The crossing was made without mishap. (Page 131)

Dick Kent
In the Far North

By MILTON RICHARDS

AUTHOR OF
“Dick Kent with the Mounted Police”
“Dick Kent with the Eskimos”
“Dick Kent, Fur Trader”
“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 [The Map in the Cave] 3 II [A Messenger from Headquarters] 15 III [Scarlet and Gold] 24 IV [Dick Makes a Suggestion] 33 V [Dick is Indiscreet] 40 VI [In the House of the Messenger] 50 VII [Flight Through the Woods] 58 VIII [Tracks in the Snow] 67 IX [The Council of War] 79 X [Sandy Plays a Lone Hand] 90 XI [Off for the Mine] 98 XII [A Mysterious Ten Dollar Bill] 110 XIII [The Raiding Party] 119 XIV [A Fateful Crossing] 128 XV [Within the Barricade] 139 XVI [A Path Through the Rocks] 148 XVII [Sandy Explores the Mine] 159 XVIII [In the Toils of Henderson] 167 XIX [Hours of Torture] 175 XX [Henderson’s Plans Miscarry] 183 XXI [The Red Fury] 190 XXII [In the Indian Village] 201 XXIII [Guests of the Chief] 209 XXIV [The Caribou Herd] 221 XXV [Reunion] 233 XXVI [Debts of Gratitude] 243

DICK KENT IN THE FAR NORTH

CHAPTER I
THE MAP IN THE CAVE

Three persons plodded along the snow-piled floor of a tiny canyon in the heart of the northern Canadian wilderness. The broad snow-shoes on their feet made their progress like that of so many huge crabs on a sea shore. In the fore was a tall, well-knit young man, whose weather-tanned face was that of Dick Kent, who for more than a year had sought and found adventure in the vast land where the sole guardians of the peace are the Royal North West Mounted Police.

“It can’t be very far from here,” he turned and spoke, his breath puffing out in white vapor.

Sandy MacClaren strained his eyes ahead. His stocky frame, no less hardened than that of his older chum, Dick Kent, seemed to bend forward with a little more eagerness as he replied:

“I hope we don’t pass it by.”

The man in the rear laughed. He was Sandy’s uncle, Walter MacClaren, an old Scotchman, and factor at Fort Good Faith for the Hudson’s Bay Company.

“I hardly think I could miss the cave,” he spoke. “I spent too many unpleasant hours in there without anything to eat.”

Dick Kent was about to respond to this, when he caught sight of what they were seeking, the mouth of a large cave in the wall of the canyon.

“There it is!” he cried, quickening his pace.

“Now for the map!” exulted Sandy.

All three removed their snowshoes at the mouth of the under-ground passage, which seemed to have been formed by the erosion of water in ages gone by, and, in moccasined feet, went along the dark corridor, lighting candles which they had brought with them from Fort Good Faith, not far south.

“Remember it’s the left branch when we get to the fork,” Sandy called to his chum.

“Yes, I guess I won’t forget that.”

Dick recalled a particularly exciting incident in that same cave, which would indelibly impress upon his memory the correct passage to the underground chamber, which was their destination.

The three hurried on down the main passage until ahead, in the dim glow of the candles, they could see where the main cavern branched. Almost there, Dick in the lead, paused.

“Wait,” he whispered.

Sandy and his uncle drew back.

“I thought I heard a sound in the passage to the right,” Dick said in a low voice.

They listened for a few seconds, but heard nothing.

“Probably some animal who has come in here out of the cold,” Sandy’s uncle observed.

“It sounded like footsteps,” Dick replied dubiously. “And you know we’ve plenty of reason to believe we’re not the only ones after what’s in this cave.”

Sandy agreed, but was anxious to go on, and since whatever sound had been detected by Dick’s sharp ears was not repeated, they continued down the passage to the left.

For several minutes they wound downward before they reached the widening of the passage and abruptly entered an underground chamber which seemed to have been fashioned by the tools of man.

“At last,” whispered Dick.

There was no sign of life evident, except those a week or so old, as they hurried to a particular portion of the rock wall and bent over it with their candles. What the light revealed was a confusing tracing of charcoal lines and crosses. It was the map of the location of the lost gold mine, and had been the purpose of their visit.

“I’ll copy it on this sheet of paper I’ve brought, so it will be clear to you boys,” Sandy’s uncle spoke, his voice sounding hollow in the silent, damp place.

He had just placed the paper on a smooth portion of the rock and touched the pencil to it, when a sound brought them to their feet. Somewhere along the passage they had come a stone had fallen. Someone was following them!

For the benefit of those readers who did not follow the adventures of Dick Kent and his chum, Sandy MacClaren, in the first volume of this series, a few explanations may clear up many obscure points. Several months before, they had with the aid of the mounted police, rescued Walter MacClaren from the control of Bear Henderson, an unprincipled enemy of the Hudson’s Bay Company, who had tried and failed to gain control of all the far north trading posts. In the incidents leading to the rescue they had met a particularly mysterious enemy, whom they called the Scar-Faced Indian.

At Fort Good Faith—when as a reward for their help during the Henderson trouble, Sandy’s uncle had consented to let them hunt for the lost mine—the scar-faced Indian had been detected eavesdropping at the door by Toma, a young Indian guide, who had accompanied the boys on many of their adventures. Toma had sworn vengeance against Scar-Face, since he believed his brother, Big John Toma, had been killed by the Indian. But, with his usual elusiveness, Scar-Face had escaped Toma, and the boys were left to wonder just what steps the Indian would take to thwart them in their attempt to find the mine.

The sound that had startled the three in the cavern chamber immediately brought before the minds of Dick and Sandy a vision of the evil face of the Indian.

“Shall we go back and chase whoever it is out of the cave?” Sandy queried tensely.

“I wouldn’t do anything like that,” Dick shook his head. “If it’s the scar-faced Indian he’ll have a trap set for us. We’ll just watch the entrance while your uncle copies the map. When that’s done, all three of us will be ready for trouble.”

Factor MacClaren considered Dick’s plan wise and went ahead with his work, while Dick and Sandy turned their attention to the entrance of the chamber.

Fearfully they waited, wondering just what might appear. It was very nearly an hour before Walter MacClaren finished copying the map, yet no one had come. Out of the corner of their eyes, Dick and Sandy watched the factor erase the charcoal tracings on the rock and turn to them.

Map Drawn by Factor MacClaren

“We’re ready to go back to the fort now,” he said.

“If we ever get back,” Sandy rejoined.

“Oh, I don’t think there’s much danger with the three of us,” Dick encouraged.

