The Project Gutenberg eBook, Dick Kent, Fur Trader, by Milo Milton Oblinger

Dick, happening to glance through the window, drew back suddenly with a cry of surprise. ([Page 70])

Dick Kent,
Fur Trader

By MILTON RICHARDS

AUTHOR OF
“Dick Kent with the Mounted Police”
“Dick Kent in the Far North”
“Dick Kent with the Eskimos”
“Dick Kent and the Malemute Mail”

THE SAALFIELD PUBLISHING COMPANY
Akron, Ohio New York

Copyright MCMXXVII
THE SAALFIELD PUBLISHING COMPANY
Made in the United States of America

Contents

CHAPTER PAGE I [Blind Man’s Pass] 3 II [Dick Plays the Part of a Spy] 13 III [Sergeant Richardson’s Theory] 24 IV [Two Encounters in One Day] 33 V [A Midnight Conference] 44 VI [Murky Takes a Hand] 56 VII [Wandley’s Post] 69 VIII [The Ambuscade] 82 IX [The Meeting Place] 91 X [The First Prisoner] 105 XI [An Unexpected Setback] 116 XII [The Outlaws’ Cabin] 124 XIII [A Scout returns] 133 XIV [Following the Pack-train] 142 XV [The Corporal Upbraids Himself] 152 XVI [Murky Nichols!] 162 XVII [Dick Goes to the Rescue] 172 XVIII [A Dusky Friend] 181 XIX [A Game of Hide-and-seek] 190 XX [The Invalid] 198 XXI [Campfire Smoke] 207 XXII [Murky’s Confession] 213 XXIII [Back at Fort Good Faith] 222

DICK KENT, FUR TRADER

CHAPTER I
BLIND MAN’S PASS

Dick Kent, bronzed by exposure to wind and sun, leaned over the rough pine table in the trading room of Factor MacClaren at Fort Good Faith and listened intently to the conversation being carried on at that particular moment between Murky Nichols, prospector and gentleman of parts, and Corporal Rand of the Mackenzie River detachment of the Royal North West Mounted Police. On the paper in front of them, torn from a convenient packing case, were a number of irregular lines, dots and scrawls, which had been placed there with the aid of the stub of a lead pencil, held awkwardly in the hands of the big prospector.

“I want to show yuh,” Nichols explained eagerly, “jus’ where I think ol’ Daddy McInnes crossed the Dominion Range. He travelled east an’ then south until he got to Placer Lake, goin’ through what the Indians call Blind Man’s Pass. There ain’t no other way he could o’ got through, sick an’ worn out like he was. That pass must come out on this side of the range somewhere near where yuh picked up his body.”

Corporal Rand drummed softly on the table and regarded Murky’s animated face with thoughtful interest.

“Sounds reasonable,” he commented. “In fact, that’s exactly the way I had it figured out myself. Blind Man’s Pass must be something more than a myth—a mere Indian legend. McInnes got through some way, travelling along a fairly well defined, not too difficult trail. No man can walk over Dominion Range, neither can he crawl under it. Yet McInnes came through. I have conclusive proof of that. But where is Blind Man’s Pass?”

“It’s there somewhere,” Nichols declared doggedly.

“Certainly. I agree with you, Murky.” The mounted policeman took the pencil from the prospector’s hand and drew a straight line near the center of the map. “This line,” he pointed out—Dick thought a little impatiently—“represents a distance of thirty miles. The country is rough, broken, almost inaccessible along its entire length. Somewhere within that thirty miles is a narrow opening, probably not more than fifty, a hundred or two hundred feet wide, which forms one end of what is called Blind Man’s Pass. Now how are you going to find it? There are a thousand different openings, all more or less alike. Attempt to follow any one of them, and you end up against a solid rock wall. You go back and start all over again somewhere else—and with the same result. I spent two weeks out there, going through the same stupid performance day after day. Only infinite patience or fool’s luck will lead you to the right opening.”

So interested had Dick Kent become that presently he crowded closer to the two men and began staring at the paper himself. Exactly what were they trying to do? What were they talking about? Who was McInnes, and why all this bother about a fabled trail through the mountains no one seemed to know anything about? He was interrupted in his train of thought by the next statement of the mounted policeman:

“McInnes had been dead more than a week when I found him. You could see the poor devil had been half-starved and had suffered every sort of hardship and privation. How he had managed to stagger along with that heavy load is more than I can imagine.”

“Too bad ol’ Daddy has passed,” Murky sighed regretfully. “I ’member seeing him one time ’bout three years ago over in the Goose Lake country. Might’ fine ol’ man he was, an’ a good trapper, folks said. Never failed to bring in a good catch ever’ spring—mostly fox, marten an’ beaver—an’ he got top prices ’cause he knew how to cure his fur—all prime, A-Number-1 stuff it was. He had a knack, almost amountin’ to genius for locatin’ black and cross fox an’ then gettin’ ’em to walk plump into his traps.” Nichols paused to gaze reminiscently out of the window and to smile to himself. “Couldn’t beat him that particular way, no, sir. A big catch ever’ year—fortune for most men; yet Daddy allers complained that he wa’n’t gettin’ nothin’ atall, that he was either gonna quit or cross the Dominion Range, where trappin’ was a hull lot better.”

“You’re right about the black fox skins,” remarked Corporal Rand, pushing the paper aside. “In the pack I found beside the body, there were eight of the shiniest, loveliest black pelts I’ve ever looked upon.”

“An’ he came through Blind Man’s Pass,” mused Murky. “The clever ol’ coot. Too bad he didn’t live to tell about it.”

Dick had edged still closer. His eyes were shining with interest. He reached over and touched the sleeve of the corporal’s scarlet tunic.

“Pardon me, Corporal Rand—but I’ve been eavesdropping. You don’t mind, I hope.”

The mounted policeman turned quickly and smiled into the eager face.

