  “The fort! The fort!” cheered Dick, as the following evening they came to the edge of a vast plain. Sandy was overjoyed, so much so that he could not speak. Sure enough, a half mile ahead frowned the stockade of Fort Dunwoody, under the rippling flag of the king. Toma did not express himself in words, but hastened his tireless pace. Dick and Sandy hurried after the guide, curiously gazing at the fort. Along the top of the stockade they could see a red-coated policeman pacing slowly back and forth. “Who goes there?” the sentry above the gate called when the worn travelers appeared. “Friends,” cried Dick. “We’re from Fort du Lac—looking for help at Fort Good Faith.” “You the lads that helped bring in Corporal Richardson?” the sentry gruffly asked. “Yes.” The huge gate swung back immediately, and the young adventurers passed through. The police guard met them as the gate was closed. “You’ll want to see Inspector Dawson?” asked the guard. “I think he’s the man we should see,” Dick replied. Presently they were ushered into the presence of Inspector Dawson, whose grim face, under a thatch of iron gray hair, broke into a smile, meant to be kind. Dick and Sandy gave the scout salute. “Ah, ha!” said the Inspector, “I see you’ve been members of the Boy Scouts.” “Yes sir, first class, both of us,” replied Dick, a little abashed in the presence of so distinguished a man as Inspector Dawson. “Corporal Richardson told me about you,” went on the Inspector. “Then the corporal got in all right,” Dick exulted. “Yes, thanks to you boys and Gaston Leroi,” Inspector Dawson said. “He’ll be up and around in a few days now. I’ve already sent relief to Fort Good Faith,” he concluded. “Oh!” Dick was both glad and disappointed at once. He had hoped to join the expedition. “However, an Indian runner came in today saying that Sergeant Brewster and Constable Marden, the two I detailed for Fort Good Faith, were held up at Gray Goose Lake by one of Henderson’s lieutenants and about thirty renegade Indians. I believe the man’s name is Pierre Govereau. He has a criminal record here.” “Govereau!” ejaculated Dick and Sandy in one voice. “You seem to have met him before,” the Inspector continued briskly. “But the point I’m getting at is this; I have no men to send on as relief to Gray Goose Lake. I expect one of my scouts, Malemute Slade, in tomorrow morning from Fort du Lac where he has cleared things up.” At mention of Malemute Slade, Dick and Sandy exchanged significant glances. “Yes,” the inspector continued. “And I suppose you follows want to go on to Fort Good Faith. You seem to be able to take care of yourselves. Would you like to be special deputies?” “Would we!” Dick exclaimed. “Hurrah!” shouted Sandy. Inspector Dawson could not forbear a smile at the boys’ exuberance. “All right, step forward,” he commanded, arising from his desk. Dick and Sandy lined up like soldiers while they repeated the oath of allegiance to the law on specials duty for the duration of the Henderson outbreak. The Inspector made Toma an official scout. “Now good day, boys,” the Inspector said dismissing them. “Report to me tomorrow morning early. I expect Slade in then.” Dick and Sandy followed Toma out of headquarters seething with excitement. They felt themselves full-fledged mounted policemen now, and, too, they were to take the trail with Malemute Slade, the famous scout they had met on the Big Smokey. Their only regret was that they could not don the beautiful uniforms they saw everywhere about the post. They inquired as to the quarters of Corporal Richardson, and had a long chat with the convalescent officer. They secured arrangements to pass the night in the barracks, and once more toasted their shins before a genuine stove. Bright and early next morning, Dick and Sandy rolled out of their bunks and pulled on their clothes. “It hardly seems possible we’re at Fort Dunwoody,” Dick declared when they attacked the ample breakfast set before them by the post cook. Sandy shivered in recalling the narrow escapes they had had and agreed with Dick. Toma, who had slept before the fire on a bearskin rug, was as silent as he always was when off the trail, but his moon face was split by a continuous smile. Malemute Slade was waiting at headquarters when the boys reported as instructed. His dog team of six huge huskies stood in front of the Inspector’s office, harnessed to the sled, ready for the trail. Dick and Sandy were pleased to find that Malemute Slade remembered them. His dark, wind-hardened face lighted up pleasantly, as he shook hands with his future trail mates. “Wal, I swan,” he exclaimed, “I guess we’ll do some tall fightin’ now.” Dick and Sandy assured him they were with him with all they had to offer, and after Inspector Dawson had wished them good luck, they mushed across the parade square to the stockade gate, which swung slowly open for them. Hour after hour the relief detachment from the post traveled northward. Malemute Slade would not permit the boys to sleep longer than five hours. Long before dawn they were up, had eaten a hasty