Dick Kent on Special Duty 17

Dick Kent on Special Duty 17

It was true, of course, that summer visitors were few. The bulk of

Frischette’s trade had come during the early fall and winter and just

before the spring break-up. However, even if there were no guests at the

road-house, there was always the chance that one might come—an

occasional straggler—and it was not reasonable to suppose that both

Fontaine and Le Sueur would leave the place for any length of time.

 

Yet, that was exactly what they had done. They were neglecting their

business. Toma scowled at the ground, and one moccasined foot beat an

impatient tattoo along the surface of the rail beneath him. He decided

after a time that, low on supplies, they had gone over to Fort Good

Faith to replenish their larder. But the absence of Rand was not so

easily explained, unless he was out searching for Burnnel and Emery.

 

Shaking his head, Toma hopped down off the corral fence and strode back

in the direction of the house. This time he had a purpose in mind. He

would enter the kitchen and prepare himself a belated breakfast. He had

not eaten since early the night before and was tremendously hungry. He

entered the kitchen, kindled a fire in the large iron cook stove and

methodically set about his task.

 

In the middle of his preparations he paused, pricking up his ears. Had

he heard something—a slight scraping sound? He stood perfectly still,

listening patiently. Then, as the sound was not repeated, he decided

that he had been mistaken. He returned to his task, and in a short time

breakfast was ready. He set a place for himself on the table in the

adjoining room, and was returning to the kitchen for his rasher of bacon

and pot of coffee, when he heard the sound again.

 

This time there was no doubt in his mind. He had heard aright. The sound

issued from the room which had formerly been used by Frischette for his

office and private sleeping apartment. It was the only room in the house

that he had not explored. He bounded quickly forward, seizing the knob

of the door. He bent his weight against it.

 

He stood back, scratching his head in perplexity. It was locked.

Something or someone was inside there. He called out softly. But,

although he imagined he heard the faint, scraping sound again, no voice

answered him.

 

Toma was not long in deciding upon his course of action. He hurried into

the kitchen, passed through the door at the back, picked up a small log,

about four feet in length and six inches in diameter and, returning with

it, he applied himself to the door.

 

At the first blow from his heavy battering-ram, the lock gave way. A

splintering and cracking of wood, and the door swung back. Looking

inside, Toma dropped his battering-ram.

 

Closest to the door, lay Rand, gagged, bound hand and foot. A few feet

farther on, sprawled the youthful figures of his two friends, Fontaine

and Le Sueur.

 

Following a little gasp of amazement, Toma strode into the room.

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER XVI

TRAPPED!

 

 

Burnnel and Emery had appeared so unexpectedly before the boys, opposite

Meade’s road-house, that resistance was useless. Dick and Sandy had no

chance, whatever, to raise a hand in their defense. Of the three, Toma

had been the only one at all fortunate. His sudden leap backward into

the brush made possible his escape, but Dick and Sandy were powerless.

The young Scotchman, shrinking with terror, still sat on the fallen

tree, while Dick, no less overcome with fear, stood motionless, as the

two men drew closer, flourishing their guns. Emery’s face was malignant

but triumphant.

 

“So you thought you’d bust into our little game, eh?” he snarled, as he

relieved Dick and Sandy of their revolvers. “Yuh thought yuh was pretty

smart back there at Creel’s a few days ago, didn’t yuh? Well, yuh can

pay fer that now. Time we get through with yuh, yuh won’t be so willin’

to meddle in somebody else’s business.”

 

Dick found his voice.

 

“We didn’t harm you.”

 

Emery’s scowl darkened. He was on the point of making some sarcastic

reply, but Burnnel cut in sharply:

 

“Save your gab, both o’ yuh. Too bad that other feller got away.”

 

Dick hoped that their captors would take them back to Meade’s

road-house. It would be the best thing for him and Sandy. Their chance

of getting away would be better. They would feel safer there. Meade, no

doubt, would interfere and gain their release.

 

Sandy had sunk into deep and utter dejection. He recalled, with little

shivers of apprehension, the treatment which had been meted out to Creel

a few days before. He was not buoyed up by any false hopes. He could see

in Burnnel and Emery’s actions only an effort at reprisal—revenge for

their previous humiliation. Unlike Dick, he did not believe that they

would be taken back to Meade’s road-house. In fact, such a thought had

never entered his mind. The partners were too shrewd for that. No, he

and Dick would be mistreated and tortured merely to satisfy their

craving for revenge. Besides, it would not suit Burnnel and Emery’s

purpose to be encumbered with two prisoners. They had other business to

attend to.

