Dick Kent on Special Duty 16

Dick Kent on Special Duty 16

Toma pointed to a line of brush two or three hundred yards away, and

they proceeded hurriedly toward it. In leaving thus surreptitiously,

they had been forced to abandon part of their equipment—their rifles and

shoulder-packs, and a small roll of Hudson’s Bay blankets.

 

“What will Meade think?” Dick inquired anxiously, as they plunged into

the dense thicket and commenced picking their way ahead. “He won’t

understand our sudden disappearance. I’m afraid he’ll be anxious about

us.”

 

“Worse than that,” Sandy struck out at a branch directly in front of him

before taking his next step. “He’ll be sure to give us away. Emery and

Burnnel, if they don’t know it already, will learn from him that we were

at the road-house when they arrived.”

 

“It can’t be helped. I don’t think they’ll follow us.”

 

“What beats me,” Sandy stopped altogether and turned to face his two

companions soberly, “is how they managed to get away from Corporal Rand.

You don’t suppose he turned them loose again, do you?”

 

“It seems hardly likely, yet—” Dick paused.

 

“Yet they’re here,” the young Scotchman finished the sentence for him.

“Either they escaped, or he gave them their freedom. If he gave them

their freedom, Rand has proved to his own satisfaction that Frischette

really committed suicide. Then, of course, he wouldn’t have any reason

for detaining them any longer.”

 

“Perfectly true. But that doesn’t explain about the ponies. Rand may be

kind-hearted and all that, yet he wouldn’t deliberately lend them the

ponies, would he? We need them ourselves.”

 

“They might have stolen the ponies,” reasoned Sandy.

 

“That seems more probable.”

 

“Well, what we do now?” Toma had grown impatient. “I think it be foolish

to stay here in brush all night. Better we start right back an’ see if

we find ’em Corporal Rand.”

 

“But suppose the corporal didn’t release Burnnel and Emery?” Dick asked

perplexed. “We’d be foolish to run away then. The least we could do,

would be to keep in sight of them. Remember, Creel has already escaped.”

 

In exasperation, Sandy strode over to a fallen tree trunk and sat down,

moping his perspiring forehead with short, angry jabs, a scowl on his

face.

 

“O pshaw! What’s the use? Everything’s turning out all wrong. We’re

getting deeper and deeper and deeper into trouble every minute. I’m

through! I’ll never become a policeman or a good detective—I know I

won’t. I’m growing tired of all this, Dick. It’s wearing on my nerves.

It is, I tell you.”

 

Dick and Toma both laughed.

 

“Nonsense, Sandy! This is a game of wits. I like it.” Dick made a

comical gesture with his hands. “All you have to do is to out-guess the

other fellow. We’ll win in the end. We’re bound to.”

 

“Oh, is that so. A guessing contest!” The other’s tones were deeply

sarcastic. “Well, if that’s the case, we’re at the losing end right now.

How many of your guesses have been correct?”

 

Boy-fashion, Dick strode over and placed a hand on his chum’s indignant

shoulder.

 

“Forget it, Sandy. This isn’t a bit like you. Come on!”

 

“Come on where?”

 

Thus put to it, Dick found himself in somewhat of a predicament. The

question required an answer.

 

“Why—why—well—” he began. “You see, Sandy—”

 

“It’s a contest,” Sandy reminded him scornfully. “All you have to do is

to outwit the other fellow. You like it. Now tell me, please, what is

your guess?”

 

Dick flushed, but contrived to keep his temper.

 

“I haven’t quite decided yet. There are two courses open to us. We can

stay here and keep an eye on Burnnel and Emery, or go back to meet

Corporal Rand.”

 

In such a mood, Sandy got a good deal of enjoyment in tantalizing his

friend.

 

“All right. I’m waiting. Why don’t you guess?”

 

Dick looked about him in desperation. Then gradually out of his

perplexity there sprang a solution to his difficulty. It came like the

sudden glimmer of inspiration.

 

“We’ll have to do both,” he stated positively.

 

“How?”

