CHAPTER X

TOMA AND A COLD SNAP

With bated breath Dick and Sandy awaited some sign of the identity of the person who was entering so stealthily. Was it the scar faced Indian coming for vengeance, or was it—the warmth from the other room was rushing in. It was Toma’s voice that came to them.

“Quick! Come! Govereau gone long way.”

Hearts leaping with joy, Dick and Sandy joined the young guide in the darkness. He led them out into the larger room, picking his way with a certainty that revealed he could see in the dark.

“Watch for one fella on floor. I hit him on head with rifle,” Toma whispered. “Govereau’s men all go to post ten miles south where they drink fire-water. Govereau heap mad. Him after them. They come back anytime. He take me long with um. I run away. He know what I do now. You bet he know.”

Toma swung open the cabin door, and Dick and Sandy followed him out. It was so cold their teeth commenced chattering almost immediately. They buttoned up their jackets and hurried off into the night.

“We’ll make Fort Dunwoody yet,” Dick shivered, almost gladly.

“I’ll say we will,” Sandy came back.

Then they fell silent as they took Toma’s tireless, jogging pace, beneath a cloudy sky. Again the Indian’s trail wisdom came in like a God-send. Dick and Sandy did not know where they were going, but they had a feeling that Toma certainly did.

How long they ran they did not know when they began to feel damp spots on their cheeks and hands.

“It’s snowing,” Dick panted over his shoulder.

“I know it,” wheezed Sandy.

“Ought to cover our trail,” Dick came back.

“I guess so, but I can’t talk. I’ve got to save my wind. You must be made of iron.”

Dick said no more, and presently Toma slowed down. It was snowing heavily now, and with the going getting harder underfoot, Dick and Sandy were grateful for the slackening of the pace. Yet they sensed something unusual ahead had been the cause of it, and were not perfectly at ease by any means.

Finally Toma came to a dead stop at the edge of a clearing. Peering ahead through the gloom and the falling snow, they could see the lights of a cabin twinkling.

“You stay here; I go on,” Toma instructed in a low voice. “My brother live here. Him give us warm clothes. I see if all right first. Wait for me.”

Dick and Sandy hovered in the undergrowth and watched Toma’s figure melt away into the gloom in the direction of the cabin.

“I hope he gets some clothes for us,” Sandy chattered.

“And I’m glad Govereau didn’t take my wallet,” said Dick. “We can pay for what we get now.”

“The Frenchman didn’t think we had any money, I suppose,” Sandy opined.

They fell silent then, for against the lighted window they could see a head silhouetted through the falling snow. Toma was peering in at the window. For an instant the guide’s head was outlined there, then it disappeared. Presently a shaft of light shot out over the snow as the door opened and closed. A moment later the door opened again, though the boys could not see who entered.

Dick and Sandy expected Toma to come back for them almost immediately, or at least signal that all was right. But the minutes passed and the guide did not return nor make a sign. The boys began to worry.

“What do you suppose is keeping him?” Dick wondered.

“I don’t know,” Sandy replied, “but I do know I can’t stand still in this cold much longer.”

“We’ll circle around the cabin and come in closer,” Dick directed. “If something has happened we want to be sure we don’t get into trouble, too. Toma’s brother may have been killed by Henderson’s men. The country seems to be alive with the villains.”

Silently they started around the cabin. Half way around, Dick stumbled and fell over something in the snow. Sandy stopped dead and a gasp of horror came from his lips.

“Dick!” he exclaimed. “You’ve fallen over a dead man!”

Dick got up, more shaken by the identity of the thing he had fallen over than by the fall.

Covered by the light film of snow that had fallen, and which was steadily growing heavier, was the body of a man. In the gloom they could not distinguish his features, but they were put on their guard. Armed only with their hunting knives, they felt that the utmost caution must be exercised in further advances.

“Toma’s in trouble. I know it now!” Dick ejaculated.

