Dick Kent on Special Duty 8

Dick Kent on Special Duty 8

“Ho-hope they don’t come this way,” shuddered Sandy.

 

“Toma saw them before we did,” whispered Dick. “That’s why he didn’t

attempt that call. Who do you suppose they are?”

 

In terror, Sandy shook his head.

 

“Keep down,” he trembled, “or they may see us.”

 

Dick grew suddenly tense. The two men had reached the door of the cabin,

and for a brief moment stood undecided. Then the tall man raised a

gnarled hand and struck the door so violently and unexpectedly that

Sandy and Dick both jumped back, as if they, instead of the rough pine

barrier, had received the full impact of that mighty blow.

 

The echo had scarcely subsided, when the tall man struck again.

 

“Open up! Open up!” he thundered. “Creel, open up this yere door.”

 

The door swung back on its rusty hinges, and then the boys saw Creel

framed in the aperture. But it was a different Creel than the man they

had seen previously. He looked much older. The stoop to his shoulders

was more noticeable. A pathetic figure now, a terror-struck human

derelict. At the very best he could offer but feeble resistance to these

two terrible fellows, who had come storming and raging upon him.

 

“Guess yuh know what we’ve come fer, Creel,” the little man snarled.

“Yuh can guess, can’t yuh? Quick now, an’ bring it out. We’re in a

hurry, I tell yuh. Quick!”

 

Creel made the fatal mistake of pretending he did not know what the

other was talking about. He raised a trembling hand.

 

“If you’ll explain a little more clearly, gentlemen, what you want

I’ll—”

 

The sentence was not completed. The tall man reached out with one arm

and caught Creel about the neck. Scarcely seeming to exert himself, he

lifted him completely off his feet, holding him dangling—head pressed

back against the frame of the door. For a brief moment the body of the

recluse remained pinioned there, then was suddenly released and fell

with a muffled thud across the threshold.

 

Dick and Sandy, who had been silent witnesses of the drama unrolling

before their eyes, caught their breath in anger. Much as they despised

and feared Creel, the unwarranted brutality of the tall man caused them

to experience a feeling of sympathy for the helpless old recluse. Dick’s

hand flashed to the revolver at his belt, and he had half-started to his

feet, when Sandy drew him back.

 

“Don’t be foolish, Dick,” he trembled. “Keep out of this. We can

accomplish more by remaining right here where we are. Look!”

 

Creel had stumbled dazedly to his feet, gripping the door for support.

 

“Now,” declared the little man grimly, “I guess yuh understand. Bring it

out.”

 

Creel staggered inside and appeared, a short time later, carrying the

box. Both men made a grab for it, but the smaller was the quicker of the

two. He flung open the lid of the small treasure-chest and both he and

his companion pawed through it excitedly, their faces distorted with

greed.

 

Dick and Sandy, who were watching events with wide-open eyes, were

wholly unprepared for the next step in the little drama. In a sudden

fury of disappointment, the little man raised the box and sent it

crashing to the floor. His __EXPRESSION__ was awful to behold, his eyes like

two bright coals of fire. Nor did his companion contain himself much

better. With an oath, he spurned the box at his feet, sending it flying

within the room. His cheeks were livid.

 

“It ain’t here, Emery!” he almost screamed. “It ain’t here! That squaw

lied to us. We’re done for. MacGregor got it after all!”

 

But the other was not so easily discouraged.

 

“It is here!” he fairly howled in his rage.

 

With a lightning motion, he turned upon Creel, advancing with

outstretched hands—hands that looked like the talons of some huge bird;

hands that worked convulsively as they floated toward Creel’s throat.

Before the little man’s advance, the old recluse tottered back, throwing

up his arms in a defensive gesture.

 

“I’ll give yuh jus’ two minutes tuh bring out that poke,” the words came

screaming at him. “Yuh got it. I know yuh got it. If yuh don’t want to

make food fer the crows, yuh better trot it out.”

 

“Gentlemen—” began Creel, his voice deathly calm.

 

The little man’s right hand flashed out and for the second time Creel

measured his length across the threshold. This time, however, he did not

rise. In falling, his head had struck the sharp edge of the doorway,

rendering him unconscious. Without even as much as a glance at him, the

two men stepped over his prostrate body and disappeared into the room.

For a space of nearly five minutes they remained inside, while Dick and

Sandy sat in a sort of stupor and blankly regarded each other.

 

Then abruptly, Creel’s assailants re-appeared and from their __EXPRESSION__

and behavior, the boys realized instantly that the search had been

successful. The big man guffawed loudly as he pushed Creel’s body to one

side with his foot and stepped out into the pale light of that Arctic

summer night.

 

“We got it,” gloated the little man. “That was a stroke o’ luck,

pardner. The squaw was right. We got it!”

 

As he spoke, he drew from his pocket a small object and fondled it in

his hands. Again the loud guffaw rang out, penetrating the silence.

Chattering and exulting, the pair made their way through the lush grass

that overran the clearing. Then, suddenly, they stopped. At the edge of

the clearing there had sprung up a frail but defiant figure.

 

“Stop!” cried a voice. “Put ’em hands up or I shoot you quick.”

 

Creel’s assailants, looking straight at the muzzle of Toma’s revolver,

had no other alternative. Their hands went high. Dick thought the pair

looked very foolish standing there. And he could hear very plainly their

astonished, burning oaths. He and Sandy leaped to their feet and hurried

to Toma’s assistance. They came up from behind and, with a nod to their

chum, quickly disarmed the murderous pair. But though they searched

everywhere, they could not find the poke. Dick paused in consternation.

 

“Big fellow got it in his hand,” said Toma.

 

“Give it to me,” Dick turned upon the outlaw.

 

The big man’s eyes gleamed with hatred, but with Toma’s revolver

threatening him, he was forced to obey.

 

“Take it,” he growled out an oath. “But I bet yuh don’t keep it long,

stranger. Yuh won’t never get away with it. Jus’ mark my words.”

 

Dick stepped back, laughing.

 

“That remains to be seen,” he answered the outlaw. “You fellows can go

now. If you know what’s good for you, you’ll leave this neighborhood as

quickly as you can. I have the description of both of you and will

notify the mounted police of this night’s affair.”

 

The partners struck off through the underbrush, calling out their

taunts. It was not long before silence came again. The three boys stood

in a little circle, looking at each other. Now that the tension had

relaxed, they were all more or less bewildered. Dick still had the small

poke in his hand, and as yet had scarcely deigned to give it a second

glance. Suddenly, Sandy’s voice rang out:

 

“Well, if you ask me, this is a peculiar night’s business. I’m almost

stunned. We’re indebted to Toma for the way everything has turned out.

Let’s see what’s in that poke, Dick. Why don’t you open it?”

 

Dick looked down at the small object in his hand. He turned it over and

over thoughtfully.

 

“No,” he said, “you can open it, Sandy. I’m too shaky.”

 

With the poke held firmly between two fingers, he reached out to hand it

to his chum. But in that moment a strange thing happened. A crackling of

brush, a lightning leap forward, a snarl like that of a beast—and the

thing was whisked from his fingers as it dangled there in the air. Then

a figure darted past them and disappeared in the darkness of the forest

beyond.

 

The three chums gaped at each other.

 

“Who was that?” gasped Dick.

 

Toma was the first to speak.

 

“I see ’em,” he spoke dolefully. “It was Frischette.”