  The escape of the outlaws from the warehouse during the night was one of those regrettable happenings that come occasionally when least expected. On the following morning as Dick opened the door a deep silence greeted him. The prisoners had gone. Investigation showed that part of the flooring had been removed and that the outlaws had dug their way out during the night. The shock of this discovery staggered Dick, who lost no time in reporting to Constable Rand. The policeman received the news calmly. “Well, there’s no use worrying about it. I’m sorry, but it can’t be helped. We have the ring-leaders—which is much more important. The police will retake the others in the course of time. Right now, I’m worrying more about Toma and the pack-ponies. What has become of the fur? If we lose the fur, we’ll have no direct evidence against Murky.” “Why,” said Dick in surprise, “I should think you could convict him easily. What about the shooting of Pearly and the assault upon Richardson?” “True enough. But Murky didn’t commit these crimes.” “No; but he ordered them done. He’s the person responsible.” “Unfortunately, that may be rather hard to prove. It all depends upon what attitude the other outlaws take.” The forenoon was long and tedious. Lines of worry began to crease the corporal’s forehead. Dick was driven to the verge of desperation. The pack-train had not yet returned. Sitting in front of the campfire, opposite the sailor and Nichols, with Rand pacing nervously back and forth behind him, Dick pictured a hundred imaginary perils and disasters that had befallen Toma. Sometimes he saw him languishing in a dark, foul room, suffering all the tortures of imprisonment; and again he visualized a limp, lifeless form, crumpled in the snow in the depth of some forest solitude, around him the leering, grinning faces of the outlaws. By three o’clock in the afternoon, Dick had become almost desperate. He rose to his feet and drew the corporal aside. “I can’t endure this much longer. Let’s do something.” The policeman took the younger man’s arm affectionately. “What would you suggest?” “I don’t know,” wailed Dick. “There is only one thing that I can propose—and you may not like that.” “What is it?” “You can stay here and watch these two vultures while I go out and try to find Toma.” Moisture had gathered in Dick’s eyes. Through a glistening film, he looked up at the corporal. “Will you let me go? This inactivity, this suspense is killing me by inches. Corporal, I’ll promise to be very careful. But please let me go.” “All right, Dick, you can start. Take your blankets and a few supplies—if you can find any. If you have not discovered any trace of him by noon tomorrow, come back and report to me.” Dick lost no time in making his departure. All that afternoon he trudged through the snow, sometimes picking up the track of a pony and losing it again, on other occasions, coming across human footprints or the charred remains of a campfire. When darkness descended, he was miles back from the coast, with nothing more encouraging to buoy up his spirits than the thought that he must soon reach the main-travelled trail. His aching legs carried him along the slope of a hill—up, up interminably; then he struck out north by east in the direction he knew must eventually lead him to the place he sought. But as the miles slipped past, he grew so weary and footsore that he decided to make camp for the night. Just ahead he could see what appeared to be the edge of a coulee—and he struggled on with the intention of entering it, thereby gaining protection from the chill, moist wind that blew in from the sea. Imagine his surprise, upon approaching closer, to discover that it was not a coulee at all, but a deep-set basin, looking somewhat like the ancient bed of a lake. It was nearly three miles across, several hundred feet deep, and thickly overgrown with red willow. Near its center, he saw the twinkling light of a cabin. An hour later, he approached the cabin and knocked timidly at the door. A squint-eyed native, so old that his yellow face was a curious net-work of wrinkles, admitted him. “I want drink and food,” Dick informed the man, stumbling over the Indian words. The old man nodded acquiescence, leading the way into the house. He clapped his hands together sharply and waited. From the loft above, there came immediately the sound of shuffling feet, then a form, even more senile than that of Dick’s host, slowly descended a rickety ladder, emitting as it came a series of rheumatic groans. The woman, following instructions from her husband and a half-timid stare at Dick, hobbled into the adjoining room and returned presently, carrying an earthern pot, which she placed upon the floor in front of her visitor. It was a cold but not unsavory mixture of fish and vegetables and Dick, weak from hunger, carried the food to a bench at one side of the room and began eating with avidity. Thus far, he had not been successful in finding any trace of Toma. Neither had he seen any of the outlaws, although he was sure they must be somewhere in the vicinity. Probably a few of them had even passed by this cabin. Dick had learned a little Cree and he decided to question the old Indian. After several unsuccessful attempts, he finally