Dick Kent on Special Duty 19

Dick Kent on Special Duty 19

“You see, Toma,” his voice was strangely calm, “he meant a lot to

me—Inverness. I—I hated to see him go. Poor old fellow! I could see his

pleading look, when they brought him over opposite the window, and he

looked in and saw me.”

 

Unbidden, a tear came into the corporal’s steely eye and trickled down

his cheek. He rose from his chair and strode to the door.

 

“Why they shoot your horse like that?” Toma wanted to know.

 

“To insure their escape,” the policeman answered, not turning his head.

“If I were released, it would be necessary to follow on foot.”

 

He turned quickly upon Toma.

 

“How did it happen,” he asked, “that you came on alone? Where are Dick

and Sandy?”

 

“Burnnel and Emery get them jus’ like they get you. Almost get me, too,

but I jump away from them. I come on here because I think mebbe you go

back an’ help.”

 

“You did well, Toma. Where did this happen?”

 

“Near the place where keep ’em house that free trader.”

 

“Meade?”

 

The Indian nodded.

 

“That isn’t far from here,” said Rand. “We’ll start at once.”

 

In admiration, Toma drew in his breath. Well he knew the agony the

policeman must endure from his limbs, still swollen, as the result of

that terrible ordeal. Notwithstanding this, he proposed to start out as

if nothing had happened. It was nearly twenty miles back along the trail

to Meade’s Ferry. Twenty miles with legs like that! Twenty miles through

the stifling heat of that summer’s day—and over a rough trail!

 

“You think you do that?” he asked, his mouth agape.

 

“I can do it,” declared Rand simply.

 

And not long afterward they were on the trail, the policeman walking

with a pronounced limp, yet keeping abreast of his more agile companion.

Mosquitos drove around them in clouds. The hot breath of the sun-steeped

earth rose up about them. It was tedious work, a gruelling, unpleasant

experience.

 

Yet the corporal did not complain. When he spoke at all, it was to joke

or jest, to comment lightly upon some phase of their journey. And with

each passing minute, his limp grew more pronounced. He was hobbling now

upon swollen, blistered feet.

 

“We better stop rest,” Toma advised him.

 

“No,” said Rand, clenching his teeth, “we’ll go on. It can’t be much

farther now. Just a few miles more.”

 

So they went on again, a weary, perspiring pair. Though Toma suffered no

particular physical discomfort, he endured mental torture as he watched

the policeman keep pace with him. He could have cried out with

thankfulness, when at last, through an opening in the trees, he

discerned the low, rambling structure, which served the double purpose

of store and road-house.

 

A short time later they entered the building itself and were greeted by

the kindly free trader.

 

“Glad to see you, corporal. The boys were expecting you.”

 

“Where are they now?”

 

“They’ve gone on.”

 

“And Burnnel and Emery?”

 

“The boys are camping on their trail.”

 

Corporal Rand looked very much surprised and turned upon Toma.

 

“I thought you said that the boys had been taken prisoners?”

 

“Yes,” nodded Toma.

 

“Well, how can that be?”

 

“I can explain it all,” Meade laughed. “Dick and Sandy were taken

prisoners, all right, but were released a few minutes later. They slept

out last night in the open, returning here shortly after the three set

out—Burnnel, Emery and the squaw.”

 

“How did the boys travel?” Rand asked.

 

“I lent them two ponies.”

 

“Got any more?”

 

“Not another one, corporal. I have only the two. One is mine and the

other belongs to my son, Frederick. But where is your own horse,

corporal?”

 

Thus reminded of his loss, Rand’s face became grim again.

 

“They shot it. Back at Frenchie’s road-house. That’s why I’ve come on

foot.”

 

“And you’re almost crippled,” said Meade, who had observed the

policeman’s limp.

 

“I can manage somehow.”

 

“Not until you’ve doctored up those feet,” Meade declared kindly.

 

Rand flung himself down in an easy chair, motioning to Toma also to be

seated.

 

“You’d better rest while you can, Toma. We’ll go on again in a few

minutes.”

 

Meade had grown thoughtful.

 

“I’ve an idea,” he announced at length, “that I can get two horses for

you over at Bonner’s Lake from a half-breed there. This man has a herd

of ponies he keeps for Spring and Autumn freighting. They’re feeding on

the range now and I’m sure he’ll accommodate me.”

 

Meade smiled, puffing stoutly on his pipe.

 

“I’ll send my son, Frederick, over there,” he resumed. “In the meantime,

you can rest here. He won’t be long.”

 

The kind offer was accepted. In truth, the corporal’s limbs were so

badly swollen from the effects of the thongs and the hard trek

immediately after being released by Toma, that he doubted very much

whether he could walk more than a few miles more, anyway.

 

“I won’t forget your kindness,” the policeman thanked him. “It’s very

good of you.”

 

“Not at all! Not at all!” Meade hastened to assure him. “I’d do that

much for the Royal Mounted any time. I’ve heard about the case you’re

working on, corporal, and I’m anxious to have you succeed. Dewberry was

a friend of mine.”

 

Rand looked up quickly.

 

“That’s interesting. So few men really knew Dewberry. Queer character,

from what I’ve heard.”

 

“A splendid man,” Meade declared reverently. “A generous and fine man!”

 

“While your son, Frederick, is away after the horses, I wonder if you’ll

tell me what you know of him. It has been very difficult to gather any

information concerning him. It might help a lot in this case if you’d

give me a clear insight into his character. There are a number of things

I can’t explain.”

 

Frederick was called and sent after the ponies. Then Meade sat down and

began telling about his friend, the mysterious Dewberry. It was a story

very similar to the one he had told Dick and Sandy. Rand listened

without once interrupting, and Toma also paid close attention until,

growing drowsy, he fell asleep in his chair. When he awoke again, Meade

was still talking, but now occasionally the policeman plied him with a

question.

 

Toma yawned, rose to his feet and stalked over to a window. Looking out,

he was surprised to see the free trader’s son already returning with the

horses.

 

“They come,” announced Toma. “The ponies are here.”

 

Corporal Rand smiled and nodded at Toma, but—a thing the young Indian

could not understand—seemed more interested in the conversation than in

the arrival of the ponies. Nevertheless, a moment later Rand rose and

hobbled to the door. Meade followed him. They went out ahead of Toma,

and, as they did so, the policeman remarked:

 

“Your talk has been a revelation. I’m beginning to see a little light.”

 

Long afterward, when he and the corporal were out on the trail, Toma

studied over that statement. What did Rand mean by that? Hadn’t he

always seen the light?

 

Then he shook his head and gave up in despair. For Corporal Rand, as

Toma was well aware, had never had trouble with his vision.