Dick Kent on Special Duty 15

Dick Kent on Special Duty 15

“I’ll tell you, Toma,” Dick spoke despondently. “We haven’t a chance now

to overtake Creel. But at Fort Wonderly there’s a government telegraph

office, and I’ll give a message to the operator, warning everybody along

the route. There is another detachment of the mounted police at Peace

River Crossing, and they’ll send out a man to intercept him.”

 

So it was late that night when Dick and Toma returned to Meade’s Ferry

and reported the outcome of their journey.

 

“It’s too bad,” Sandy commented, “I was sure that when you got back

you’d have Creel with you. But you showed a lot of good sense when you

sent that message. If Creel manages to slip through the police lines

farther south, he’ll be a wizard.”

 

“I’ve been thinking about Creel all day,” said Dick. “I’ve been blaming

myself continually for my negligence. We should never have permitted him

to escape. I’m positive now that your theory is correct, and that he’s

going south, not only with the money that was in that box, but the

contents of Dewberry’s poke as well. I really believe that if we had our

hands upon him now, and searched him, we’d find everything.”

 

“No doubt, you’re right. Well, I suppose there’s only one thing to do

now: Return to Frischette’s road-house. Corporal Rand must be back by

now. He’ll know what to do next.”

 

The two boys were joined later by Toma, Meade and his son. The

free-trader, a tall, imposing figure, complacently smoked a pipe and now

and again engaged the boys in conversation.

 

“I understand that you’ve come from Fort Good Faith,” he said.

 

“Well, not exactly,” Dick replied. “We live there. Factor MacClaren is

Sandy’s uncle; but for the last few days we’ve been stopping at

Frischette’s roadhouse.”

 

Meade’s clear blue eyes shadowed.

 

“Friend of his?”

 

“Not exactly,” answered Dick evasively.

 

“Queer character,” commented Meade.

 

“He’s dead,” said Sandy.

 

“Dead!” The free-trader straightened in his chair, removed the pipe from

his mouth and stared. “What happened to _him_?”

 

“Took his own life.”

 

Meade received this information with a slight raising of his eyebrows.

 

“Queer! That road-house will soon have an evil name. First Dewberry and

now Frischette.”

 

For a time conversation languished. Everyone seemed to be occupied with

his own thoughts.

 

“I was interested in the Dewberry case,” Meade finally broke the

silence. “You see, I knew him; knew him better probably than most folks.

Sort of unusual fellow, Dewberry was. One of the quietest, queerest men

I have ever met.”

 

Dick locked across at Meade sharply.

 

“Not very many people really knew Dewberry,” he stated.

 

“I knew him,” said Meade, “and I was sorry to hear of his death.”

 

“Where do you suppose Dewberry was going?” Sandy spoke up. “I mean just

before the tragedy. No one seems to know.”

 

Meade smiled. “There’s no secret there. Dewberry often passed along the

trail, and sometimes remained here for several days at a time. He was a

queer duffer. But once you got to know him, his eccentricities passed

unnoticed. Not many folks knew it, but Dewberry’s time was divided

between this country and Peace River Crossing. Usually, about six months

of the year, he lived at the Crossing. He owns property there. Has a

little house, overlooking the Hart River, and for weeks at a time he’d

shut himself up in it. A lot of folks couldn’t understand why he chose

to do that. Neither could I, until one time, when I happened to be in

Peace River Crossing, I met him on the street.”

 

For a time Meade lapsed into silence, gazing reminiscently away in the

direction of the river.

 

“He invited me up to the house,” he continued. “Tidy little place, I

found it. Nicely furnished. Piano, violin, books. Books!—there were rows

upon rows of books. Special bindings, shelf upon shelf, I tell you, and

strange old volumes, musty with age. He loved them. That’s where he

spent most of his time. Read from morning ’til night, and when he wasn’t

reading, he was fiddling away on the violin or thumping on that piano. I

stayed there two days, and I want to tell you that I’ve never enjoyed

anything more. His company. His talk about the books. The music he made

on that piano.”

 

“Too bad he’s gone,” said Sandy.

 

The free-trader nodded.

 

“He was reputed to be very wealthy,” said Dick.

 

“I guess that is true,” Meade answered thoughtfully. “You see, he was

one of the best prospectors that ever came into the North. There are

some folks who say that his luck was phenomenal. At any rate, he had no

occasion to worry. In recent years, it was more for the love and

excitement he got out of the game than the necessity of making more

money that induced him to take those long, lonely treks out there in the

foothills.”