 

“Separate.”

 

“I don’t quite understand.”

 

“One of us can go back to meet Corporal Rand, the other two remain here

to watch Burnnel and Emery.”

 

Sandy rose from his place on the fallen tree, grinning a little

sheepishly.

 

“Now you’re talking. Why didn’t you think of that before? Which one of

us will go to meet the corporal?”

 

“You can go if you like, Sandy,” said Dick with great magnanimity.

 

“No, no; I wasn’t thinking about that. You’d better go, Dick. You’re the

one that thought of it.”

 

Dick shook his head.

 

“I think I’d rather stay here, if you don’t mind.”

 

“Just as you say.”

 

Sandy was really pleased.

 

“It’s a bargain, then, unless Toma—”

 

“I like stay here, too,” declared Toma.

 

The three boys were grouped together, facing each other. For the time

being, they were off guard. Not that they had felt at any time during

the past few moments that danger really threatened them. Although still

fairly close to Meade’s road-house, they weren’t troubled about Burnnel

and Emery just then. Even if the two prospectors had seen them when they

rode up, it was extremely unlikely that they would attempt anything

until they had fully rested. Immediate pursuit was a thing that had not

entered the boys’ calculations, and yet—

 

Dick’s first intimation of an attack, or even of the presence of an

enemy, came when he beheld Toma—apparently for no reason at all—leap

straight back, like a deer surprised in its forest haunt, and plunge

headlong into a willow thicket. Sandy’s behavior was equally puzzling.

Sandy sat down. He sat down on the seat he had just vacated and stared

wildly past Dick, both eyes and mouth open wide. Whirling about, Dick

blinked and caught his breath. A familiar pair confronted him.

 

“Don’t move,” said a heavy voice. “We got yuh!”

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER XV

A DESERTED ROAD-HOUSE

 

 

Frischette’s road-house was quiet. A casual passer-by, threading his way

along the shadowy forest trail, a trail arched by the branches of tall

poplar trees, might have thought that the place was deserted. There was

no sign of life anywhere, although a door and several windows stood

partially open. A young Indian, who approached the familiar landmark,

was struck by an overwhelming feeling of presentiment.

 

The morning was well advanced and yet there was no evidence of life

here. No smoke issued from the tall mud-chimney, which rose like a bleak

sentinel at one side of the building. Sitting on the projecting end of

the center ridge-pole, a hawk basked in the sun. Intense quiet reigned,

a funereal silence, that was broken only by the faint rustling of the

leaves and the nervous stirring of the tall grass, which encroached up

to the door of the cabin itself.

 

Toma rubbed one hand across his brow wearily. For four hours he had

walked steadily with this place as his objective, and in the hope of

finding his friend, the mounted police corporal. He knew that Rand ought

to be here. That had been their agreement, the understanding between the

policeman and the three boys.

 

When he had approached to within thirty or forty yards of the house,

Toma’s spirits fell. He was sure now that the road-house was untenanted.

No occupied dwelling, he reasoned, could be wrapped so deeply in that

tragic, sombre silence. The door stood invitingly open, yet Toma knew

before entering that no person recently had left it thus. He paused on

the threshold, staring into the room. It seemed to mock him. Except for

the few bare furnishings, it was entirely empty. With a quaking heart

and a trembling step, he passed through the main front room to the

kitchen at the back.

 

No one was about. In the kitchen there had been stacked up, on a long

work-table opposite the stove, a pile of dirty, unwashed dishes. He

glanced at them casually, then passed on out of the back door and made

his way over to the stable. Like the cabin, the stable was unoccupied.

Disconsolately, Toma walked over and, climbing up, sat down on the top

rail of the six-foot-high corral fence.

 

He didn’t know what to make of it all. The absence of Corporal Rand

might, of course, be accounted for. But what about Fontaine and Le

Sueur, his two friends? Since the death of Frischette, these two last

named young men had taken over the management of the road-house. They

had entered upon their duties with a good deal of enthusiasm, and it

seemed unusual that they should both be away now, neglecting their business.