  Frischette’s road-house was quiet. A casual passer-by, threading his way along the shadowy forest trail, a trail arched by the branches of tall poplar trees, might have thought that the place was deserted. There was no sign of life anywhere, although a door and several windows stood partially open. A young Indian, who approached the familiar landmark, was struck by an overwhelming feeling of presentiment. The morning was well advanced and yet there was no evidence of life here. No smoke issued from the tall mud-chimney, which rose like a bleak sentinel at one side of the building. Sitting on the projecting end of the center ridge-pole, a hawk basked in the sun. Intense quiet reigned, a funereal silence, that was broken only by the faint rustling of the leaves and the nervous stirring of the tall grass, which encroached up to the door of the cabin itself. Toma rubbed one hand across his brow wearily. For four hours he had walked steadily with this place as his objective, and in the hope of finding his friend, the mounted police corporal. He knew that Rand ought to be here. That had been their agreement, the understanding between the policeman and the three boys. When he had approached to within thirty or forty yards of the house, Toma’s spirits fell. He was sure now that the road-house was untenanted. No occupied dwelling, he reasoned, could be wrapped so deeply in that tragic, sombre silence. The door stood invitingly open, yet Toma knew before entering that no person recently had left it thus. He paused on the threshold, staring into the room. It seemed to mock him. Except for the few bare furnishings, it was entirely empty. With a quaking heart and a trembling step, he passed through the main front room to the kitchen at the back. No one was about. In the kitchen there had been stacked up, on a long work-table opposite the stove, a pile of dirty, unwashed dishes. He glanced at them casually, then passed on out of the back door and made his way over to the stable. Like the cabin, the stable was unoccupied. Disconsolately, Toma walked over and, climbing up, sat down on the top rail of the six-foot-high corral fence. He didn’t know what to make of it all. The absence of Corporal Rand might, of course, be accounted for. But what about Fontaine and Le Sueur, his two friends? Since the death of Frischette, these two last named young men had taken over the management of the road-house. They had entered upon their duties with a good deal of enthusiasm, and it seemed unusual that they should both be away now, neglecting their business. It was true, of course, that summer visitors were few. The bulk of Frischette’s trade had come during the early fall and winter and just before the spring break-up. However, even if there were no guests at the road-house, there was always the chance that one might come—an occasional straggler—and it was not reasonable to suppose that both Fontaine and Le Sueur would leave the place for any length of time. Yet, that was exactly what they had done. They were neglecting their business. Toma scowled at the ground, and one moccasined foot beat an impatient tattoo along the surface of the rail beneath him. He decided after a time that, low on supplies, they had gone over to Fort Good Faith to replenish their larder. But the absence of Rand was not so easily explained, unless he was out searching for Burnnel and Emery. Shaking his head, Toma hopped down off the corral fence and strode back in the direction of the house. This time he had a purpose in mind. He would enter the kitchen and prepare himself a belated breakfast. He had not eaten since early the night before and was tremendously hungry. He entered the kitchen, kindled a fire in the large iron cook stove and methodically set about his task. In the middle of his preparations he paused, pricking up his ears. Had he heard something—a slight scraping sound? He stood perfectly still, listening patiently. Then, as the sound was not repeated, he decided that he had been mistaken. He returned to his task, and in a short time breakfast was ready. He set a place for himself on the table in the adjoining room, and was returning to the kitchen for his rasher of bacon and pot of coffee, when he heard the sound again. This time there was no doubt in his mind. He had heard aright. The sound issued from the room which had formerly been used by Frischette for his office and private sleeping apartment. It was the only room in the house that he had not explored. He bounded quickly forward, seizing the knob of the door. He bent his weight against it. He stood back, scratching his head in perplexity. It was locked. Something or someone was inside there. He called out softly. But, although he imagined he heard the faint, scraping sound again, no voice answered him. Toma was not long in deciding upon his course of action. He hurried into the kitchen, passed through the door at the back, picked up a small log, about four feet in length and six inches in diameter and, returning with it, he applied himself to the door. At the first blow from his heavy battering-ram, the lock gave way. A splintering and cracking of wood, and the door swung back. Looking inside, Toma dropped his battering-ram. Closest to the door, lay Rand, gagged, bound hand and foot. A few feet farther on, sprawled the youthful figures of his two friends, Fontaine and Le Sueur. Following a little gasp of amazement, Toma strode into the room. |
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