Dick Kent on Special Duty 1

Dick Kent on Special Duty 1

Dick Kent on Special Duty

Author: Milton Richards

CHAPTER PAGE

I Rand Tackles a Difficult Case 3

II The Price of Folly 12

III Three New Recruits 17

IV Frischette’s Money Box 28

V A Midnight Prowler 38

VI New Complications 49

VII The Mysterious Poke 57

VIII Corporal Rand Takes Charge 66

IX Unexpected News 76

X Conflicting Theories 85

XI Finding a Motive 93

XII “Rat” MacGregor’s Wife 103

XIII On Creel’s Trail 111

XIV A Meeting in the Woods 121

XV A Deserted Road-House 129

XVI Trapped! 134

XVII A Policeman’s Horse 144

XVIII A Red Blob 154

XIX Across Hay River 161

XX A Thrilling Experience 170

XXI The Key to the Mystery 180

XXII Dewberry’s Treasure 188

XXIII Leaves From an Old Diary 197

XXIV Carson’s Son 206

XXV Piecing the Threads 216

XXVI Dick Rejoins His Comrades 225

 

 

 

 

DICK KENT ON SPECIAL DUTY

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER I

RAND TACKLES A DIFFICULT CASE

 

 

“Rat” MacGregor dropped to the floor and crawled on hands and knees to

the bunk wherein Dewberry, weary after hours of heavy mushing over an

almost unbroken trail, now slept the sleep of the just. Dewberry’s

raucous snores could be heard plainly. He lay face up, mouth partly

open, while one large, hairy arm hung limply over the side of his bed.

 

MacGregor knew that Dewberry was really asleep. Not only did he know

this, but he was cognizant of another fact, of which he alone was the

sole possessor. He knew that the big Englishman could not easily be

awakened. He was aware that something else besides weariness and

exhaustion compelled Dewberry to slumber thus. And he grinned over the

thought of it.

 

Before retiring for the night, the prospector had, following the usual

custom, removed none of his clothes. Neither had he troubled to unstrap

the money-belt that he wore, and place it in safe-keeping. The

money-belt was full, almost bursting with yellowbacks and greenbacks of

various denominations. But the thing which interested MacGregor even

more, was the small poke, suspended from a moosehide cord, and tied

securely about the sleeping man’s neck.

 

In his present predicament, the prospector would have been easy prey for

the figure who crept towards him, had circumstances been a little

different. The difference was this: In the room, the large airy room of

one “Frenchie” Frischette, keeper of road-houses, were a number of other

persons besides MacGregor and the drugged Dewberry.

 

These persons reclined in various attitudes and conditions of sleep. Not

a few of them, including Corporal Rand, of the Royal North West Mounted

police, possessed—even in slumber—a sense of hearing exceedingly acute.

The creak of a board, a sudden rustling movement—almost any noise at

all—would have aroused them at once. No one realized this any better

than MacGregor. His job had been only half accomplished a few hours

before when, with very little difficulty, he had drugged the man from

Crooked Stick River.

 

The thief rose slowly to a position on his knees. He was so close to his

victim that the man’s feverish breath fanned his cheek. He could hear

plainly his own heart and the heart of the sleeper, beating in a sort of

wild harmony together. His right hand was within eight inches of the

rugged prospector, yet he seemed unable, powerless to extend it one

infinitesimal part of the distance which separated it from the actual

point of contact.

 

In the dull, red glow of the fireplace he could see the tell-tale bulge

on Dewberry’s barrel-like chest. It filled him with a sort of agony to

realize that at the crucial moment he lacked the courage and the

strength to accomplish his task. Never before had he been so overcome

with weakness. A few quick movements only were required to bring wealth

into his grasp; yet here he knelt, with a cold dampness suffusing his

face and a tingling paralysis of all his muscles.

 

The prospector groaned and moved slightly, then raised one knee in a

convulsive movement of pain. MacGregor shrank back trembling, his eyes

darting about apprehensively. In a far corner another form stirred

uneasily and a loud, full-throated cough broke across the stillness like

a trumpet of doom.

 

Several minutes elapsed before MacGregor had recovered sufficiently from

his fright to attempt another furtive movement forward. This time he

summoned to his aid the last remnant of a wilted spirit. His hands went

out toward Dewberry’s throat. These clammy physical members found the

cord, but his fingers refused to function in his efforts to untie the

knot. For a moment he hesitated, then with a low, almost inhuman growl,

he tore his hunting knife from its sheath and tried to cut the cord. In

his haste, inadvertently the sharp point of the knife pricked the

sleeping man’s chest and, to MacGregor’s great astonishment and horror,

Dewberry started visibly and opened his eyes.

 

* * * * * * * *

 

The aroma of freshly fried bacon filled the room. Standing among his

pots and pans, nursing a new-found despair, “Frenchie” Frischette,

road-house keeper and gentleman of parts, could hear the approaching

figure. The pupils of his eyes were like beads of glass as they

encountered the trim, athletic figure of Corporal Rand.

 

“_Oui_,” he admitted slowly, “ze beeg prospector ees dead. You saw

heem?”

 

Corporal Rand nodded.

 

“How many men have already left?” he inquired.

 

“Zay haf all left,” Frischette shrugged his shoulders regretfully. “Many

before dawn. Zay go in ever’ direction—both ze good men and ze bad. How

you find heem of ze beeg knife?”

 

“The man who stabbed and robbed Dewberry will go south,” Corporal Rand

stated with conviction. “It is the law of the land. Men, who have money,

invariably go south—to spend it. Is there anything more simple than

that, Frischette? The rule seldom fails. Adventure goes north and money

goes south. I’m taking the trail south.”

 

The road-house keeper moistened his dry lips.

 

“I see heem four men go on the south trail ver’ early roun’ five

o’clock.”

 

“Together?”

 

“Zay went each by heemself.”

 

“No doubt, one of those four men is the murderer.”

 

“You t’ink so?”

 

“Yes,” said the policeman stubbornly, “I’m quite sure the murderer would

travel south. At any rate, I’m going in that direction. So long,

Frischette.”

 

Two days later, Corporal Rand was forced to admit that in this case, at

least, a precedent had been broken. None of the four men was the

murderer. Two were Indians from Lac la Biche; a third, Beckholt, a free

trader, a serene, gray-eyed veteran of the North, was above suspicion.

Father Marchand, who completed the quartette, could not for one moment

be included in any inventory of crime.

 

Without even taking the time to question one of them, Rand swung about

and retraced his way to the scene of the recent murder.

 

In the policeman’s absence, Frischette had made an important discovery.

Eagerly and somewhat excitedly, he told the story in a mixture of poor

English and bastard French. Fontaine, a half-breed boy in Frischette’s

service, had seen, on the evening preceding the robbery, a tall,

furtive-eyed man mix two drinks—one for himself and one for the

prospector. In the cup intended for Dewberry, the tall, furtive-eyed man

had poured something out of a small bottle. Shortly thereafter, the big

prospector had stumbled to his pile of blankets and had fallen asleep.