Then his hand crept slowly to the head of his bunk where a rifle leaned. Some one was fumbling at Factor MacClaren’s door. As he strained his eyes in the dark, he could distinguish a shadowy figure crouching there.
CHAPTER II
A MESSENGER FROM HEADQUARTERS
In the breathless interval that followed, Dick Kent was unable to decide upon a definite course of action. The figure of the man still crouched before Factor MacClaren’s door but Dick, rifle in hand, felt that under no circumstances could he bring himself to fire point-blank at the shadowy form, even if the entire success of their expedition depended upon it. He could hear the slight rattle of the door, and the faint shuffle of the intruder’s moccasined feet. Momentarily, he awaited the crash that would follow the man’s efforts to break in.
The rifle lay like a dead weight in Dick’s hands. The suspense and excitement of the moment seemed unendurable. His limbs had commenced under the strain to shake and quiver, as if afflicted by some deadly malady. If he fired, he would kill the man, and if he cried out, as he very much wanted to do, the man would probably kill him. It was the sort of predicament with which Dick had no desire to cope, and yet here he was, in spite of himself, at the very beginning of their adventures, placed in a position that might have daunted a much older person.
While he still hesitated, there fell suddenly across the deep quiet of the room the smashing sound of the door breaking in, and through the dark shadows Dick perceived, as he sat there, wide-eyed with apprehension, the intruder thrown into Factor MacClaren’s room with a force that carried him half way to the sleeping man’s bed. He knew immediately what had happened. Shoulders hunched, the man had employed what, in school circles, would have been called football tactics. From a position about ten feet from the door, he had charged forward, breaking through the heavy obstruction and gaining access to the room.
He had picked himself up from the floor, as Dick sprang to the assistance of the factor, shouting as he went. By the time Dick had entered the chamber itself, a furious struggle was in progress—a wild tossing and tumbling about of two scarcely distinguishable forms. A chair crashed to the floor. Some heavy object whirled past Dick’s head, striking the wall with a thudding impact, before it dropped clattering almost at his heels. No sooner had he started forward to give his assistance to Factor MacClaren in the unequal struggle, when he was thrown back again violently, as the two men, locked in each other’s arms, swayed into him. Dick sat down with a thump, the corner of the heavy table cutting the back of his head.
The fall had dazed him and his recovery was slow. From this point on Dick was unaware of the events that followed in rapid succession. His first really clear impression was that of a blinding glare of light in his eyes, and the voice of Malemute Slade raised in alarm.
“This boy’s hurt a’right. Bad cut on the back of his head. Move back, corporal, while I lift him up.”
The mounted police scout stooped forward and Dick felt himself being raised bodily, swung up in the powerful arms of his friend. Then Richardson spoke:
“I’ll attend to MacClaren’s bruises while you put this lad to bed. We’re lucky in one way that no one was seriously hurt. Mighty lucky!”