“Yes, but that scar-faced Indian is apt to have some one with him, and if they jump down on our heads from one of the ledges in this cave, we’ll have small chance of getting away.”

“Well, we’ve got to hope for the best and be prepared to fight with all there is in us,” Dick responded grimly, gripping his rifle, a 45.70 Winchester, and starting into the cavern.

Tensely Sandy followed, the factor taking up the rear with the precious map stuffed under his heavy bearskin overcoat.

Slowly they progressed back along the dark passage, scanning the shadows ahead and overhead for a sign of whatever had made the noise. A hundred feet from the chamber, a pair of eyes glowed out of the darkness. Dick raised his rifle, aiming at the gleaming points ahead. His sights came into line squarely and he fired.

The crack of his rifle was almost deafening.

“I got him!” shouted Dick, hurrying forward. “A bear!”

Sandy and his uncle had joined Dick over his kill. The large black body quivered under the candle light.

“I hated to do it,” Dick was sorry. “Poor old fellow!”

“He was probably wintering here somewhere,” Sandy’s uncle put in. “I wonder if he made that rock fall which we heard.”

“Probably did,” said Sandy.

“Well, I hope so,” the factor declared earnestly. “My old bones won’t stand much excitement. I’m not the tough customer I used to be when I was your age.”

All three went on, a little more confident that no danger lay ahead. Dick alone, had his suspicions of what lay before them, and he was about to advise the factor to walk between him and Sandy, when of a sudden, there sounded the fall of a body directly behind them. There came a grunting shout and Sandy’s candle was knocked from his hand, and the cavern plunged in darkness.

“Hey!” Dick whirled, his gun clubbed. The sound of scuffling was heard, and blindly he plunged back.

“Here he is,” Sandy’s muffled shout directed him. “He’s got Uncle Walter down, trying to take the map away from him.”

Sandy’s voice died away with a sudden umph! Dick’s rearward leap was stopped by a heavy body. The shock almost knocked the breath out of him, but he clung on to the person he had collided with, feeling that it was neither Sandy nor the factor.

“Here, here! I’ve got him!” cried Dick, panting. Then he was overpowered and thrown heavily down. The sound of retreating footsteps sounded along the cavern in the darkness. Sandy’s candle flared up under a match.

“Are you all right, Dick?” was Sandy’s question.

Dick picked himself up and replied that he was. “Quick, find out if he got the map from your uncle!”

Factor MacClaren himself replied: “Luckily he didn’t, though he thinks he did. He got an old letter out of my inside breast pocket. The map is safe. Wonder who it was?”

“It must have been the scar-faced Indian,” Dick guessed the identity of their unknown assailant. “Say, he didn’t work slow, did he?”

“I’ll say he didn’t,” rejoined Sandy, rubbing one eye, which was already commencing to blacken from a blow received at the hands of the man in the dark.

“Let’s hurry and get out of this hole and back to the fort,” said Dick hastily.

All three hurried on and reached the blinding sunlight of the canyon without further mishap. An hour later they were in the big log house of the factor, gathered around the map, listening to Walter MacClaren’s directions regarding it. Toma, the young Indian guide who was to accompany them on the trail to the lost mine, had joined them. His dark, immobile face was over the table with the rest, when a tall, long-haired man entered. They looked up.

“Hello, Malemute,” Dick greeted the newcomer. “What’s the news?”

“Reckon we’re goin’ to have company on this here trip,” said the big man. “A constable of the mounted from Fort Dunwoody has just come in with instructions to capture a party of fur thieves, hidin’ in the territory you’re goin’ into.”

“Good! We may need him badly before we get through,” Dick replied.

Malemute Slade, an official scout for the mounted police, who through the effort of the factor had been detailed to accompany the boys on their trip northward, agreed with Dick, and ushered in a scarlet-coated, brisk-looking officer, at sight of whom both Dick and Sandy emitted exclamations of delight. It was no less than Corporal Richardson, an old friend, whom they had aided when he was wounded on the trail from Fort du Lac to Fort Dunwoody.

Corporal Richardson was as pleased as they at this reunion, and, at their invitation, joined them around the big table in the post living room.

That night, after a brain-taxing afternoon, following the factor’s instruction regarding the location of the lost mine, Dick lay wide awake until very late, thinking over the happenings of the day. He had a bunk curtained from the living room, not far from the entrance to MacClaren’s private sleeping room. He realized that Sandy’s uncle had taken the map with him, and half that kept him awake was a fear that another effort might be made to steal it. Lying there, looking up into the impenetrable darkness, it seemed that a hundred suspicious sounds were audible. But at last he fell fitfully asleep.

It seemed to Dick that he had slumbered for only a moment, when suddenly he was wide awake, his skin prickling as if some unknown presence were in the room. Quietly he lay there, listening in the darkness, forcing the dullness of sleep from his senses. What had awakened him?

Then his hand crept slowly to the head of his bunk where a rifle leaned. Some one was fumbling at Factor MacClaren’s door. As he strained his eyes in the dark, he could distinguish a shadowy figure crouching there.

CHAPTER II
A MESSENGER FROM HEADQUARTERS

In the breathless interval that followed, Dick Kent was unable to decide upon a definite course of action. The figure of the man still crouched before Factor MacClaren’s door but Dick, rifle in hand, felt that under no circumstances could he bring himself to fire point-blank at the shadowy form, even if the entire success of their expedition depended upon it. He could hear the slight rattle of the door, and the faint shuffle of the intruder’s moccasined feet. Momentarily, he awaited the crash that would follow the man’s efforts to break in.

The rifle lay like a dead weight in Dick’s hands. The suspense and excitement of the moment seemed unendurable. His limbs had commenced under the strain to shake and quiver, as if afflicted by some deadly malady. If he fired, he would kill the man, and if he cried out, as he very much wanted to do, the man would probably kill him. It was the sort of predicament with which Dick had no desire to cope, and yet here he was, in spite of himself, at the very beginning of their adventures, placed in a position that might have daunted a much older person.

While he still hesitated, there fell suddenly across the deep quiet of the room the smashing sound of the door breaking in, and through the dark shadows Dick perceived, as he sat there, wide-eyed with apprehension, the intruder thrown into Factor MacClaren’s room with a force that carried him half way to the sleeping man’s bed. He knew immediately what had happened. Shoulders hunched, the man had employed what, in school circles, would have been called football tactics. From a position about ten feet from the door, he had charged forward, breaking through the heavy obstruction and gaining access to the room.

