  During the next few hours, Dick engaged in a grim and desperate game of hide-and-seek with the outlaws. On several occasions he escaped death narrowly. He turned hither and thither, like a hunted animal, only to find his path barred by one or more of his enemies. Finally, in a last despairing effort to save himself, he struck off toward a high hill, on the crest of which were lofty rocks and towering pinnacles—broken and jagged slabs of granite. Here he would make his stand. Even though surrounded, he would have a chance to ward off attack. If necessary, he would remain here all day and make another break for freedom with the coming of darkness. Climbing up, he reached the natural fortress and breathed a sigh of relief. He had neither food nor water. From a bush, which grew in a crevice in the rocks, he gathered fuel with which to start a fire. Then he sat down to wait. In all his experience, he had never suffered more than upon this occasion. His stomach gnawed with hunger. He shook from exhaustion. Bareheaded, moccasins almost cut from his feet, clothing soiled and tattered, hands and face scratched—his appearance beggared description. His cheeks were hollow, while his eyes shone with a feverish, almost insane light. After two hours of inaction, squatting miserably in front of his fire, he began to wonder if, after all, the outlaws had not abandoned the chase. In an effort to find out, he slipped gingerly over his barricade and scrambled down to the ledge below. He could command a good view here. His eyes roved the surrounding woodland. Everywhere he looked—but he could see no one. The silence was intense, deep, a sort of rhythmical beat pulsating through dead space under the vast dome of the sky. His heart leaping with joy, he decided to quit his post and resume his journey. But something made him hesitate. An almost indiscernible movement along the slope below attracted his attention. He ducked quickly. A bullet whistled over his head. Angry and disappointed, he climbed back to the safety of the rocks. How he would ever manage to endure the long and tedious wait for the coming of night, he did not know. The strain was so great that he decided more than once to walk boldly out and give himself up. Even death was preferable to this. Time after time, he rose and with bloodshot eyes stared out toward the west—to the broad, green expanse of the Pacific. If only Corporal Rand or Toma knew of his trouble, they would come to him. Sometimes, sitting moodily, chin resting in his hands, he thought of Sandy back at Settlement Mountain and wished that he were with him. Why had he been so eager to come in pursuit of the pack-train? Night came as slowly as a limping beggar to a gate. Shadows deepened. Strange silhouettes appeared along the slope. Not a breath of wind stirred the trees below. The sounds of the forest were buried in the evening’s hush. One hour more—and he would make his final break for safety. Impatiently, he rose and began pacing back and forth in the narrow, confining space, swinging his numb arms against his shivering body. Suddenly, Dick’s hand went to his automatic in a quick, convulsive movement. But he did not draw his gun. Instead, he grinned sheepishly, staring at the dusky face which peered up from below. “Hello,” he sang out. The Indian girl smiled and clambered up to the perch beside him. She spoke in Cree: “They did not see me come. I will help you. Does monsieur know where he is?” With the few Indian words at his disposal, Dick endeavored to explain his case. He admitted that he had become confused. He could see the ocean, but it was still a long way off. In an attempt to escape his pursuers, he had been forced to travel in the wrong direction. How far was he now from her home? “You are very close,” replied the girl. “If it were not for the heavy woodland just over there, in the light you would be able to see it.” “How did you find out I was here?” queried Dick. “From your enemies,” the girl answered unhesitatingly. “One of them came to my father’s house a short time ago and asked for food. I overheard him tell my father that you had sought concealment on this hill. So I came at once to help you, monsieur.” “Where are the outlaws now?” “One is hiding in the tree below, waiting for you to come out. Very soon this one will be joined by the man who went to see my father. Three others have gone down to the coast to intercept you, should you escape.” “Did I understand you to say that your home is not very far from here?” “Yes, monsieur. Less than two miles.” Two miles! Dick’s mouth set in a grim, hard line. All day long he had been scrambling, struggling, fighting his way through trees and underbrush, over tortuous rocks—and yet had proceeded no farther than that. The thought galled him, made him feel a little foolish. The girl spoke