“Well, it’s up to us to get him out,” Sandy retorted.

Drawing their knives they started stealthily for the cabin. They could hear no sound of life, and the knowledge of what was lying behind them under the snow made the atmosphere doubly fearsome.

At last they reached the single window through which they had seen Toma look into the cabin. Dick cautiously raised his eyes over the sill. He looked only an instant, then he quickly ducked downward.

“It’s the scar faced Indian!” he made the astounding disclosure to Sandy. “And there’s another with him. They have Toma bound. He’s lying on the bunk. I could see his eyes. They’re playing cards and talking. How in the world did they ever catch Toma?”

“That Indian again,” muttered Sandy. “How the deuce did he get here anyway. We saw him last at Govereau’s camp. It’s ghostly the way that fellow shows up everywhere.”

“Govereau must have sent him here on some dirty business,” Dick decided. “Perhaps Toma’s brother had valuable furs stored here.”

With mutual consent they crawled away from the cabin and hid in the trees at the edge of the clearing, where they tried to decide on a plan by which to rescue Toma. That they had a good chance of success they were sure. The scar-faced Indian had the use of but one arm since the wound Toma had given him, so they had but one real man to deal with. Still they were as well as unarmed. What could they do?

“I’ll tell you what,” Dick was speaking fast. “You go out into the woods and begin calling for help, anything to get one of them out of the cabin. Then I’ll slip in and see if I can’t take care of the other one and get hold of a rifle. The Indian will probably stay inside, and wounded as he is I’m sure I can handle him.”

“Gee! That’s a ghostly job you have for me to do,” Sandy whispered ruefully.

“We’ve got to do it, Sandy,” urged Dick. “It won’t hurt to try. You keep hidden, and when one of them comes out to see what’s wrong, keep quiet. I’ll do the rest.”

Dick and Sandy gripped hands, then parted. Dick crept around to a point opposite the door of the cabin, waiting tensely until Sandy began his part of the ruse. He did not have to wait long. Presently, from afar in the forest, a shriek as of some one in mortal agony, arose. Sandy was doing well.

“H-e-l-p, oh, h-e-l-p,” his voice rang out, high and shrill.

Sandy repeated his call several times, then the cabin door opened, and as Dick had hoped, the scar faced Indian’s companion came out. He had a rifle in his hands.

Again Sandy’s cry rang out from a little further off. The man hesitated no longer, but stepped from the cabin door and walked across the clearing into the trees to investigate. He disappeared in the direction of Sandy’s unearthly wailing.

Dick ran forward across the clearing, his moccasins making no noise in the snow. He remembered that the scar faced Indian had been sitting at the table facing the window. Therefore, if he had not changed his position, his back would be to the door.

Pausing before the door, Dick found it open a crack. Cautiously he pushed it open a little more and peered in. The Indian still was sitting with his back to the door. He was idly shuffling the cards. Against the bunk where Toma lay bound, Dick could see a rifle leaning. One leap across the floor and he would have this rifle. It was a desperate chance, but he must make the best of it.

Swift as a panther, Dick threw open the door and leaped in. The astonished Indian was scarcely half out of his chair when Dick had the rifle in his hands.

“Hands up!” he cried.

Whether the Indian understood English or not, Dick did not know, but his words had the required effect. Slowly the scar-faced Indian turned his ugly face upon his captor, his mouth twisted into an evil, smirking grin. Dick stepped forward and drew the revolver from his captive’s belt and tossed it into a corner. Then he backed toward the bunk with the rifle still trained on the Indian. Quickly, he drew his knife and slashed Toma’s bonds.

“Ha! Now we got um!” Toma tore the gag from his mouth, leaned up and picked up the revolver Dick had thrown away. In a trice, then, Toma had lashed the scar-faced Indian to his chair.

Dick already was expecting the return of the Indian’s companion. With the Indian secured, both Toma and he turned their attention to the door. With bated breath they waited and listened for approaching footfalls.