Dick Kent in the Far North

Three persons plodded along the snow-piled floor of a tiny canyon in the heart of the northern Canadian wilderness. The broad snow-shoes on their feet made their progress like that of so many huge crabs on a sea shore. In the fore was a tall, well-knit young man, whose weather-tanned face was that of Dick Kent, who for more than a year had sought and found adventure in the vast land where the sole guardians of the peace are the Royal North West Mounted Police.

“It can’t be very far from here,” he turned and spoke, his breath puffing out in white vapor.

Sandy MacClaren strained his eyes ahead. His stocky frame, no less hardened than that of his older chum, Dick Kent, seemed to bend forward with a little more eagerness as he replied:

“I hope we don’t pass it by.”

The man in the rear laughed. He was Sandy’s uncle, Walter MacClaren, an old Scotchman, and factor at Fort Good Faith for the Hudson’s Bay Company.

“I hardly think I could miss the cave,” he spoke. “I spent too many unpleasant hours in there without anything to eat.”

Dick Kent was about to respond to this, when he caught sight of what they were seeking, the mouth of a large cave in the wall of the canyon.

“There it is!” he cried, quickening his pace.

“Now for the map!” exulted Sandy.

All three removed their snowshoes at the mouth of the under-ground passage, which seemed to have been formed by the erosion of water in ages gone by, and, in moccasined feet, went along the dark corridor, lighting candles which they had brought with them from Fort Good Faith, not far south.

“Remember it’s the left branch when we get to the fork,” Sandy called to his chum.

“Yes, I guess I won’t forget that.”

Dick recalled a particularly exciting incident in that same cave, which would indelibly impress upon his memory the correct passage to the underground chamber, which was their destination.

The three hurried on down the main passage until ahead, in the dim glow of the candles, they could see where the main cavern branched. Almost there, Dick in the lead, paused.

“Wait,” he whispered.

Sandy and his uncle drew back.

“I thought I heard a sound in the passage to the right,” Dick said in a low voice.

They listened for a few seconds, but heard nothing.

“Probably some animal who has come in here out of the cold,” Sandy’s uncle observed.

“It sounded like footsteps,” Dick replied dubiously. “And you know we’ve plenty of reason to believe we’re not the only ones after what’s in this cave.”

Sandy agreed, but was anxious to go on, and since whatever sound had been detected by Dick’s sharp ears was not repeated, they continued down the passage to the left.

For several minutes they wound downward before they reached the widening of the passage and abruptly entered an underground chamber which seemed to have been fashioned by the tools of man.

“At last,” whispered Dick.

There was no sign of life evident, except those a week or so old, as they hurried to a particular portion of the rock wall and bent over it with their candles. What the light revealed was a confusing tracing of charcoal lines and crosses. It was the map of the location of the lost gold mine, and had been the purpose of their visit.

“I’ll copy it on this sheet of paper I’ve brought, so it will be clear to you boys,” Sandy’s uncle spoke, his voice sounding hollow in the silent, damp place.

He had just placed the paper on a smooth portion of the rock and touched the pencil to it, when a sound brought them to their feet. Somewhere along the passage they had come a stone had fallen. Someone was following them!

For the benefit of those readers who did not follow the adventures of Dick Kent and his chum, Sandy MacClaren, in the first volume of this series, a few explanations may clear up many obscure points. Several months before, they had with the aid of the mounted police, rescued Walter MacClaren from the control of Bear Henderson, an unprincipled enemy of the Hudson’s Bay Company, who had tried and failed to gain control of all the far north trading posts. In the incidents leading to the rescue they had met a particularly mysterious enemy, whom they called the Scar-Faced Indian.

At Fort Good Faith—when as a reward for their help during the Henderson trouble, Sandy’s uncle had consented to let them hunt for the lost mine—the scar-faced Indian had been detected eavesdropping at the door by Toma, a young Indian guide, who had accompanied the boys on many of their adventures. Toma had sworn vengeance against Scar-Face, since he believed his brother, Big John Toma, had been killed by the Indian. But, with his usual elusiveness, Scar-Face had escaped Toma, and the boys were left to wonder just what steps the Indian would take to thwart them in their attempt to find the mine.

The sound that had startled the three in the cavern chamber immediately brought before the minds of Dick and Sandy a vision of the evil face of the Indian.

“Shall we go back and chase whoever it is out of the cave?” Sandy queried tensely.

“I wouldn’t do anything like that,” Dick shook his head. “If it’s the scar-faced Indian he’ll have a trap set for us. We’ll just watch the entrance while your uncle copies the map. When that’s done, all three of us will be ready for trouble.”

Factor MacClaren considered Dick’s plan wise and went ahead with his work, while Dick and Sandy turned their attention to the entrance of the chamber.

Fearfully they waited, wondering just what might appear. It was very nearly an hour before Walter MacClaren finished copying the map, yet no one had come. Out of the corner of their eyes, Dick and Sandy watched the factor erase the charcoal tracings on the rock and turn to them.

“We’re ready to go back to the fort now,” he said.

“If we ever get back,” Sandy rejoined.

“Oh, I don’t think there’s much danger with the three of us,” Dick encouraged.

“Yes, but that scar-faced Indian is apt to have some one with him, and if they jump down on our heads from one of the ledges in this cave, we’ll have small chance of getting away.”

“Well, we’ve got to hope for the best and be prepared to fight with all there is in us,” Dick responded grimly, gripping his rifle, a 45.70 Winchester, and starting into the cavern.

Tensely Sandy followed, the factor taking up the rear with the precious map stuffed under his heavy bearskin overcoat.

Slowly they progressed back along the dark passage, scanning the shadows ahead and overhead for a sign of whatever had made the noise. A hundred feet from the chamber, a pair of eyes glowed out of the darkness. Dick raised his rifle, aiming at the gleaming points ahead. His sights came into line squarely and he fired.