“If it is Richardson, do you think we can get him away from the outlaws?”
“We can try.”
“What plan would you suggest?”
“Wait until La Qua has taken out all of the fur and the pack-train is ready to start. They’ll be compelled to leave Richardson here under guard. Our chance will come then.”
Two powerful breeds appeared at the door soon after, carrying the prostrate form of Sergeant Richardson. They dropped him, none too gently, on the floor close to the fire-place. The prisoner’s limbs were bound. He was unconscious, his face ghastly white except where a small stream of blood trickled down from his forehead.
Sudden rage seared Dick’s mind. His friendship for the police sergeant was great and he resented the malicious attack upon him. He could hardly contain himself as the packers left their work and advanced in a curious group, only to be driven back again by the cursing, perspiring La Qua. Then as a vent for his outraged feelings, the outlaw kicked the unconscious man in the ribs.
At sight of this gross treatment, Rand started forward, scarcely able to suppress his cry of rage. He checked himself, but one hand gripped Dick’s arm, fingers digging into the flesh.
“I could almost kill him for that!” he snarled.
The cache diminished quickly. All that remained of the bulky pile in a few minutes more were a few scattered bales, lying on the floor at the far end of the room. Corporal Rand and Dick were waiting impatiently for the completion of the task, when suddenly the policeman’s sharp intake of breath drew the other’s attention.
“Shades of Lucifer!” gasped the corporal. “Look at that!”