  Faint flecks of snow were falling as they took the first turn in the trail at top speed. The wind had increased in velocity. It had become a gale that bent the tops of the spruce and poplar, driving down a fine icy sleet through the trees. Toma raised anxious eyes to the lowering sky and presently shrieked out above the roar of the approaching storm: “Big blizzard come pretty soon. How far we go before we get to bend in river?” “It’s only a short distance,” Dick answered, yelling at the top of his voice. At a brisk canter, they passed the place of the recent ambuscade, soon afterward following the trail across an open meadow in the very teeth of the storm. For a moment a white, driving curtain of snow almost suffocated them. Only with difficulty could they drive their ponies into it. “We’re licked!” shouted Sandy. “I dread to think of waiting for anyone in this blizzard. The pack-train will never be able to start tonight.” When they had gained the woodland again, it was almost impossible to make out their surroundings clearly. Overhead was a gray impenetrable blur. Within the shelter of the trees, when Dick, straining his eyes against the whirling particles of snow, endeavored to get his bearings, he could see scarcely fifty yards ahead. Somewhere off to the right was Settlement House River. Judging from the distance they had already come, they must be close to their destination right now. Dick drew up his horse sharply, calling a halt. His two chums came closer. “I think we’ve gone far enough,” was Sandy’s opinion, as they sat huddled on their tired mounts, looking into each other’s apprehensive eyes. “My suggestion is to leave the trail here and strike off to the right in the direction of the river. What do you think, Toma?” The guide did not immediately reply. His face was calm and expressionless. There was no outward manifestation of his secret, inner emotions. Just then he was not thinking of the bend in the river at all. Indeed, he had become so absorbed in his own thoughts that he was scarcely conscious even of the presence of his two companions. At that particular moment his mind was concentrated on a matter of extreme importance. He gazed sombrely at the trail at their feet, across which, plainly visible in the freshly fallen snow, were the imprints of moccasined feet. Only a few minutes before someone had passed that way. The quick mind of the guide reverted to the shooting of Constable Pearly. From ambush, a man had deliberately shot down the mounted policeman. Were these tracks, which he saw now, made by that selfsame man? Was the half-breed planning a second attack? Toma did not wish to alarm Dick and Sandy needlessly. Yet he was possessed of a feeling—intuitive perhaps—that the near presence of the man boded no good to them. If it was the same person who had wounded Constable Pearly, it was reasonable to suppose that he would not hesitate to draw a gun upon them. It was a predicament indeed—and one fraught with danger. The footprints led away in the same direction that Sandy now proposed to go. It would be foolhardy for the three of them to take a chance. Turning the problem over and over in his mind, Toma came to a decision. “No use all three ride over an’ try find ’em place where we meet Sergeant Richardson. What you say I go alone? Sandy, you Dick stay here in shelter of bush. No take ’em me very long. If I find bend, I come back pretty quick an’ let you know.” The young guide’s proposal did not meet with the instant approval that he had expected. “No,” growled Sandy, “we can all go. What’s the use of staying here?” “Look here, Toma,” interposed Dick, “three pairs of eyes are better than one.” Toma scowled. He feigned an angry indifference. “All right. I do what you say. I think you ’fraid mebbe poor Toma get lost.” Sandy reached up and snapped off the brittle twig from a branch just over his head. He regarded it reflectively. “Pshaw! Let him have his own way, Dick. If he insists, I don’t mind in the least. I’m going to crawl off this old nag of mine and stretch my legs.” As if the matter were already settled, Sandy scrambled off his mount and led it over to a thick clump of bushes, which offered better protection from the storm. After a moment’s hesitation, Dick followed his example. The two crouched there while Toma sprang to the ground, tied his horse to a young sapling and then struck off sharply to the right on foot. In a few seconds he became lost to view. Dick and Sandy brushed away the snow from a small space in front of them and sat down, weary and disheartened. The ponies turned with their backs to the wind. Dick was so sleepy and tired from his long hours of wakefulness that he had scarcely sat down when his head began to nod, and soon after he drowsed off completely. How long he slept he did not know. He was awakened by the hand of his chum, clawing roughly, excitedly at his shoulder. He opened his eyes to look into the startled face of his friend. “Did you hear it?” gasped Sandy. Bewildered from sleep, Dick could not imagine what sound Sandy alluded to, when abruptly there came to his ears the faint report of a rifle. “There it is again!” The boys jumped to their feet, gazing fearfully out through the storm. They trembled at the thought of what might now have happened. They stood shivering in the teeth of the icy gale, their faces gray with apprehension. After a time, following the first shock, Dick turned to Sandy. “It frightened me at first,” he confessed. “Thought it was the half-breed. For a moment, I didn’t think about Toma. He probably saw a moose or bear and fired at it.” Sandy was not so sure. He shook his head doggedly, staring gloomily away in the direction of the river. “We’d better investigate, Dick,” he trembled. “Even if Toma did see a moose, I doubt very much whether he would have taken a shot at it.” “The hunting instinct in every Indian