He had picked himself up from the floor, as Dick sprang to the assistance of the factor, shouting as he went. By the time Dick had entered the chamber itself, a furious struggle was in progress—a wild tossing and tumbling about of two scarcely distinguishable forms. A chair crashed to the floor. Some heavy object whirled past Dick’s head, striking the wall with a thudding impact, before it dropped clattering almost at his heels. No sooner had he started forward to give his assistance to Factor MacClaren in the unequal struggle, when he was thrown back again violently, as the two men, locked in each other’s arms, swayed into him. Dick sat down with a thump, the corner of the heavy table cutting the back of his head.

The fall had dazed him and his recovery was slow. From this point on Dick was unaware of the events that followed in rapid succession. His first really clear impression was that of a blinding glare of light in his eyes, and the voice of Malemute Slade raised in alarm.

“This boy’s hurt a’right. Bad cut on the back of his head. Move back, corporal, while I lift him up.”

The mounted police scout stooped forward and Dick felt himself being raised bodily, swung up in the powerful arms of his friend. Then Richardson spoke:

“I’ll attend to MacClaren’s bruises while you put this lad to bed. We’re lucky in one way that no one was seriously hurt. Mighty lucky!”

“Except for that map, I’d call this night’s business more than lucky,” affirmed Malemute Slade. “But it’s too blamed bad he got that. MacClaren’ll feel worse about the loss of the map than the trummeling he got. Still as you say, corporal, we’re all of us mighty fortunate that nothin’ worse happened. Ol’ Scar-Face ain’t usually so keerful ’bout things.”

The scout continued talking to himself as he carried his bewildered burden into the adjoining room.

“So the map’s gone,” Dick quavered a moment later. “Are you sure, Slade?”

“You sit here an’ keep your trap shut,” Slade ordered, not as gruffly as his manner indicated. “You’re hurt, boy, an I’m goin’ to fix you up. I’ll fetch some bandages right quick.”

“But the map——” Dick sat straight up, not in the least heeding Slade’s command. “Did he really get it? I tell you, I must know.”

“He sure did. Broke the window an’ made good his escape. I don’t want to discourage nobody, but you an’ Sandy had better say good-bye to your chances of ever finding that mine. Jes’ forget it.” An interval of silence ensued. The mounted police scout stroked Dick’s hand.

“Plucky little savage—you!” he grinned. “But you better forget it. Sandy an’ you can have lots of fun anyway. Couldn’t keep you out of mischief very long, I guess. Not you two, I reckon!”

“I don’t care so much about losing the map or our chance of finding the mine,” declared Dick manfully, smothering what sounded very much like a sob, “but I hate to give up before we’re really licked—especially by that—that——” He paused, searching for the word that would most aptly describe the person he had in mind, “by that tripe,” he concluded.

“Yeah, it does seem bad,” Slade reflected. “’Course, we’ll try to get the map back again. I didn’t mean to sit with our arms folded, or anything like that. Scar-Face ain’t through with us yet, an’ the mounted police’ll have a nice string of crimes chalked up to his credit when we do get him. But this here map is a different matter, if you can follow me, son. They’ll be sure to hide or destroy it when they are in danger of being captured. It stands to reason that if they can’t have the pesky mine themselves, they won’t let you have it.”

“You’re right,” admitted Dick.

“’Course I am. An’ now for those bandages. No sense in sittin’ here yapping like this anyway. We can’t help ourselves by talking, can we? The thing to do is get goin’—quick!”

“You mean follow Scar-Face?”

“Yep. That’s exactly what I do mean. A light snow has fallen an’ he won’t be so hard to track. Corporal Richardson an’ I’ll be on the trail in less than an hour. How does that strike you?”

“Splendid!” exclaimed Dick, unable to conceal his enthusiasm. “Sandy and I will follow along in the morning. We’ll catch up to you, won’t we, Slade?”

The mounted police scout laughed as he strode away. When he had returned a short time later with his first-aid emergency kit tucked under one arm, a basin of water in one hand and a pair of scissors in the other, he was still grinning broadly.

For several minutes Slade was too busily occupied with his task of dressing Dick’s wound, to find time to talk. Having finished, however, he sat down on the bed beside his young charge and playfully poked that young man in the ribs.

“So you an’ Sandy are goin’ to catch up to us,” he chuckled. “Son, I like your spirit. It’s boys like you that grow up to be men like—well, say like Corporal Richardson.”

“Or Malemute Slade,” suggested Dick.

A tiny scowl flickered between Slade’s eyes.

“No—not me. I’m nobody. I ain’t ever had a chance. I can’t even read or write. A good mounted policeman has education, brains and nerve. I ain’t got nothin’ except nerve.”

“And a heart as big as a house,” added Dick. “Not to mention other things like woodcraft and knowledge of birds and animals and men. You know the location of most of the trails, lakes and portages in this country. Corporal Richardson told me that you were a crack shot. He said that you could shoot faster and hit oftener than any person he had ever known. You’re the best marksman in northwestern Canada.”

Malemute Slade flushed to the roots of his hair.

“Look here,” he began gruffly, “you keep your trap closed.”

“I know now why you laughed when I said Sandy and I would overtake you and Corporal Richardson on the trail,” grinned Dick. “What I meant, of course, was that we’d follow along and join you later.”

“You’ll stay right here until we get back,” ordered Slade. “That’s final. There’s goin’ to be some trouble up the line. We’re risking our own lives—not yours.”

“He’s right, Dick,” broke in the heavy, though not unmusical voice of Corporal Richardson. “Neither you nor Sandy can come along this time. You must wait here until we return.”

Dick choked back his disappointment, looking up at the stalwart figure of Corporal Richardson through a blur of tears. He turned his head and stared miserably across at the room which had almost been wrecked in the recent encounter between Factor MacClaren and the scar-faced Indian. A whirl of conflicting thoughts flashed through his mind.

“All right,” he said dully, “but——”

He was interrupted by the appearance of an Indian servant, upon the heels of whom came a tall young man with flashing eyes, clad in a heavy fur coat and parka. For a brief moment the young man stood, surveying the three occupants of the room. Then, without further preliminary, he advanced shyly toward Corporal Richardson, fumbling in the pocket of his coat.

“For ze mounted police,” he said, presenting Richardson with a long official-looking envelope. “Inspector Cameron he tell me take eet to you. To be queek. To be very careful. I have been on the trail eight, ten hours, monsieur.”

“Thank you,” said Corporal Richardson simply. He tore open the envelope, produced the letter and read its contents. Except for a slight pucker on his brow, there was no change in his expression.

