  Peace River Crossing is a growing, bustling town that nestles in the broad, deep valley of one of the North Country’s largest rivers. Until a few years ago, it was a trading post merely, the stamping ground and meeting place of trappers, prospectors and adventurers, who, from various points along the river, and from the wilderness to the east and west, came here to transact their business or find companionship and entertainment. At the time of this story, the Edmonton, Dunvegan & British Columbia Railway only recently had been built. Just a few months before his death, Dewberry had seen the miracle of two lines of steel, supported by a marvelous system of trestlework, creep slowly into the village. Soon after that Dewberry decided that he would go north. Turning his back upon his cherished books, he went out, locking the door after him for the last time. The cabin looked very lonely in his absence. Perched on a hill, overlooking the Hart River, it stood day after day, a sort of bleak landmark among the other houses in the village. When the sun was bright, and happened to be shining from the right direction, the two front windows blinked and glistened like two large human eyes. Indian and half-breed children, playing in the level fields below, would look up at them in fear. They were afraid of the house. They were afraid of the man who lived there. Nothing whatsoever could have induced them to climb the rocky path and enter the yard, which just now was overgrown with tall weeds and grass. This fear on the children’s part was shared to some extent by their parents. They shunned the cabin. In all the time Dewberry was away on this last trip, probably not more than three persons passed by the house, and then only because it was necessary to do so. Not until late in midsummer, did anyone actually cross the yard and deliberately walk up to the door with the intention of entering. That person was Constable Wyatt, of the Peace River Detachment of the Royal North West Mounted Police. He was not alone. Another policeman and three boys accompanied him. The constable strode forward, erect and graceful, jingling a keyring. He selected one key and fitted it into the lock. Then he turned, before proceeding further, and smiled at his companions. “The right one. It will work, I think.” “Open the door,” instructed the other policeman, who stood close behind him, and appeared to be either eager or impatient. The key grated in the lock and the door creaked, as Wyatt turned the knob and pressed his weight against it. Five pairs of eyes stared into the room. One of the boys—the youngest of the three—drew in his breath sharply. “Great Scott! Books! Look at ’em—just look at ’em, Dick! A thousand or more!” “A piano too,” said Dick. “But where’s the chest?” The small party crowded into the room. A heavy odor assailed their nostrils. The place was stuffy and close. The blinds, which hung over the closed windows, shut out most of the light. Not until these blinds were raised and a window or two flung up, did any of the party do more than to give the room a curious inspection. “According to Meade,” Rand spoke calmly, “the chest ought to be somewhere in this room.” No chest was visible. Eyes darted here and there, questioningly. Wyatt, Sandy and Dick hurried into the adjoining room to continue the search there. Corporal Rand sat down, while Toma still remained in almost the identical position he had taken up when he had first entered the house. At one side of the room a heavy fur overcoat lay in a wrinkled heap upon the floor. Four feet above it, a long wooden peg projected from the scored surface of a log. The inference was that the coat had slipped off the peg at some time or other and that Dewberry, either through oversight or neglect, had failed to hang it back in its accustomed place. For a short space the young Indian gazed at the garment and then at the peg. His eyes lit perceptibly. Something told him that the overcoat had not fallen to the floor from that sturdy peg, and, besides, there was a suspicious bulge—something underneath. With an amused chuckle, he darted forward and lifted up the coat. The chuckle died in his throat. He stepped back. The chest was there! Corporal Rand’s sharp exclamation drew the others quickly. They were crowded around him and Toma, looking down with bated breath at an iron box, covered with fantastic scrolls and figures, embellished and ornamented with metal rosettes and a fret-work of bronze. Neither Dick nor Sandy had ever seen anything quite like it. It was not an ordinary chest. It looked old—hundreds of years old—yet it was neither battered nor broken, nor in any way scarred or defaced. Beautiful though it was, its beauty produced a strange effect upon them. A malevolent influence seemed to emanate there. Two feet high, three feet in length, approximately twenty in breadth—the iron box stood there and seemed to defy them. Its workmanship was superb. Dick guessed that it was of foreign origin, probably