CHAPTER XXII
DEWBERRY’S TREASURE
Peace River Crossing is a growing, bustling town that nestles in the broad, deep valley of one of the North Country’s largest rivers. Until a few years ago, it was a trading post merely, the stamping ground and meeting place of trappers, prospectors and adventurers, who, from various points along the river, and from the wilderness to the east and west, came here to transact their business or find companionship and entertainment.
At the time of this story, the Edmonton, Dunvegan & British Columbia Railway only recently had been built. Just a few months before his death, Dewberry had seen the miracle of two lines of steel, supported by a marvelous system of trestlework, creep slowly into the village.
Soon after that Dewberry decided that he would go north. Turning his back upon his cherished books, he went out, locking the door after him for the last time. The cabin looked very lonely in his absence. Perched on a hill, overlooking the Hart River, it stood day after day, a sort of bleak landmark among the other houses in the village. When the sun was bright, and happened to be shining from the right direction, the two front windows blinked and glistened like two large human eyes. Indian and half-breed children, playing in the level fields below, would look up at them in fear. They were afraid of the house. They were afraid of the man who lived there. Nothing whatsoever could have induced them to climb the rocky path and enter the yard, which just now was overgrown with tall weeds and grass.
This fear on the children’s part was shared to some extent by their parents. They shunned the cabin. In all the time Dewberry was away on this last trip, probably not more than three persons passed by the house, and then only because it was necessary to do so. Not until late in midsummer, did anyone actually cross the yard and deliberately walk up to the door with the intention of entering.
That person was Constable Wyatt, of the Peace River Detachment of the Royal North West Mounted Police. He was not alone. Another policeman and three boys accompanied him. The constable strode forward, erect and graceful, jingling a keyring. He selected one key and fitted it into the lock. Then he turned, before proceeding further, and smiled at his companions.
“The right one. It will work, I think.”
“Open the door,” instructed the other policeman, who stood close behind him, and appeared to be either eager or impatient.
The key grated in the lock and the door creaked, as Wyatt turned the knob and pressed his weight against it. Five pairs of eyes stared into the room. One of the boys—the youngest of the three—drew in his breath sharply.
“Great Scott! Books! Look at ’em—just look at ’em, Dick! A thousand or more!”