“Certainly not, you’re welcome to any information or nonsense you may have heard. Isn’t that the truth, Murky?”

“It sure is.”

“And may I ask you a question?” Dick persisted.

“Yes,” smiled Rand.

“What is Blind Man’s Pass?”

“A reality or a legend—I’m not sure which. Outside of Daddy McInnes I’d say it was a legend. We used to laugh at the old tales about it. The Indians claimed that years and years ago one of their ancestors had discovered a long, narrow pass or defile that cut Dominion range somewhere due west of here. In 1895 a party of mounted police explorers investigated the story by making a very careful, painstaking search through all the country lying between Cauldron Lake and Summit River. Nothing came of it. The party decided that the tale was a myth. Blind Man’s Pass was, until a few weeks ago, a bye-word among all the white men living in this section.”

Corporal Rand paused and favored Dick with a most engaging smile.

“And what about Daddy McInnes?” the young man inquired.

“I’ll give you the bald facts and you can draw your own conclusions. A little over a year ago Daddy McInnes left us. For years it had been his ambition to trap on the other side of the Dominion Range in what is commonly known as the Caribou Hills country. As the crow flies, Caribou Hills are less than three hundred miles away. It wouldn’t have been much of a journey if McInnes could have gone straight there, crossing the mountains. But, of course, he couldn’t. He chose instead the more sensible and longer route by way of the Yellowhead Pass, which, as you know, is many hundred miles south of here. It took Daddy the greater part of one summer to make the trip.”

Corporal Rand rose slowly to his feet and walked over to a window, gazing somberly out across a bleak, snow-streaked meadow that extended west and north to meet the encroaching woodland. He swung about presently, and continued:

“But Daddy came back. What motive prompted him, I have no way of finding out. All I know is that he did come back—but not by the Yellowhead route! I came upon his dead body less than a week ago. It was lying in a sheltered spot near a little knoll, less than a hundred yards from the banks of Run River. It was easy to determine the cause of his death. He died of starvation and exposure. McInnes is an old, old man and this last trip had proved too much for him.”

“And you don’t think that he had contrived somehow to cross over the range?” queried Dick.

“Absolutely, utterly impossible.”

“If he didn’t come by the Yellowhead route, or cross the mountains—”

“The only possible solution is Blind Man’s Pass,” interrupted Corporal Rand.

“But you can’t find it.”

“I haven’t yet. But I have every hope that we will in a very short time. The best scout and woodsman who ever enlisted in a service of the R. N. W. M. P. is out there now looking for it—a man called Malemute Slade.”

“Malemute Slade!” shouted Dick, clapping his hands in glee. “Why, corporal, I know him. He’s a friend of mine.”

“I’m glad to hear that. I knew that Slade was well acquainted with Factor MacClaren’s nephew, Sandy. Are you by any chance the Dick Kent, who accompanied Sandy last summer to Thunder River in search of a gold mine?”

“Yes,” answered Dick.

Corporal Rand laughed as he extended his hand.

“I guess that we’ll shake on that. The mounted police haven’t forgotten the incident. Time and time again, before a crackling fire, when we happened to meet on patrol, Sergeant Richardson entertained me with the history of your exploits.”

“We had a lot of trouble with the Henderson gang,” stated Dick.

“So I heard. Fortunately they’re wiped out. They were the worst band of outlaws that ever infested the North. By the way, what ever became of that young Indian lad, Toma, who used to accompany you on so many of your expeditions?”

“He’s out with Sandy right now on a hunting trip,” Dick replied. “I’m expecting them back today.”

Murky Nichols rose lazily, yawned, and stretched himself to his full length.

“Well, I guess I’ll toddle along,” he announced. “Hope yuh find that pass, corporal.”

With a friendly nod to Dick in passing, Nichols strode over to the counter before which a small group of half-breed men, women and children chatted volubly.

No sooner had the prospector passed out of hearing, than Rand turned eagerly to Dick:

“Ever meet Murky before?”

“No,” answered Dick in surprise, “but I’ve heard of him.”

“Queer character,” mused Rand, half to himself. “Sometimes bears watching.”

“What do you mean?” asked Dick, a little startled.

“Murky’s intentions are the best in the world, but his sense of right and wrong is considerably clouded. Also, you may or may not have heard, Nichols has the reputation of being the laziest mortal on earth and one of the shrewdest. He has money but seldom works. For months past I’ve been trying to find the key that will open the secret to Murky’s checkered past.”

Slightly annoyed at Rand’s garrulity, Dick looked up sharply. Well he knew that no self-respecting member of the force became so confidential in so short a time with a comparative stranger. For the most part, the men of the Royal Mounted were reserved, dignified and aloof. It was none of Dick’s business what sort of a man Murky was.

“What bothers me,” Corporal Rand hastened on, “is why Nichols should be so interested in Blind Man’s Pass. This is the third time he’s troubled himself to seek me out and pester me with questions.”

“It’s an interesting topic,” said Dick. “I don’t know as I blame him very much. Don’t forget, corporal, that I’ve just been bothering you with questions myself.”

“But you’re different.”

“You’ve known Nichols longer than you’ve known me,” Dick shot back, somewhat testily.

“All right, Dick,” grinned the corporal, “I’ll accept your reprimand. And, come to think of it, I’ve got a note for you. It may possibly explain why I do not hesitate about taking you into my confidence.”

“A note!” gasped Dick.

“Yes, it’s self-explanatory.”

Dick received the missive and opened it, considerably perplexed. He read quickly:

“Dear Richard:

I’ll be very grateful to you for any assistance you may be able to render to the bearer of this note, Corporal William Rand, of the Mackenzie River detachment. Corporal Rand will instruct you in certain matters of extreme importance. Please trust him implicitly in everything.

Please convey my very best wishes to Mr. MacClaren and your two young cronies, Sandy and Toma.

Sincerely, Henry C. Richardson, Sergeant R. N. W. M. P.”

