“We’ll circle around the cabin and come in closer,” Dick directed. “If something has happened we want to be sure we don’t get into trouble, too. Toma’s brother may have been killed by Henderson’s men. The country seems to be alive with the villains.”
Silently they started around the cabin. Half way around, Dick stumbled and fell over something in the snow. Sandy stopped dead and a gasp of horror came from his lips.
“Dick!” he exclaimed. “You’ve fallen over a dead man!”
Dick got up, more shaken by the identity of the thing he had fallen over than by the fall.
Covered by the light film of snow that had fallen, and which was steadily growing heavier, was the body of a man. In the gloom they could not distinguish his features, but they were put on their guard. Armed only with their hunting knives, they felt that the utmost caution must be exercised in further advances.
“Toma’s in trouble. I know it now!” Dick ejaculated.
“Well, it’s up to us to get him out,” Sandy retorted.
Drawing their knives they started stealthily for the cabin. They could hear no sound of life, and the knowledge of what was lying behind them under the snow made the atmosphere doubly fearsome.
At last they reached the single window through which they had seen Toma look into the cabin. Dick cautiously raised his eyes over the sill. He looked only an instant, then he quickly ducked downward.
“It’s the scar faced Indian!” he made the astounding disclosure to Sandy. “And there’s another with him. They have Toma bound. He’s lying on the bunk. I could see his eyes. They’re playing cards and talking. How in the world did they ever catch Toma?”