“It will be necessary,” he said, turning to Slade, “to change our plans completely. I must ask you to go on alone in pursuit of the scar-faced Indian. It will be my duty to proceed elsewhere. I’m sorry, Slade.”

“Don’t you worry about that, Corporal. Orders is orders. I’ll go alone.” A moment of silence, then: “When do you think I’d better start?”

“Right away,” answered Corporal Richardson.

Dick grunted and rolled back into bed, thoroughly disgusted with the whole world in general, but particularly with a certain body of men known as the Royal North West Mounted Police. They had commanded him to remain at the post, while glorious adventure stalked valiantly along the snow-white trail just beyond. He and Sandy were not babies to be petted and pampered in this manner. He’d show ’em. He——

With rebellion in his heart, Dick rolled over presently, thumped down his pillow, and, in a very short time, fell fast asleep.

CHAPTER III
SCARLET AND GOLD

Dick awoke on the following morning to find Sandy stooping over him, regarding him silently with eyes from which shone sympathy and deep concern. As a matter of fact, Sandy was seriously alarmed over his friend’s appearance. Dick’s bandaged head and somewhat pallid face gave him the look of one who hovers close to death’s door. There was an unmistakable catch in the young Scotchman’s voice as he leaned forward still closer to the recumbent form and inquired solicitously:

“Are you feeling any better, Dick?”

“I’m feeling fine,” came the surprising answer, “and I’m going to get up in about three minutes and fight it out with Corporal Richardson. I have no intention of being treated like a child.”

The angry wave of color that swept into Dick’s cheeks, coupled with the dark frown and resentful eyes, so astonished Sandy that he sat down on the edge of the bed and gasped weakly:

“You don’t really mean that. Why, Dick, you’re no match for Corporal Richardson. Besides, it’s a criminal offense to assault a mounted policeman.”

“I’m not going to assault a mounted policeman,” Dick petulantly explained. “I think too much of Corporal Richardson for that. What I intend to do is to find out why he intends to keep us here until Malemute Slade returns. My contention is that as long as we obey the laws and conduct ourselves like honest citizens, no person has the right to interfere in our business.”

Sandy sat for a long time before answering. Here was a problem that required a good deal of careful thought and attention. On the face of it, Dick’s grievance seemed pardonable, and yet common sense told him that Corporal Richardson was fair and just, not at all the sort of person to take advantage of his authority. If the mounted policeman insisted upon Dick and him staying here, there must be a good reason for it.

“Didn’t Corporal Richardson tell you why he wanted us to stay here?” Sandy asked.

“He and Malemute Slade thought we would be risking our lives if we followed Scar-Face.”

“Well, perhaps they’re right.”

Dick sat up and put one hand on his friend’s shoulder.

“Listen to me, Sandy. Listen to me and then, if you wish, form your own opinion. The mounted police insist upon our remaining here at the post because if we undertake to follow old Scar-Face we may be risking our lives. They may be right. I haven’t the least doubt but that we’ll encounter certain dangers. Possibly we’ll be risking our lives but,” Dick paused and waved one hand dramatically, “what else have we been doing except just that: Risking our lives every day, running into dangers and difficulties with the consent of everybody, including the mounted police. Now, suddenly, for no reason at all, we’re asked to be good little boys, to remain indoors for fear we may catch a bad cold. I tell you, Sandy, it sounds fishy to me.”

“Dick, I think you’d make a great orator,” said Sandy admiringly.

“And a poor soldier,” chimed in a voice. “Pardon me for eavesdropping, gentlemen, but the fact is I couldn’t help overhearing a part of your conversation.”

Faces red with shame, the two boys turned in the direction of the newcomer, Corporal Richardson himself, who stood just inside the door. Dick could have bit out his tongue or, better still, hid his head under the pillow while some friendly magician transported him—bed, blankets and all—to some remote place, thousands and thousands of miles distant. For the first time he realized what a fool he had been—a miserable young fool with a wagging tongue in his head. He hadn’t the courage to look Corporal Richardson in the face.

“You’d make a poor soldier,” continued the corporal, calmly surveying the two culprits. “You see, Dick, a soldier’s first duty is obedience. What do you suppose would happen to me if I questioned my superior’s commands, if I didn’t do what I was told to do even if, deep down in my heart, I believed or knew that my superior was in the wrong?”

“You’d be placed under arrest,” surmised Sandy.

“Right! That’s exactly what would happen to me. And I’d deserve the punishment I got.”

Corporal Richardson ceased speaking for a moment, strode forward and placed a kindly hand on Dick’s bandaged head.

“Now don’t feel badly about this, Dick, and when I go out of the room I want you to try and forget the reprimand. Dismiss the whole incident, just as I propose to dismiss it. We’re all friends, I owe you boys a debt of gratitude. I admire you both very much. As a general thing, I’m not usually one to hand out compliments or bestow praise, but I’ll say this: You and Sandy are as rough a pair of young vagabonds as it has ever been my experience to meet.”

A roar of laughter greeted this amusing sally, and for a moment Dick entirely forgot his discomfiture.

“Seriously now,” Corporal Richardson continued, “I want both of you to understand my position in this matter. Remember this: It is one thing to risk your life, but quite another to risk your life needlessly. That’s exactly what you’d be doing if you went out on the trail with Malemute Slade. Your chance of stopping a bullet would be exceedingly good. Scar-Face would lead you into a trap before you had gone thirty miles. I tell you Henderson’s gang of cut-throats and ruffians has become a terrible menace to the entire western portion of this north country. Conditions have never been worse since the Riel Rebellion. If things do not improve shortly, I’m afraid the Royal Mounted will be compelled to call in outside aid.”

“But what will happen to Malemute Slade?” questioned Sandy in awed tones.

“To be perfectly frank, I’ll be worried about him and won’t know a single moment’s peace until he returns. However, Slade can look after himself much better than he could if you boys went with him. He’s the best scout in the mounted police service.”

“Do you think he has any chance of recovering the map?” Dick asked.

Corporal Richardson shook his head.

“I doubt it very much. I do not believe any of us will ever see the map again. But that does not mean that you need give up hope altogether. Your chance of finding the mine and eventually getting it into your possession is almost as good now as it ever was.”

“What do you mean?” both boys shouted out in unison.

“Henderson and his gang will be apt to find it, won’t they? Well if they do, we’ll take it away from them. Could anything be simpler? It sounds easy but, of course, it isn’t. Just the same, I really do think the thing could be managed.”

“A sort of roundabout way of gaining possession,” laughed Dick.

