At first Dick did not understand, but presently he saw the cause of the corporal’s excitement. A low cry of admiration escaped his own lips.
“Why—why, it’s Toma! The nerve of him! Can you imagine anything more foolhardy?”
Toma it was—Toma, sober and unconcerned as ever. In the guise of a packer, he had joined the other half-breeds and Indians. He followed closely behind two strapping natives, picked up a bale of fur and walked out with it. Twice more in the next few minutes he repeated this performance. On his third trip, however, all the fur had been removed. La Qua and a somewhat short and corpulent half-breed of indeterminate age were the only occupants of the room. These two looked up, as if resenting Toma’s intrusion. Then they sprang back, hands high in the air, as a dangerous-looking automatic seemed to leap into the young guide’s hand. Calmly, Toma ordered the two men back against the wall and disarmed them.
Dick followed Rand and the two stormed through the door, revolvers in readiness. They called out to Toma not to shoot. The corporal yanked down a coil of rope from a peg on the wall and proceeded to bind the outlaws, at the same time ordering Dick to bolt and lock the door, then to release Richardson.
La Qua was pale with fury, swearing vengeance upon the police.
“Yuh can’t get away with this,” he snarled. “You’ll pay good an’ plenty. Jus’ remember that.”
“I’m willing to answer for my conduct here,” laughed Rand. “I’m not frightened.”
Toma and Rand dragged the bodies across the floor, concealing them behind a pile of blankets. Then they turned to examine the sergeant.
His injuries were not serious. Already he showed signs of returning consciousness. Rand brought water and bathed and dressed the wound with a skill and precision that struck Dick’s admiration.
Someone pounded on the door. Drawing his revolver, the policeman hurried over, shot the bolt, swung open the door, concealing himself behind it. A tall, fierce-visaged man stepped into the room, demanding harshly: