Dick Kent with the Mounted Police

Dick Kent tossed aside the wolf trap he had been trying to repair, and turned to his chum, Sandy McClaren.

“Let’s go back to your Uncle Walter’s at Fort Good Faith,” said Dick restlessly. “It’s getting too quiet around here.”

Sandy McClaren’s big blue eyes turned from the marten pelt he had been scraping. “I’m with you, Dick. Uncle Walt needs us, too. He’s still having a lot of trouble with that outlaw, Bear Henderson.”

For a year after finishing school in the United States, Dick Kent and Sandy McClaren had been pursuing adventure two hundred miles north of Hay River Landing, Canada, where they had gone to visit Sandy’s uncle. Lately they had come to Fort du Lac at the invitation of Martin MacLean, the factor there. The savage northland already had woven its spell of dangerous adventure about them, but Fort du Lac had proved dull after the excitement of the more lawless trading post supervised by Sandy’s uncle on the northern fringe of the Hudson’s Bay Company’s territory.

Dick and Sandy had turned toward the big log store building where Martin MacLean bartered for furs, when they stopped dead, looking northeast along the trail that curved about a high headland of pine forest.

“What’s that?” cried Dick suddenly.

“Looks like an Indian runner!” Sandy exclaimed.

“I’ll tell Mr. MacLean,” Dick stretched his athletic legs toward the store.

The fur trader came out on Dick’s heels a moment later, his broad, bony frame and bearded face tense at the hint of trouble.

“It’s a runner all right,” confirmed the trader, watching the distant figure, which was rapidly approaching.

Presently a swarthy faced Indian, his coarse black hair streaming about his haggard features, fell almost exhausted into their arms.

“Help me carry him in,” Martin MacLean commanded. “He’s tuckered out. We’ve got to get him to talk. There’s trouble somewhere.”

They tugged the limp body of the runner into the store and lay him on several bales of fur. The trader hurried for stimulant, which he forced between the Indian’s teeth. The runner soon opened his eyes. All three bent over him as he spoke:

“Him Bear Henderson take um post—from Mister McClaren,” gasped the runner. “Tie um up. Kill all good Injuns!”

Dick Kent’s face paled as he turned to Sandy. “Henderson has captured your Uncle Walter!”

“Well, he’ll get his when the mounted police get there,” flared Sandy, his Scotch temper showing itself.

The factor of the post turned to them. They fell silent. “Boys, I can’t leave the post,” he said, “and I don’t trust any of the Indians around the store. Can I depend on you to go down the river and get Malcolm Mackenzie?”

“Can you!” Dick and Sandy chorused, “I should smile.”

“You know what this means,” the trader went on sternly. “Bear Henderson is a powerful man. There isn’t a doubt this runner was followed here. There may be men right here at Fort du Lac who are in sympathy with the outlaw. Henderson is plotting against the whole northern frontier held by Hudson’s Bay Company. It’s life or death.”

“We’ll do it!” Dick cried eagerly. “Tell us what to do.”

“All right then. You go by canoe down the river to Mackenzie’s Landing. Tell Mackenzie I asked him to go with you to the mounted police post at Fort Dunwoody. You know the trail that far. Malcolm knows it from the landing on. There’s a grub cache he might have forgotten. In case he has——” the boys followed MacLean behind the counter. From the strong box the trader drew a map. “Now here is our post,” the trader continued, indicating a dot on the rough map with a match end, while Dick and Sandy followed him attentively; “There’s Little Moose Portage, and further down Mackenzie’s Landing, the free trader’s post. Twenty miles further the river swings north and you leave the water and go by land. Then here’s where you strike the cache of food——”

Dick’s sudden, startled cry interrupted. “What was that at the window!”

“I didn’t see anything,” whispered Sandy.

“Sure you weren’t imagining something?” said the trader.

“I know I saw a face right there a moment ago,” Dick insisted, pointing to a window in the rear of the long store. “It seemed to be an Indian’s face which was covered with hideous scars.”

MacLean walked back and pulled the curtains shut over the window. He returned and went on explaining the location of the cache and the route to be taken to Fort Dunwoody.

Once started, Dick and Sandy were not long in preparing for the trip down the river to Mackenzie’s Landing. They cleaned and oiled their 30.30 Ross rifles, packed a canoe with flour, beans, bacon, coffee, salt, sugar and camp utensils, and saw that they were well supplied with ammunition.

On their last trip to the canoe from the storehouse, Sandy, too, had a singular surprise. But he did not cry out. Instead, he called softly to Dick, who was a little ahead of him.

“I saw the same face you saw behind those boxes over there on the landing,” Sandy said tensely. “Make believe we didn’t notice anything. Then we’ll pick up our rifles and walk down the river till we get where we can see behind the boxes.”

“All right,” Dick replied cooly, his dark eyes gleaming as they always did at the promise of excitement.

“Don’t shoot. Capture him,” Dick added, as they deposited their packs into the canoe, picked up their rifles and started off down the river bank, their eyes bent to the left.

When they had advanced far enough to see behind the boxes, they turned and looked. The face was gone! There was no one behind the packing boxes.

Sandy scratched his head. “Blame it, I know I saw somebody watching us.”

“Come on, we’ll look closer.” Dick led the way forward and they examined all the boxes, but found each one empty.

“Looks queer,” Dick admitted.

“Those Indians can disappear mighty suddenly,” Sandy said. “Let’s tell Mr. MacLean.”

They hurried back to the store. The trader plainly was deeply concerned over what they had to tell. “I tell you, boys, I hadn’t ought to let you make this trip,” he said, pacing back and forth. “Henderson has men here that I know nothing about. They say he has secret operatives all over the northern frontier. Sandy’s uncle never would forgive me if anything happened to you fellows. But I don’t see what else I can do. The mounted police must be notified.”

“Well, Sandy and I aren’t men,” Dick replied modestly, “but you know we’ve been in the north country for a year now and so far we’ve taken pretty good care of ourselves. Sandy’s Uncle Walter will tell you that.”

The trader surveyed Dick Kent’s stalwart figure and Sandy’s more stocky frame with a renewal of confidence. “Yes,” he concluded, “I believe you fellows will come out all right. Shake.”

Dick and Sandy gripped Martin MacLean’s hard hand. They felt a glow of admiration for the big “sourdough” who had so complimented two “chechakos,” or tenderfeet. The trader drew from his pocket a wallet of money and thrust it into Dick’s hand, with the remark it might come in handy for expenses.