“My theory is strengthened by Creel’s subsequent actions,” the corporal continued. “While I was out on the trail investigating the cause of Frischette’s death, he took the opportunity to slip away unnoticed. The assumption was that he had started out for Edmonton, or some other point, with Dewberry’s treasure. Burnnel, Emery and ‘Rat’ MacGregor’s wife evidently came to the same conclusion for, after locking me up at Frischette’s road-house,” the corporal flushed at the memory, “they set out to follow Creel. If they didn’t suspect him of having the treasure, why did they follow him? How are you going to answer that question?”
“Your theory must be correct,” said Wyatt.
“It must be,” Meade agreed.
“It isn’t my theory particularly. Young Sandy MacClaren came to the same conclusion. You have the facts. I needn’t go further into detail. You know what happened over there by the river.”
“They cached the treasure somewhere,” declared Wyatt.
Corporal Rand nodded.
“It seems to be the only solution.”
Conversation wandered to other things, and Dick soon lost interest. He yawned, rose from his chair and went outside. It was a lovely evening, cool and exhilarating. There came to his ears the drowsy sound of the forest. Birds peeped, preparing to nestle down for the night. The pine trees droned their incessant chant. Here and there, rabbits scampered into the open, their curious little muzzles twitching inquisitively.
Dick yawned again and stretched his arms above his head. It was about time the boys were coming back. He wondered if their fishing expedition had been successful. Bored with the inactivity, he decided to stroll down toward the river to meet them.
He was twenty yards from the cabin when a voice called him back—the voice of Corporal Rand. Quickly he retraced his steps.