“Any way is a good way, especially in their case,” grinned Sandy. “But if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to see Uncle Walter. He’s covered with bruises from head to foot. Painful, of course, but not serious. I can’t imagine how I managed to sleep through all that uproar last night.”

“I’m not at all surprised,” rejoined Dick, who well knew his friend’s propensity in this regard, and never lost an opportunity of chiding him about it.

When Sandy had hurried away, Corporal Richardson turned to Dick.

“We’re friends, aren’t we?”

“You bet!” came the answer unhesitatingly. “Corporal, I owe you an apology. I can see now what a fool I was.” Impulsively he extended his hand.

“Now that that’s settled,” said Richardson, “I have a job for you. Do you happen to remember the messenger, who came last night?”

“Yes.”

“If you saw him again would you know him?”

“Yes,” stated Dick positively.

“How did he impress you?”

“Why, favorably, I guess.” Dick wondered what the policeman was driving at.

“That was my first impression too,” Corporal Richardson resumed, “but I have since had occasion to alter it considerably. I don’t mind telling you that I nearly made a very fatal error of judgment. That French-Canadian messenger was a fake, and he brought me a fake message, supposed to be from Inspector Cameron. I was fooled last night and permitted my man to escape. This morning a careful scrutiny of the message proved that the signature affixed was a forgery. In other words, the letter did not come from headquarters at all, although the stationery upon which it had been penned must have been stolen from the Inspector’s office.”

“What did the letter say?” Dick asked.

“It instructed me to proceed, not later than the morning of March 2nd—which is today—to a place called Little Run River and there place a certain person under arrest for the theft of valuable furs.”

“But what would be the purpose of such a hoax?” Dick wanted to know.

“Simply to get me out of the way. For some reason, not yet quite apparent, my presence here at Fort Good Faith is not wanted. For some reason, my presence here interferes with the carrying out of important plans of certain unscrupulous persons; which, of course, makes it all the more necessary why I should remain and why you should go on to Run River in my place.”

Dick would not have jumped to his feet any quicker if he had been pricked by a pin.

“In your place!” he gasped. “Why, corporal, I don’t understand! No one could mistake me for you!”

“When I get through with you,” calmly smiled the mounted policeman, “anyone will be very apt to be fooled by the resemblance. The main thing is, you’re about my height.”

At that moment Dick was too excited to grasp fully what the corporal was telling him. Presently, however, he was enlightened.

“For the first time in your life, Dick,” declared Corporal Richardson, still smiling, “you’re going to don the uniform of his majesty’s Royal North West Mounted Police.”

CHAPTER IV
DICK MAKES A SUGGESTION

A very serious but elated young man, no other than Dick himself, strode into the room occupied by Corporal Richardson and proceeded to put on the scarlet and gold uniform of the Royal North West Mounted Police. At that particular moment his mind was in a whirl of conflicting emotions. He still possessed a somewhat hazy idea of what was expected of him, although he knew that when the time came Richardson would give him complete and painstaking instructions.

That he was embarking upon an important and mysterious errand, there could be no doubt, and it thrilled him to know that the mounted policeman had sufficient confidence in his ability to give him this chance to be of real service. As he pulled on the blue breeches with the wide yellow stripe and later the scarlet tunic, resplendent with braid and shining brass buttons, he made a solemn resolution to be worthy of the trust imposed in him.

“Sandy will laugh when he sees me,” he told Corporal Richardson, “and I must say that I feel awkward and out of place.”

“It fits you remarkably well,” smiled the corporal, “considering how much heavier I am. I think I’m inclined to be proud of your appearance, and perhaps just a little bit jealous.”

“When do you want me to start?” Dick asked. “In about an hour. But first, there are a number of things I want to discuss with you. So, if you’ll just sit down in that chair over there and listen attentively, I’m sure there’ll be no question about the ultimate success of our plan.”

“As I explained to you before,” continued Corporal Richardson, “the French-Canadian messenger, who came here last night with the forged letter, is an agent or emissary of a band of crooks. Who these crooks are, I’m not altogether sure. My belief is that they’re the fur thieves Malemute Slade and I have been trailing for the last three weeks.”

Sitting very still and rigid in his chair, Dick followed closely every word spoken. Richardson’s face had become serious, even stern in its expression.

“I’ve nothing very tangible to go on, of course, but during the past few hours I’ve given a good deal of thought to this case. I’m convinced of one thing. I’m positive that the fur thieves and Henderson’s gang are one and the same. I believe it was Henderson who sent the messenger last night. Henderson is the author of this strategy or hoax, just as surely as he is the person directly behind the effort to secure possession of your lost gold mine.”

“You really think so?” Dick interrupted.

“Yes.”

For a short interval the mounted policeman sat without speaking. The room had become almost intolerably silent. Turning towards the window, Dick looked out across a vast snow field, dotted here and there with the dark green of spruce and jackpine.

“And now,” suddenly resumed Richardson, “we’ve come to the very serious part of this whole business. I must confess to you that I’m worried and—you may be surprised at this admission—afraid!”

“Afraid!” Dick gasped. “Why, corporal, I can’t believe that anything would ever frighten you.”

“Something has,” confessed Richardson, “and right now I’m frightened so badly that I’m almost inclined to tell you to take off that uniform and go and hunt up your friend, Sandy, for a game of cards.”

Dick started to laugh, but a second look at the brooding, troubled eyes of the man opposite, choked his untimely mirth.

“This is a serious moment for you, my boy, and I’ll tell you why. The message received last night was sent to me for a purpose. For reasons, as yet not quite clear to us, my presence at Fort Good Faith constitutes a hindrance to certain plans of Henderson. Henderson wants me to clear out—to go away. Why?”

“I’m sure I can’t answer that question,” said Dick.

“Neither can I; but I’ve a pretty fair hunch. Fort Good Faith is on the only direct, open, well-travelled trail, leading south to civilization. Henderson, let us say, has a valuable shipment of stolen fur. He wants to dispose of it. He’s in a hurry to get it south before the spring thaw. Every day that he is forced to wait, is time and money lost. He’s anxious to start right away, sending out his fur by dog teams, but he can’t do that because I’m here at Fort Good Faith and will be sure to seize his shipment.”

“Whew!” whistled Dick. “How did you ever contrive to figure that all out? It sounds very plausible.”

“Nevertheless,” said Corporal Richardson, “it’s entirely supposition and may be absolutely wrong. I’m hoping that it’s right, because if it isn’t, the only other motive that I can think of for inducing me to go to Run River is a very sinister one.”

“What is it?” asked Dick.

