Toma took the birch bark in his own trembling hands, studied it for a moment, then in a fit of anger threw it at his feet, where with one foot he trampled it in the snow.
“What does it say?” Dick’s voice was shrill, plaintive.
“It say,” stormed Toma, “that you tell ’em big lie about mounted police; that Corporal Rand no come here at all. They make you big laugh.”
At that instant Dick bethought him of the messenger. Defy him, would they? Well, he’d see about that. At least, he’d seize their messenger. He sprang forward with this purpose in view, but the Indian slipped under his arm, dodged behind the tall figure of one of the gaping natives, and before anyone could prevent it, had made his escape. At that moment, Sandy came plowing through the ranks of the spectators, shouting hoarsely.
“Where is Dr. Brady?”
“He didn’t come back.”
“What’s all this rumpus about then?”
“That Indian prisoner I released last night came back with a defiant message, which says that they, the Indians, don’t believe that the policeman is here.”
“And the messenger?”
“He slipped away from me.”