  The search for Creel had taken the boys southward. They were not sure that he had gone that way; it merely seemed the most likely direction. He had taken the contents of his money-box and had decamped, leaving no trail. Just before starting, they had found the empty chest in the room which he had occupied. Being a fugitive from justice, and with a considerable amount of money in his possession, the natural deduction was that he was making his way out to Edmonton. His chance of escaping was good. He had at least six hours’ start. He was not known to be a criminal. Almost anywhere he would have passed unchallenged. As yet, the police had had no opportunity to telegraph ahead in an effort to secure his apprehension. The boys had discussed his probable route, deciding that he would go by way of Peace River Crossing. Boats of the Hudson’s Bay Company plied up and down the river during the spring and summer months, and it was only reasonable to suppose that he would secure passage on one of these, ascend the river to Peace River Crossing, where he could purchase a ticket to go by rail to Edmonton. All this, of course, was mere conjecture. They had no real assurance that it was the route that the old recluse would take. For all they knew, he might still be in hiding somewhere in the vicinity of the road-house. The only way to determine whether or not he was on his way south, was to set out along the trail, making inquiries wherever possible. Dwellings were few and far between. Sixteen miles due south of Frischette’s, they arrived at Meade’s Ferry, where there was a road-house and small trading-post, conducted by Hampton Meade, a kindly veteran of the North. Here Fortune befriended them. They learned that their assumption had been correct. Creel had spent the night there. “And he left early this morning,” Meade’s son, a handsome young man of about Dick’s own age, informed them. “Queer old beggar, isn’t he?” Dick nodded. “Did he leave here on foot?” “Yes.” Dick considered for a moment thoughtfully. “Would it be possible to obtain a horse or two? Are there any here? We had our own ponies when we arrived at Frischette’s stopping-place. We turned them out to graze and they have disappeared. If you have any, I will pay you handsomely.” “There are two ponies,” answered the young man,“—one of them mine, the other, father’s. You may have the use of them.” The boys were overjoyed at this unexpected stroke of luck. It would be necessary, of course, for one of them to remain at Meade’s, while the other two went on after Creel. They drew straws. It fell to Sandy’s lot to wait at the road-house until his two chums returned. “I don’t expect we’ll be away very long,” declared Dick a short time later, as he and Toma mounted the two borrowed steeds. “We ought to be back before night.” Creel had a few hours start of them, but he was walking. With light hearts, feeling confident of success, the boys cantered away. Soon the miles wound away behind them. They pressed their ponies forward, urging them to their greatest speed. Time passed quickly. They had now begun to scan the trail ahead, in the expectation of seeing the queer, shambling figure of the old recluse. They galloped past a party of Indians, then two prospectors, trudging along, weighted down by heavy shoulder-packs, and finally drew up at a wayside cabin, inhabited by a half-breed trapper. Dick questioned him: “Did an old man stop here not so very long ago? Walked with a stoop, face covered with a heavy beard, hair straggling in his eyes. Did you see him?” “Oui, m’sieur. I see him two, three hour ago. Him ver’ fine fellow. Plenty money. I have nice horse. He buy et.” Dick had not expected this. The news had come as a shock. He blinked. “Rotten luck!” he exclaimed irritably. “What you say, m’sieur?” Dick did not answer. He was making a rough calculation. They had already come fifteen or sixteen miles at top speed. No longer were their ponies fresh. Creel had the advantage. It would be absolutely impossible to overtake him now. Apparently, Toma held the same opinion. “No use go on now,” he declared grimly. Dick turned to the half-breed. “You haven’t any more fresh horses?” The half-breed looked surprised. “Know where we can get any?” Dick persisted. “Not many ponies ’round here,” explained the trapper. “Why you no like those pony there?” “Tired out,” answered Dick. “And we want to go fast.” He relaxed in the saddle, and just then an idea came to him. “How far is it from here to Fort Wonderly?” “’Bout twelve mile.” Dick thanked the half-breed, motioned to Toma, and they set off again. “Well,” announced Dick, “we’re going over to the fort.” “Why you go there?” Toma stared blankly. “Fort Wonderly off trail. Creel him no go that way. I no understand why you do that.” “I’ll tell you, Toma,” Dick spoke despondently. “We haven’t a chance now to overtake Creel. But at Fort Wonderly there’s a government telegraph office, and I’ll give a message to the operator, warning everybody along the route. There is another detachment of the mounted police at Peace River Crossing, and they’ll send out a man to intercept him.” So it was late that night when Dick and Toma returned to Meade’s Ferry and reported the outcome of their journey. “It’s too bad,” Sandy commented, “I was sure that when you got back you’d have Creel with you. But you showed a lot of good sense when you sent that message. If Creel manages to slip through