  Three hours after he had left Fort Good Faith, Dick Kent, still on the Run River trail, had become conscious of an increasing nervousness. The section of country through which he now passed was densely wooded, rugged and broken, a treacherous, uninviting prospect. Dick estimated that he had travelled about twelve miles from the post. To continue much farther might prove to be a dangerous business. Even now, as he went cautiously forward, he could almost persuade himself that behind every clump of bushes, behind almost every tree, there crouched the leering, skulking form of one of Henderson’s men. If he followed his original plan, the thing to do presently was to strike off, either to the right or left, and proceed on his way back by a circuitous route. Tonight he would camp somewhere in the open, building himself a shelter of spruce boughs. Tomorrow morning he would set out again, moving slowly, making a wide detour, always bearing in mind that he must not, under any circumstances, return to Fort Good Faith before two days had elapsed. The fur thieves, both he and Corporal Richardson had conjectured, would be sure not to delay more than two days before commencing the trek southward with their valuable loot. So Dick had a good deal of time to waste, before he might hope to rejoin his friends. A hundred yards farther on, a turn in the trail brought Dick to a small creek. Frozen, and covered deeply with snow, it traced its way through the dark green of the forest. From where he stood, Dick thought that it looked very much like a white snake, twisting through the trees. It would be great fun, he decided, to leave the trail at this point and follow the creek on a little voyage of exploration, later leaving it, if he found that the general course of the stream ran too far in the wrong direction. Also, by following the creek, there would be a certain advantage to himself, well worth considering. It offered a smooth, hard trail to his feet, with no obstruction from rocks, bramble and bush, as the case would be if he chose to strike out in a more haphazardly course through the forest. Turning to the left, Dick slid down the small embankment and commenced leisurely to walk along the creek bottom. The snow-crust was so heavy that he paused, kicked off his snowshoes and went forward again, whistling happily. It was a great relief to leave the Run River trail. He would have no fear now of a deadly ambuscade. His heart had ceased its disconcerting flip-flops every time he went past a dark screen of brush or a heavy clump of trees. It now functioned in a more healthy manner. The weather was mild, a stream of warm sunshine lighting the open forest spaces with a dazzling radiance. The glare of snow was hard on the eyes, but by keeping in the shadow of the large trees, bordering the creek, Dick contrived to overcome this difficulty. In another hour or two he would pause for his midday meal. The long walk had given him an appetite. He was sorry that Sandy hadn’t come along to enjoy the fun. On a day like this it was good to be alive. He grinned as a rabbit whisked across his path, boy-fashion stooping to pick up a chunk of ice to hurl after it. As he straightened up, eyes on the trail ahead, he was startled by the sight of a thin, white spiral of smoke curling up from the trees, not more than two hundred yards distant. Dick stopped dead in his tracks, scarcely believing the reality of the thing he saw. He was totally unprepared in the emergency and for a moment stood, with bated breath, debating whether he ought to go on or turn tail, like a frightened husky, and scamper for cover. Corporal Richardson had warned him to keep away from all human kind. Before the experienced eyes of the average frontiersman Dick’s masquerade would be useless. And once the deception had been laid bare, no one might tell how soon the news would reach Bear Henderson and his gang of outlaws. To add to Dick’s discomfiture, there emerged unexpectedly in plain view ahead the figure of a man. Half way across the creek the man paused, perceiving Dick, and one arm went up in a gesture of friendly salutation. In chagrin, Dick bit his lips. His chance now to get away undetected had been lost. In less than four hours from the time he had left Fort Good Faith, he had committed a most unpardonable blunder. All very well for spying eyes to follow his progress along the Run River trail, and Indian messengers to report the news later to Henderson—that was playing the game correctly; but to be discovered here, four miles off the prescribed route, calmly throwing chunks of ice after scurrying rabbits, was an entirely different matter. If word of it ever reached the suspicious outlaw, Corporal Richardson’s chances of capturing the fur thieves was very slim indeed. “The only thing about me worthy of the name of a mounted policeman is this uniform,” Dick lamented to himself. “I’ve messed up everything. I’ll be ashamed to go back and look Corporal Richardson in the face. Hang the luck!” With a snort of disgust, he strode forward again to meet the waiting figure. There was no turning back now. The thing to do was to swallow his disappointment and endeavor to make the best of it. In a few minutes more he had approached to within twenty feet of the man. His moccasins crunched lightly over the snow, but the blinding glare of sun in his eyes, together with the dazzling reflection of millions of white crystals underfoot, made it difficult to see. He heard a voice announce: “Ah, et eez ze Corporal Richardson himself. I bid you ze welcome, monsieur. You come to ze house. You come——” The words trailed off suddenly, culminating in an exclamation of surprise. Dick stopped. “My mistake. Et ees not ze good Corporal Richardson at all. Mon Dieu! A boy!” A prickling sensation ran up and down Dick’s spine. He could see more