Dick hurried inside, bounded up the stairway and knocked loudly at the factor’s door.
“Who’s there?” inquired a sleepy voice.
“It is I—Dick Kent, Mr. Scott. I’d like to see you.”
The creaking of a bed, the sound of footsteps moving across the floor, and the door swung open.
“Hello, Dick. Come on in. What’s the trouble?”
“Mr. Scott,” announced Dick breathlessly, following the other inside, “I’ve just been a witness to a bit of thieving. Two Indians broke into the trading room and made their way to the cellar where they stole something. I thing it was liquor. They came out carrying burlap sacks full of what looked like bottles.”
“Do you think you could identify the two thieves?” asked Mr. Scott, motioning Dick to a chair.
“Yes, I can. I can even take you to their tepee. Rough looking characters. No doubt, you know them well.”
“Pierre and Henri Mekewai,” guessed the factor. “They’re about the roughest looking pair that hang around the post.”
“I don’t know their names,” replied Dick, “but as I told you, I can identify them. I saw them come out of the tepee and followed them up here.”