When Dick had finished reading the letter, he looked across at Corporal Rand with new understanding in his eyes.

“I’ll help, of course. There isn’t anything I wouldn’t do for Sergeant Richardson.”

“That’s splendid of you.”

The mounted policeman moved closer and spoke in a low tone.

“Sit down at that table and pick up that old magazine. Pretend you’re reading. Watch Nichols. In ten or fifteen minutes two half breeds will enter this room and will probably walk over and engage Murky in conversation. You won’t be able to hear a thing they say, but I want you to notice particularly whether or not any money passes between them.”

Dick had scarcely recovered from his astonishment, when Corporal Rand turned with quick, military precision and walked swiftly out of the room.

CHAPTER II
DICK PLAYS THE PART OF A SPY

The two men who entered the trading room within a few minutes after Corporal Rand’s sudden exit were undoubtedly half-breeds. Both were heavy, powerful-looking specimens of the lowest type of humanity to be found in the North. Their appearance was far from prepossessing. They shambled over to the counter, elbowed their way through the small group of customers and stood for a moment watching Factor MacClaren wrapping up merchandise purchased by the various members of the chattering party.

Behind the pages of his magazine, Dick covertly watched them. Thus far, they had made no effort to approach or accost Nichols, whose indolent form slouched on one of the high stools, which had been placed before the counter. To all appearances, the two newcomers were entirely oblivious of the presence, or even the existence of the big prospector. Not once had their dark, insolent glances been turned in his direction.

But—and here was a curious thing—each passing moment seemed to bring them closer and closer to the man under police surveillance. They accomplished this maneuver in a manner that would have done credit to an experienced horseman, jockeying for position at the commencement of a race. Almost imperceptibly, and by degrees, they had edged nearer, covering the short space separating them from the imperturbable Nichols without once creating the impression that the thing had been done intentionally.

They were so close now that Nichols might easily have reached out with one long arm and placed it on the shoulder of either one of them. The prospector’s eyes were upon Factor MacClaren and his face was perfectly immobile and expressionless. If he was aware of the proximity of the murderous looking pair, he gave no sign of it. He moved slightly in his chair but completely ignored them. Dick had about come to the conclusion that the two half-breeds were not those whom Corporal Rand had expected, when a very suspicious movement on the part of Murky caught his alert gaze. With a lazy, seemingly unconscious action, the prospector’s hand was thrust in a pocket, held there for a moment, then was drawn forth, palm down and thrust quickly towards the nearer of the two stalky forms. Swift as the movement had been, Dick had, nevertheless, caught a glimpse of the roll of bills so secretly exchanged.

The half-breeds lingered for a very short time near their benefactor, then advanced along the counter and purchased several plugs of smoking tobacco from Factor MacClaren. Completing this transaction, they turned nonchalantly and walked out. No sooner had the door closed after them, than Murky rose and sauntered over to the window. He was still gazing out when the door creaked again and Corporal Rand entered.

“I’ve been out inspecting MacClaren’s new warehouse,” he announced cheerfully. “You must be expecting a large volume of business this winter.” He addressed the factor.

Walter MacClaren put down a large bundle of merchandise and paused to wipe his perspiring face.

“Yes,” he answered, “trading is good this year. Just now the indications are especially bright. Although this is just the beginning of the fur season, I’ve never seen better prices or the promise of so large a trade.”

“Indian trappers are out everywhere,” Corporal Rand remarked. “Yesterday I ran into a party of them going out to the Big Smoky. They told me they expected a good catch this year.”

MacClaren nodded as he went back to his work. The mounted policeman moved over to the table where Dick sat and placed a friendly hand on that young man’s shoulder.

“If I can pry you loose from that magazine,” he declared jovially, “I’m going to ask you to step up to my room for a few minutes for a private consultation. No! Don’t look frightened. I really don’t intend to take you into custody just yet. If you’ll bring your cribbage board and a new deck of cards, I’ll promise to be lenient.”

Grinning, Dick got to his feet. Well he knew that the game he and the corporal would presently play had nothing whatever to do with cribbage. Something a great deal more important was at stake just then—he could tell that from the serious, thoughtful expression so poorly concealed under Rand’s effort at deception. The jovial manner, the subterfuge of the cribbage board and the forced laugh—all were intended for the eyes and ears of the man who still stood near the window, and whose suspicions, under any circumstances, must not be aroused.

With a quickening pulse, Dick followed the policeman through the door at the back of the trading room, down a long hallway and into an immaculately neat and clean-looking chamber, which MacClaren always reserved for the use of various members of the R. N. W. M. P. who came frequently to the post.

Rand motioned his visitor to a chair.

“Well, what did you find out?”

“Nichols handed a roll of bills to two half-breeds who entered the room shortly after your departure,” Dick replied quickly.

“Did you happen to overhear any of their conversation?” came the next question.

“They didn’t talk,” the other informed him. “The breeds moved close to Nichols, but pretended to be interested in the customers and the trading. Until he put his hand in his pocket and passed the money quickly over to one of the half-breeds, you never would have known that Murky realized that the two were standing there.”

“Then what happened?”

“Nothing. At least nothing of importance. The pair bought some tobacco and walked out. Nichols went to the window and seemed to be watching them as they hurried away. You came in yourself a moment later.”

“Thanks, Dick, you’ve done well,” approved the corporal. “You’ve helped me to weld the first link in the chain. In time, I hope to piece together the other links that will lead me to the solution of this mystery.”

Dick’s curiosity was aroused, but hesitated about asking any questions. To what mystery did Rand refer? He waited patiently for the policeman’s next words:

“In fairness to you, Dick, I think it’s advisable to give you some information regarding this case. I’ve already hinted to you that Murky Nichols is under police surveillance. We’ve been watching him closely for a long time. His movements have been suspicious. Although he professes to be a prospector, he really hasn’t done a tap of work in the last four years. He always has a large amount of money and he spends it liberally.”