is strong,” argued his chum. “Even you or I would have been liable to act the same under similar circumstances.” Sandy was not convinced. With his moccasined feet he kicked at a drift of freshly fallen snow. Nervously, his hand played with the holster at his belt. “Perhaps I’m foolish, but I can’t help thinking that something has gone wrong. The sound we just heard, although fainter, was very much like the one we heard this afternoon when Pearly was wounded. Besides, if I remember correctly, Toma has no rifle. All he has in the way of firearms is a small automatic, which could not possibly make as much noise as we heard just now.” Dick’s face became sober again. He looked at Sandy in alarm. “But all of us had rifles strapped to our saddles when we set out from Fort Good Faith,” he pointed out. “You and I—but not Toma! When Toma and I went out on our hunting trip a few days ago, he broke the trigger-spring on his gun, and yesterday, when we returned, he left it at the Indian village to be repaired. When you wakened us last night, I had my rifle in my room. Toma had none. I know I’m right about this, Dick.” It was the other’s turn to become alarmed. With an excited exclamation he stepped forward, and with fumbling fingers began to remove his own rifle from the saddle. Sandy followed suit. Without further preliminary, they hurried to the rescue. Shoulders hunched, faces wet with melting snow, they darted forward through the underbrush. Dick’s heart was beating miserably at the thought of this new danger. Had Toma also been waylaid—probably murdered? Desperately, he stared ahead, expecting momentarily to find the crumpled figure of the young guide lying in the snow. They progressed farther and farther away from the trail. Sandy’s breath came in choking gasps. “Toma! Toma!” he kept repeating. Presently their hopes mounted. Thus far they had found nothing. Perhaps the young Indian was still alive. Perhaps in some miraculous way he had escaped the half-breed’s death-dealing bullets. Through the blinding snow-mist directly ahead, they made out the vague outline of Settlement House River. Toma’s tracks had become obliterated here. They had emerged upon an open space across which the wind had full sweep. They would be unable now to track Toma down. If they found him at all, it would be through some lucky chance, rather than through any direct effort on their part. Fifty yards ahead, standing like a huge sentinel, guarding the descent to the river, the boys discerned a large jack-pine. Toward it they made their way, reached it after a short interval, and glanced down along the slope expectantly. But there was no sign of anyone. The storm now had reached its height. Snow and sleet lashed across the earth. Trees bent their heads before the furious blast. Both Dick and Sandy had seen many blizzards, but never such a one as this. Sandy took Dick’s arm and shouted above the roar of the storm. “No use in standing here, Dick. We may miss Toma altogether. If he’s alive, he’s probably back to the trail by this time. Come on! Let’s hurry over there ourselves.” With a last look along the slope, Dick was about to turn, when he saw the dim outline of something just ahead. Straining his eyes, one hand shielding his face from the driving snow, he made out, at length, what was unmistakably the figure of a man. Could it be Toma? The man was afoot. Quickly, Dick started back, overcome by sudden fear. It was the half-breed—and he carried a rifle! Springing forward down the slope, Dick pulled Sandy after him. Just ahead, a thick screen of bushes—now weighted down with snow—would hide them from view. Yet here it would still be possible to watch the movements of the figure proceeding toward them on the level ground above the slope. Sandy removed his parka and glared back toward the spot Dick had indicated. “The half-breed!” he whispered hoarsely. “The same man who shot Constable Pearly. What do you suppose has happened to Toma?” Rifle in hand, the half-breed came on, looking furtively to the right and left. He seemed oblivious to the storm. In a few moments he had approached to within fifty feet of the place where the boys lay concealed. Instinctively, Dick and Sandy reached for their revolvers. But before they could be drawn from their holsters, the half-breed accomplished an incredible and surprising movement. His head went back with a jerk—so suddenly that he nearly lost his balance. For a moment he stood stock still, then leaped for the protecting trunk of a poplar. Above the roaring of the wind and storm, the boys heard distinctly the sound of a muffled report. The boys rose to their feet with a cry of joy. Well they knew the meaning of the half-breed’s actions and the sound they had heard. Toma was still alive! Not only that—he was carrying on a sort of running fight with the outlaw. Sandy flourished his own gun, and, had Dick not prevented it, would have fired point-blank at the figure, which, though sheltered from Toma’s fire by the poplar, offered a splendid target for the boys. “Here, Sandy!” remonstrated Dick. “Don’t do that. Stop!” “I haven’t forgotten Constable Pearly,” Sandy retorted angrily. “The fellow deserves it.” “Possibly he does. But it’s not your place to retaliate. Toma is well able to look after himself. If I’m not mistaken the outlaw will be ready and willing to take to his heels before long.” “But Toma may be wounded,” argued Sandy. “I doubt it. If he is, it’s only slightly. Our best plan is to stay here and await developments.” A few more shots from Toma’s automatic drove the half-breed from his inadequate barricade. The stocky figure suddenly lurched backward, one hand grasping his arm. His rifle dropped to the ground. For a split-second his face was distorted with pain. Then, turning swiftly, he retrieved his weapon and sped toward the slope, gaining its shelter without sustaining further