Читать книгу Dick Kent, Fur Trader - Milo Milton Oblinger - Страница 6

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An excited shout from Sandy drew Dick’s attention as he clambered to his feet. At the opposite end of the trading room a gesticulating, wildly vociferous crowd had gathered about the drooping figure of Murky Nichols. The face of the prospector was deathly pale, as he stood, one hand clutching the counter, the other gripping firmly a long-bladed hunting knife, which he held up for the inspection of the crowd.

The scarlet-coated form of Corporal Rand advanced through the milling throng and a moment later, just as the three boys came hurrying up, the policeman helped Nichols to a chair.

“What happened, Murky?” he demanded.

“Some breed tried to knife me,” choked the frightened man, holding on to the chair for support.

“Who was it?”

“I don’t know,” wheezed Murky. “Never seen him before. He came up while I was a standin’ over there an’ first thing I knowed he made a slash at me.”

Nichols trembled as he spoke, drawing attention to the wide slit in his mackinaw shirt just below his left arm-pit.

“This is where the knife caught me when I jumped back. Good thing I did or he’d o’ got me sure.”

“Did he hurt you at all?” inquired Rand.

“Nothing but a scratch.”

“You were lucky. You say you didn’t know the breed?”

A slight hesitation on the part of the prospector was noted probably by only two persons in the room—Dick and Corporal Rand.

“First time I ever set eyes on him, corporal.”

“Did he speak to you or did you speak to him before he drew the knife?”

“No,” Murky stated emphatically.

“Very queer the man should attack you without provocation,” mused Rand. “You’re absolutely sure you never saw him before?”

A slow flush mounted to Nichols’ weather-tanned brow and for a split-second his eyes evaded the questioner.

“Hang it, corporal,” he spoke testily, “ain’t I been tellin’ yuh. Don’t even know what he looks like—it all happened so sudden. If he should come walkin’ in here in ten minutes from now I ain’t so sure I’d recognize him. The feller must be crazy.”

“It certainly looks queer!” Rand’s cool, unwavering gaze met that of the prospector. “Usually there’s a motive for an attack of this kind. As a general thing, a man doesn’t attempt to stab another unless he has some real or fancied grievance.”

“He’s crazy, I tell yuh,” persisted Nichols.

Rand turned away.

“I’ll see what I can do. I intend to take the breed in custody. I ought to be able to run him down in a few hours. Then we can question him.”

The corporal turned without a moment’s hesitation and hurried away. He was gone almost before Dick could collect his scattered wits and remark to Sandy:

“There! I intended to tell him something, but it’s too late now.”

“You might be able to catch him at the stable,” said the quick-witted Sandy, seizing Dick’s arm. “Come on!”

The three boys pushed their way through the crowd, but a jam in front of the door delayed them. Like themselves, everyone, so it seemed, wanted to get out. They were caught in a drifting, struggling current of over-curious half-breeds, were jolted back and forth and, when they finally emerged, panting and dishevelled, to the yard outside, they perceived to their chagrin that Rand had already mounted his horse and was speeding away.

“Just my luck!” Dick sputtered. “There he goes. I might have given him information that would have saved him a lot of time.”

“What information?” demanded a person almost at his elbow.

Neither Sandy nor Toma had spoken. Dick wheeled quickly and looked up into a pair of steel-gray eyes, at a coarse, brutal face. The man’s rough garb was that of a prospector or trapper. None of the boys had ever seen him before.

“What information?” he repeated insolently.

Dick met the other’s appraising gaze without flinching.

“I wasn’t speaking to you, sir.”

“That’s all right, I’m speaking to yuh. I asked yuh what I consider is a decent, friendly question. Yuh don’t need to try any o’ your high an’ haughty manner with me.”

Dick completely ignored the insult, despite the fact that it was difficult to suppress the surge of anger that rose within him. He was fighting mad and his fists clenched involuntarily, yet he turned to Sandy and contrived, though the effort was difficult, to speak calmly:

“Let’s walk down along the river.”

