the room in which Henri Mekewai was imprisoned, the boys met him in the hall outside. “What luck?” asked Sandy. “Not a word out of him,” Rand growled a little testily. “Couldn’t get him to admit that he had even taken the sacks out of the cellar. Claims that he knows nothing about it. I tried to frighten him, but it’s no use. The only way to get to the bottom of this is to find Frazer himself and force a confession.” “It will soon be time now to start after him,” Sandy looked at his watch. “Ten minutes to six now. Supper is waiting for us in the dining room.” “When we go, shall we take our rifles,” asked Dick. “No, just our revolvers.” On the way to the supper table, Toma swung in behind Corporal Rand, his face utterly disconsolate. Looking at him, one might have thought that he had just lost his nearest and dearest friend. His lower lip quivered. Unshed tears stood in his eyes. In the dining room, when Rand drew out his chair to sit down, Toma stood near him gulping. “Corporal Rand.” “Yes, Toma,”—kindly. “Corporal Rand, I feel ’em much better now.” The policeman turned his head and surveyed the drawn, haggard face. “You certainly don’t look it. You ought to be in bed.” “Tomorrow,” smiled the young Indian, “I take ’em off bandages.” “I’m glad to hear that, Toma.” A deep sigh. “Corporal Rand, I feel plenty strong go along you, Dick an’ Sandy.” The policeman shook his head as he reached over and patted the young man’s arm. “Like to have you, Toma. If you hadn’t been wounded. I’d say yes. You’re really in no condition to go.” To the surprise of everyone, Toma swung on his heel and walked out of the room. Sandy’s face clouded. “Poor devil!” he exclaimed. “That upset him so much he won’t even eat his supper.” “It is hard on him,” sympathized Dick, looking down at his plate. “The minute you brought up the matter, Toma set his heart on accompanying us. It is a terrible blow to him. He loves action and wants to be in at the finish.” “I appreciate all that, but you must remember that if he overtaxes himself, a thing which he is very apt to do, it is liable to cause complications. He still has a slight fever. Tell that by looking at him. Eyes heavy, cheeks flushed. No, boys, for his own sake, I can’t permit him to go.” Not long afterward, Corporal Rand and the two boys left the trading post, hurrying away through the woods. They had slipped off so quietly and unobtrusively that few persons were aware of their going. Rand set the pace, walking with long, easy strides. Through dense thickets of alders, through the shadowed coolness of fir and balsam, across rippling green meadows of luxuriant grass, they made their way. Except now and then for a low order respecting their route, the policeman did not talk. Only the noises of the forest and the steady beat of their footsteps could be heard. Sandy was nervous and continually consulted his watch. “Eight o’clock,” he finally announced to Dick. “Ought to be getting there pretty soon.” On and on they tramped. Rand never hesitated. He seemed to be sure of his route. Dick knew they were swinging around in a wide arc, yet he marvelled at the policeman’s sense of location. When they plunged through the trees out to the Old Mission road, for the first time since their departure, he raised his hand commanding them to stop. “We’re very close to their cabin now,” he explained in a low voice. “Straight north,” he pointed, “about three hundred yards. We will separate here and attempt to make our approach from three directions. Dick and I will start out, Dick to the right and I to the left and come upon them, if possible, coincident with your approach from the north, Sandy. You have the shortest distance to go, therefore you must proceed slowly. I hope to corner them in the cabin.” The corporal paused. “Now is there anything you’d like to ask me?” The boys shook their heads. “Very well then, we’ll start. Don’t shoot unless it is absolutely necessary. Good luck!” They separated in silence. Down the road Dick hurried, watchful as a lynx. The sunlight streamed aslant, a glare in his eyes, bright gold where it touched the leaves of the poplar. Swerving abruptly to his right when he had gone a distance of about two hundred yards, he darted in among the