injury. The boys watched him as he scrambled down through the trees and underbrush in the direction of the river. “Come on, Dick!” Sandy shouted excitedly. “We’ll go over and see Toma. That’s what I call marksmanship!” “You’re taking a chance if you do. In this storm Toma wouldn’t be able to tell whether it was you or the half-breed. Good way to commit suicide.” “Guess I won’t take a chance,” grinned Sandy. “But how are we going to join him?” “I think we’d better slip along the slope for a few hundred yards, then circle back to the trail where the ponies are,” was Dick’s suggestion. The two friends proceeded to put this plan into execution. In high spirits again, now that they knew that the guide was safe, they hurried along, and in less than twenty minutes were back at the same place they had left but a short time before. They had scarcely taken up their former position beside the ponies, when a sharp crackling in the underbrush close at hand, told them that Toma had returned. He sauntered up as if nothing had happened, his face as inscrutable and expressionless as ever. Secretly, Sandy poked Dick in the ribs. Then he turned upon the newcomer scowling. “Where have you been all this time?” he demanded hotly. “Did it take you nearly an hour to walk over to the river? We’ve been sitting here so long that we’re nearly frozen.” Toma offered no explanation. He strode over and pulled the blanket from his pony. “Mebbe we find bend little farther on. Me no think it very far now.” Dick and Sandy winked at each other as they got once more into the saddle and followed Toma along the drifting trail. For a time they rode on in silence, once more conscious of the fury of the storm. Abruptly, the trail swung to the south and very soon they could see the broken, snow-covered valley of the river—so close that it seemed as if the trail ran into it. Here was the bend at last! Dick recalled that Corporal Rand had instructed him to descend to the floor of the valley and make camp close to the river. They proceeded to do this, first dismounting and leading the ponies after them. A short time later they had gained their objective. The ground was level here, densely overgrown with trees and shrubs. The river had not yet frozen over. Slush ice choked the current, making a grinding, roaring sound as it floated swiftly past. Here and there on the sandbars, large piles of ice and driftwood had been shoved ashore. In another twenty-four hours, with the steadily falling temperature, the stream would be frozen over, although it would be many days before it would be safe to cross on foot. As he gathered driftwood for the fire, Dick’s gaze returned again and again to the ice-choked current. A thought suddenly came to him. Sergeant Richardson and Corporal Rand were to meet them here at nightfall. The two were travelling westward, and it would be necessary for them to cross the river here before they could go on to the cabin of the outlaws at Settlement Mountain. Would they be able to do it? He looked out again across the grinding, grating field of ice and slowly shook his head. It was a feat he had no desire to attempt himself. It seemed foolhardy even to think of it. Not only would a raft be in imminent danger of being broken to pieces by the drifting chunks of ice in the whirling current, but there was also the possibility of its occupants being shaken or thrown precipitately into the river. He consulted his watch. It was now nearly four o’clock. The short afternoon would soon be terminated by the approach of darkness. Night would descend, and he shuddered to think of any attempt on the part of the police party to cross. When the flames from their campfire had commenced to leap up, radiating warmth and comfort in a wide circle around them, he broached the subject to Sandy and Toma. “I don’t see how they’ll ever manage to get over. It’s getting late now. By the time they’ve built a raft, it will be so dark that it will be out of the question to think of crossing.” “Mebbe him Corporal Rand know about raft somewhere on other side of river,” said Toma. “He never mentioned it to me.” Sandy, who had been sitting on the end of a fallen tree, gazing thoughtfully into the fire, looked up with a smile. “You can trust Rand and Richardson to do the impossible,” he pointed out. “I’d like to lay you a wager that if they reach the opposite side of the river tonight, they’ll manage somehow to find a way to get across. Perhaps they’ll come floating over on one of those huge cakes of ice.” “I won’t take your bet, Sandy,” Dick laughed. “Just the same I’d hate to be in their shoes.” Toma rose and walked down to the edge of the river, returning a moment later with water for tea. Huddled around the blaze, they ate from the supplies that had been purchased at Wandley’s post. Darkness was quickly descending. As is frequently the case in the North, the wind subsided as night approached; but the snow continued to fall. If possible, it came down thicker than ever. About them was one all-enveloping mantle of white. Even the trees and underbrush bent under the weight of their snowy burden. The three ponies, warmly blanketed, each one tied to a long picket-rope, pawed away the snow in order to browse at the dead grass and moss underneath. Dick felt sorry for the little beasts, almost wishing that he had left them with Constable Pearly’s horse at Wandley’s. While he was watching them, Toma broke forth abruptly: “Did you hear that?” The three rose swiftly to their feet and rushed down to the shore of the river. Again came the sound—a faint halloo which trembled across the valley. The boys cupped their hands to their mouths and sent back an answering shout. “The police party! What did I tell you, Dick? They’ll make it yet!” As he spoke, Sandy reached out and slapped Dick excitedly on the shoulder. |
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