Sandy’s face fell as he swung into step beside his friend, his right arm linked into Toma’s. As they struck off to the left, they were followed by the baleful, mocking glare of Dick’s newly discovered enemy.

Out of ear-shot, Sandy broke forth:

“Dick, I’m almost ashamed of you. Why did you do it?”

“Do what?”

“Walk away like that. It looks cowardly. I never saw you do a thing like that before.”

“I don’t know why I did it,” Dick confessed, “except that I had a hunch that if I let him pick a fight with me, I’d—I’d—well, I can’t explain it. Something seemed to warn me to keep away from him.”

“You mean, you were afraid of him.”

“No, not that!” Dick retorted hotly. “I’d like to go back even now and ‘mix-it’ with him.”

“Why don’t you?”

“I’ve tried to explain to you, Sandy. I have a feeling that it would be foolhardy. Something more than a mere quarrel or a fight is involved. That man, whoever he is, had some secret purpose in view when he accosted me just now. I don’t know what that purpose is, but I do know I’m not going to take any chances.”

For a few moments they walked on in silence.

“I can forget about it if you can,” remarked Sandy a little dryly.

Dick laughed good-naturedly.

“I don’t think I’ll have any trouble doing that,” he responded quickly. “There’s too much else to think about. And that reminds me that I have some big news for you and Toma. How would you like to take a trip out to the coast this winter?”

Sandy stopped short in his tracks.

“To the coast!” he exclaimed. “What do you mean?”

“Exactly that. Corporal Rand told me about it today. He brought a letter from our old friend, Sergeant Richardson.”

Without further preliminary, Dick launched into the story. Toma and Sandy listened with bated breath while Dick gave them the particulars of the theory which had been advanced by the mounted police respecting the alleged operations of Murky Nichols. Blind Man’s Pass, the murder of Daddy McInnes, the double cache of stolen fur and finally the proposed expedition to the west coast to be undertaken by the boys themselves—all became subjects of absorbing interest and speculation.

“As I understand it,” Sandy broke forth enthusiastically, “Sergeant Richardson is sending us out to the coast because he believes we can find the cache.”

“Yes,” answered Dick. “It’s an important undertaking, and we ought to be proud that the police have faith in our ability. Of course, we would never have been given the chance if Inspector Cameron wasn’t so short of men.”

“We make ’em mounted police glad they give us chance to go,” cut in Toma. “If cache anywhere along coast, we find it.”

“We certainly will,” said Sandy.

Walking leisurely along the banks of the river, the boys made their plans. So interested had they become, so absorbed in the contemplation of the proposed journey, that they found themselves presently out of sight of the trading post. They were crossing a narrow gulch, when Dick stopped short, glancing about him.

“No use going any farther,” he declared laughingly. “Let’s return to the post.”

Sandy took note of their surroundings and he too broke forth into an amused chuckle.

“Can you beat that!” he exclaimed. “We’ve been sauntering along not paying the least bit of attention. I had no idea we’d gone so far. We’re five miles from Fort Good Faith. A hundred yards on the other side of this gulch is where Run River trail crosses the river.”

As Sandy spoke, he turned back and led the way to the top of the gulch. Spruce and poplar grew thickly along the trail ahead. A light snow of a few days before, sifting down through the trees, had only partially covered the heavy carpet of dry leaves and grass.

“It will be several weeks yet before winter sets in in earnest,” observed Dick. “I hope the mounted police give us instructions to leave for the west coast before it does come. If we travel light, we’ll reach the Yellowhead Pass long before the extremely cold weather arrives.”

“Not snow enough,” Toma shook his head disapprovingly. “No use start out until catch ’em plenty snow for dog team. Mebbe no get snow for five, six days yet.”

“Nonsense!” Sandy looked up at the overcast sky with a critical but approving gaze. “It’s cloudy right now. I wouldn’t be surprised if it started to snow this afternoon.”