“A trap for me to fall into. Somewhere between here and Run River an ambush—a slinking half-breed or Indian lying in wait to pop me off. A score of mounted policemen have gone that way. It’s an old trick. That’s why I’m shivering clear down to the bottom of my feet for fear that I may be sending you out to your death. Before God, I wish I had detected that forgery before I ordered Slade to set out in pursuit of the scar-faced Indian.”

Dick caught at the side of his chair, his cheeks deathly pale. The room seemed to be spinning around in a sort of dark haze, through which he could see the distorted face of Corporal Richardson opposite. When he had recovered somewhat, he observed that the mounted policeman had sprung to his feet and was pacing abstractedly back and forth.

“I can’t—I can’t do it, Dick,” he was muttering. “It isn’t fair. No—there must be some other way.”

“But I want to go,” Dick insisted. “I’ll take good care of myself and I’m sure nothing will happen. Anyhow, I’m convinced that your first guess was right, that Henderson and the fur thieves are planning to send that shipment.”

“And, on the other hand,” pointed out Corporal Richardson, “both guesses may be right. It would be a feather in Henderson’s cap if he could dispose of the furs and have me put out of the way at one and the same time.”

For several moments the two stood, facing each other, both deep in thought. Suddenly, Dick’s face lighted and he clapped his hands together gleefully.

“Corporal Richardson, I think possibly I may have hit upon a rather sensible plan,” he cried out enthusiastically. “Why not follow the trail to Run River only a short distance, then strike off in an entirely different direction, make a wide detour, and come back here to the post. Henderson will naturally suppose that I have gone on to Run River. If your first supposition is correct, the dog teams with the fur will start to move down this way at once. If your second guess is right, I won’t run into an ambush because I won’t be travelling where they expect me to go.”

“Good!” exclaimed Richardson. “Dick, you’re a young man after my own heart. Why in the Dickens didn’t I think of that myself.”

“You’ve done well enough for one day as it is,” Dick rejoined. “All I hope is that you won’t have any trouble capturing the men with the fur shipments. Aren’t they apt to put up a fight?”

“I expect that,” answered the corporal, “but I’ll have Sandy, young Toma and Mr. MacClaren to give me a hand if necessary.”

Breakfast, a few minutes more of preparation, and Dick and the mounted policeman, the latter now clothed in ordinary civilian garb, slipped quietly out of the room and hurried down a long hall in the direction of the side entrance. As they went, the corporal was speaking in hushed undertones:

“It’s just as well that Sandy doesn’t see you before you go. We haven’t time now for explanations or further delays. Good luck, and God be with you.”

They paused for a single hand-clasp before Dick turned to close the door after him, which action Corporal Richardson prevented by sticking out his foot.

“Straight ahead until you cross the river, then take the first trail to your right,” he called out. “Be careful!”

“Good-bye,” said Dick without turning his head.

His eyes were moist and a sticky lump reposed in his throat. Chin out, arms swinging at his side, who, indeed, might detect anything amiss here? The trail was ahead, a glimmering stretch of snow, dazzling in the early morning light. Behind him were friends, comfort and a good fire.

Dick plodded on.

CHAPTER V
DICK IS INDISCREET

Three hours after he had left Fort Good Faith, Dick Kent, still on the Run River trail, had become conscious of an increasing nervousness. The section of country through which he now passed was densely wooded, rugged and broken, a treacherous, uninviting prospect. Dick estimated that he had travelled about twelve miles from the post. To continue much farther might prove to be a dangerous business. Even now, as he went cautiously forward, he could almost persuade himself that behind every clump of bushes, behind almost every tree, there crouched the leering, skulking form of one of Henderson’s men.

If he followed his original plan, the thing to do presently was to strike off, either to the right or left, and proceed on his way back by a circuitous route. Tonight he would camp somewhere in the open, building himself a shelter of spruce boughs. Tomorrow morning he would set out again, moving slowly, making a wide detour, always bearing in mind that he must not, under any circumstances, return to Fort Good Faith before two days had elapsed. The fur thieves, both he and Corporal Richardson had conjectured, would be sure not to delay more than two days before commencing the trek southward with their valuable loot. So Dick had a good deal of time to waste, before he might hope to rejoin his friends.

A hundred yards farther on, a turn in the trail brought Dick to a small creek. Frozen, and covered deeply with snow, it traced its way through the dark green of the forest. From where he stood, Dick thought that it looked very much like a white snake, twisting through the trees. It would be great fun, he decided, to leave the trail at this point and follow the creek on a little voyage of exploration, later leaving it, if he found that the general course of the stream ran too far in the wrong direction.

Also, by following the creek, there would be a certain advantage to himself, well worth considering. It offered a smooth, hard trail to his feet, with no obstruction from rocks, bramble and bush, as the case would be if he chose to strike out in a more haphazardly course through the forest.

Turning to the left, Dick slid down the small embankment and commenced leisurely to walk along the creek bottom. The snow-crust was so heavy that he paused, kicked off his snowshoes and went forward again, whistling happily. It was a great relief to leave the Run River trail. He would have no fear now of a deadly ambuscade. His heart had ceased its disconcerting flip-flops every time he went past a dark screen of brush or a heavy clump of trees. It now functioned in a more healthy manner.

The weather was mild, a stream of warm sunshine lighting the open forest spaces with a dazzling radiance. The glare of snow was hard on the eyes, but by keeping in the shadow of the large trees, bordering the creek, Dick contrived to overcome this difficulty.

In another hour or two he would pause for his midday meal. The long walk had given him an appetite. He was sorry that Sandy hadn’t come along to enjoy the fun. On a day like this it was good to be alive. He grinned as a rabbit whisked across his path, boy-fashion stooping to pick up a chunk of ice to hurl after it. As he straightened up, eyes on the trail ahead, he was startled by the sight of a thin, white spiral of smoke curling up from the trees, not more than two hundred yards distant.

Dick stopped dead in his tracks, scarcely believing the reality of the thing he saw. He was totally unprepared in the emergency and for a moment stood, with bated breath, debating whether he ought to go on or turn tail, like a frightened husky, and scamper for cover.

Corporal Richardson had warned him to keep away from all human kind. Before the experienced eyes of the average frontiersman Dick’s masquerade would be useless. And once the deception had been laid bare, no one might tell how soon the news would reach Bear Henderson and his gang of outlaws.

To add to Dick’s discomfiture, there emerged unexpectedly in plain view ahead the figure of a man. Half way across the creek the man paused, perceiving Dick, and one arm went up in a gesture of friendly salutation.

