After a century of nightmares in that dark, noisome hole, Dirk stirred his cramped limbs and opened his eyes to find a ray of daylight slanting through the single window. His enemy stood with one hand on the latch of the door, giving parting orders to his servile guide. The man’s pasty face showed the effects of an existence that was not natural to him, whose haunts were those of the city. His serge suit was stained and creased, while his cheek bore a clotted scratch where he had scraped it against the projecting limb of a tree during the dark passage of the previous night.
“And remember,” he was snarling, “that you ain’t to let those brats out of your sight for a minute! They’re slippery little imps, especially that red-headed one. If all goes well and the old man comes across with the money, I’ll be back with your share by night.”
“You not try to fool me, eh? You pay me what you said?”
“Sure, Mink. We’re partners on this—split the dough fifty-fifty. I’ll telegraph old Van Horn from Yanceyville, and if he’s got any sense, he’ll send the cash by wire right away. It’s a cinch.”
He passed out into the sunlight, scratched a match, and began puffing the eternal cigarette. As he disappeared, the Indian shrugged and set about putting together a breakfast as cold and cheerless as the meal of the previous night.
Miserably the boys roused themselves to face another day of imprisonment, in the tumbledown cabin of the half-breed, who handed food to them silently and whose watchful, savage glare made them break off each time they attempted to speak to one another. In fact, so closely did he watch their least move that Dirk, after an hour, gave up all hope of finding any avenue of escape from beneath the half-breed’s eye.
More than two hours had passed, Dirk judged, since the departure of their nameless foe, who was evidently now well on his way to Yanceyville on his nefarious errand of attempting to extort a large sum of money from Dirk’s father as a ransom. What would happen? Even if the money were paid promptly, would this man free them at once, or would he attempt some further villainy to prevent them from putting the law on his track as soon as they had won to civilization?
Mink, who had been sitting on his stool with his back against the door, passing the time by whittling idly at a stick of firewood, sat up suspiciously. His nose was in the air, sniffing like a hound that has lost the scent. He rose with a clatter and paced, still sniffing, to the dead fireplace. After a few seconds, he shrugged and returned, apparently satisfied, to his post.
Dirk went back to his gloomy thoughts, which were now turned toward his companions, who had set out so blithely with him on the Long Trail. Were they even now mourning his death and Brick’s, as victims of a canoe accident? He recalled his clumsiness the first time the Sachem was launched—no doubt they thought him still a lubber who would upset his craft and drag his friend with him to the watery depths. But Mr. Carrigan was wise; and though their captors were cunning, they had left several clues that might be read. For instance, the provision-sack had been tightly lashed within the canoe; Sagamore Wise-Tongue would think it strange that it had worked loose when the canoe overturned. They had left no tracks, except a trampled spot in the bushes on Flint Island, but perhaps, perhaps the Lenape men had not given up hope. Their stock of food was gone, but they would find some way to exist, even in the wilderness——
He woke from his reverie. Mink had again jumped to his feet, nose in air. Dirk sniffed too. Something stronger than the heavy odor of the cabin was sifting through the chinks in the logs. It smelled like the lodge at Lenape, in the evening with the whole tribe gathered around the fireplace——