trees, zig-zagging to avoid clumps of underbrush, his right hand resting lightly on his hip close to the butt of his revolver. He made little sound as he advanced, and was actually preparing for a final sprint up to the cabin when, less than thirty feet straight ahead, he caught a flashing glimpse of a human figure. Breathless, he stopped short, swung in behind a large tree and stood there trembling. To his ears there came the faint trampling of feet. A voice cracked across the stillness. Suddenly, his heart almost stopped beating. They had halted just within the clump of bushes ahead, as though they had sensed his presence. Had they seen him? Fearful now, he yanked out his revolver, crouched closer to the tree and waited. Frazer’s harsh tones broke forth anew. “I don’t care what you say, Pierre, it isn’t safe here. Sooner or later, someone may happen upon it.” “I dig ’em down deep,” the Indian reassured him. “Can’t help it. Too close to the post. Hundred places you might have chosen better than this. I tell you, someone is apt to stumble upon it.” “You ’fraid,” accused the Indian. Frazer’s voice rose angrily. “Yes, I am afraid, you black cut-throat, and you ought to be afraid too. Tonight we’ll dig it up and——” “Ssh!” cautioned the Indian. “I think I hear something.” Dick had heard something too—a slight crackling in the brush behind him and a little off to his right. A shiver of apprehension coursed down along his spine. Dizzy with weakness, he shrank still closer to the tree. Just then Pierre Mekewai plunged forward, his quick Indian eyes catching sight of Dick’s protruding arm. Firing from his hip, he darted back to cover. The bullet sliced the bark of the balsam. Dick heard the sound of running footsteps. A full half-minute passed. “Stop!” commanded a voice some distance away, followed by the crack of a gun. His heart pumping, Dick bounded from behind the tree, into the underbrush, believing that both Frazer and the Indian had fled. Too late he discovered his mistake. A blinding flash almost in his face, a sharp pain in his left arm, the distorted picture of the white fear-struck face of Frazer! Carried forward by his own momentum, he collided with his opponent, striking up the arm that still held the smoking weapon. Grappling, they went down. The struggle was short and spirited. “I’ve got you!” rumbled Dick, his hands fastened like leeches upon the other’s wrists. “Drop that gun!” He was still holding Frazer when the policeman came running up. The corporal purloined the revolvers of both vanquished and victor. He assisted Dick to his feet. “Good boy!” he breathed. “Hurt badly?” Before Dick had time to answer, Sandy joined them. “You’re wounded!” shouted the newcomer. “Can’t you see, you’re wounded.” “Just a scratch,” Dick smiled feebly. “A mere flesh wound, Sandy. Corporal Rand, will you twist on a tourniquet? I’m sorry that Mekewai got away. It was my fault. I think I was too hasty.” “You’re good,” grinned Rand. “I’ll take a little of the responsibility of Mekewai’s escape myself. When he went past me, I called to him to stop.” “Then you shot at him,” guessed Dick. “That was your revolver I heard.” “Yes, he’s wounded.” The policeman stepped forward and prodded Frazer with his foot. “Get up!” he ordered savagely. When the former factor had groped to an upright position, Corporal Rand turned upon Sandy. “Watch him,” he instructed, “while I look after Dick’s arm.” The policeman worked hurriedly and in a manner that left no doubt in the minds of his onlookers that he knew his business. He had just stepped back to relieve Sandy when, through the screen of trees ahead, two figures hove into view. Perceiving them, Dick exclaimed softly under his breath. “Bless, me, if he didn’t come along after all,” gasped Corporal Rand. “The rascal!” Hands clawing the air, Pierre Mekewai, savage and vindictive-looking even in defeat, marched toward them. Ten paces behind, equally savage and vindictive-looking, came the Indian’s captor—a young man with a bandage wound around his head! “By cripes!” Sandy broke the stillness. “By Golly, it’s the first time that Toma ever disobeyed an order.” Corporal Rand tried to look severe, bit his lips, then presently threw back his head and laughed. |
|
