CHAPTER XX THE NIGHT PATROL

Dick and his party were billeted a few doors beyond the mission school in two houses, built of logs—warm and comfortable quarters. They found plenty to occupy their attention for the remainder of the day. They assisted Dr. Brady, gathered wood, delivered the mail, and in many other ways made themselves helpful and useful.

The trouble which the priest, Father Bleriot had spoken of—the impending danger of attack, the fear from the Indians in the hostile villages, not far from the mission—did not seem very imminent to them just then. But as night drew on and the villagers locked and bolted their doors and native sentinels commenced to patrol the streets, rifles in hand, the thing began to take on a different aspect.
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Nearly every night, so they were informed, some depredation had been committed. A home was broken into and looted, a cabin fired, or a bullet sent crashing through one of the many darkened windows. Every morning the sentries, who seemed powerless to prevent it, reported the night’s happenings to one of the three priests, then went away with sorrowful, wagging heads, only to repeat the same performance twenty-four hours later.

Hearing of these things, the three boys and one of the Indian drivers decided to stay up that night to keep the sentinels company. Dick and the driver took up a position at the south end of the village, while Sandy and Toma patrolled the northern section, in the vicinity of the billet.

The first part of the night, from eight o’clock until midnight, passed without incident. Shortly before one, Dick and an Indian sentry entered the latter’s home for a cup of tea and a bite to eat before resuming their lonely vigil. Scarcely had they seated themselves around the rough board table, when the crash of a rifle brought them to their feet. They stormed outside, looking away in the direction from which the sound had come.

The bright moonlight revealed nothing at first, but presently, less than a block away, they perceived an angry red glare and a black funnel of smoke ascending from one of the cabins.
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Outside in the snow were the shivering forms of women and children, while here and there, householders rushed frantically about attempting to put out the blaze. The incendiaries had escaped. It galled Dick to realize that they had crept up right under his nose unobserved. The shot they had heard, he soon learned, had not been fired by the invaders at all, but by one of the occupants of the burning cabin in an effort to bring help.

The cabin was doomed. Efforts to save it proved futile. The native sentry took the women and children in tow and conducted them along the street to the shelter of other cabins. Slowly, resentfully, the, crowd dispersed. The sentry returned, accompanied by Sandy and Toma and the dog driver. Together they repaired to the sentry’s home, where in gloomy silence they drank their delayed cup of tea and ate the hot biscuit their host set before them.

“You fellows’d better go back now,” said Dick finally, rising to his feet. “Nothing else may happen tonight, but it’s wise to be on our guard.”

Sandy grinned as he pushed his empty cup back from the edge of the table.

“I don’t want to rub it in, Dick,” he remarked, “but that was a good joke on you. The cabin that is burning down isn’t more than a block from here. Whoever set fire to it must have slipped right past you. What were you doing, Dick?”

Dick flushed, but did not reply.

“Didn’t you see anyone?” persisted Sandy.
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“No. They caught us napping all right. But be mighty sure, Sandy, that they don’t come in on your side before the night’s over. Well, good luck to you. I’ll be along before daybreak.”

Sandy and Toma departed, and again Dick and his two companions took up their lonely patrol. This time, however, at Dick’s suggestion, they separated, each having under his surveillance a certain definite section of the village. Up and down, forth and back, through that cold and stilly night, their moccasined feet beat across the snow.

Then, suddenly, for the second time that night, a shot rang out. There came the sound of crashing glass and a woman’s startled scream.

It had all happened right in Dick’s beat, scarcely fifty yards away. Instantly he was alert and ready. This time instead of rushing away toward the cabin which had been fired on he cut obliquely across the street in the direction the invader would have taken in making his get-away. He fairly flew across the snow, dodged between two low buildings and came out on the farther side, panting for breath.

In the path of moonlight in the cleared space ahead, he saw a fleeting form, and, without even pausing for breath, started forward in swift pursuit.
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Dick was a fast runner, as he had proved to his satisfaction many times before. In the present instance, he put all his heart and strength in the race. He exerted every ounce of energy. But if he was fleet of foot, excelling in this particular line of physical endeavor, so was his opponent. Try as he would, Dick seemed unable to gain upon him. Between buildings, across fields, over a narrow footbridge that crossed a brook, then along a trail that threaded its way south from the village, the two forms flew.

After a time Dick began to gain slowly upon his quarry. Foot at a time, he drew closer. He saw the Indian, tall and lithe like himself, cast one worried glance over his shoulder, see that he was being overtaken, then hurl his rifle to the snow, free from which encumbrance, he quickly regained his former advantage.

Somewhat reluctantly, Dick followed suit. He still carried his revolver at his belt. He puffed as he ran. The blood throbbed in his ears. The continued exertion had begun to tell. On and on he raced, slowly shortening the distance that separated them. Thirty yards! Twenty yards! He was only a rod or two behind him now, gaining at every leap. But with every leap his heart felt as if it would burst within his body. Finally, in despair, he had commenced to slacken his pace, when he saw the runner ahead stumble over some obstruction in the path and fall heavily.

When the Indian rose choking to his knees, Dick stood over him, revolver in hand.
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“I’ve got you, you human greyhound,” he panted. “You can come back with me now. The race is over.”

The Indian, of course, did not understand a word of English. He rose, brushing the snow from his garments.

“Come back with me, brother of the deer,” ordered Dick in Cree. “Come over on the path here and start back toward the village.”

His captive obeyed. They marched back, puffing like two locomotives, one a little shamefacedly, the other exultantly.

“You run very fast,” said Dick admiringly, as he drove the other on, feeling very magnanimous in his victory.

The other grunted.

“You have feet more swift than a wolf,” Dick went on. “It was unfortunate for you that you fell.”

Again the Indian grunted.

“Why do you come bothering these people?” Dick took a new tack. “They have done nothing to hurt you. They are your friends. Why do you attack them and set fire to their homes and send bullets crashing through their windows?”

For the third time the Indian grunted. Dick gave up. He could learn nothing from this sullen fellow. Very well then, he could go back and cool his heels behind the guarded door of some village dwelling.
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They reached the place where Dick had thrown down his gun, and, farther on, he also picked up the weapon belonging to his prisoner. Not long afterward they made their appearance in the village, where they were met by a number of people, including Sandy and Toma.

Ordinarily Sandy would have come forward to compliment Dick upon his achievement, but this time, for some reason, he refrained. And Sandy’s appearance and behavior were strange. He stood and stared at Dick almost dully. Toma’s attitude was equally peculiar and inexplicable.

“Well,” said Dick, “I’ve brought him back.”

No one replied.

“Sandy,” stated Dick, “this is the Indian who fired that shot a while ago. I ran him down. What do you think we’d better do with him?”

“I don’t know,” Sandy muttered, in a voice that might have come from the depths of some subterranean vault. “I don’t know, Dick. This is terrible. What will we do?”

Dick flushed angrily.

“Do,” he snapped out testily, “why we’ll do what we’ve been doing for the last two months—the best we can. What makes Toma stand there like a lump on a log, eyeing me so queerly? What have I done? Why, you all act as if I had committed a crime, instead of bringing this man back to answer for his misdeeds.”
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Sandy emerged from his despondency at this unexpected verbal attack, the light of battle in his eyes.

“What have you done?” he demanded sharply. “What have you done? Well, I’ll tell you. You’ve done just what the rest of us have done. Made a fool out of yourself. Permitted yourself to become a dupe—a-sucker.”

“A sucker! See here. I’ve had about enough of this. I——”

But Sandy went inexorably on:

“Father Bleriot and Dr. Brady have been captured.”

“But, Sandy!——” gasped Dick.

“They’ve been captured, I tell you.”

“But look here, Sandy——”

“Keep quiet, will you, and let me finish. Do you know why this Indian fired that shot?”

“No.”

“To draw all the guards to this end of the village so that another attacking party could swoop down from the other side and play general havoc They got Brady and Father Bleriot and two of the Indian servants. No one was there to stop them. They had plenty of time to get away. Toma and I and the other guards came down here, while you were chasing away across country after your friend. Now, I ask you, what are we to do about it?”
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Dejectedly, Dick put one of his rifles on the ground and sat down upon it. He was breathing hard, but not from the effects of the race. His triumph had been short-lived. He leaned forward and put his head in his hands.

“The villagers are panic stricken,” Sandy informed him. “They’re about done for. They’ve lost all hope, and I don’t think they’re to be blamed very much either.”

Dick raised his eyes. A crowd had gathered round him. It was a silent crowd. Dejection showed in every face. Somewhere, at the edge of the gathering a woman was crying softly. Dick staggered to his feet.

“Her husband was one of the servants the Indians took,” Sandy explained. “Everyone here believes that we’ve seen the last of those four men. They’ll all be murdered.”

Dick found his voice.

“Does anyone know which way that attacking party left?” he demanded.

“There are plenty who can testify to that. They went north into the barrens.”

“Is there an Indian village up that way?”

“Yes, about four miles from here. What do you suggest doing, Dick?”
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“We can do one thing only,” Dick’s tone was tragic. “I’ll call for a party of volunteers and set out in pursuit.” He raised his voice: “Come now, who will be the first to go with me?”

Toma stepped forward.

“I go,” he said.

Sandy was scarcely a foot behind him.

“I’ll be one.”

A moment’s hesitation, then the tall form of a villager drew away from the crowd.

“I will accompany my white brothers,” he asserted.

Others also came forward. By ones and twos they shambled up—tragic-eyed men, frail, hollow-cheeked youths, white-haired veterans of a hundred trap-lines. Steadily they came and took their places at Dick’s side.