gained the information that a number of pack-horses, in charge of three men, had crossed the basin only a few hours previous. Dick received the news with a joyous quickening of the heart. From the native’s description, Toma was one of the party. “Which way were they travelling?” came his next eager question. He expected, of course, to hear that they were going east in search of the remainder of the ponies, but to his surprise the Indian pointed westward. This meant that he and Toma had passed each other only a short time before. The guide, having completed a successful search, was returning to the coast. It was cheering information and Dick decided that as soon as he had finished his welcome repast and had rested for a short time, he would retrace his steps and rejoin his friends. Putting aside the empty dish, he turned eagerly upon his host, just as that worthy stepped back from his place by the door, fear and dismay depicted in his watery old eyes. Almost simultaneously, there fell across Dick’s sensitive ears the sound of approaching footsteps, then a voice that caused him to experience a momentary sensation of chill. With a finger on his lips as a warning to the native, Dick scurried up the ladder, pulling it up after him. His hands were shaking. He deposited the ladder on the floor, tiptoed across the loft and lay down with his eyes at a crack. The door of the room below was pushed rudely open, without even the formality of a knock, and three men—all of them outlaws—entered. Of the three, one was a white man—the sailor who had come ashore with the captain of the yacht. He wore a gray cap and a much-soiled suit of clothes—apparel too thin for that climate! He sat down shivering close to the fireplace, extending his blue, unmittened hands toward the blaze. He did not even look up as one of the other outlaws called loudly for food and growled unpleasantly when it did not appear forthwith. While they ate, Dick lay watching them. He hoped that none of the outlaws would make a search of the house. Even if they did—now that the ladder was pulled up—he was fairly sure they would not come to the loft. He was feeling comparatively safe, until he became conscious of a step behind him. Then he became panic-stricken. His tongue clove to the roof of his mouth. He had hardly the strength to turn his head as the apparition passed, a young Indian girl not over seventeen or eighteen years of age. She had paused, looked at him in a sort of bewildered manner, then moved forward, picked up the ladder, let it slip through the hole in the floor, and proceeded to climb down to the room below. Dick’s breath caught as he thought about the ladder projecting there through the aperture, where the Indian girl had left it. It was a strange trick of fate that had been played upon him at a most inopportune time. The outlaws now had easy access to the loft. It would be simple enough indeed to come up and take him like a rat in a trap. Also, there was another horn to the dilemma. Unwittingly, the girl might blurt out something about his presence there. And if she did, the outlaws would hear it immediately and the game would be up. The very imminence of the thing was not conducive to Dick’s peace of mind. Lying there, not daring to stir, expecting at any moment to hear the ladder creak under the weight of one or more of his enemies, he sweated in an agony of apprehension. He had left his rifle below and, unfortunately, his revolver was empty. Desperately, he looked about him for some sort of weapon that he might use in his own defense. He could see nothing. Except for the blankets in the far corner, the loft was bare. A small pocket-knife was the only thing he had that would be of the slightest service in a hand-to-hand encounter. Soon afterward, one of the outlaws turned upon the Indian woman and demanded more food. She shook her head, informing him in Cree that there was nothing more in the house. The outlaw apparently did not believe this and, in a sudden burst of anger, advanced and shook her roughly by the shoulder. The girl intervened. With a tiger-like spring, she bounded forward, slapping him across the face. In a blind fury now, he attempted to retaliate, but she eluded him and ran to the center of the room. Here he caught her, but released her with a snarl, as her teeth sank into his arm. Eyes blazing, he grabbed for her again, but she dodged past. His long fingers caught in a string of beads, tearing it from her neck. Then Dick’s heart seemed to stand still. She had started up the ladder, the outlaw in hot pursuit. During the next few moments Dick’s movements were performed subconsciously—and with the speed of desperation. The girl’s head had appeared in the aperture, when he jumped past her. Feet foremost, he crashed into the repulsive up-turned face; crashed into it, then went down—girl, outlaw and ladder together—landing with a terrific impact that shook the house. Stunned, he and the girl separated themselves from the confused muddle and struggled to their feet. The outlaw, however, did not stir. When Dick sprang forward and seized his rifle, the man still lay there, one brown, claw-like hand still retaining three or four unstrung beads. |
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