again. In her excitement, she spoke so rapidly now that he found it almost impossible to understand her. However, there was one word she emphasized, frequently reiterated. The boat! She would lead him thither. Monsieur would row the boat. She knew exactly where to find it. His escape would be certain. They must hurry before the other outlaw came back. “She intends to accompany me all the way to the coast,” thought Dick, a flush of embarrassment suffusing his cheeks. He attempted to voice a protest, exhausting his complete stock of words in an endeavor to make her understand. But to no avail. She repeated the word, pointing away to the south. “The boat is three miles from here. I will take you there,” she explained to him. The fugitive scratched his head in perplexity. What did she mean? A boat three miles away. Why, there wasn’t even water over there. The ocean lay to the west—ten or twelve miles distant. The thing was absurd, preposterous! Then, suddenly, there came to him a glimmering of the truth. He thought he knew now. She referred, no doubt, to some sort of navigable stream, along the shore of which was moored a boat, belonging to her father. With a nod to the girl that he understood and was ready to start, he jumped quickly to the level surface of the rocks above, took her hand and helped her down to the ledge. From there they set out through the rapidly gathering darkness. An hour later, without mishap, they pushed their way through the pines to the edge of a wide stream, where, sure enough, they found the boat. Hurriedly, Dick made ready for his departure. Arctic night had fallen. Above them, through a rift in the heavy clouds, a few faint stars were visible. He turned for a last look at the little Indian girl who had brought him there. A few yards away she proceeded through the pines and presently her dark silhouette became lost to view. With a slight constriction of the throat, Dick swung about and pushed off, his pulses quickening again at the thought of the danger which might lay ahead. In two hours he had floated along the swift current and had entered a narrow arm of the sea. Thus far he had drifted leisurely along, every sense alert, endeavoring to make as little noise as possible. If he could negotiate a mile or two from shore he would feel comparatively safe. After that there was little likelihood that the outlaws would ever overtake him. Paddling north, he would enter the inlet. He hoped he would arrive in time to warn Corporal Rand and Toma. As the minutes went by, hope grew in his breast. Conditions, he perceived, were ideal for his escape—almost complete darkness and a stretch of smooth water ahead. Every little while he paused to look around in apprehension. Once, with a quick start, he thought he had heard something. Paddle raised, he permitted the boat to drift for a moment or two, panic in his heart. But the sound was not repeated. Pursuit, he felt, would come from behind; the outlaws might secure boats somewhere and attempt to overtake him. Looking for pursuit from the shore, he was wholly unprepared for what actually happened. A little later, just as he had begun to believe that he was out of danger, unexpectedly through the velvety gloom that had settled about him, ahead—not behind—there loomed a shape, a dark smear across his troubled vision. It was so close that escape seemed absolutely out of the question. Notwithstanding this, Dick turned and started back. Frantically his paddle cut the water for ten or fifteen yards, then a guttural voice rang out and immediately the night became a medley of sound; rifles cracked forth, oars splashed, vivid spurts of red flame flashed through the dark, while all around him the water hissed and sputtered where struck the lead from Murky’s murderous crew. A bullet whistled close to his ear. Another tore through the loose sleeve of his coat. At this juncture, he dropped his paddle, and, in an effort to retrieve it, nearly capsized. As he came back to a sitting position, his craft rocking perilously, a small piece of wood, torn from the side of the boat, struck him full in the mouth. Dazed, he put up one hand to his face, feeling the warm blood trickling down through his fingers. In desperation, Dick abandoned all hope of escape, deciding to sell his life as dearly as possible. Revolver in hand, he crouched in the stem. The outlaws’ boat was closer now, sweeping down upon him at top speed. He had barely time to empty his revolver at the oncoming craft before it crashed into him. They had deliberately run him down. He was in the icy water now, coughing, choking, attempting to dodge the bullets of the half-breeds by diving under the surface. It would be more difficult to see him now. He would fight to the last. Thank God, he could swim! |
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