“I’ll tell Mr. MacLean,” Dick stretched his athletic legs toward the store.
The fur trader came out on Dick’s heels a moment later, his broad, bony frame and bearded face tense at the hint of trouble.
“It’s a runner all right,” confirmed the trader, watching the distant figure, which was rapidly approaching.
Presently a swarthy faced Indian, his coarse black hair streaming about his haggard features, fell almost exhausted into their arms.
“Help me carry him in,” Martin MacLean commanded. “He’s tuckered out. We’ve got to get him to talk. There’s trouble somewhere.”
They tugged the limp body of the runner into the store and lay him on several bales of fur. The trader hurried for stimulant, which he forced between the Indian’s teeth. The runner soon opened his eyes. All three bent over him as he spoke:
“Him Bear Henderson take um post—from Mister McClaren,” gasped the runner. “Tie um up. Kill all good Injuns!”
Dick Kent’s face paled as he turned to Sandy. “Henderson has captured your Uncle Walter!”
“Well, he’ll get his when the mounted police get there,” flared Sandy, his Scotch temper showing itself.
The factor of the post turned to them. They fell silent. “Boys, I can’t leave the post,” he said, “and I don’t trust any of the Indians around the store. Can I depend on you to go down the river and get Malcolm Mackenzie?”