“Where does he get this money?” Dick inquired.

“From three or four different sources. To my certain knowledge, there are two men who pay him money regularly. One is Fred Hart and the other is Tim O’Connell. Both of these men are packers in the summer and freighters in the winter. They have almost a monopoly on the transportation business in this particular section of the country. The Hudson’s Bay, in addition to several of the independent fur companies and free traders, give practically all of their business to these men. Last year Factor MacClaren’s business alone amounted to nearly five thousand dollars. Hart and O’Connell get the preference over the other packers and freighters because they are more efficient, careful and responsible.”

“Why,” said Dick, as the thought suddenly occurred to him, “perhaps Nichols is a silent-partner in their enterprise.”

Rand smiled at the other’s quick perception, but he slowly shook his head.

“That’s the conclusion we came to ourselves. Investigation, carried out secretly, proves that he isn’t. No—the thing goes deeper than that. Nichols is engaged in some secret and probably illegal enterprise. Little by little we’ve been picking up new clues—making new discoveries. We’ve found nothing incriminating yet, but I don’t believe it will be very long before we will.”

“What about the money that exchanged hands today? What business dealing do you suppose Nichols could have with those two hard-looking customers?”

“Both of them are thieves, but we haven’t yet been able to prove anything against them. For several weeks past we’ve suspected that either they’re in Murky’s employ or that the breeds come to him to sell stolen goods. The fact that Nichols paid them money today is a pretty strong indication that one or other of these suppositions is correct.”

Corporal Rand paused to fill his pipe.

“Nichols is shrewd and clever,” he went on. “He’s amiable and well-liked. He has many friends in every part of the country. Notwithstanding, there’s a deep, treacherous side to his nature, a diabolical cleverness that can find its outlet only through criminal channels. Your friend, Sergeant Richardson, believes firmly he’s a master crook, a sort of genius at crime, and that he contrives to distract attention from himself by assuming this role of genial, lazy, ignorant prospector.”

Dick laughed outright.

“Sergeant Richardson has a vivid imagination,” he declared, “but very often in cases of this kind his deductions prove correct.”

“True enough!” Constable Rand puffed reflectively. “He’s worked out a very unusual theory in regard to Nichols. It was shortly after the finding of old Daddy McInnes’ body that he told me about it. The whole thing is so extraordinary, so wild, and yet so convincing that we’ve decided to look into it. It’s this theory that we’re working on now.”

“Won’t you tell me about it?” pleaded Dick.

“Certainly. There’s no harm done, that I can see. Besides the sergeant informed me that I could trust you implicitly. He even hinted that you contemplated joining the force. What about that?”

“It’s true,” Dick was forced to admit, his face red with embarrassment. “I’ve made application to the commissioner at Ottawa, but I’m not sure that anything will ever come of it.”

“I’m not so certain,” Rand shook his head. “We need more men, especially here in the North. You’d have to spend a period of training at Regina though.

“But to go on with Richardson’s theory,” resumed the corporal. “Incredible as it may at first appear, it’s logical enough. I’ll give you its substance briefly: Nichols is the leader of a small band of crooks. Hart and O’Connell are his accomplices, or, what I should say his accessories—they’re both honest. Nichols never actually commits any crime himself. He purchases fur, which he knows is stolen and disposes of it.”

“Through Hart and O’Connell, I suppose,” Dick put in. “They take it to civilization and sell it.”

“No. You’re a thousand miles from the mark. Hart and O’Connell play a less important part in this scheme. Murky is more clever than that. He disposes of his own stuff in a more original and unheard-of way. Hart and O’Connell merely supply him with means of transportation—pack horses in summer and dog teams in winter.”

Corporal Rand paused again and rose to his feet. He tiptoed softly to the door, opened it and looked out.

“I thought there might be someone in the hallway,” he apologised. “One can’t be too careful.”

He closed the door, a slight frown on his face, and went back to the chair opposite Dick.

“I guess we won’t be bothered. Where was I—oh, yes—As I just said Hart and O’Connell supply Nichols with ponies or dog teams, depending upon the season, and Murky proceeds to transport his stolen fur to the coast.”

“To the coast!” gasped Dick. “How could he?”

“Through Blind Man’s Pass.”

Dick sat and stared incredulously at the grave, serious face of the man opposite.

“You’re fooling me, corporal.”

“Not a bit! Richardson feels that he’s absolutely sure that such is the case. I’m almost convinced myself. Every clue that we’ve been able to pick up since the Sergeant hit upon this wild theory seems to bear him out. Another thing, there’s the case of Daddy McInnes. The story I told in the trading room an hour ago was an elaboration of or a tampering with the true facts.”

“I don’t think I quite understand.”

“Daddy McInnes was murdered. A blow on the back of the head.”

Dick shivered.

“Naturally, we don’t want anyone to suspect—least of all Nichols—that we know McInnes came to a violent end. That would spoil everything. We never would catch Murky if a breath of this ever leaked out. The abrasion on the back of Daddy’s head caused a little comment, but we took immediate steps to check it.”

“How?” asked Dick.

“We claimed that in his weakened and starved condition, McInnes fainted and fell, his head striking a rock. Everyone believes it now.”

“But why should Nichols—I mean, what motive would he have?”

“Daddy found the pass and came through it. If he had lived, its exact location would have become public property. In that event, Murky Nichols would have been out of a job.”

“But what about Hart and O’Connell? They must know where Blind Man’s Pass is.”

“No, I don’t think so. There is only one white man in this country who could lead us unerringly to Blind Man’s Pass—and that person is Murky Nichols!”

CHAPTER III
SERGEANT RICHARDSON’S THEORY

For the second time since coming to the room, Corporal Rand strode to the door and opened it.

“I must be nervous today,” he declared. “I pop up here every few minutes like a jack-in-the-box. Somehow, I can’t get over the feeling that there was really someone prowling about the hallway a short time ago.”