breakfast, while the dogs wolfed their daily frozen fish, and had hit the trail again. Dick and Sandy had grown almost as trail hardened as Toma on their long trip from Fort du Lac to Fort Dunwoody, and they did not complain at the terrific pace set by Malemute Slade. On the afternoon of the third day, more than a hundred miles north of Fort Dunwoody, they saw from the top of a ridge the white, level expanse of Gray Goose Lake. They had not been molested along the way and they decided that Govereau was doing all his fighting at Gray Goose Lake. Around the lake they broke into rough and serrated country, through which they proceeded cautiously. Soon they heard the faint report of rifles, by which they located the scene of combat. Malemute Slade led the way up a long ravine where they left the dog team in charge of Toma and went on under cover of whatever they found. “Follow me, lads, an’ don’t fire till I give the word,” Malemute Slade ordered. “Look! There they are!” whispered Dick a moment later as they reached the top of the ravine. On a rocky knoll, overlooking Gray Goose Lake, they could see the occasional puff of two rifles. All around the bottom of the little hill were hidden Govereau’s men, flanked by a deep gorge on their left. “Now, lads, we’ll take ’em on the run. Shoot an’ holler all you can,” Malemute Slade’s drawling voice calmed them. Dick and Sandy tensed for the coming skirmish, tightening their grips of their rifles. “Ready,” called Malemute Slade. “Here we go.” They broke from cover and ran yelling like an army across the space that separated them from Govereau’s party. The Indians turned and shouted, seeming paralyzed with surprise. The besieged policemen, on the hill, seeing reinforcements, also charged, leaping from their hiding place and firing as they came. Attacked from two sides, Govereau’s band broke and fled. “There’s Govereau!” cried Dick. “An’ here’s where one dirty skunk cashes in,” shouted Malemute Slade, raising his high-powered rifle. At the report of the rifle, Govereau fell, Dick and Sandy rushing past his body in pursuit of the others. Dick barely had witnessed the fall of Govereau before he caught sight of Toma stalking an Indian, who was trying to crawl away among the bushes. “Halt, in the king’s name!” commanded Dick, as he recognized the skulker to be no other than Many-Scar Jackson. But the scar faced Indian did not halt. He broke into a run toward the deep gorge on the left, Toma in hot pursuit, and Dick and Sandy close behind. Suddenly Dick stopped dead in his tracks, Sandy almost falling over him. “Toma!” he called, but the guide did not seem to hear. “He’s going to avenge his brother’s death,” Sandy exclaimed, pushing ahead. “Stop!” Dick hauled his chum back. “Toma doesn’t want us to interfere. It’s his fight. If we see he’s getting the worst of it, then we’ll help.” Sandy drew back and with pale faces they watched the two Indians come together and draw their knives in a duel to the death. Around and around they circled before Toma darted in like a flash and drew blood. But Many-Scar made a stab in return, and they saw Toma reel a little. Then the two clinched, staggered this way, then that, their knife blades locked. “Many-Scar has him!” Sandy suddenly exclaimed, raising his rifle. “Wait!” Dick cried. For a moment it had seemed as if the scar faced Indian would plunge his knife into Toma’s breast, but the agile young guide twisted suddenly, like a snake, and Many-Scar was tripped to his knees. Then as Toma leaped in to follow up his advantage, Many-Scar whirled away, leaped to his feet and once more they circled. “Many-Scar is getting the worst of it,” Dick breathed a few moments later. “He sure is,” agreed Sandy exultingly. Toma’s enemy plainly was weakening. Dick and Sandy prepared to see the final thrust, when of a sudden the scar faced Indian broke away and ran like the wind straight toward the gorge. “They’ll fall into the gorge!” Dick cried, starting to run toward them. But Many-Scar Jackson and Toma, too, seemed uncognizant of any immediate danger from a fall. Many-Scar ran like a deer, and as he reached the edge, he leaped into the air. Like a bird he soared across the space between the two cliffs, landing safely on the other side, where he vanished into the bushes. “What a jump!” exclaimed Dick. “I can’t believe it,” Sandy said amazedly. “Why, it was a broad jump record. It’s nearly thirty feet between the cliffs.” Toma had halted on the brink of the cliff and the boys saw him raise clinched fists to the sky. Toma had failed this time, but, somehow, the boys felt sure there was another time coming. Behind them Malemute Slade was calling. They rejoined the victorious mounted police, Toma tardily returning. Presently they were behind the dogs on the trail to Fort Good Faith, their party now increased to five with Sergeant Brewster and Constable Marden. “I hope Uncle Walter has been able to hold out this long,” Sandy whispered to himself as he ran after the waving tails of the huskies. |
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