In chagrin, Dick bit his lips. His chance now to get away undetected had been lost. In less than four hours from the time he had left Fort Good Faith, he had committed a most unpardonable blunder. All very well for spying eyes to follow his progress along the Run River trail, and Indian messengers to report the news later to Henderson—that was playing the game correctly; but to be discovered here, four miles off the prescribed route, calmly throwing chunks of ice after scurrying rabbits, was an entirely different matter. If word of it ever reached the suspicious outlaw, Corporal Richardson’s chances of capturing the fur thieves was very slim indeed.

“The only thing about me worthy of the name of a mounted policeman is this uniform,” Dick lamented to himself. “I’ve messed up everything. I’ll be ashamed to go back and look Corporal Richardson in the face. Hang the luck!”

With a snort of disgust, he strode forward again to meet the waiting figure. There was no turning back now. The thing to do was to swallow his disappointment and endeavor to make the best of it.

In a few minutes more he had approached to within twenty feet of the man. His moccasins crunched lightly over the snow, but the blinding glare of sun in his eyes, together with the dazzling reflection of millions of white crystals underfoot, made it difficult to see. He heard a voice announce:

“Ah, et eez ze Corporal Richardson himself. I bid you ze welcome, monsieur. You come to ze house. You come——”

The words trailed off suddenly, culminating in an exclamation of surprise. Dick stopped.

“My mistake. Et ees not ze good Corporal Richardson at all. Mon Dieu! A boy!”

A prickling sensation ran up and down Dick’s spine. He could see more clearly now, and one good look at the man in front of him was more than sufficient. Who could mistake those snapping eyes, or that tall, lithe, athletic figure? It was the messenger of the night before—the man who had brought the forged letter to Corporal Richardson!

During the first few minutes of bewilderment and surprise, Dick found it impossible to think clearly, but as this feeling wore off, there flashed through his mind the thought that perhaps this messenger of Henderson had not yet discovered his true identity. The man had seen him only once. Dick presented an entirely different appearance now than he had on the evening before in the poorly lighted room at the post.

“What ees your name, monsieur?” demanded the Frenchman.

“Corporal Rand,” Dick lied deliberately. “Recently from the mounted police training school at Regina. This is the first time I’ve ever been sent out on actual service. I arrived at Fort Good Faith a few hours ago to relieve Corporal Richardson, but I discovered he had left under instructions just a few minutes before for a place called Run River.”

The Frenchman, to judge from the relieved expression on his face, actually believed the story.

“And so you already start on ze friendly patrol?” he inquired politely.

“No,” answered the quaking young counterfeit, “at first that really wasn’t my intention. I had hoped to overtake Corporal Richardson before he had gone very far, but I guess I wasn’t swift enough. There is no catching him!”

The messenger grinned at this admission. He surveyed the lanky young tenderfoot, bethought him of the prowess of Corporal Richardson on the trail, and doubled up in a paroxysm of mirth. Dick joined willingly in the laugh on himself.

“Monsieur will become swift himself if he continue to stay in zis countree,” came the encouraging assertion.

“Conditions here are much different than they were in the south,” explained Dick, “but I imagine that in time I’ll get used to them.”

“True, monsieur, an’ now you are veree tired, I expect.” The messenger’s gestures were expressive. “So you will come with me to my house. You will honor me, monsieur. You will stay an’ rest an’ forget about ze hardness of ze trail. Baptiste La Lond ees a veree good friend to ze mounted police.”

Dick guessed at the motive underlying the messenger’s efforts at hospitality. La Lond was afraid that Dick might decide to return at once to Fort Good Faith. It would never do, of course, after getting rid of one policeman, to have all their plans spoiled by the sudden advent of a second.

“I really must return to Fort Good Faith at once,” stated Dick, by way of a feeler. “I’ll be stationed there for several days, I imagine.”

“No! No! No!” protested La Lond, throwing up his hands in protest. “Et ees unthinkable. Monsieur is tired after ze hard trek. He must rest an’ eat at my house.” He paused, a smile of eagerness lighting his face. The dark eyes snapped. “An’ now I will tell you ze beeg news, monsieur. Tonight my veree good friend, Pierre Chapelle, ees hold a dance at hees house. We will go. What you say, monsieur?”

“I’ll think about that later,” Dick answered, deciding to play into the other’s hands. “I’ll stay here for a while, if you insist. I really am very tired.”

La Lond kept up a continuous chatter as he quickly led the way to the house—a small cabin, nestling in the woods. His host threw open the door to permit him to enter a tidy room, at one side of which Dick perceived a young man of about his own age.

“My brother, Phellep,” explained the messenger, pushing his way in and closing the door. “We live here together. Phellep, take monsieur’s coat.”

Phillip La Lond rose stiffly, a look of fear on his face. Evidently he was not accustomed to entertaining members of the Royal Mounted and was probably trying to figure out the reason for Dick’s unexpected visit.

But if Phillip experienced fear, he was not without company. Dick also was afraid. It had just occurred to him that perhaps the wily messenger had not been in the least deceived by the story, which he, Dick, had related. Perhaps La Lond had recognized him at the very beginning and was now planning some devilish method of getting rid of him.

During the preparation of the midday meal and for several hours afterward, Dick sat, shivering with apprehension. La Lond’s continuous flow of conversation fell on unheeding ears. The pressure of the revolver in its holster at Dick’s side was somewhat reassuring, yet what match was he, a single inexperienced youth, against a seasoned criminal like La Lond. He had probably made a serious mistake in coming here. No doubt, he would be made to pay dearly for his blundering. But in any event, it was up to him now to play the game in a way that would be a credit to the faith imposed in him.

And so with this grim resolve, Dick straightened in his chair, endeavoring to conquer the quailing spirit within. La Lond was still speaking:

“Perhaps monsieur ees veree tired an’ would like to lie down an’ rest,” he inquired solicitously. “While you have your leetle nap, Phellep will take ze run out to ze trap-line.”

“What you mean, you deceiving scoundrel,” Dick thought to himself, “is that you are sending Phillip over to Henderson’s camp with the news of my coming.” Then aloud:

“No, I’m not as tired as you think. Let’s sit here and rest for a few minutes more, then all three of us will go out to examine your traps.”

The appearance of animation and the smile of good fellowship suddenly and inexplicably disappeared. In their place a dark frown settled over the face of the messenger. For one brief moment he glared at Dick.

“All right, eet will be as you wish,” he snapped. Then his eyes met Dick’s in a look that could not possibly be misunderstood.

Unconsciously, Dick stiffened in his chair as he read the challenge.