“I didn’t hear anything,” reassured Dick.

“Possibly I am mistaken. There are times when a thing like that will lay hold of you, and you don’t seem to be able to shake it off.”

“I’ve often experienced the same feeling,” confessed Dick. “It isn’t very pleasant.”

Closing the door, the mounted policeman helped himself to a glass of water from a pitcher that stood on the table.

“I’ve given you a brief outline of Richardson’s theory,” he stated, “but I’m afraid I haven’t made everything quite clear. Are there any questions you’d like to ask?”

“Yes—about Hart and O’Connell,” Dick responded quickly. “According to what you have said, these men have given Nichols money. After listening to your story, that part of it doesn’t seem reasonable. If Murky uses their outfits to transport stolen goods to the coast through Blind Man’s Pass, I should think he’d be under obligation to them, that he’d pay them money instead of their paying him.”

“So it would seem,” Corporal Rand smiled approvingly. “That was my contention. I claimed it was the one weak spot in Richardson’s theory—but, of course, the explanation is simple enough.

“Hart and O’Connell’s are freighters. They go everywhere. They have almost a monopoly on the transportation business. They have the government mail contract from here to Edmonton. Occasionally, perhaps not more than once or twice a year, they have business that takes them to the west coast—across Dominion Range. As you know this is a long and roundabout trip, requiring weeks, sometimes months for its completion. Consequently the transportation rates to the west coast are high. No one realizes this condition of affairs any better than Nichols. He takes advantage of it for his own gain. He draws up an agreement with the two packers to handle all the west-coast business himself, charging a very nominal rate for this service, and killing two birds with one stone. You can see how diabolical, how very clever the arrangement is. The freight that goes through Blind Man’s Pass is a mixed shipment. Part of it is stolen fur, the other part is merchandise which the original shipper has entrusted to the care of Hart or O’Connell.

“The scheme works beautifully,” smiled Rand. “Both parties to the transaction reap a lovely profit. Hart or O’Connell charge the shipper the same price that he would have to pay if his merchandise went all the way round to the west coast through the Yellowhead Pass. Murky can smile up his sleeve too, because all expense of taking out his contraband falls upon the willing shoulders of the two packers.”

“I never heard of anything so clever,” declared Dick. “Of course, Hart and O’Connell are aware of the existence of Blind Man’s Pass. You don’t suppose they know where it is themselves?”

“No, that’s Murky’s own secret. Otherwise the packers would never have entered into such an agreement.”

“I can see it all very clearly now,” said Dick, “and I’m anxious to know in what way I can be of help.”

Corporal Rand hesitated for a moment before making a reply. He sat in the chair opposite and regarded Dick with appraising eyes.

“We haven’t definitely decided just what we are going to do ourselves, but we intend to use you in some capacity. I’m waiting now to hear from Sergeant Richardson. However, unless something unforseen occurs, I imagine our program will be something like this: Malemute Slade will continue in his search for the pass; Constable Pearly—a new man just recently transferred here from the Peace River Detachment—will be detailed to keep close tab on Hart and O’Connell, while Sergeant Richardson and myself will study every movement of the two half-breeds and Murky.

“It may take weeks, possibly months, before we’ll be able to accomplish much. We are compelled to move very, very cautiously. If Nichols discovers our interest in his affairs, we’ll lose our only chance of getting him. He’s as slippery as an eel, and as crafty as a fox. I don’t believe there is another person in the North with a wider acquaintance, or a more thorough knowledge of conditions.”

“But wouldn’t Hart and O’Connell squeal if Murky should refuse to take any more of their shipments through Blind Man’s Pass?”

“In the first place they won’t dare to, because the shippers will hear of it and refuse to give the packers another dollar’s worth of business. Remember Hart and O’Connell have been reaping a golden harvest at the shippers’ expense. In the second place, even if they do squeal, we’ll have no direct evidence against Nichols.”

“How then do you propose to catch Murky?”

“There are several ways: One would be to find the pass ourselves and then wait for Murky to come through; another would be to follow a west-coast shipment from the time it leaves the hands of Hart and O’Connell; still another, to locate Murky’s cache of stolen fur, and awaiting the next shipment through Blind Man’s Pass.”

“You really think Murky has such a cache?”

“If our theory is correct, he must have. In all likelihood, he has two of them.”

“Two of them!” gasped Dick. “What makes you think that?”

“It stands to reason that he has. In fact, it’s quite obvious. The stolen fur must be stored somewhere before it is shipped. When it reaches the coast, it must be stored again.”

“Why not sold?”

“There’s only one place to sell it—at the Hudson’s Bay Company’s post at Fort Pennington—and Murky isn’t foolish enough to take that risk.”

“You mean,” asked Dick in amazement, “that he’d continue to—that he’s been hiding it out there on the coast year after year, making no attempt to sell it?”

“Yes and no! We believe he hides it out there all right. But we’re pretty sure that he sells some of it occasionally. We do know that two years ago last summer he went to Seattle. He was away about six months. When he returned he was rolling in money and told a very interesting story about a legacy he had received from a brother, recently deceased. We believed the yarn then—but we don’t now! In fact,” Rand spoke sarcastically, “we’re somewhat inclined to the opinion that while he was there he met one or two unscrupulous gentlemen who offered to accompany him up the coast for the fun and profit to be derived.”

“I shouldn’t wonder,” laughed Dick.

“He probably hasn’t sold any of the fur since then. I think that when you go out there, you’ll find that Richardson’s theory is correct. There’ll be a big cache—”

“When I go out there?” interrupted Dick, staring in astonishment at the policeman.

“Yes—you, Sandy and Toma. Surely, you’d be willing to do that much for us, Dick. Sergeant Richardson said that you’d jump at the chance.”

“But—but—”

“We’re so sure that you’ll find the cache, that we’re willing to pay all the expenses of the trip—and a liberal reward in the bargain. What do you say?”

