“I’ll tell you, Toma,” Dick spoke despondently. “We haven’t a chance now to overtake Creel. But at Fort Wonderly there’s a government telegraph office, and I’ll give a message to the operator, warning everybody along the route. There is another detachment of the mounted police at Peace River Crossing, and they’ll send out a man to intercept him.”
So it was late that night when Dick and Toma returned to Meade’s Ferry and reported the outcome of their journey.
“It’s too bad,” Sandy commented, “I was sure that when you got back you’d have Creel with you. But you showed a lot of good sense when you sent that message. If Creel manages to slip through the police lines farther south, he’ll be a wizard.”
“I’ve been thinking about Creel all day,” said Dick. “I’ve been blaming myself continually for my negligence. We should never have permitted him to escape. I’m positive now that your theory is correct, and that he’s going south, not only with the money that was in that box, but the contents of Dewberry’s poke as well. I really believe that if we had our hands upon him now, and searched him, we’d find everything.”
“No doubt, you’re right. Well, I suppose there’s only one thing to do now: Return to Frischette’s road-house. Corporal Rand must be back by now. He’ll know what to do next.”
The two boys were joined later by Toma, Meade and his son. The free-trader, a tall, imposing figure, complacently smoked a pipe and now and again engaged the boys in conversation.
“I understand that you’ve come from Fort Good Faith,” he said.
“Well, not exactly,” Dick replied. “We live there. Factor MacClaren is Sandy’s uncle; but for the last few days we’ve been stopping at Frischette’s roadhouse.”
Meade’s clear blue eyes shadowed.
“Friend of his?”