the police lines farther south, he’ll be a wizard.” “I’ve been thinking about Creel all day,” said Dick. “I’ve been blaming myself continually for my negligence. We should never have permitted him to escape. I’m positive now that your theory is correct, and that he’s going south, not only with the money that was in that box, but the contents of Dewberry’s poke as well. I really believe that if we had our hands upon him now, and searched him, we’d find everything.” “No doubt, you’re right. Well, I suppose there’s only one thing to do now: Return to Frischette’s road-house. Corporal Rand must be back by now. He’ll know what to do next.” The two boys were joined later by Toma, Meade and his son. The free-trader, a tall, imposing figure, complacently smoked a pipe and now and again engaged the boys in conversation. “I understand that you’ve come from Fort Good Faith,” he said. “Well, not exactly,” Dick replied. “We live there. Factor MacClaren is Sandy’s uncle; but for the last few days we’ve been stopping at Frischette’s roadhouse.” Meade’s clear blue eyes shadowed. “Friend of his?” “Not exactly,” answered Dick evasively. “Queer character,” commented Meade. “He’s dead,” said Sandy. “Dead!” The free-trader straightened in his chair, removed the pipe from his mouth and stared. “What happened to him?” “Took his own life.” Meade received this information with a slight raising of his eyebrows. “Queer! That road-house will soon have an evil name. First Dewberry and now Frischette.” For a time conversation languished. Everyone seemed to be occupied with his own thoughts. “I was interested in the Dewberry case,” Meade finally broke the silence. “You see, I knew him; knew him better probably than most folks. Sort of unusual fellow, Dewberry was. One of the quietest, queerest men I have ever met.” Dick locked across at Meade sharply. “Not very many people really knew Dewberry,” he stated. “I knew him,” said Meade, “and I was sorry to hear of his death.” “Where do you suppose Dewberry was going?” Sandy spoke up. “I mean just before the tragedy. No one seems to know.” Meade smiled. “There’s no secret there. Dewberry often passed along the trail, and sometimes remained here for several days at a time. He was a queer duffer. But once you got to know him, his eccentricities passed unnoticed. Not many folks knew it, but Dewberry’s time was divided between this country and Peace River Crossing. Usually, about six months of the year, he lived at the Crossing. He owns property there. Has a little house, overlooking the Hart River, and for weeks at a time he’d shut himself up in it. A lot of folks couldn’t understand why he chose to do that. Neither could I, until one time, when I happened to be in Peace River Crossing, I met him on the street.” For a time Meade lapsed into silence, gazing reminiscently away in the direction of the river. “He invited me up to the house,” he continued. “Tidy little place, I found it. Nicely furnished. Piano, violin, books. Books!—there were rows upon rows of books. Special bindings, shelf upon shelf, I tell you, and strange old volumes, musty with age. He loved them. That’s where he spent most of his time. Read from morning ’til night, and when he wasn’t reading, he was fiddling away on the violin or thumping on that piano. I stayed there two days, and I want to tell you that I’ve never enjoyed anything more. His company. His talk about the books. The music he made on that piano.” “Too bad he’s gone,” said Sandy. The free-trader nodded. “He was reputed to be very wealthy,” said Dick. “I guess that is true,” Meade answered thoughtfully. “You see, he was one of the best prospectors that ever came into the North. There are some folks who say that his luck was phenomenal. At any rate, he had no occasion to worry. In recent years, it was more for the love and excitement he got out of the game than the necessity of making more money that induced him to take those long, lonely treks out there in the foothills.” “After what you have told us about him,” puzzled Sandy, “there is one thing rather difficult to understand. Why did a person of his intelligence carry so much wealth about his person.” “I don’t think he did,” declared Meade. “If that is so,” persisted Sandy, “why did they follow him and plan the robbery and murder at Frischette’s?” “Well, there is no doubt that he had a considerable amount of money and gold with him, but no more, probably, than the average prospector. I am positive that he didn’t carry his entire wealth with him. ‘Rat’ MacGregor, or whoever it was that committed the robbery, merely suspected that such was the case.” Sandy abandoned the issue. Yet neither he nor Dick was convinced. There was that tell-tale poke. As they sat there, watching the shadows steal out from the darkening woodland beyond, they were presently made aware of a newcomer. An Indian pony, a pinto mare, left the turn of the trail near the fringe of trees, bordering the river, and came slowly forward. A woman sat astride the pony—a young woman, unmistakably an Indian or half-breed. Meade rose as she reined up in front of the cabin and slowly dismounted. The boys were not particularly interested. They had never seen the woman before. “Who is that?” Sandy inquired listlessly. Both boys started at the unexpected answer. “Heaven help me,” growled Meade, “if it isn’t ‘Rat’ MacGregor’s wife!” |
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