“Say!” choked Dick. “I can’t say enough. What I want to know is—do you really mean it?”

“I was never more serious in my life.”

Dick rose to his feet and paced agitatedly back and forth. His heart had jumped a few wild beats before he could compose himself sufficiently to make another effort to speak.

“When do you want us to start?” he asked.

“As soon as it can possibly be arranged. Toma knows the route to the Yellowhead Pass; but after that you’ll have to chart your own course. We can depend on you then?”

“So far as I’m concerned—yes. I won’t presume to speak for Sandy and Toma, yet I’m pretty sure they’ll go.”

A few minutes later, Corporal Rand and Dick returned to the trading room, which was crowded. Stalwart, dusky half-breed trappers, eager to purchase supplies for impending excursions to favorite trapping grounds, pushed and elbowed their way through the throng awaiting their opportunity to confer with Factor MacClaren. Indian women, resplendent in bright shawls, bright-faced children from the Catholic Mission, here and there the dark, expressionless face and sinewy form of Cree hunters and rivermen from the south—all of this queer blend of humanity jostled forth and back, chattering excitedly.

At one side of the room, surrounded by an admiring group, a tall, lanky half-breed youth was playing a violin. Glancing that way, Dick’s eyes lighted up as he perceived the familiar figures of his two friends, Sandy MacClaren, the factor’s nephew, and John Toma, the young Indian guide.

Toma, Sandy and Dick, following several years of interesting adventures in the North, had become greatly attached to each other. They were three inseparables, who had learned to take the trials and hardships of wilderness life as a matter of common experience. In spite of many hard knocks, they were still as eager to embark upon new adventures as in the days when Dick and Sandy were newcomers to that remote and inhospitable land.

Dick lost no time in rejoining his two chums. With a friendly nod to Corporal Rand, he darted through the crowd and administered a resounding whack on the backs of Sandy and Toma.

“Well, you’ve returned at last,” he greeted them joyfully. “Did you have any luck?”

Sandy turned eagerly.

“You bet! We shot two moose,” and the young Scotchman immediately commenced a somewhat rambling and disconnected account of their experiences.

At its conclusion, Dick feigned scepticism, winked broadly at Toma.

“Pah! The whole thing sounds fishy to me. I don’t believe you shot anything. If you actually killed a moose it was because the poor thing fell down and broke a leg. At two hundred yards a blind man with a bow and arrow could out-shoot you.”

“All right, wait and see. An Indian packer is bringing over our two moose tomorrow.”

“How much did you pay him for them?”

In attempting to evade Sandy’s friendly upper-cut, Dick stepped back just in time to be knocked flat by a person hurrying across the room. From his position on the floor, he looked up to see the man spring to the door, open it, and dart outside.

It was the half-breed, who had received the roll of money from Murky Nichols!

CHAPTER IV
TWO ENCOUNTERS IN ONE DAY

An excited shout from Sandy drew Dick’s attention as he clambered to his feet. At the opposite end of the trading room a gesticulating, wildly vociferous crowd had gathered about the drooping figure of Murky Nichols. The face of the prospector was deathly pale, as he stood, one hand clutching the counter, the other gripping firmly a long-bladed hunting knife, which he held up for the inspection of the crowd.

The scarlet-coated form of Corporal Rand advanced through the milling throng and a moment later, just as the three boys came hurrying up, the policeman helped Nichols to a chair.

“What happened, Murky?” he demanded.

“Some breed tried to knife me,” choked the frightened man, holding on to the chair for support.

“Who was it?”

“I don’t know,” wheezed Murky. “Never seen him before. He came up while I was a standin’ over there an’ first thing I knowed he made a slash at me.”

Nichols trembled as he spoke, drawing attention to the wide slit in his mackinaw shirt just below his left arm-pit.

“This is where the knife caught me when I jumped back. Good thing I did or he’d o’ got me sure.”

“Did he hurt you at all?” inquired Rand.

“Nothing but a scratch.”

“You were lucky. You say you didn’t know the breed?”

A slight hesitation on the part of the prospector was noted probably by only two persons in the room—Dick and Corporal Rand.

“First time I ever set eyes on him, corporal.”

“Did he speak to you or did you speak to him before he drew the knife?”

“No,” Murky stated emphatically.

“Very queer the man should attack you without provocation,” mused Rand. “You’re absolutely sure you never saw him before?”

A slow flush mounted to Nichols’ weather-tanned brow and for a split-second his eyes evaded the questioner.

“Hang it, corporal,” he spoke testily, “ain’t I been tellin’ yuh. Don’t even know what he looks like—it all happened so sudden. If he should come walkin’ in here in ten minutes from now I ain’t so sure I’d recognize him. The feller must be crazy.”

“It certainly looks queer!” Rand’s cool, unwavering gaze met that of the prospector. “Usually there’s a motive for an attack of this kind. As a general thing, a man doesn’t attempt to stab another unless he has some real or fancied grievance.”

“He’s crazy, I tell yuh,” persisted Nichols.

Rand turned away.

“I’ll see what I can do. I intend to take the breed in custody. I ought to be able to run him down in a few hours. Then we can question him.”

The corporal turned without a moment’s hesitation and hurried away. He was gone almost before Dick could collect his scattered wits and remark to Sandy:

“There! I intended to tell him something, but it’s too late now.”

“You might be able to catch him at the stable,” said the quick-witted Sandy, seizing Dick’s arm. “Come on!”

The three boys pushed their way through the crowd, but a jam in front of the door delayed them. Like themselves, everyone, so it seemed, wanted to get out. They were caught in a drifting, struggling current of over-curious half-breeds, were jolted back and forth and, when they finally emerged, panting and dishevelled, to the yard outside, they perceived to their chagrin that Rand had already mounted his horse and was speeding away.