Oriental. He shivered a little as Wyatt gave the key-ring to Corporal Rand and motioned to him to stoop down and open the chest. Rand’s fingers fumbled with the ring. A hollow scraping sound followed the insertion of the key, and, having turned it, the cover—fitted with a hidden, powerful spring—sprang open so quickly that its outer edge caught the policeman on the point of the chin and threw him back amongst his astonished companions. Dazed, the corporal scrambled back to a position on his knees and stared in bewilderment at the chest. There was not a great deal to see. Within, the chest was fitted with a thin metal lid, which completely hid everything below. On the inside of the cover, however, was pasted a heavy label, upon which was the following writing: “TREASURE CHEST.—Exhumed in September 1843 from the ruins of an ancient temple discovered by Sir George Pettibone, English explorer, near Kaifeng, in the province of Honan, China. Believed to date back to the Mongol or Ming Dynasty, (A. D. 1260-1368), (A. D. 1368-1644).” “Wonderful!” exclaimed Dick, when Corporal Rand had finished reading. “It is wonderful,” breathed Wyatt. “It would be interesting to know how it came into Dewberry’s possession.” Sandy was impatient. He had pushed closer to Corporal Rand and was looking down at the chest over the policeman’s shoulder. “I can hardly wait until you remove that lid,” he broke forth. “Why don’t you lift it up, corporal?” Gingerly, Rand placed a thumb and finger in two round holes in the lid and tugged gently. Slowly, an inch or two at a time, it came up, revealing an interior space taken up by six square trays of sandalwood—any one of which contained a fortune. Gold! Treasure! The boys caught their breath. There came a concerted rush around the box. Exclamations of amazement. Not only gold here—but precious stones. Diamonds! Sapphires! Blood-red rubies! Platinum in rings and bars. Gold dust! Curios! Priceless antiques! Nuggets! Sandy and Dick were shouting and exclaiming like maniacs. Wyatt and Corporal Rand were talking in excited tones. Toma, less interested than any of them, after a curious, puzzled glance into the interior of the chest, backed away, grunting out something under his breath. It was Sandy, who presently discovered that the trays were removable, that underneath them was a shallow compartment, three or four inches in depth, completely filled with letters and papers and documents of various kinds. “Here!” he shouted, holding it up. “A book! Must be very valuable or Dewberry wouldn’t keep it in here.” He passed it on to Corporal Rand, then turned again and, with Dick’s assistance, began replacing the trays. The contents of these were, to the boys, of far more importance and interest than anything else confined within that ancient, mysterious receptacle. Again they fell to examining the treasure. They were so absorbed in this delightful pastime, that they were wholly unaware of what was taking place in the room behind them. The two policemen had drawn up chairs and were sitting opposite each other, their faces alight. Wyatt, who leaned forward eagerly, was listening to Rand. Rand flipped the pages and read out of the book: “November 20, 1908.—This is my second trip out to Edmonton this year. Today I met Professor B—, of the University of Alberta, who promised to secure for me a first edition of Thackeray’s Vanity Fair. Will send to Vincent’s at Montreal. Ought to have it here next time I come down. Professor B— is generous and kindly. Knowing of my interest in antiques, he sent me, with a letter of introduction to a Mr. Lipton, a private collector, who occupies a suite of rooms at the King Edward. I enjoyed this visit and induced Mr. Lipton to part with a very valuable cameo.” “Interesting,” remarked Wyatt. “Go on!” Corporal Rand flipped several pages and resumed: “May 6, 1909.—Spent the better part of this week around the head-waters of the Finley. Gruelling work, but I love it. The mosquitos are savage, persistent little brutes, and only the fine mesh of my new net, with the addition of a pair of gloves, saves me from being sucked dry. I’ll need what blood and energy I have to complete my work here. Have been looking for the famous Crystal Lode, which old Dave Crystal found somewhere near here in 1890 and subsequently sold, ‘unsight, unseen,’ to Ben and Gordan Wilson, who have never been heard from since.” A slight pause while Rand cleared his throat and turned more of the pages. “December 2, 1911.—I’m happy tonight. This afternoon Lipton agreed to sell me that wonderful Chinese chest. I paid him two thousand dollars for it without once blinking an eye. At that, I’m lucky to get it. Lipton wouldn’t have parted with it for twice that sum eight months ago. I’m afraid he’s been buying so much real estate that he’s short of cash. Whatever his motive, I’m exceedingly grateful to him.” Wyatt slid forward in his chair. “Yes! Yes!” he exclaimed excitedly. “Read on.” |
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