“That Indian again,” muttered Sandy. “How the deuce did he get here anyway. We saw him last at Govereau’s camp. It’s ghostly the way that fellow shows up everywhere.”
“Govereau must have sent him here on some dirty business,” Dick decided. “Perhaps Toma’s brother had valuable furs stored here.”
With mutual consent they crawled away from the cabin and hid in the trees at the edge of the clearing, where they tried to decide on a plan by which to rescue Toma. That they had a good chance of success they were sure. The scar-faced Indian had the use of but one arm since the wound Toma had given him, so they had but one real man to deal with. Still they were as well as unarmed. What could they do?
“I’ll tell you what,” Dick was speaking fast. “You go out into the woods and begin calling for help, anything to get one of them out of the cabin. Then I’ll slip in and see if I can’t take care of the other one and get hold of a rifle. The Indian will probably stay inside, and wounded as he is I’m sure I can handle him.”
“Gee! That’s a ghostly job you have for me to do,” Sandy whispered ruefully.
“We’ve got to do it, Sandy,” urged Dick. “It won’t hurt to try. You keep hidden, and when one of them comes out to see what’s wrong, keep quiet. I’ll do the rest.”
Dick and Sandy gripped hands, then parted. Dick crept around to a point opposite the door of the cabin, waiting tensely until Sandy began his part of the ruse. He did not have to wait long. Presently, from afar in the forest, a shriek as of some one in mortal agony, arose. Sandy was doing well.
“H-e-l-p, oh, h-e-l-p,” his voice rang out, high and shrill.
Sandy repeated his call several times, then the cabin door opened, and as Dick had hoped, the scar faced Indian’s companion came out. He had a rifle in his hands.
Again Sandy’s cry rang out from a little further off. The man hesitated no longer, but stepped from the cabin door and walked across the clearing into the trees to investigate. He disappeared in the direction of Sandy’s unearthly wailing.