“Then we must act at once,” replied Jerry. “If we don’t, we won’t save the money. Raikes may return from New York any day.”
“Time enough, lad,” assured Mowry. “The rascals think you’re dead, an’ they won’t dream of leavin’ the cabin. If you take keer of yourself ter-day, you’ll be able ter tramp down to Kingman an’ organize a party.”
Jerry insisted that he was as well as ever, and wanted to get up. But an effort satisfied him that this was out of the question. So he submitted to the inevitable as patiently as possible.
Mowry fed him on nourishing meat and broth during the day, and by evening all traces of fever had left him.
A hasty breakfast was eaten in the morning, and the camp was put in order. Then Mowry and Jerry started on their long tramp. The trapper took a hand-sled with him, and whenever the level ground permitted, he gave the lad a lift. Thus the journey was robbed of half its fatigue, and Jerry was comparatively fresh when the settlement was reached late in the afternoon.
Kingman was a straggling bit of a place on the Canadian Pacific Railroad. The inhabitants were bluff, honest folk, and Mowry happily knew most of them. He accepted the proffered hospitality of the station agent for himself and companion.
The news quickly spread through the village, and by the next morning a party of armed men were ready to start for the cabin in the swamp. Jerry reluctantly consented to stay behind. He had to admit that he was not in fit condition to make the long tramp.
“Thar’s one thing you’d better do while we’re gone,” said Mowry. “Telegraph to this here lawyer in New York ter have Silas Raikes arrested. It may save a heap of trouble.”
The station agent favored this suggestion. But, unluckily, Jerry had forgotten the name and address. He finally concluded that the former was Glenwood. So, while Mowry and his companions were heading northward through the woods, a message sped southward over the wires, addressed simply, “Mr. Glenwood, New York.”
It read as follows: