“There is only one man that I know of who hates us bitterly,” commenced Dick, and instantly a flash of intelligence overspread the face of the other.
“Do you mean that French trader, François Lascelles?” he demanded.
“I was thinking of him, and his equally unscrupulous son, Alexis,” Dick admitted.
“But, when we captured them last fall, they were held prisoners in the camp until Mayhew, the scout, was well on his way down the river and could not possibly be overtaken. Then the party of Frenchmen was let go, with the solemn warning from Captain Lewis that if any of them loitered around this region they would be shot on sight. And Dick, all winter long you remember we have seen nothing of Lascelles, or indeed for that matter any other white man.”
“Still,” urged the other, “he may have come back here again when he found he could not overtake Mayhew and secure that paper. A man like François Lascelles hates bitterly, and never forgives. To be beaten in his game by a couple of mere boys would make him gnash his teeth every time he remembered it. Yes, something seems to tell me, Roger, that our old enemy has returned, and is even now in communication with some treacherous member of the expedition.”
“You mean his money has hired some one to play this terrible trick that might have cost us our lives; is that it, Dick?”
“It is only a guess with me,” replied the other, soberly; “but I can see no other explanation of this mystery.”
“But who could be the guilty man in the camp?” asked Roger. “We believed every one was our friend, from the two captains down to the lowest in line. It is terrible to suspect any one of a crime like this. How will we ever be able to find out about it, do you think?”
“We must begin to keep our eyes about us and watch,” advised Dick. “One by one we can cross the names off our list until it narrows down to two or three. Sooner or later we shall find out the truth.”