clearly now, and one good look at the man in front of him was more than sufficient. Who could mistake those snapping eyes, or that tall, lithe, athletic figure? It was the messenger of the night before—the man who had brought the forged letter to Corporal Richardson! During the first few minutes of bewilderment and surprise, Dick found it impossible to think clearly, but as this feeling wore off, there flashed through his mind the thought that perhaps this messenger of Henderson had not yet discovered his true identity. The man had seen him only once. Dick presented an entirely different appearance now than he had on the evening before in the poorly lighted room at the post. “What ees your name, monsieur?” demanded the Frenchman. “Corporal Rand,” Dick lied deliberately. “Recently from the mounted police training school at Regina. This is the first time I’ve ever been sent out on actual service. I arrived at Fort Good Faith a few hours ago to relieve Corporal Richardson, but I discovered he had left under instructions just a few minutes before for a place called Run River.” The Frenchman, to judge from the relieved expression on his face, actually believed the story. “And so you already start on ze friendly patrol?” he inquired politely. “No,” answered the quaking young counterfeit, “at first that really wasn’t my intention. I had hoped to overtake Corporal Richardson before he had gone very far, but I guess I wasn’t swift enough. There is no catching him!” The messenger grinned at this admission. He surveyed the lanky young tenderfoot, bethought him of the prowess of Corporal Richardson on the trail, and doubled up in a paroxysm of mirth. Dick joined willingly in the laugh on himself. “Monsieur will become swift himself if he continue to stay in zis countree,” came the encouraging assertion. “Conditions here are much different than they were in the south,” explained Dick, “but I imagine that in time I’ll get used to them.” “True, monsieur, an’ now you are veree tired, I expect.” The messenger’s gestures were expressive. “So you will come with me to my house. You will honor me, monsieur. You will stay an’ rest an’ forget about ze hardness of ze trail. Baptiste La Lond ees a veree good friend to ze mounted police.” Dick guessed at the motive underlying the messenger’s efforts at hospitality. La Lond was afraid that Dick might decide to return at once to Fort Good Faith. It would never do, of course, after getting rid of one policeman, to have all their plans spoiled by the sudden advent of a second. “I really must return to Fort Good Faith at once,” stated Dick, by way of a feeler. “I’ll be stationed there for several days, I imagine.” “No! No! No!” protested La Lond, throwing up his hands in protest. “Et ees unthinkable. Monsieur is tired after ze hard trek. He must rest an’ eat at my house.” He paused, a smile of eagerness lighting his face. The dark eyes snapped. “An’ now I will tell you ze beeg news, monsieur. Tonight my veree good friend, Pierre Chapelle, ees hold a dance at hees house. We will go. What you say, monsieur?” “I’ll think about that later,” Dick answered, deciding to play into the other’s hands. “I’ll stay here for a while, if you insist. I really am very tired.” La Lond kept up a continuous chatter as he quickly led the way to the house—a small cabin, nestling in the woods. His host threw open the door to permit him to enter a tidy room, at one side of which Dick perceived a young man of about his own age. “My brother, Phellep,” explained the messenger, pushing his way in and closing the door. “We live here together. Phellep, take monsieur’s coat.” Phillip La Lond rose stiffly, a look of fear on his face. Evidently he was not accustomed to entertaining members of the Royal Mounted and was probably trying to figure out the reason for Dick’s unexpected visit. But if Phillip experienced fear, he was not without company. Dick also was afraid. It had just occurred to him that perhaps the wily messenger had not been in the least deceived by the story, which he, Dick, had related. Perhaps La Lond had recognized him at the very beginning and was now planning some devilish method of getting rid of him. During the preparation of the midday meal and for several hours afterward, Dick sat, shivering with apprehension. La Lond’s continuous flow of conversation fell on unheeding ears. The pressure of the revolver in its holster at Dick’s side was somewhat reassuring, yet what match was he, a single inexperienced youth, against a seasoned criminal like La Lond. He had probably made a serious mistake in coming here. No doubt, he would be made to pay dearly for his blundering. But in any event, it was up to him now to play the game in a way that would be a credit to the faith imposed in him. And so with this grim resolve, Dick straightened in his chair, endeavoring to conquer the quailing spirit within. La Lond was still speaking: “Perhaps monsieur ees veree tired an’ would like to lie down an’ rest,” he inquired solicitously. “While you have your leetle nap, Phellep will take ze run out to ze trap-line.” “What you mean, you deceiving scoundrel,” Dick thought to himself, “is that you are sending Phillip over to Henderson’s camp with the news of my coming.” Then aloud: “No, I’m not as tired as you think. Let’s sit here and rest for a few minutes more, then all three of us will go out to examine your traps.” The appearance of animation and the smile of good fellowship suddenly and inexplicably disappeared. In their place a dark frown settled over the face of the messenger. For one brief moment he glared at Dick. “All right, eet will be as you wish,” he snapped. Then his eyes met Dick’s in a look that could not possibly be misunderstood. Unconsciously, Dick stiffened in his chair as he read the challenge. |
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