  “He doesn’t seem to care whether we run away or not,” observed Sandy, when the outlaw had passed out of hearing. “Shall we make a try, Dick?” Dick shook his head. “We wouldn’t go far. I’d rather stay here and take my chances.” Toma dropped the handle of the windlass and walked over to his two friends. His eyes were shining. “You think I play mean trick when I drop trap yesterday,” he began. “I think mebbe you feel mad at Toma.” “No,” protested Dick, “but tell us how it all happened. What did they do, Toma?” “I stand look out door mebbe not more than ten minutes, when I see plenty men come along ridge. No time to do much. Henderson close already. No good shoot; no good run away. First thing I think about you an’ Sandy. I try shout down hole, but you no hear. Men come closer all time. I run to door then back to hole. I shout once more, but you no hear. Pretty soon I have good idea. I think mebbe I close trap and scrape dust over it. Henderson him not find where you, Sandy are. By time I pull up rope and close hole bad fellows just outside cabin. When they come in, I give up. Fellows take our guns. Henderson speak out: “‘Where other fellow go?’ “I tell him lie. I say you, Sandy run away. He no believe that. He see you, Sandy gun an’ shoulder-pack. He ask me many, many times where you go, but always I tell him same thing. Bye-’n’-bye one bad fellow pull knife an’ prick me three, four, five times so it hurt very much. He keep on until I stand it no longer, so I tell him where you, Sandy go, an’ where he find ’em plenty sacks of gold.” As proof of the truth of his story, Toma opened his shirt, exhibiting his bare, scarred breast. Sandy turned away, a mist filming his eyes. Here indeed was conclusive proof of the terrible ordeal through which Toma had passed. “They’ll pay for this all some day,” Dick prophesied. “They can’t keep on doing these awful things and expect never to be punished for them.” It was late that night before they were relieved from their arduous labors and were permitted to eat or rest. Accompanied by one of the outlaws, they were sent back to an opening among the rocks, where a camp had been erected during the afternoon. At one side of the camp was a large tepee, which served as a sort of mess-hall for the men, while on the opposite side, flanked by rocks and somewhat sheltered by them, was a level strip of ground which afforded ample room for sleeping. They ate supper in the tepee with several of the other men and when they had finished their guide led them over to the space reserved for sleeping quarters. “Yuh can roll out your blankets here,” he said gruffly. “But yuh better keep your traps closed if yuh don’t want to get in trouble.” Although it was not yet dark, Dick’s watch showed that it was after eleven o’clock. Northern twilight, brooding across the land, lent a certain weirdness and eeriness to the camp. Here and there, beyond the sleeping forms of Henderson’s first shift, blinked the red embers of several campfires. Around one of these were three outlaws, drinking from a large bottle. Their coarse voices and loud disputes could be plainly heard by the boys. As Dick lay watching them, unable to sleep, he observed the approach of two other men, whose figures seemed somehow vaguely familiar. Passing by, on their way over to the three tipplers, he recognized them immediately. They were Lee and Pierre, the two packers, who had deserted his own party less than a week before. Dick was on the verge of waking Sandy to inform him of this discovery, when a third person, no other than Henderson himself, made his way hastily forward and paused just a few feet away from where the three boys lay. “Are yuh there, Brennan?” he called out. “Yep,” one of the men answered from the campfire. “Come here!” Brennan lost no time in obeying the summons. “Yes, Bear, what is it?” “Scar-Face jes’ got back to camp from the river,” Henderson informed him. “He tells me that we’d better watch out fer the Indians tonight. They’re gettin’ dangerous. The hull outfit is buzzin’ around like a swarm of mad hornets. He thinks they’re comin’ over.” “What fer?” Henderson cleared his throat. “All on account o’ that Indian kid La Lond cracked over the head this afternoon. He’s the chief’s son. Brennan laughed. Alcohol had given him unlimited courage—of a sort. Just then he was worried more about the diminishing contents of the bottle than the chance possibility of an attack by Indians. “Let ’em come,” he declared drunkenly. “What do we care? You ain’t afraid of a few Nitchies with bows an’ arrers, are yuh, Bear?” “There’s close to two hundred of ’em, not countin’ a few strays they may be able to pick up. We ain’t got fifteen men.” “Well, what do yuh think we’d better do?” “I don’t think—I know. That’s what I came all the way over here fer. Wake up all the men, except them three kids, an’ give ’em rifles. Tell ’em to be ready an’ waitin’ in case the Indians decide to come over. I gotta supply of guns an’ ammunition over at the cabin, an’ I’ll look after that end if you’ll look after this.” “I don’t think there’s no danger,” argued Brennan. “Why don’t you send Scar-Face back to sorta quiet ’em down?” “Scar-Face has got a broken arrow in him already. He won’t live ’til mornin’.” Brennan considered this startling news for a brief space. “All right, I’ll do as you say, Bear.” When Brennan and Henderson had left, Dick lay quietly, pondering over the information. Were the Indians really planning an attack? Would they dare to do such a thing, fearful as they were of the white man’s guns? He sat up, blankets tucked around him, and listened intently, half expecting to hear the sound of the invaders prowling around in the rocks above. Brennan had returned to his cronies and regaled them with the conversation he had had with Henderson. Loud bursts of drunken laughter followed the recital. “The ol’ man’s gettin’ so he’s afeared of his own shadow,” chortled one of them. “’Magine them Nitchies tryin’ to attack us. It don’t make sense. Why I ain’t a bit scairt to fight the hull blamed outfit alone. Pah!” “He told me to wake up ever’body an’ give ’em guns,” giggled Brennan. Another roar of laughter greeted this remark. When it had subsided, Pierre, amid wild shouts of approval, produced a second bottle from somewhere about his person, took a long draught himself, and passed it around. It was the beginning of a mad debauch. In disgust, Dick turned his head and silently regarded the forms of his two sleeping companions. Should he awaken them? For a moment he hesitated. He put out one hand toward Sandy, gently touching the face of his chum, smoothing back the lock of hair that had fallen over the tired forehead. An outlandish yowl sounded from the direction of the campfire. The noise had disturbed Toma, for he stirred restlessly and finally sat up. “What I hear?” he demanded sleepily. “A few drunken fools——” began Dick. He did not complete the sentence. A concerted, nerve-wracking screech broke across the area above them. Its echo trembled for a moment in the still air, then suddenly the camp filled, as if by a miracle, with scores of hideous forms, darting here and there through the gathering darkness. |
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