“Just my luck!” Dick sputtered. “There he goes. I might have given him information that would have saved him a lot of time.”

“What information?” demanded a person almost at his elbow.

Neither Sandy nor Toma had spoken. Dick wheeled quickly and looked up into a pair of steel-gray eyes, at a coarse, brutal face. The man’s rough garb was that of a prospector or trapper. None of the boys had ever seen him before.

“What information?” he repeated insolently.

Dick met the other’s appraising gaze without flinching.

“I wasn’t speaking to you, sir.”

“That’s all right, I’m speaking to yuh. I asked yuh what I consider is a decent, friendly question. Yuh don’t need to try any o’ your high an’ haughty manner with me.”

Dick completely ignored the insult, despite the fact that it was difficult to suppress the surge of anger that rose within him. He was fighting mad and his fists clenched involuntarily, yet he turned to Sandy and contrived, though the effort was difficult, to speak calmly:

“Let’s walk down along the river.”

Sandy’s face fell as he swung into step beside his friend, his right arm linked into Toma’s. As they struck off to the left, they were followed by the baleful, mocking glare of Dick’s newly discovered enemy.

Out of ear-shot, Sandy broke forth:

“Dick, I’m almost ashamed of you. Why did you do it?”

“Do what?”

“Walk away like that. It looks cowardly. I never saw you do a thing like that before.”

“I don’t know why I did it,” Dick confessed, “except that I had a hunch that if I let him pick a fight with me, I’d—I’d—well, I can’t explain it. Something seemed to warn me to keep away from him.”

“You mean, you were afraid of him.”

“No, not that!” Dick retorted hotly. “I’d like to go back even now and ‘mix-it’ with him.”

“Why don’t you?”

“I’ve tried to explain to you, Sandy. I have a feeling that it woul‘d be foolhardy. Something more than a mere quarrel or a fight is involved. That man, whoever he is, had some secret purpose in view when he accosted me just now. I don’t know what that purpose is, but I do know I’m not going to take any chances.”

For a few moments they walked on in silence.

“I can forget about it if you can,” remarked Sandy a little dryly.

Dick laughed good-naturedly.

“I don’t think I’ll have any trouble doing that,” he responded quickly. “There’s too much else to think about. And that reminds me that I have some big news for you and Toma. How would you like to take a trip out to the coast this winter?”

Sandy stopped short in his tracks.

“To the coast!” he exclaimed. “What do you mean?”

“Exactly that. Corporal Rand told me about it today. He brought a letter from our old friend, Sergeant Richardson.”

Without further preliminary, Dick launched into the story. Toma and Sandy listened with bated breath while Dick gave them the particulars of the theory which had been advanced by the mounted police respecting the alleged operations of Murky Nichols. Blind Man’s Pass, the murder of Daddy McInnes, the double cache of stolen fur and finally the proposed expedition to the west coast to be undertaken by the boys themselves—all became subjects of absorbing interest and speculation.

“As I understand it,” Sandy broke forth enthusiastically, “Sergeant Richardson is sending us out to the coast because he believes we can find the cache.”

“Yes,” answered Dick. “It’s an important undertaking, and we ought to be proud that the police have faith in our ability. Of course, we would never have been given the chance if Inspector Cameron wasn’t so short of men.”

“We make ’em mounted police glad they give us chance to go,” cut in Toma. “If cache anywhere along coast, we find it.”

“We certainly will,” said Sandy.

Walking leisurely along the banks of the river, the boys made their plans. So interested had they become, so absorbed in the contemplation of the proposed journey, that they found themselves presently out of sight of the trading post. They were crossing a narrow gulch, when Dick stopped short, glancing about him.

“No use going any farther,” he declared laughingly. “Let’s return to the post.”

Sandy took note of their surroundings and he too broke forth into an amused chuckle.

“Can you beat that!” he exclaimed. “We’ve been sauntering along not paying the least bit of attention. I had no idea we’d gone so far. We’re five miles from Fort Good Faith. A hundred yards on the other side of this gulch is where Run River trail crosses the river.”

As Sandy spoke, he turned back and led the way to the top of the gulch. Spruce and poplar grew thickly along the trail ahead. A light snow of a few days before, sifting down through the trees, had only partially covered the heavy carpet of dry leaves and grass.

“It will be several weeks yet before winter sets in in earnest,” observed Dick. “I hope the mounted police give us instructions to leave for the west coast before it does come. If we travel light, we’ll reach the Yellowhead Pass long before the extremely cold weather arrives.”

“Not snow enough,” Toma shook his head disapprovingly. “No use start out until catch ’em plenty snow for dog team. Mebbe no get snow for five, six days yet.”

“Nonsense!” Sandy looked up at the overcast sky with a critical but approving gaze. “It’s cloudy right now. I wouldn’t be surprised if it started to snow this afternoon.”

“Too warm,” Toma objected. “Wind blow southwest. Tomorrow chinook make like summer. Mebbe it rain, but no snow.”

“You might as well keep quiet, Sandy,” grinned Dick. “Toma is a better weather prophet than you are. He’s seldom wrong.”

“Just the same, I think there’s a storm brewing,” stubbornly persisted the young Scotchman. “This is the second week in October. Last year at this time there was seven inches of snow on the ground and the weather was ten below zero.”

“Don’t worry about it. I look at it this way: if the police are ready, we’ll be ready too. Let the chinook come. We’ll start out on foot and buy our grub-stake and dog team at Fort Wonderly, one hundred miles south of here.”

“Good idea! You’re talking sense now, Dick. Well—for the love of Pete!”

Sandy’s abrupt exclamation was caused by the sudden appearance on the trail ahead of four men. One of them they recognized instantly. It was the person who had attempted to pick a quarrel with Dick. Startled for a moment, the boys drew back to the side of the trail.

“Don’t say a word,” cautioned Dick in a low voice. “If they attempt to start trouble, try to keep away from them. We’re no match for them. Besides, they’re armed and we aren’t.”