“Too warm,” Toma objected. “Wind blow south-west. Tomorrow chinook make like summer. Mebbe it rain, but no snow.”

“You might as well keep quiet, Sandy,” grinned Dick. “Toma is a better weather prophet than you are. He’s seldom wrong.”

“Just the same, I think there’s a storm brewing,” stubbornly persisted the young Scotchman. “This is the second week in October. Last year at this time there was seven inches of snow on the ground and the weather was ten below zero.”

“Don’t worry about it. I look at it this way: if the police are ready, we’ll be ready too. Let the chinook come. We’ll start out on foot and buy our grubstake and dog team at Fort Wonderly, one hundred miles south of here.”

“Good idea! You’re talking sense now, Dick. Well—for the love of Pete!”

Sandy’s abrupt exclamation was caused by the sudden appearance on the trail ahead of four men. One of them they recognized instantly. It was the person who had attempted to pick a quarrel with Dick. Startled for a moment, the boys drew back to the side of the trail.

“Don’t say a word,” cautioned Dick in a low voice. “If they attempt to start trouble, try to keep away from them. We’re no match for them. Besides, they’re armed and we aren’t.”

Pretending a nonchalance they did not feel, the three boys strode forward again until they came abreast of the oncoming and ominous quartette. In the lead, Dick edged over to the side of the trail, hoping that no attempt would be made to prevent their passing. He was now within three feet of the nearest of the party, and had almost begun to believe that nothing would happen, when the four men spread out quickly, completely barring their progress. Dick looked across at two gray eyes that glinted evilly.

“Guess yuh better stop a while, sonny,” sneered the voice of the white man. “Feel like answerin’ that question now?”

“I haven’t any question to answer,” retorted Dick, looking straight at his tormentor, and then at the three half-breeds, a villainous-appearing trio, who stood ready and eager to leap forward at the first word of command.

The white man stepped forward and confronted Dick, one arm raised threateningly.

“Yuh better do some quick thinkin’ afore I whale the tar outta yuh. Are yuh gonna answer that question or not?”

In the short interval in which he stood there undecided, a daring plan leaped into Dick’s mind. He would feign submission. He would agree to answer the question. Then when the time came—

“All—all right,” stammered Dick, simulating terror. “Wh-what do you want?”

“Yuh know blamed well what I want. Back there at the post ’bout an hour er two ago, you wuz figgerin’ on givin’ that danged mountie a whole earful o’ information. I heerd yuh tellin’ these young friends o’ yourn. Out with it!”

The arm was raised again and Dick shrank back, his eyes blinking.

“Don’t strike me and I’ll tell you,” he trembled. “I’ll tell everything. I promise I will.”

Dick’s antagonist chuckled in triumph. It tickled his vanity to perceive how easily he was winning his case. He had his victim almost frightened out of his wits. This young stripling who stood before him hadn’t the backbone of an eel. His arm dropped and he slouched forward, completely off guard, and leered into Dick’s face.

It was the opportunity that Dick had been looking for. Crack! The blow was a smashing one and wholly unexpected. The white man’s feet skidded out from under him; his heavy frame struck the ground with a resounding impact. Before the half-breeds had time to recover from their astonishment, three fleeting forms shot through the opening and took the turn in the trail, running at top speed.

A few moments later a bullet whizzed harmlessly over their heads. The boys redoubled their efforts. A second turn in the trail revealed a straggling party of Indians returning from the post. At sight of them, Sandy let out a whoop of joy. Help was at hand. The danger was over. Panting like three small locomotives, they sat down on a log and waved a cheerful greeting as the Indians passed by.

When the last straggler had disappeared from view, Sandy turned and smiled at his chum. There was approval and admiration in his eyes.

“Step over here and let me shake your hand. Wow! I’ll bet that fellow is still wondering if it was really a tree that struck him. I’ll give you all the credit this time, Dick. There’s no denying the fact: You certainly answered his question!”