CHAPTER VIII

TRACKS IN THE SNOW

“How,” inquired Dick in bewilderment, “did you ever manage to find me here?”

Sandy sat down and put one arm around Dick’s shoulders.

“You miserable, deceiving old rascal,” he threatened, “if I could have got my hands on you this morning, when I discovered the scurvy trick you and Corporal Richardson had played upon me, you’d never be able to walk over another trail again. I really mean it, Dick. I think it was the most unfriendly act you have ever committed. If I wasn’t just naturally patient and forgiving by nature, you and I would never have seen each other again.”

“What would have happened to you?” grinned Dick.

Before replying, Sandy winked broadly and good-humoredly at Toma.

“I had a blamed good notion to go right out and join forces with the Henderson gang. They need a lot of new blood now that Corporal Richardson has taken so many of ’em into camp. Four dog teams and eight men! Just think of it, Dick! He captured the whole outfit—lock, stock and barrel—single-handed.”

“And the stolen fur?” Dick questioned breathlessly.

“He got that too,” answered Sandy, glad of the chance to tell the story. “But first of all, I’m going to start at the beginning. Three hours after you set out over the Run River trail, Toma and I, who were looking out of the window and suspecting nothing, saw the four dog teams coming into view. There is nothing unusual about a dog team up here in this country, so we weren’t much interested. I had just turned away from the window to start another search for you and the corporal—somehow, I hadn’t gotten over the idea that you were skulking somewhere about the place—when Toma poked me in the ribs. Dick, I wish you could have seen it. It all happened so suddenly that no one knew just what was up.”

“Yes! Yes!” said Dick a little impatiently. “Go on, Sandy. What happened?”

“They were just opposite us, travelling along merrily, when a man slipped out of the brush on the far side of the trail, holding something in each hand. They must have been startled all right. Corporal Richardson told me afterward that they were taken completely by surprise. At any rate,” Sandy went on, “the dog teams stopped and eight men stepped forward with their arms in the air. It was a regular hold-up.”

Sandy paused for breath.

“Both Toma and I very naturally jumped to the conclusion that the person who had committed the hold-up was a bandit, probably in the employ of Henderson. So we grabbed our rifles and hurried out to help. We ran straight over in the direction of the dog teams, firing our rifles as we went and yelling like mad.”

“You see,” explained Sandy, “we thought that the bandit would become frightened and start running away. But,” admitted the young Scotchman, a little shamefacedly, “he didn’t run. He stood right there like a statue, keeping those men covered. All the time we kept getting closer and closer, until finally Toma poked me in the ribs again and told me to stop firing—that the bandit was Corporal Richardson himself.”

In spite of the discomfort and pain he endured, Dick roared with laughter.

“What did Corporal Richardson say?” he asked.

Sandy smiled at the recollection.

“When we came up, he stared at us coldly.

“‘If you two young fools have finished with your celebration,’ he said, ‘you’ll please take charge of these dog teams while the rest of us gentlemen retire to the post.’

“That’s all there is to tell you, I guess, except that Corporal Richardson locked the men up in a big room at Fort Good Faith and that we stored all the stolen fur in the company’s warehouse. Afterwards, when the corporal had cooled off and was a little more friendly towards me, he told me where you had gone and about the plan you had employed to deceive Henderson’s spies.”

“I tell you, Dick,” Sandy went on, “you can’t imagine how much the corporal likes you. He seemed worried stiff for fear that something might happen to you. Finally, after we had bothered him a lot, he gave us permission to go out and try to find you.”

“You found me all right,” Dick was forced to admit, “but I don’t see how you ever managed to do it.”

“It was easy enough—for Toma. He found your tracks where you left the Run River trail and we followed them up to a house.”

“The house of La Lond,” said Dick.

“I don’t know whose house it was. It was almost dark when we got there. My plan was to walk right up, knock at the door and ask for you, but Toma thought differently.”

“Bad men him live there,” interrupted Toma, moving closer to the fire. “I know him Baptiste for bad fellow. Me see that man many times an’ no like at all. I ’fraid mebbe he kill you an’ hide body. So I listen at door. I find out something.”

“What did you find out?” asked Dick.

“Me find out you been there an’ go ’way again. Baptiste very mad an’ talk in loud voice. He say I kill him that fellow bye-’n’-bye. Drink much rum an’ shout all time. No have trouble to listen.”

Sandy started to speak but Dick motioned to him to be silent. He was anxious to learn what the young Indian had found out, and wanted to hear the story from the lips of Toma himself.

“Did he mention the name of Henderson at all?” he inquired.

Toma nodded. “Yes,” he answered, “him talk about Henderson too. Him say he go see Henderson pretty soon. Then get scouting party an’ find you where you hide in the woods. Talk like Henderson no live very far away.”

“That’s exactly what I wanted to make sure of,” Dick explained to Sandy, “and I’m almost certain that I know where the outlaw’s camp is.”

“Did you see the camp?” asked Sandy.

Dick shook his head. “No, I didn’t see it. Baptiste told me where it was.”

“But why did he do that? I should think he’d want to keep its location a secret.”

“He wanted me to go there and directed me to the place because he knew that the moment I walked into the outlaw’s camp Henderson would either kill me at once or make me his prisoner.”

In a few words Dick related his experiences at the house of the Brothers La Lond, of his escape, and, finally, of the accident that had befallen him.

“You’re hurt!” cried Sandy, suddenly jumping up. “Why, Dick, you should have told us before.”

The faces of Sandy and Toma were very grave as they stooped to untie his moccasin and examine the injured foot.

“Very bad sprain,” said Toma, straightening up. “I help you fix him, so after while you feel very much better. Sandy,” he ordered, turning to his still gaping companion, “you start build shelter right away. You, me work all night mebbe to make nice warm place. Dick stay here with bad foot one, two days, I think.”