Pretending a nonchalance they did not feel, the three boys strode forward again until they came abreast of the oncoming and ominous quartette. In the lead, Dick edged over to the side of the trail, hoping that no attempt would be made to prevent their passing. He was now within three feet of the nearest of the party, and had almost begun to believe that nothing would happen, when the four men spread out quickly, completely barring their progress. Dick looked across at two gray eyes that glinted evilly.

“Guess yuh better stop a while, sonny,” sneered the voice of the white man. “Feel like answerin’ that question now?”

“I haven’t any question to answer,” retorted Dick, looking straight at his tormentor, and then at the three half-breeds, a villainous-appearing trio, who stood ready and eager to leap forward at the first word of command.

The white man stepped forward and confronted Dick, one arm raised threateningly.

“Yuh better do some quick thinkin’ afore I whale the tar outta yuh. Are yuh gonna answer that question or not?”

In the short interval in which he stood there undecided, a daring plan leaped into Dick’s mind. He would feign submission. He would agree to answer the question. Then when the time came—

“All—all right,” stammered Dick, simulating terror. “Wh-what do you want?”

“Yuh know blamed well what I want. Back there at the post ’bout an hour er two ago, you wuz figgerin’ on givin’ that danged mountie a whole earful o’ information. I heerd yuh tellin’ these young friends o’ yourn. Out with it!”

The arm was raised again and Dick shrank back, his eyes blinking.

“Don’t strike me and I’ll tell you,” he trembled. “I’ll tell everything. I promise I will.”

Dick’s antagonist chuckled in triumph. It tickled his vanity to perceive how easily he was winning his case. He had his victim almost frightened out of his wits. This young stripling who stood before him hadn’t the backbone of an eel. His arm dropped and he slouched forward, completely off guard, and leered into Dick’s face.

It was the opportunity that Dick had been looking for. Crack! The blow was a smashing one and wholly unexpected. The white man’s feet skidded out from under him; his heavy frame struck the ground with a resounding impact. Before the half-breeds had time to recover from their astonishment, three fleeting forms shot through the opening and took the turn in the trail, running at top speed.

A few moments later a bullet whizzed harmlessly over their heads. The boys redoubled their efforts. A second turn in the trail revealed a straggling party of Indians returning from the post. At sight of them, Sandy let out a whoop of joy. Help was at hand. The danger was over. Panting like three small locomotives, they sat down on a log and waved a cheerful greeting as the Indians passed by.

When the last straggler had disappeared from view, Sandy turned and smiled at his chum. There was approval and admiration in his eyes.

“Step over here and let me shake your hand. Wow! I’ll bet that fellow is still wondering if it was really a tree that struck him. I’ll give you all the credit this time, Dick. There’s no denying the fact: You certainly answered his question!”

CHAPTER V
A MIDNIGHT CONFERENCE

Corporal Rand returned with his half-breed prisoner shortly after dark. The man was sulky and refused to talk. Brought before Murky Nichols by the mounted policeman, one might have thought from his actions and demeanor that he had never before set eyes upon the prospector. He stood absolutely unmoved in the presence of the person he had attempted to murder only a few hours before. Rand’s voice rang out sharply:

“Here is the prisoner. Is he the man who attempted to stab you?”

In order to cover his confusion, Nichols rubbed his eyes with one large hairy hand. His face was slightly pale and he rested his weight first on one leg and then on the other.

“Well, corporal, I can’t exactly say,” he spoke hesitatingly. “He might be the one an’ again he mightn’t. He does look sort o’ familiar, but I see so many Nitchies ’round here. I couldn’t exactly swear to it.”

Corporal Rand smiled a little grimly.

“There were quite a number of people present in this room when the attempt upon your life was made. It shouldn’t be very difficult to find out whether or not this man is the right one.”

Nichols started forward with an exclamation of surprise. He was staring at the prisoner now with an intentness that seemed scarcely to be assumed. Excitedly, he turned towards Rand.

“By golly, I know now, corporal, where I seen him before,” he declared in a loud and animated voice. “Up at the first portage on the Moose River. He was workin’ there as a packer last summer when I come through. I don’t think he’s the man we’re looking fer atall.”

The mounted policeman turned his head ever so slightly and winked covertly at Dick, who, in company with Sandy and Toma, stood a few feet away, silent spectator in the interesting tableau.

“You really don’t think he’s the man, then?”

“No, he ain’t,” Murky spoke positively. “When I stop to think about that little affair this afternoon, an’ try to get a picture in my mind o’ the pesky breed what made fer to knife me, there’s one thing that stands out. He was a tall man—not short like this breed. I’m tall myself, an’ I remember when I jumped back to clear myself o’ the knife, I looked straight acrost in his eyes. Now, it stands to reason, corporal, that I couldn’t o’ done that if it had o’ been this feller here. I’d o’ looked straight over this man’s head, now wouldn’t I?”

With difficulty, Dick suppressed a laugh. Murky Nichols was noted for his tall stature. Long and lanky, he stood well over six feet and four inches in height. The half-breed was stockily built and inclined to be short. The top of his head reached no higher than the point of Murky’s protruding chin.

“Now that your memory has revived,” Corporal Rand spoke sarcastically, “we may be able to make better progress.”

Dick strode forward with the intention of drawing the mounted policeman’s attention to one detail of the case that had evidently been overlooked. If the half-breed, who confronted Nichols, was not the person who had attempted to stab him, how would it be possible to explain that person’s hasty exit from the trading room immediately following the attack? Also, as Dick was well aware, the prisoner was the same man who had received the roll of bills from Murky earlier in the day.

Dick paused in amazement. Before he could reach the policeman’s side, he saw Rand stoop forward and commence to unlock the prisoner’s hand-cuffs. Then, wonderingly, he watched the corporal move back and permit the astonished half-breed to go free. His voice broke the startled silence of the room: