“What did you find?” whispered Dick, anxiously.
“Two, t’ree—five bad fellas,” Toma counted on his fingers. “One Pierre Govereau lead um. They got um spring for tonight. We go round um. Got to. Them fellas friends Bear Henderson. They watch um trail for police. ’Fraid police go to Fort Good Faith.”
Dick and Sandy exchanged glances. Their weariness was temporarily forgotten in this new peril. They began to understand the far-reaching power of the man who had captured Sandy’s uncle and had taken possession of Fort Good Faith on the edge of the northern wilderness.
“We go,” Toma urged, his only excitement revealed by the swift movements of his eyes as they roved this way and that.
Silently the Indian guide melted into the underbrush, Dick immediately behind him, Sandy in the rear. For nearly two hundred yards they went onward, almost at snail’s pace. It was twilight now. Long shadows of tree and bush stretched everywhere.
At last Toma signaled for them to stop. Dick and Sandy dropped flat. Not more than three hundred feet ahead a campfire twinkled through the trees, and, motionless, between them and the fire, stood a silent figure, with rifle on his shoulder. It was a guard. Dick divined the figure, so like the tree trunk against which it stood, had even escaped the sharp eyes of Toma at first.
Four men were sitting around the campfire, and they could hear the mutter of gruff voices. Once or twice a louder than usual exclamation in French arose above the other sounds. It seemed the leader of the party was haranguing his men, or disciplining one of them.
Suddenly Dick started and clutched Sandy’s arm.
“That guard!” he exclaimed under his breath. “It’s the scar faced Indian!”
Sandy paled a little. It seemed almost impossible that the Indian could have gotten ahead of them. His appearance was as mysterious as had been their glimpses of him at Fort du Lac and along the Big Smokey river.