CHAPTER XIV OUTWITTED

Dr. Brady broke off a twig from a branch above his head and sat down on the sledge near Dick, commencing to trace queer patterns in the new, loose snow.

“It will soon be time to start on again, won’t it?” asked the doctor.

“It’s eight-thirty,” Dick replied. “We should have started a half hour ago.”

“Why not try taking a firmer hand with them,” suggested Brady. “Tell them that if they won’t go on with the party, they can return without supplies. That ought to frighten them.”

“I’ll try it,” Dick fell in with the suggestion. “Come on. We must do something. I want you fellows to back me up. Maybe there’ll be trouble.”

The drivers were still arguing amongst themselves as the four approached.

“Fontaine, come here.”

The spokesman drew away from his fellow conspirators.
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“Yes, M’sieur Dick.”

“Tell the others to harness the dogs. It’s time to start.”

Fontaine’s eyes sought the ground.

“They no go, m’sieur,” he declared doggedly.

“What do they intend to do?”—brusquely.

“Nothing. They say go back to Mackenzie.”

“Utter nonsense. You’ll never make it. It’s hundreds of miles south of here. You’ll starve before you get there.”

“Starve!” exclaimed Fontaine. “But, M’sieur Dick, you mus’ be mistake. You have plenty grub here. Fellows no go back without grub.”

“That’s exactly what they’ll have to do if they leave this party—everyone of them. You’ll get nothing from me. I’ll shoot the first man that makes an attempt to take anything with him. Do you understand, Fontaine?”

The spokesman blinked and backed away. Here was a turn of events neither he nor any of the others had anticipated. It made their position somewhat untenable. It required careful consideration—more discussion. Quickly he turned and broke forth in Cree. It volleyed from him. He punctuated his talk with rapid-fire gestures.

When he had completed his oration, a deep silence fell. It was an angry silence. The half-breed drivers glowered.
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“Well, what’s your decision?” Dick spoke sharply.

Fontaine was coldly deliberate.

“We eight men against four. We no go on. Fellows get supplies an’ start back to Fort Mackenzie.”

Dick was astounded. He looked up appealingly at Dr. Brady, his pulses quickening. He observed that Sandy’s hands trembled. A sudden movement among the dog drivers attracted his attention. All of them had started forward menacingly, then as quickly fell back. For a brief moment Dick wondered at this hesitancy on their part, but catching sight of Toma, the truth of the situation flashed over him. That young man stood, fondling an ugly-looking revolver, his eyes defying them to come on.

Sandy was quick to see their temporary advantage, and he, too, whipped out his gun. The mutinous dog drivers attempted to slink away, but Dick perceived their little ruse and stopped them peremptorily:

“No, you don’t. Stay right where you are until I relieve you of your guns.”

Three of the men carried revolvers, while all of them possessed knives. He quickly secured all these, placing them on one of the sleighs. Then, while Sandy and Toma kept the men covered, he and Dr. Brady hurried over to the tents and sledges, returning with three rifles and four more revolvers.

“Quite an arsenal,” puffed Dr. Brady.
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“Yes, and they won’t get them back either,” Dick retorted. “Without arms, they’ll be helpless. During the day while we’re traveling, I’ll keep them on my sledge with the mail, and at night in my tent with a guard posted. That means we’ll have to take turn, the four of us, at sentinel duty.”

Placing their load of weapons on Dick’s sledge, they rejoined Sandy and Toma, who still guarded the mutineers.

“You can put away your guns,” ordered Dick.

“But what about these prisoners?” Sandy asked.

“I think they’ll be willing to go back to their teams now. Is it not so, Fontaine?”

The stalwart French half-breed pretended not to hear.

“Fontaine,” Dick raised his voice, “did you hear what I said? You can all go now. Take up your tents, harness your dogs the same as usual, and get ready to start.”

The dog drivers were at a disadvantage and they knew it. There was nothing to do but to obey. Yet it was with much muttering and grumbling, that they turned again to their morning’s routine. They would bide their time. The boys had gained the upper hand now, but this was only the first round in a battle of wits. Tomorrow, perhaps, they might be the victors.
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“We’ll have to watch them day and night,” Sandy declared, shoving the revolver back in its holster and turning away. “Heaven help us, if they ever get a chance at those guns again—or those deadly-looking knives.”

“Yes,” agreed Dr. Brady, “I don’t like their looks. Naturally, they’ll resent this. I think that we can expect trouble. I’ll volunteer for the first night’s guard duty.”

