“And a heart as big as a house,” added Dick. “Not to mention other things like woodcraft and knowledge of birds and animals and men. You know the location of most of the trails, lakes and portages in this country. Corporal Richardson told me that you were a crack shot. He said that you could shoot faster and hit oftener than any person he had ever known. You’re the best marksman in northwestern Canada.”
Malemute Slade flushed to the roots of his hair.
“Look here,” he began gruffly, “you keep your trap closed.”
“I know now why you laughed when I said Sandy and I would overtake you and Corporal Richardson on the trail,” grinned Dick. “What I meant, of course, was that we’d follow along and join you later.”
“You’ll stay right here until we get back,” ordered Slade. “That’s final. There’s goin’ to be some trouble up the line. We’re risking our own lives—not yours.”
“He’s right, Dick,” broke in the heavy, though not unmusical voice of Corporal Richardson. “Neither you nor Sandy can come along this time. You must wait here until we return.”
Dick choked back his disappointment, looking up at the stalwart figure of Corporal Richardson through a blur of tears. He turned his head and stared miserably across at the room which had almost been wrecked in the recent encounter between Factor MacClaren and the scar-faced Indian. A whirl of conflicting thoughts flashed through his mind.
“All right,” he said dully, “but——”
He was interrupted by the appearance of an Indian servant, upon the heels of whom came a tall young man with flashing eyes, clad in a heavy fur coat and parka. For a brief moment the young man stood, surveying the three occupants of the room. Then, without further preliminary, he advanced shyly toward Corporal Richardson, fumbling in the pocket of his coat.
“For ze mounted police,” he said, presenting Richardson with a long official-looking envelope. “Inspector Cameron he tell me take eet to you. To be queek. To be very careful. I have been on the trail eight, ten hours, monsieur.”