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.