 

And, in a way, Sandy was right. Shortly after the boys had been relieved

of their guns, Burnnel straightened up, his mouth twisted in a venomous

leer.

 

“Turn out your pockets,” he ordered.

 

The boys obeyed hastily, their hands nervous and trembling. Emery stood

over them, watching like a hawk, seizing from one or the other the

miscellaneous assortment of things that were brought to light. Dick, who

had acted as treasurer for the three boys, was relieved of a roll of

bills and a handful of silver. Burnnel’s eyes lighted with satisfaction

at sight of the money, but his partner only grunted. Soon the boys had

completed their task. Their pockets had all been emptied.

 

“Where’s the poke?”

 

Dick stared incredulously.

 

“Poke? Why—why—what do you mean?”

 

“Don’t yuh try tuh look so blame’ innocent. Yuh got it, one o’ yuh.”

 

“Look here,” said Dick hotly, “you know where that poke is—in Corporal

Rand’s possession. You had it yourself on two different occasions. Why

didn’t you keep it?”

 

Burnnel advanced threateningly.

 

“Enough o’ that! Yuh know what I mean, a’ right. We want what was in

that poke an’ we want it quick.”

 

“But see here,” protested Dick, “we haven’t anything. I tell you, we

haven’t. We don’t even know what was in the poke in the first place.”

 

Burnnel and Emery exchanged glances. Then, indignantly, the little man

addressed the other:

 

“There, what’d I tell yuh. It’s plain they ain’t got it. I was right.

It’s Creel!”

 

The huge bulk of Burnnel stood like a statue. Since questioning Dick, he

had not moved, except to turn his head in his partner’s direction. Now

his chin was bent forward, resting upon his expansive, barrel-like

chest. To all appearances, his partner’s assertion had given him food

for thought, required deliberate and careful consideration. In a moment

he raised his eyes again, glancing at Emery. With the fingers of one

hand he scratched the stubble on his pocked, scarred face.

 

“How do yuh know that? You’re jus’ guessin’. I’d as soon think these

boys had it as Creel. Fact is, it’s a hull lot more likely. How do we

know that this here young tomcat didn’t empty the poke t’other night

right after we left an’ afore Frischette comes along an’ grabs it?”

 

Emery darted a quick, insolent, sarcastic glance at his huge

confederate.

 

“I don’t believe it. Creel’s the one what’s fooled us. Fooled us in the

first place there at his cabin. It’s all your fault, too. Yuh never

looked in that poke. An easy mark you are,” he declared scornfully,

“lettin’ him put it over yuh like that.”

 

Burnnel snarled like a bear in a trap. Emery perceived that he had gone

too far. His next words were placating, almost a whine.

 

“Now look o’ here, Bob, yuh don’t need to get huffy. I think you’re

wrong an’ I’m goin’ to stick to it. The only reason I said I’d come over

here tuh question these brats was all on your account. I wanted yuh to

be satisfied, tuh see fer yourself. We’re jus’ wastin’ time. The thing

tuh do is tuh go back, pick up that blame’ squaw an’ see if we can’t run

that worthless ol’ rat tuh earth.”

 

Burnnel hated to admit that he was in the wrong, and in order to cover

his chagrin and disappointment, he flew into a violent rage and for a

period of nearly two minutes cursed wildly and furiously. As he did so,

he paced back and forth, huge fists clinched, swinging his arms

violently. With a final snarl, he cuffed Dick across the head, sending

the young man reeling back dizzily. His large moccasined foot, swinging

up, brushed Sandy’s thigh. Then he seized Emery by the shoulder.

 

“Come on! Let’s get out o’ here!”

 

The little man’s head jerked back with a snap. He, too, became furious.

They were still cursing and storming at each other as they disappeared

from view.

 

The boys could scarcely believe their good fortune. They had not

expected to escape from the encounter with so little injury. They had

not even been taken prisoners. Their only loss had been that of their

money and their revolvers—a thing which troubled them little. Meade,

Dick was quite certain, would willingly help them out, as soon as they explained their predicament.