“Did you hear that?” Dick turned to Sandy.
“Yes—just our luck. Now what?” Sandy returned, a little disheartened, as the half-breeds led the way into the stockade.
“We can talk to Mr. Mackenzie, can’t we?” Dick asked one of the men, as they entered the post.
“Yah, I guess.”
Presently, they were ushered into a room smelling of liniment and arnica. On a bunk lay Malcolm Mackenzie, his head and one arm swathed in bandages. Evidently he was suffering considerably from serious burns. He turned his head as the boys came in.
“Bear Henderson has captured Fort Good Faith,” Dick blurted out. “My friend’s uncle has been imprisoned. Mr. MacLean sent us to you. He said you would lead us to the mounted police post at Fort Dunwoody.”
“I’ve feared this,” Malcolm Mackenzie’s eyes narrowed, “but you see how it is with me, boys. I can’t travel. Got some bad burns while fighting that forest fire. But I can send an Indian who knows the trail.” He turned to one of the half-breeds, who was standing behind Dick and Sandy. “Send in Little John Toma,” he commanded.
A little later Dick and Sandy saw a young Indian enter. He was handsome in a dark, inscrutable way, and though not very tall, was powerfully built. He stood respectfully at attention, seeming more intelligent than many of his kind.
“Toma,” Mackenzie spoke, “I want you to lead these young men to Fort Dunwoody as fast as you can. Travel light. You ought to make it in four days if everything goes right.” He turned back to the boys. “Did MacLean say anything about a cache of grub along the way?”
“Yes,” Dick reached into his pocket and drew out the map the trader had drawn indicating the position of the cache of food on the trail to Fort Dunwoody.