  Malemute Slade kicked a branch of burning wood into the center of the roaring campfire and turned eagerly to address the scarlet-coated figure of Corporal Richardson. “It couldn’t o’ come out any better if we’d done the thing ourselves,” he drawled complaisantly. “I guess there ain’t anybody what can deny that. Here’s the mine—an’ there’s Dick an’ Sandy an’ that young scamp of a Toma—all as safe an’ happy an’ contented as if nothin’ had ever happened.” As he spoke, Slade pointed to the ruins of the log cabin, around which the three boys had gathered. In the center of the charred and littered space, one could make out, even at that distance, a gaping hole partially filled with debris. But no one, unless he had made a more thorough investigation, might have guessed that the hole, instead of being the cellar or basement of the ruined cabin was, in reality, the main shaft leading to a very valuable gold mine. The ruined cabin was the one and only grim reminder of a night of tragedy. Slade eyed it contemplatively as he continued in his drawling tone: “It kind o’ makes me shudder when I think o’ what might have happened if Dick hadn’t fought Baptiste, when the Frenchie knocked down the Indian kid. It’s the only thing that saved ’em. Them Indians is as friendly now as the friendliest Cree in the settlements along the Peace. The chief’s son was over here ’bout an hour ago to pay his respects to the boys an’ to promise ’em that they needn’t worry ’bout bein’ molested. That’s what I call gratitude.” “When the boys told their story I could hardly believe it,” Corporal Richardson spoke reminiscently; “I can imagine how they felt when the Indian attack took place. Sandy said that the three of them were so struck with terror, that for a long time they didn’t move a foot away from their bed-rolls. The attack was nearly over before they plucked up sufficient courage to make an attempt to escape.” Malemute Slade drew out his pipe and grinned across at the mounted policeman. “At any rate, them Indians has saved you an’ me a whole lot o’ trouble. I don’t imagine we’ll ever hear from Henderson again. His band is pretty well broke up. I sometimes wonder how many o’ them outlaws escaped.” “No one knows except the Indians, and I doubt very much whether they do. The outlaws left everything behind, including those precious moose-hide sacks, and a large quantity of supplies and provisions. The boys have food enough to last them for seven or eight months.” He broke off suddenly, as a familiar figure emerged from a small canvas tent in the space to the right and came over to join them. Advancing, Factor MacClaren waved an arm cheerily. “I’m getting things in order over at my private hotel,” he laughingly called out. “At my age, gentlemen, personal comfort means everything. It is as necessary and important to my well-being as excitement and adventure is to those three young scallawags over there at the mine. There they are puttering about, entirely oblivious of the fact that it’s fully three-quarters of an hour past our regular lunch time.” “I’ll call ’em,” said Malemute Slade, placing two fingers in his mouth. “Now watch ’em race!” At the shrill summons, three jostling forms scrambled over the rocks near the site of the former cabin, and sped forward for a few yards, neck and neck. Then the race became a hard fought contest in which Dick, panting and out of breath, won by a narrow margin from Toma. Sandy was grumbling as he came up. “They had to push me, of course. I’m protesting this race on the grounds that two of the contestants presumed to take unfair advantage.” “I’ll look into it,” laughingly promised Corporal Richardson. Then he turned to the victor. “Dick, how are operations progressing at the mine?” “Fine!” panted Dick. “We’ll clear the shaft before night. Once we’re able to get into the mine, work’ll go along more quickly.” “There’s one thing I don’t understand,” Sandy’s uncle declared, as he pulled a grub-sack closer to the fire. “Your mine hasn’t a dump. What becomes of the rock and shale?” “We asked ourselves that very same question,” replied Dick, “but we discovered the answer the first time we descended into the mine. We have water pressure to carry away everything except the pure ore itself.” “But I don’t understand,” puzzled the factor. “What do you mean by water pressure?” “There’s an underground river which flows below the mine,” explained Dick. “One of the passageways slopes down to a wide opening, through which one can hear the sound of rushing water. The former owners of the mine dumped all of the refuse here and it was quickly carried away. Sandy and I have figured out that the source of the river is the deep lake, near the wooden cross, two miles to the east of us. You remember seeing it.” “Yes,” answered the factor. “You boys are rich now,” congratulated Corporal Richardson. “What are you going to do with all your wealth?” “Well, we have some pressing obligations,” hinted Dick. “What are they?” “Our first debt is to the Indians. We’ve decided to give them half ownership in the mine. Papers will be made out in the regular way and a guardian appointed.” “Who will be the guardian?” asked Factor MacClaren. “The Royal North West Mounted.” “But they may not care to accept such a responsibility,” smiled the corporal. “O they’re all pretty decent fellows,” teased Sandy. “I don’t think we’ll have very much difficulty on that score.” Corporal Richardson laughed. “Are yuh really serious ’bout this, Dick?” demanded Malemute Slade. “Yuh don’t mean you’d give half the mine to them Indians?” “We don’t mean anything else,” Dick spoke very quietly. “They spared our lives. We wouldn’t be here now if it wasn’t for them. When we went to school back in the States, our history books told us how white men have been taking land and valuable resources away from the Indians for the past three hundred years. Here’s one case where the Indian is going to receive what’s coming to him.” “Here! Here!” shouted the factor. “Good boy, Dick! If you and Sandy and Toma can manage to carry out your plan successfully we’ll all be proud of you.” Dick flushed with embarrassment, then hurried on: “The debt to the Indians is not the only one. There are three persons, all of them white men, who are entitled to share in our good fortune. These men are Factor MacClaren, Corporal Richardson and Malemute Slade.” The right hand of the mounted policeman stole over to Dick’s shoulder. “We appreciate your kindness, Dick, but I’m afraid that you’ll have to wipe out a part of that debt. As members of the force, we—Malemute Slade and myself—have no right to accept anything at all. We’ve already been paid for any service we may have rendered you. It is a part of our regular duty.” “If that’s the case, will you and Malemute Slade accept our thanks for all you’ve done for us,” blurted out Sandy. “Gladly! It is nothing at all. We wish you every success in your new undertaking.” “Thank you,” said Dick and Sandy in unison. A short silence ensued. Presently Sandy walked over to the grub-sack and stooped down to untie the string. “I’m hungry as a bear,” he grumbled. “It’s getting so there’s no system around this camp. Who’s cook?” “I suppose,” said Corporal Richardson with a sly twinkle in his eye, “that when the ghost of Scar-Face or Henderson or Baptiste La Lond comes back here to visit you, he won’t recognize your thriving mining town as the place of his former misfortunes.” “You bet he won’t!” emphatically declared Sandy. Dick laughed—a cheery, boyish laugh—as he picked up a frying pan and a slab of bacon, opened his hunting knife and then squatted down in front of the fire. THE END |
|