 

“After what you have told us about him,” puzzled Sandy, “there is one

thing rather difficult to understand. Why did a person of his

intelligence carry so much wealth about his person.”

 

“I don’t think he did,” declared Meade.

 

“If that is so,” persisted Sandy, “why did they follow him and plan the

robbery and murder at Frischette’s?”

 

“Well, there is no doubt that he had a considerable amount of money and

gold with him, but no more, probably, than the average prospector. I am

positive that he didn’t carry his entire wealth with him. ‘Rat’

MacGregor, or whoever it was that committed the robbery, merely

suspected that such was the case.”

 

Sandy abandoned the issue. Yet neither he nor Dick was convinced. There

was that tell-tale poke.

 

As they sat there, watching the shadows steal out from the darkening

woodland beyond, they were presently made aware of a newcomer.

 

An Indian pony, a pinto mare, left the turn of the trail near the fringe

of trees, bordering the river, and came slowly forward. A woman sat

astride the pony—a young woman, unmistakably an Indian or half-breed.

Meade rose as she reined up in front of the cabin and slowly dismounted.

The boys were not particularly interested. They had never seen the woman

before.

 

“Who is that?” Sandy inquired listlessly.

 

Both boys started at the unexpected answer.

 

“Heaven help me,” growled Meade, “if it isn’t ‘Rat’ MacGregor’s wife!”

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER XIV

A MEETING IN THE WOODS

 

 

Scarcely had the boys recovered from their astonishment, when they were

treated to a still greater and more breath-taking surprise. Meade’s son

was the first to draw their attention. In their interest in the

newcomer, they had entirely overlooked the approach of two others.

 

These two were Burnnel and Emery. They rode up to the accompanying

thump, thump, thump of three wildly beating hearts. Astride two horses!

Stolen horses! In his agitation, Dick rose and gripped the back of his

chair. He recognized the wiry little ponies, and rubbed his eyes. Less

than twenty-four hours before he had ridden one of them himself. The

other belonged to Sandy.

 

In truth, Dick had become so excited that for the next few moments he

was barely aware of what was taking place. He was confused and

befuddled. He saw Sandy and Toma shoot to their feet in sudden dismay

and shrink back toward the open doorway. Not knowing that anything was

wrong, Meade and his son had gone forward to bid the new arrivals a

hearty welcome. And it was probably well that they did, for it gave the

three boys time to slip within the log building, hurriedly cross the

room and pass out of the door at the opposite side.

 

All three were trembling with excitement. Below his shock of bright

yellow hair, Sandy’s forehead was ashen. The boys hoped that they had

not been recognized. Undoubtedly, while making their approach, Burnnel

and Emery had seen them, but Dick recalled that in the position in which

they sat out there on the front porch, they had been hid somewhat by the

figures of Meade and his son.

 

The coming of the two malevolent prospectors had placed them in a rather

awkward, if not dangerous position. It would be impossible for them to

remain at the road-house while the partners were there. Burnnel and

Emery had not forgotten the encounter of two days before in front of

Creel’s cabin. No doubt, they would take a great deal of pleasure in

evening the score. Both were remorseless, savage, vindictive. Neither

would hesitate for a moment to take any advantage offered, any

opportunity for reprisal.

 

“No, it will never do for us to remain,” Sandy trembled. “You and Toma

can stay here if you like, Dick—not I. If we stay here, we’ll be

compelled to fight it out.”

 

“I willing fight,” Toma announced darkly.

 

“It wouldn’t be fair to Meade,” Dick objected. “There’s sure to be

trouble. Anyway, there’s nothing to be gained by remaining here.”

 

“The thing to do,” said Sandy emphatically, “is to get out—go somewhere

and make camp for the night. Either that, or start back at once for

Frischette’s road-house, which we had planned to do tomorrow anyway.

I’ll repeat that I don’t care to show my face around here—at least, not

until Burnnel and Emery have gone.”

 

They were standing just outside the door on the side of the cabin

opposite to the one, where they had previously been sitting talking to

the free-trader and his son. They were safe from detection here only for

a few moments. As soon as Burnnel and Emery and “Rat” MacGregor’s wife

put up their horses, they would enter the cabin. Then the boys would be

seen, for not only the door but one window overlooked the space there on

the west side of the house, where they were now standing.