CHAPTER VI
IN THE HOUSE OF THE MESSENGER

It was a trying ordeal. Never before, in all Dick’s experience, had time seemed to pass so slowly as it did upon that fateful afternoon. The messenger had thrown aside all further attempts at conversation. Head bent forward, fingers locked, he feigned a drowsiness, which did not fool Dick in the least. Phillip, on the other hand, had grown restless, continually fidgeting about, or pacing up and down the room like a caged lion.

Occasionally Dick would catch a glimpse of a furtive, frightened glance cast in his direction. The younger La Lond, less adept in the school of deception, could not conceal his real feelings.

“Have you many traps out this winter?” Dick inquired, looking across at Phillip.

The other mumbled something in reply and went on with his pacing. Evidently, he had no desire to commit himself. In the cabin were no evidences of traps or trapping, and Dick would have been willing to swear on oath that the brothers La Lond not only did not possess such a thing as a trap-line, but had other and more profitable ways of making a living.

To all appearances, the two brothers lived a life of ease and indulgence. The room was nicely furnished, the cupboards were stocked with food, two bottles of Hudson’s Bay Company’s rum peeped from behind an inadequate curtain. But the thing which struck Dick’s gaze most forcibly of all, was a queer-looking object which stood near the fireplace. It was a sort of rack, cleverly constructed out of wood, upon which fairly bristled a miniature arsenal of guns, rifles, knives and belts—the last bulging with cartridges.

Time and time again, Dick’s eyes returned to a fascinated scrutiny of that rack. There were weapons enough here to supply a small army. Deadly looking revolvers and automatics, shot-guns, 45 and 30-30 caliber repeating rifles, with here and there a long-bladed knife to add interest to the general effect.

On the floor, close to the rack, were several packing cases, as yet unopened, which probably contained a more complete supply of ammunition. The brothers La Lond might boast of possessing a different weapon for almost every day of the month. So complete were their requirements in this respect, that Dick very quickly jumped to the conclusion that no two men could possibly find use for them all. It was much more reasonable to believe that others, beside the two brothers, had an interest in them, and that this cabin was used as a meeting place—if not for Henderson’s gang itself—for another band equally as bad.

“I’m about as safe here,” Dick grimaced to himself, “as I would be sitting on a case of nitroglycerine. The best thing for me is to get away from here as quickly as possible.”

From under his lowered brows, Baptiste La Lond, still feigning sleep, was secretly watching him. Dick felt the scrutiny through some intuitive sense, and became more and more uncomfortable. Another worry was caused by the younger La Lond, who, during his restless pacing to and fro, often passed behind Dick’s chair. It would be very easy, Dick thought, for Phillip to spring forward and pinion his arms behind him. In fact, chancing to look across at the former messenger he intercepted a signal, a sly wink which might, had Dick been less on guard, easily have passed unnoticed. Dick turned almost completely around, just as Phillip came stealthily forward, preparing for a spring.

“When are we going to visit the trap-line, Phillip?” Dick inquired mockingly.

Phillip stopped suddenly, his face red with anger and embarrassment. He turned and beat a hasty retreat, glowering from his corner as Dick rose and moved back his chair.

Then, as never before, Dick realized fully the seriousness of his position. Not for one moment could he relax his vigilance. His life itself depended upon extreme caution and, when it became necessary, swift action. But even by exercising the utmost care, sooner or later a little slip on his part might give the treacherous brothers the advantage they craved.

Dick rose to his feet, finally, and addressed the still drowsing messenger.

“La Lond,” he stated in a clear, steady voice, “I’ve decided to go at once. I’m afraid it will be impossible for me to neglect my duty. It is too late in the afternoon to go back to Fort Good Faith, but I think I’ll continue on my patrol, returning to the post late tomorrow afternoon or the morning following.”

Baptiste, apparently, was sleeping with one ear open. Almost immediately he sprang to an upright position.

“No! No, monsieur!” he protested, waving his arms wildly about. “You must not go, I beg of you. Stop here for a time longer, monsieur.”

But Dick shook his head.

“I must go,” he declared firmly.

“But think, monsieur, eet will be veree late by ze time you get back to Fort Good Faith.”

“I’ll not go there tonight, as I just explained to you, and probably not tomorrow. I must finish my patrol.”

La Lond’s eyes blinked.

“Where do you go then?” he asked, evidently much relieved.

“That is a matter I have not yet decided,” answered Dick. “I’m not very well acquainted with the country hereabouts, and I’ve been wondering if you’ll be kind enough to direct me to the nearest dwelling.”

“Yes, certainly, monsieur, I will be veree glad.”

His sudden great eagerness to assist him did not escape Dick’s attention. He knew very well what Baptiste would say, and he had no intention of following any suggestions of the bandit as to where he should go. It was easy to guess where the wily messenger would send him—to Henderson’s camp probably, or, if not there, to the house of some other crook in the outlaw’s employ.

“I have a friend who live seex miles from here,” said La Lond. “Ze trail ees veree easy to his house. You must go zere.”

“All right, I’ll do as you say,” agreed Dick, “but first you must be very careful in directing me so that I do not get lost.”

“Et ees easy to tell, monsieur. You will not get lost,” the messenger shrugged his shoulders expressively. “Two mile down ze leetle creek to ze first turn to ze right, zen four mile straight ahead to my friend’s house. Not possibly can you miss et, monsieur.”

“So that is where Henderson is camped,” exulted Dick to himself. “The information may be valuable to Corporal Richardson.”

“Thank you very much,” he said to Baptiste.

“Et ees nothing,” La Lond blinked wickedly.

Phillip had suddenly come to life again and was treading soft-footed across the floor. From the corner of one eye, Dick watched him. Then Baptiste shuffled farther to one side, probably with the intention of preventing Dick from observing his brother’s sly movements. Not to be outdone in this clumsy fashion, Dick took a step in the opposite direction, just in time to see Phillip approach the fireplace and the rack of guns close by.

“You will find ze place without difficulty,” declared Baptiste in a loud voice, attempting to attract attention to himself. “I tell you, monsieur, my friend he ees veree good host. So joll-ee, so kind, monsieur. You will not regret.”

Dick whipped his revolver from his holster and sprang back just in time.

“Put down that gun,” he shouted to Phillip. “Put it down, I say!”

Phillip’s weapon clattered to the floor, and his hands clawed at the empty air above his head. At that particular moment he was a very much frightened and surprised young man. His cheeks were white as the drifts of snow outside. Baptiste turned, his face crimson with fury.

“Fool! Fool!” he screamed, rushing forward and cuffing the shivering culprit about the face and head. Then he turned apologetically to Dick.