“That’s splendid of you, doctor,” Dick smiled. “But we’ll let you off easy. You can stand guard from eight until twelve tonight, and I’ll take your place for the remaining hours until morning.”

The first day, following the events narrated above, passed without incident. On the second day, however, the driver, whom Fontaine said had contracted smallpox, and whom Dr. Brady later had examined, died suddenly. The morale of the party tottered. If ever the half-breeds had placed any faith in the medicine of the white man, they lost it now. Again they became panic stricken. The muttering and the complaining broke out afresh. Hourly, it grew more and more difficult to keep them at their work. Dick found it necessary to have either Sandy or Toma drive the last team in the line, with instructions to be ever on the alert, their revolvers always in readiness.

That night, fearing trouble, Sandy, whose turn it was to stand guard for the first part of the night, asked Dick to keep him company.
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“I hope you don’t mind, old chap. The truth is, I’m a little bit afraid. I have a feeling that the time is nearly at hand for them to strike. I don’t like the way they’ve been acting.”

“Nor I,” said Dick. “They’re up to something. They gather about in little groups, whispering. Fontaine and Lamont keep stirring them up.”

“Their first move,” reasoned Sandy, “will be to try to get back their rifles and cartridges. With these in their possession, they’ll be able to take what supplies they want and return to Mackenzie.”

“A sorry day for them if they do,” Dick declared. “Inspector Cameron will know how to deal with them.”

“Of course, that is true. But they don’t stop to think about that. Their chief worry now is to get away.”

As usual, the mail and guns were taken to Dick’s tent, where the two boys stood guard. This constant vigilance was wearing upon them. The three boys and Dr. Brady suffered from lack of sleep, yet each day they were compelled to carry on. There was no help for it.

Despite Sandy’s presentiment, no attack was made that night, nor yet on the following day. Late in the afternoon, while crossing a low chain of hills, they perceived, about a quarter of a mile away, a small Indian encampment, consisting of four lonely tepees.
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“There may be smallpox there,” said Dr. Brady. “I’d better go over there.”

Leaving Sandy and Toma behind to watch the camp during their absence, Dr. Brady and Dick went forward to investigate. They were received warmly at the first tepee, and were informed that no one was ill. In fact, the Indians had not even heard of the epidemic. At each of the tepees in turn they were received graciously until they came to the fourth and last.

Here their reception was very cool indeed. The place was occupied by an aged Indian couple and by a young man, evidently their son. This young man became very angry upon their entrance. He sat opposite the entrance, blankets wrapped around him, and scowled continuously. When Dick questioned him, he refused to answer, pretending that he did not understand. The old Indian squaw seemed to be the only one equipped with vocal powers. Over and over, she kept repeating the words in English:

“Go ’way! Go ’way!”

“Don’t seem to be very popular here,” grinned Dr. Brady. “Well, there’s no use of staying very long. I’ll vaccinate them as quickly as I can and then we’ll be on our way.”
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Yet when Dr. Brady opened his medicine case and attempted to vaccinate them, they repulsed him stoutly. They were afraid of the doctor. His instruments frightened them. It was evident that they believed that his ministrations were for no other purpose than to subject them to some new and mysterious torture. Finally, the young Indian rose threateningly and commanded them to depart.

As he did so, Dick drew back in surprise. The Indian wore boots, heavy top-boots—the service boots of the Royal Mounted Police—and, what was even more astonishing, a service revolver in its holster at his side. For a full moment he stared at the tell-tale articles, scarcely believing his eyes. Where had the Indian secured these things? Certainly not from the police—unless they had been taken by force or stolen. Dick’s arm trembled as he took Dr. Brady’s arm and pulled him toward the entrance.

“Come on, doctor, we’d better get out of here. It’s no use.”

Outside the tepee, he turned quickly upon his companion:

“I say, doctor, did you notice what that young Indian wore?”

“No,” replied Dr. Brady, “I didn’t notice particularly. Moosehide garments, weren’t they?”

“No. No. The boots, I mean—the revolver!”

“Yes, he did have boots. Rather queer, isn’t it? They usually wear moccasins.”
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“Usually wear moccasins!” exploded Dick. “Why those were mounted police boots. They’re different. No one else wears them. And that revolver, holster and belt could have been obtained from no other person on earth except a policeman.”

“That’s strange. I wonder how he came by them?”

Dick did not answer immediately. His mind had turned to very sober thoughts. The more he dwelt upon this unusual circumstance—an Indian wearing mounted police boots and carrying a service revolver—the more he became perplexed. As they made their way back to their own party, his suspicions grew. A great fear tugged at his heart.

