Dick’s mind raced. What was the intention of those two midnight raiders? What were they up to? Had they designs upon the life of Mr. Scott, the new incumbent? Was this to be the first in a long series of reprisals aimed at Mr. MacClaren and the Hudson’s Bay Company by a disgruntled former factor and his insidious crew?
Now that it was too late, Dick regretted his folly in coming out of doors without first taking the precaution to arm himself. In case the two men broke into the trading room—and that seemed to be their intention—what could he do to prevent further depredations? Two against one, and they were armed. He was no match for either one of them physically. To make matters still worse, he recalled that he had left the door, leading to the loft, unlocked. If the Indians succeeded in forcing the door of the trading room, they would have easy access to Factor Scott’s room, which adjoined the hall at the top of the stairs just across from the space that the boys occupied.
Almost desperate because of his helplessness, it suddenly occurred to Dick that probably the best way to prevent the Indians’ entrance would be to call out sharply, attracting attention to himself. Such a move might cost him his life, but on the other hand, it might arouse the sleeping occupants of the post. In the very act of inflating his lungs another plan popped into his head.
Why not, he asked himself, follow the two Indians inside? In a flash, there had come to him a mental picture of the revolver Donald Frazer had returned to the shelf behind the counter yesterday afternoon. If the Indians went up the stairway, he would rush in, seize the weapon and could probably reach the factor’s room in time.
His body bent forward almost at right angles, he slipped out from behind his place of concealment and very cautiously commenced working his way forward. He was within thirty paces of the trading room door by the time the two Indians had forced the lock and had gained admittance. When the door closed behind them, he sprinted lightly across, not to the door but to the window. The interior space was dark and shadowy, yet he could make out the two forms hesitating near the counter. To their left was the door leading to the loft. Twenty feet to their right was another door leading to the cellar. To Dick’s great astonishment, instead of making their way to the stairway, they turned in the opposite direction, tip-toed across the floor, flung open the door and descended below.
No unexpected move on their part could have surprised him more. What did they expect to find in the basement? Dick had been there often and knew what it contained—packing cases, boxes, rolls of wrapping paper, yes, and—suddenly Dick grinned. He thought he knew now. All his panic over nothing. Petty thievery, not murder, was the motive behind the Indians’ forced entrance. Liquor was what they had come for. The Indians’ love of fire-water had led them here.
Realizing this, his tension relaxed. He decided not to go in to get the revolver after all. He’d wait until they reappeared—that would be safer. He’d keep hid. If he opened the door and stepped upon the trading room floor, no matter how quiet his footsteps, they would be sure to be heard. The loss of the liquor would be little compared to the risk he took. He’d have the goods on them anyway. Tomorrow the factor could swear out a warrant and place them under arrest.
“No,” decided Dick, “I’ll wait and bide my time.”
He had not long to wait. The cellar door opened and the two prowlers appeared, carrying two burlap sacks, bulging with what looked like bottles, and so heavy that the two stalwart natives bent under their load.
Dick slipped around the corner of the trading room, flattened himself against the side of the building and waited tensely. He heard the outer door creak lightly. He heard light footsteps pattering across the ground outside, gradually growing less distinct as they paced off the distance to the warehouse. As Dick peeped out around his corner, they passed the warehouse and disappeared from view.