“You mean—you know why they captured us? I’ve been trying to figure it out. Why, why did they do it?”
“Mean to tell me you don’t know? Why, I’ve been suspectin’ it since the first time I saw that guy with the gun. Don’t you realize that he kidnaped you so that he could make your dad pay a wad of money to get you back?”
Dirk Van Horn gasped incredulously. “But—kidnapers! Why, my father isn’t a wealthy man! He’s quite well off, but even if he is president of a bank, he doesn’t own all the money in it!”
“Well, wouldn’t he give all he’s got to have you back home safe again? Sure, he’d do that, and this tough bird that’s got us counts on it. No, you’re safe until he gets some ransom for you.”
“Quiet, there!” commanded an angry voice, with a curse. Their guard had caught up to them, and a wave of his weapon put a stop to their whispered comments. But Dirk at last understood why he was a prisoner. He understood, too, the strange invitation of the man when they had surprised him at Lake Lenape. He had tried to lure them away from their friends, and failing in that, had kept watch on the boy’s every movement. Seeing that a capture was impossible so close to the camp, he had somehow found out about the long trail expedition, and no doubt hiring the villainous half-breed Mink to help him in his criminal purpose, had gone before them and waylaid them at Flint Island by a ruse, at a time when the two boys were by chance separated from the main party.
At long last the man ahead stopped and put down his burden. A dim shape loomed before them, a rough hut of logs chinked with mud, that was evidently the dwelling of the half-breed. He fumbled with the latch on the door. The man in the slicker tossed away a glowing cigarette, and pushed them inside, harshly ordering Mink to shut the door and cover the window before lighting the lantern.
In the glow of the battered oil-lantern that the half-breed brought forth, the boys looked about with half-shut eyes. A heap of cured skins lay in one corner, and the single room smelled vilely of stale smoke and damp walls and animal remains. The Indian knelt on the hearth of the rough stone fireplace, but his master stopped him with a word.
“Quit that! Do you want to tell the world where we are? They could see that smoke ten miles away! We’ll grab a cold supper tonight, and tomorrow when you’re here with them, don’t take any chances, or you’ll end up in the jug! There must be some stuff in that bundle that we can eat.”
He sank down on a stool and lit another cigarette, while the half-breed rummaged in the Lenape provision-sack and discovered some cans of fruit and vegetables, which he opened with the blade of an ax. The two prisoners, too tired to care what befell, sank to the floor and lay there half-asleep, until the Indian roused them roughly and shoved food at them, untying their chilled hands so that they might eat.
Hungrily, they wolfed down the unappetizing fare. Cold corn from a can, dry bread, and still dryer prunes do not constitute an ideal repast for famished boys, but they made the best of what was given them. Brick, indeed, was so strengthened by the meal, poor as it was, that his Irish fighting spirit came back to him. Chewing a crust, he lifted his head and directed a fierce glance at their enemies.