“Dr. Brady,” he began very soberly, “I don’t like this. I’m afraid——”

The physician turned and smiled.

“What? Still thinking about those boots? I wouldn’t worry, if I were you, Dick. The explanation is probably simple enough. The boots and revolver might have been discarded. Aren’t you troubling yourself needlessly?”

“No, I think not. You remember Corporal Rand, don’t you, the man Inspector Cameron spoke of, the one he sent up here ahead of us, and about whom he was so worried?”

“Why, yes,” said Dr. Brady. “Corporal Rand. The name is familiar.”
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“Well,” trembled Dick, “I have a terrible suspicion that those boots and that revolver belong to him.”

It was Brady’s turn to become grave.

“And you believe that he——”

“I don’t know what to believe,” Dick filled in the pause. “It looks bad. They might have killed him. They——”

He broke off, overcome by such a probability.

“You see, doctor,” he resumed, “Corporal Rand wouldn’t carry an extra pair of boots and probably not an extra revolver along with him. Just remember that. If the Indian didn’t kill him, something or someone else did. He might have taken those things off Rand’s dead body. Somehow, I feel that I ought to go back and question him—make him talk. I don’t like the looks of this.”

They were now within a short distance of their own party, and an idea suddenly occurred to Dick.

“Tell you what I’ll do. I’ll get Toma to go with me. He speaks the Indian language more fluently. The two of us will go over there armed and compel that rascal to confess. And we won’t come back either until——”
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Dr. Brady interrupted him. Dr. Brady had seized him by the shoulders and was staring into his face, his eyes wide with excitement. Then he swung the younger man in front of him, released him, and with one trembling hand pointed in the direction of their camp.

“Look at that! Look at that! What? I say——”

Instantly Dick’s body grew taut. The color drained from his cheeks. He shook off the restraining hand and started forward. He ran. He shouted out at the top of his voice, one hand fumbling with the holster at his side. In his haste to get forward quickly, he stumbled and fell. As he rose to his feet, he broke into an exclamation of dismay.

He was too late! The long-looked-for attack had taken place. The drivers had overpowered Toma and Sandy, had seized the guns, two of the dog teams and sledges, loaded with supplies, and were now hurrying back. They had accomplished their purpose and had made good their escape. When Dick reached the scene of disaster a few minutes later, he cried out in his rage and exasperation.

Thrown across one of the sledges were Toma and Sandy, bound securely hand and foot. A few yards away, lying helplessly in the snow, was the unconscious form of one of the drivers, who, upon closer examination, proved to be Lamont. Everywhere was confusion and disorder. Several of the sledges had been overturned, their loads scattered.
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Dick took out his hunting knife and cut the rope which bound his two chums. They were both a little dazed, but had not been seriously hurt. They looked at him with sombre eyes.

“How did it happen?” asked Dick.

Sandy sat up and commenced rubbing his chafed arms and legs. Tears of exasperation trickled down his cheeks.

“It came so—so suddenly, Dick,” he choked. “I can’t begin to tell you. We were sitting on the mail sledge, when one of the drivers came along, passing about twenty feet away. He acted queerly. He commenced to groan, and then suddenly he fell down in the snow, just as if he had fainted dead away. It was a trick—but we didn’t know it. We rushed over to help him. We were stooping down when they came up from behind—the whole crowd of them, and seized us so quickly we didn’t have a chance. I’m so—so——”

Fresh tears trickled from his eyes again.

“But Lamont—what’s he doing there? What happened to him? If you didn’t have a chance to do anything, how did he receive his injury?”

“Toma—— When they grappled with him, he fired from his hip and got Lamont.”

Dr. Brady, who had come panting up in time to hear Sandy’s story, now turned toward the prostrate body of the guide, and with the help of Dick and Toma, carried him over and placed him on one of the sledges.
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“He’ll never make the trip,” presently announced the doctor. “He’s hit in the shoulder—a dangerous wound—and will never be able to stand the jarring and jolting of one of the sledges. We’ll have to leave him here.”

“How can we do that?” asked Sandy. “He’d freeze. He’d—he’d——”

“There’s the Indian encampment,” suggested the physician. “They can look after him.”

“Good riddance,” declared Dick. “I, for one, won’t be sorry.”

There followed an awkward silence.

“The Indian encampment,” said Dick at length, “will be forced not only to look after Lamont but to supply us with several drivers. Perhaps one of them will know the way to Keechewan.”

He paused, gesturing hopelessly.

“In any event, we’ll have to push on. We can’t stop.”

Dr. Brady nodded grimly.