The long patrol

by Albert M. Treynor

Dexter lingered only to make up a pack of the scanty provisions that still were left in the cave; and then, with a terse movement of his head, he beckoned Archie and Alison to accompany him and set out to look for his officer. The faint trail led him back across the plateau, over the flank of the mountain and down into the brook valley below. Unfortunately the thawing snows of the last couple of days had flooded into the lower levels, flowing over the mush-ice of the stream; and the embankment where Devreaux had walked was now submerged under a foot of running water. The trail had long since washed away.

The corporal, however, was not greatly disconcerted. If Devreaux had gone to search for him, he naturally would follow the brook course to the notch in the lower valley, where the police packs were cached. They must have passed each other unknowingly on the road. He had only to retrace the steps of his weary journey, and undoubtedly he would somewhere pick up the trail again.

Dexter was worried chiefly about the colonel's physical condition. He was not yet in fit shape to travel. Also there was a disquieting possibility that he might have encountered Stark and his gang at some point along the route. At the last thought an unpleasant glitter came into the corporal's eyes, and his jaw set with granite hardness. There was nothing to do but push onward as fast as he could.

He had supposed that he had reached the end of his endurance when he arrived at the cavern that afternoon, but for a comrade's sake he spurred his flagging energies to carry on a little longer. Until darkness set in he made his way southward along the banks of the creek, struggling through slush and mud, and forcing his lagging companions to keep up the pace. It was impossible to see the ground before him when he finally consented to halt for the night.

The three travelers ate their meal in dejected silence, and immediately afterwards stretched themselves on the wet ground by the embers of a dying fire. Dexter shared his blanket with Archie Preston, and he served a last warning before he allowed himself to drop off to sleep.

"You understand, of course, that you're my prisoner," he said. "I'll wake up at the least stir, and if you're wise you'll keep very quiet, and try to get a good night's rest."

Dexter aroused himself next morning before daylight, and, leaving his blanket mate in fretful, tossing sleep, he built a fire and started breakfast cooking. When the modest meal was ready, he awakened his fellow voyageurs to the new day of hardship and wet discomfort. Alison was the first to answer his call, and she shook off her blanket to stand yawning and shivering in the chilly dawn. She and the corporal pointedly avoided each other's glances, and such conversation as they were forced to exchange was brief and formal.

To Dexter's surprise when he took the trail once more, he found himself walking with some measure of his old free-swinging stride. A body and physique tempered by clean, active living, had begun to recuperate from the shock of injury and the exhausting effects of overexertion. His broken arm still pained him at intervals but mental alertness had returned, and the fever was gone from his blood. Save for the inconvenience of a useless right hand, he assured himself that within a few days he would be quite himself again.

They made a long march that day, and their evening camp was not far from the ravine where the corporal had nearly met death in the timber wreck. As he had worked down the long valley, Dexter had kept vigilant watch for signs that might tell him what had become of his lost comrade. At each bending of the stream, in every new opening among the trees, he gazed about him with a recurring sense of dread, always half expecting to see the dun shape of a khaki-clad figure sprawled motionless in the snow. But the glistening world of slush and trickling water stretched endlessly before him, and nowhere was there any clew to show that human beings had lately passed that way.

The little party of travelers was afoot early next day, trudging downstream along the margin of the rising brook. Before noon they reached the spot where Dexter had attempted to leap from the path of the snow slide. Broken, splintered tree trunks were piled like jack straws across the course of the creek, forming a dam that backed the water along the bordering banks. All trace of recent footprints had vanished with the melting snows. There was nothing to be learned here, and after a grim survey of his changed surroundings, the corporal gave the word to push forward again.