Sandy consulted his watch. His face was anxious. Little worried lines showed under his eyes and at the corners of his mouth.

“It’s eleven o’clock, Dick,” he announced. “One hour to go. If they aren’t here by twelve, they won’t come at all.”

“Yes,” said Dick miserably. “Eleven o’clock. But they may come, Sandy.”

The suspense was difficult to endure. In the last half hour, Sandy’s watch had been jerked from his pocket no less than seven times. The three boys sat in their billet and marked the slow passing of time. All through the morning they had experienced a nervous tension, which was becoming rapidly more and more acute. Toma paced up and down the floor, paying little heed to what his two chums said. Occasionally, he looked out through one of the frosted windows, straining his ears for the shout that would announce the safe return of the two captives.
206

In his heart, Toma half-believed that Dick’s plan would work. He knew the awe and reverence in which the mounted police were held. If Dr. Brady and Father Bleriot were not sent back, it would be because the Indians had come to the conclusion that Dick’s statement regarding Corporal Rand was merely a bluff.

Sandy’s watch ticked off the seconds. Dick stepped forward to stir up the fire. There came a timid knock at the door.

It was Father Michaud. He shuffled through the doorway, his robes rustling about him, his thin bare hands rubbing each other to restore their sluggish circulation.

“Ah, monsieurs,” he broke forth, “I have slept but ill. Et ees most difficult theese slow waiting. Do you not think, monsieurs? All night I worry veree much. Zen I pray, monsieurs. Et ees a great help.”

Sandy pulled forward a chair for their unhappy visitor.

“Sit-down, father. Take a place here close to the fire.”

“Merci. You are kind, monsieur.”

He half-turned in his chair.

“Do you think zey will come?” he asked, addressing Dick.

“I do not know.” Dick’s face was tragic. “I’m afraid, father, they may not come.”
207

For twenty minutes the priest kept alive a failing conversation. Occasionally, Sandy consulted his watch. Time slipped by.

“Twenty minutes to twelve,” said Sandy, at the end of what seemed like an eternity.

Toma continued his pacing back and forth. Dick sat huddled in his chair. The priest rambled on.

“Ten minutes to twelve,” Sandy informed them.

Dick could endure the suspense no longer. He rose, crossed the room, and flung open the door. A cold draft of air whirled in across the floor. Toma hurried over to where Dick stood and peered over his shoulder. They heard a shout. It brought Sandy and Father Michaud to their feet. Villagers were running in the street. A crowd had gathered.

“They—they’ve come back,” blurted Dick, darting through the door, Toma right behind him. They joined the throng.

In the center of the crowd stood, not Dr. Brady and Father Bleriot, but—and Dick’s heart sank at the sight of him—their captive of the night before. In his hand he waved something—something white. With Toma acting as his interference, and employing football tactics, Dick plunged through, gaining a place by the side of the messenger. He seized the piece of birch bark and scanned it eagerly. It was covered thickly with Indian signs and symbols.

“Toma,” cried Dick, “can you make this out? Tell me, what does it say here?”
208

Toma took the birch bark in his own trembling hands, studied it for a moment, then in a fit of anger threw it at his feet, where with one foot he trampled it in the snow.

“What does it say?” Dick’s voice was shrill, plaintive.

“It say,” stormed Toma, “that you tell ’em big lie about mounted police; that Corporal Rand no come here at all. They make you big laugh.”

At that instant Dick bethought him of the messenger. Defy him, would they? Well, he’d see about that. At least, he’d seize their messenger. He sprang forward with this purpose in view, but the Indian slipped under his arm, dodged behind the tall figure of one of the gaping natives, and before anyone could prevent it, had made his escape. At that moment, Sandy came plowing through the ranks of the spectators, shouting hoarsely.

“Where is Dr. Brady?”

“He didn’t come back.”

“What’s all this rumpus about then?”

“That Indian prisoner I released last night came back with a defiant message, which says that they, the Indians, don’t believe that the policeman is here.”

“And the messenger?”

“He slipped away from me.”
209

Dick ordered the crowd back with an authoritative wave of his arm. His feeling of hopelessness and despair had given place to anger, to a consuming, burning rage. The Indians had defied him openly. They were making a fool out of him. They had called his bluff.

It occurred to him that he could recruit another attacking party and go to the doctor’s rescue. But the memory of his experience of the night before still rankled in his mind. No—if he were to accomplish anything, it would be through his own efforts, and with the assistance of only Sandy and Toma. He beckoned to his chums.

“Let’s go back to the billet,” he suggested, “and talk this thing over.”

As his two friends came up, he linked his arms in theirs and began:

“I can see now, Sandy, that I have made a terrible mistake. I’ve got myself in a hole and may never be able to get out of it. Just the same, I don’t intend to give up. I’m not licked yet. I want to know if you boys will stand behind me.”

“Yes, Dick, we’re with you,” Sandy assured him.

“You depend on us,” added Toma.
210

Back in the billet again, they commenced to lay their plans. On the previous night they had tried, by the superiority of their numbers, to intimidate the enemy. They had failed. Now they would employ stealth. That night, they decided, the three of them would creep up to the Indian village and attempt a rescue.

“We may be successful,” said Sandy. “We have a chance, at any rate.”

“Our last chance, too,” declared Dick. “If we fail in this, it is all over.”

A little later, Sandy went over to the mission store to purchase a few supplies. Toma remained behind, his head bowed deep in thought. Silence had come to the room, broken only by the breathing of the boys and the crackling of the logs in the fireplace. After a time, Dick rose.

“I suppose we’d better be thinking about lunch.”

Of a sudden, Toma darted to his feet. He had sprung from his chair so quickly, that Dick, who was looking at him, could scarcely follow the lightning movement. Toma hugged himself in ecstacy. He seized Dick in a smothering embrace, whirling him around and around.

“Dick, listen me,” he shouted. “I know what we do now. I think it all out. It come to me in flash. Sandy no need go at all. Jus’ you, me go. We go this afternoon. Hurry—you follow me quick!”
211

Blindly Dick followed the other. He trotted down the street in the wake of his excited chum, wondering what it was all about. They hurried past the mission school, reaching, finally, a low dwelling, into which, without a moment’s hesitation............