  Two days later, on its way north to the Mackenzie River barracks, the party stopped for the night at Meade’s Ferry. After supper Toma, Sandy and Frederick Meade went over to the river for an evening’s fishing. The two policemen and Dick remained behind. Sitting in the large trading-room, they conversed quietly. “There’s only one thing that I regret,” said Corporal Rand, “and that is that we have been unable to recover Dewberry’s treasure.” “What is this treasure?” Wyatt asked, then turned his head as someone came to the doorway. “You—Mr. Meade. Step right in. You don’t need to hesitate. This isn’t a private conference.” As soon as the free-trader had taken a seat beside him, Wyatt repeated his question: “What is this treasure?” “We don’t know,” replied Rand. “However, it is an established fact that on the night he was murdered Dewberry had a roll of bills in his pocket and a small poke, suspended from a cord tied around his neck.” Rand paused, reached in his pocket and brought to light a diminutive moosehide pouch or leather sack, which he passed over to his fellow policeman. “There it is. That’s the poke. You see how small it is. Nevertheless, at one time it contained something of great value. MacGregor risked his life to get it. Frischette or Creel—as I now have reason to believe—surprised MacGregor in the very act of committing his crime, and took it forcibly from him. Since that night the poke has had an interesting history. Creel kept it in his cabin, but one night he was visited by Emery and Burnnel, who secured possession of it. A few minutes later Dick, Toma and Sandy took it away from them. But in the end Frischette got it and escaped. The next day his body was found by Burnnel and Emery, who reported the news to me.” “They murdered him.” “No, it was suicide. I’m almost sure of that. You see, I found a note in the inner pocket of Frischette’s coat. This note was in Frischette’s hand-writing and mentions that he is about to take his own life.” “Burnnel and Emery might have forced him to write that note. It might be a case of murder after all.” “I’ve considered that too, Wyatt, but—well, to be frank, I have a theory. My theory is that although this is the poke originally carried by Dewberry, its contents were tampered with and a substitution made by Creel at his cabin before Burnnel and Emery came. To make my theory more clear to you, I’d like to say that I believe that this poke had been filled with something of no value whatsoever. A clever deception on Creel’s part. Not only did it fool Emery and Burnnel, but it fooled Frischette himself. When Frischette opened the poke, you can imagine his rage and disappointment. The treasure was not there. He was a coward at heart and dared not return. Hopeless and despondent, he shot himself.” Corporal Rand paused to light his pipe. “My theory is strengthened by Creel’s subsequent actions,” the corporal continued. “While I was out on the trail investigating the cause of Frischette’s death, he took the opportunity to slip away unnoticed. The assumption was that he had started out for Edmonton, or some other point, with Dewberry’s treasure. Burnnel, Emery and ‘Rat’ MacGregor’s wife evidently came to the same conclusion for, after locking me up at Frischette’s road-house,” the corporal flushed at the memory, “they set out to follow Creel. If they didn’t suspect him of having the treasure, why did they follow him? How are you going to answer that question?” “Your theory must be correct,” said Wyatt. “It must be,” Meade agreed. “It isn’t my theory particularly. Young Sandy MacClaren came to the same conclusion. You have the facts. I needn’t go further into detail. You know what happened over there by the river.” “They cached the treasure somewhere,” declared Wyatt. Corporal Rand nodded. “It seems to be the only solution.” Conversation wandered to other things, and Dick soon lost interest. He yawned, rose from his chair and went outside. It was a lovely evening, cool and exhilarating. There came to his ears the drowsy sound of the forest. Birds peeped, preparing to nestle down for the night. The pine trees droned their incessant chant. Here and there, rabbits scampered into the open, their curious little muzzles twitching inquisitively. Dick yawned again and stretched his arms above his head. It was about time the boys were coming back. He wondered if their fishing expedition had been successful. Bored with the inactivity, he decided to stroll down toward the river to meet them. He was twenty yards from the cabin when a voice called him back—the voice of Corporal Rand. Quickly he retraced his steps. “Sorry to trouble you, Dick,” Corporal Rand met him at the door, “but Wyatt and I would like to see that bundle of stuff you secured that night from Burnnel and Emery. Where is it?” “In my bunk,” Dick answered, “rolled up in my coat. I’ll get it for you.” A moment later he secured the bundle, carried it to the table and opened it. Wyatt, Rand and Meade gathered in a little circle around him. He took up the objects, one by one, very much after the manner of a person taking inventory. “This is Creel’s roll of money. This is mine. These bills and coins belong to the outlaws. This is my jack-knife and here is Sandy’s compass. This is my watch and this is Emery’s revolver.” There remained a pocket-comb and mirror, a pipe—its bowl somewhat battered—two hunting knives and the ring with the two keys. As Dick picked up the last named object, Meade gave vent to a startled cry and jumped forward. “Let’s see it! Let’s see it! Give it to me!” Dick handed it over. “Keys,” said Rand. “Who owns them?” “I think they belong to one of the outlaws,” answered Dick. “Outlaws!” shrieked Meade, his face distorted. “I should say not! They’re Dewberry’s keys. I’d know them anywhere.” A hush came over the room. An old-fashioned clock ticked loudly. Presently Meade’s feet shuffled away from the table and he went over and sat down. His head dropped in his hands. For several minutes he sat there in deep abstraction. He was thinking deeply. Then, with unexpected suddenness, he bounded to his feet. “I’ve solved your mystery!” he shouted. The three other occupants of the room surrounded him in a body. “Tell us,” cried Rand. The free-trader waved them to their chairs. “Sit down,” he commanded, “and I’ll tell you all about it. But I must begin at the beginning, so that it will all be clear to you.” “Yes, yes,” breathed Rand. “Dewberry was my friend. I was his guest one time at Peace River Crossing. You know where his place is?” He turned to Wyatt. “A little cottage on a hill. Overlooks the Hart River,” answered the policeman. “Have you ever been inside of it?” “No.” “Were you acquainted with Dewberry?” “I knew him slightly,” said Wyatt. “But I’ve seen him often enough. An unusual character.” “Exactly. He was queer—queer in many ways. He loved books—scores of them in his book-cases. A violinist and pianist too! But the most peculiar thing of all about him was his aversion to human companionship. He had no real friends. He was shy and reserved. Kept to himself. For months at a time, he would be away somewhere in the foothills prospecting. Then he’d return again to Peace River Crossing and become absorbed in his books; or else he’d go out to Edmonton.” Meade paused to light his pipe. He puffed reflectively. It was several moments before he resumed: “The minute I laid my eyes on that key-ring with its two keys, I knew it. I’d seen it many times before.” As he spoke, Meade exhibited the ring and selected the larger of the two keys. “This,” he informed them, “is the key to the front door of Dewberry’s cottage.” “And the second?” Rand interrupted, unable to check his curiosity. “This key, gentlemen,” Meade held it up and announced dramatically, “is, I think, the key to your mystery, the cause of all your trouble. It was the thing that MacGregor wanted when he murdered its owner, that Frischette died for, that Creel, Emery, Burnnel and the squaw fought over. In other words, unless I am very badly mistaken—and I don’t think I am—this key unlocks a large iron chest that stands in the front room of Dewberry’s cottage.” |
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