In less than an hour, his foot properly attended to, Dick was resting more easily. Around him a shelter was being hurriedly constructed. He could hear Sandy and the young Indian guide walking back and forth, gathering huge arm-loads of brush, spruce boughs and moss, occasionally calling out to each other in bantering tones. The fire, which had been replenished, blazed brightly in front of the opening of the shelter. Its welcome heat succeeded in making Dick drowsy and presently he fell asleep.

When he awoke on the following morning, he rubbed his eyes in astonishment. All about him was the green, circular wall of a large tepee, so closely woven together with spruce boughs and moss that it was impossible to see even the faintest shaft of light coming through from the outside. The opening had been hung with a small blanket, but, what astonished Dick more than anything else, was that the fire, which had formerly been outside, was now inside the shelter. Smoke from an arm-load of burning branches rose straight up, escaping through a vent at the top of the tepee.

The shelter was warm and cozy, fragrant with the smell of spruce. Over the fire a small kettle of snow water was bubbling merrily. Dick threw back the four-point Hudson’s Bay blanket, which covered him, and clapped his hands with delight. What a miracle Toma and Sandy had wrought during the night! They had worked like Trojans to make things pleasant and comfortable for him.

He wondered where they were now. Except for the crackling of the fire and the sound of the water boiling in the kettle, there was nothing whatsoever to break the deep hush of that winter morning. He sat up and endeavored to examine his ankle. It felt better, he thought. There was no pain worth mentioning, and he was quite sure the swelling had gone down.

“I don’t mind staying here in the least,” he informed himself, twisting around and making his way over to the inviting blaze. “It will be great sport to live in a green wigwam like this with Sandy and Toma for company.”

A dull tramping in the snow outside, caused him to raise his head and turn his eyes toward the opening. The blanket was pushed aside and Sandy appeared, crawling on hands and knees, trailing his rifle and a large rabbit. Toma, who entered immediately behind, had two rabbits and a ptarmigan. The eyes of the two youthful hunters glowed from the excitement and pleasure of their successful foray.

“We eat good breakfast,” Toma announced, holding out the rabbits and ptarmigan for Dick’s inspection.

“When did you wake up?” Sandy wanted to know. “Thought you’d sleep for an hour yet.”

“It’s wonderful!” Dick voiced his appreciation and nearly choked in the effort. “You fellows are certainly two good pals. When I woke up I could scarcely believe my eyes.”

“It took us nearly all night,” said Sandy. “I don’t suppose I could ever have done it alone. Of course, I don’t need to tell you that Toma was the architect.”

“My people build ’em like that many times,” Toma modestly explained. “Plenty warm even when weather very cold. See many like that on Indian trap-line.”

“How long were you away hunting?” Dick asked.

“About an hour, I think. Game seems to be fairly plentiful around here. And, O Dick!——” Sandy paused as he turned somewhat eagerly toward his friend, “a mile from here, just across a narrow ravine, Toma came across snowshoe tracks. He says they were made by a white man.”

“Baptiste or Phillip,” guessed Dick, shivering a little.

Toma shook his head.

“Me no think so. Tracks at least two days old. Some white man he go by here day before yesterday.”

“But how,” sceptically inquired Dick, “do you know it was a white man? Surely you’re not able to tell that. Are the tracks so very much different?”

The Indian guide laughed as he nodded his head in the affirmative.

“Easy to tell. White man no use ’em snow shoes same like Indian. Tracks turn out. Indian tracks go straight ahead.”

“I think there’s something in it,” Sandy volunteered, “because after Toma had told me, while we were still out there on the trail, I noticed that Toma’s tracks were different from mine.”

Although still a little sceptical, Dick was sufficiently well acquainted with Toma and his ability and prowess, not to doubt that the Indian lad might be correct in his surmise. Very rarely, indeed, did Toma err in matters of this kind. A natural-born tracker and scout, versed in the ways of the wilderness, he had often startled his two young friends by his almost unlimited knowledge of wood-lore.

“And that isn’t all,” Sandy’s voice broke the lull in their conversation. “We discovered something else besides those tracks. I almost hate to tell you, Dick.”

“What was it?” his friend asked wonderingly.

“Blood stains!” Sandy enlightened him. “The man’s tracks were sprinkled here and there with tiny red spots. He must have been hurt or wounded, Dick. It makes me shiver to think about it.”

“Perhaps he was carrying some animal he had killed,” suggested Dick.

Again Toma shook his head.

“No,” he stated with conviction, “man hurt very bad. Him not go many miles like that. Toma feel plenty sorry for that man.”

In alarm, Dick looked from one to the other of his two friends. A hurt or wounded man out there on the trail alone—it made him feel weak and sick himself. He recalled his own helplessness and horror on the previous night, when he had fallen and sprained his ankle.

“Isn’t there something we can do?” he finally blurted out. “Just think what it may mean, Sandy.”

Sandy did not answer. Neither did Toma. The three boys were looking at each other now in a gloomy silence.

“You mustn’t forget your own condition, Dick,” Sandy reminded him. “We can’t leave you here alone, can we?”

“One of you could go after we’ve had breakfast. Why couldn’t you, Toma?” He turned appealingly to the Indian guide. “What do you say?”

To Dick’s surprise, Toma drew back and raised one arm in a gesture of protest.

“What you think poor Toma make crazy altogether?” he inquired. “Sandy an’ me both stay here to fight ’em Henderson’s men when they come. What good you think just one against two, three, four—mebbe six, ten men?” he demanded hotly.

It was, indeed, a poser. Dick sat with his head in his hands and Sandy turned wearily away to commence the preparation of breakfast.