Sergeant Dick of the Royal Mounted Police A thrilling story of the Canadian woods
excitement he could not help noticing--by far the prettier, held a
rifle at the ready, with a grim, determined look upon her charming
face, while her companion was urging the horses to their fastest up
the rocky and broken incline.
“Say! Who are they? Why should we cut and run?” came a shout borne
on the wind from the direction of the four rustlers to Sergeant
Dick’s ears.
“They’re the--”
He did not catch the end of the answer from the fellow on the cliff.
The word, whatever it was, was lost on the raging wind.
But apparently it was heard by one or more of the gang in the road,
for they immediately communicated the tidings to one another, and
then shouted and waved to the pair guarding the driver and
passengers of the stage-coach.
Sergeant Dick had edged his horse partly against the angle of the
cliff. He now dived under the animal’s head and, rushing round the
rock, fired at the fleeing quartet with his revolver.
He hit one in the broad of the back, he was certain. The fellow only
stumbled, however, and, promptly recovering and wheeling about, sent
a shot back at him with lightning speed, but fortunately with
nothing like accuracy.
Then all four plunged into the thicket out of his sight, and he
could hear them trampling and bursting through the thick growth in a
line parallel with the road, bawling as they ran, and
unintelligibly, so far as he was concerned.
The pair guarding the people of the coach backed hurriedly to their
horses, what time the sergeant hurriedly slipped another clip of
five cartridges into the magazine of his rifle.
Gaining their horses’ sides, the two rustlers bounded into the
saddle, firing a couple of shots apiece from their pistols over the
heads of their late prisoners, to overawe them still. Then digging
their spurs deep into their mounts’ flanks, away into the wood on
the windward side they tore, dragging the other horses after them by
a long lariat which had been passed through all the bridles.
Seeing the pair thus making off, Sergeant Dick threw all further
prudence to the winds, and, running forward, pumped two shots with
swift accuracy into the leafy covert, even as it closed over their
retreating forms.
The shrill, almost human-like scream of a horse badly stricken came
out of the thicket. Sergeant Dick ran on along the woods, pelting
two more shots into these at random in the direction he knew the
fugitives were taking.
Then, suddenly, all became red and blurred before him. He reeled
blindly and fell upon his hands and knees, his rifle flying far out
of his hands.
He had forgotten his wound in the excitement of the fight, had been
losing blood profusely from it all the time, and the consequent
weakness came suddenly and unexpectedly upon him.
When he opened his eyes again, he looked into the most beautiful
face he believed he had ever seen--the face of the younger of the
two girls who had come, in so surprising and plucky a manner, to his
reënforcement.
He was lying on the ground, and she was kneeling beside him, binding
up the injury to his head, while some one supported his shoulders
behind. On the other side of him was kneeling the elder girl, with
her face buried in her hands, and sobbing bitterly, great salt tears
oozing through her fingers and dropping to the ground.
Around were standing the robbed passengers of the stage-coach,
rueful and vindictive-looking, none of them in their bitter
resentment against Fate taking any notice of the weeping girl.
“Thank you--thank you! You are very kind,” murmured Dick. “But--but
I’m all right now, and the rustlers--they mustn’t be allowed to get
away. My horse, quick! Men, who’ll follow me? Any of you?”
The weeping girl lifted her head with an ecstatic cry.
“He will not die--he will live? Oh, Heaven be praised! Ah, and you
have hidden the blood upon his face, Muriel! I cannot bear the sight
of blood. It--it always makes me feel sick. But, then, of course, I
am weak-minded, you know--not like other people, or like Muriel
here, who is as good as she is brave.”
“Be quiet, Jenny,” said the younger girl, flushing hotly. “It is
impossible, sergeant, for you to follow the robbers. Your horse is
lame, you sure forget.”
Sergeant Dick rose to his feet with the aid of the two men who had
been supporting his head. He saw that two horses remained in the
traces of the rifled coach.
“Lend me one of your horses, driver,” he cried. “I must follow these
ruffians without delay.”
“Sorry, sergeant, but one horse ’ud be no power o’ use in pulling
the coach from here to Paquita Springs; and, asides, you yourself be
in no fit condition I guess to go man-trailin’ arter seven rustlers
of their type. You are noo to these parts, that’s plain, or I reckon
you’d have heard of the White Hood Gang--the worstest, most desp’rit
gang this region has ever yit seen, I calculate.”
“I _have_ heard of the gang. But its notoriety would not deter me
from following it, only spur me on, if I had my strength back, and
my horse, too, were equal to the call I should have to make upon it.
Driver, you have been robbed of the gold you were carrying to the
Indian Reservation on Paquita Island?”
“Sure,” was the characteristic reply, with a doleful nod.
“Then I must let the gang go, even if I were equal to following
them, and accompany you in the coach with all speed to the
Reservation. What the result will be when the Indians learn that the
gold sent them has been stolen, I shudder to think of--judging from
the frame of mind they have been lately showing.”
“Guess they’ll go on the war-path, and jist raise Cain around here,”
growled the stage-coach driver, amid horrified ejaculations from all
the passengers.
“I know of a quicker means of reaching the Reservation than by the
stage,” said the girl Muriel, her lovely face flushing again at thus
once more attracting the attention of all. “My cousin here and I
live near by on Lake Paquita, as some of these people may know--the
coach-driver certainly does--in a house built on piles over a shoal
out in the middle of the lake. We keep a large sailing scow, which
my uncle calls his ‘Ark’; and we can convey you in it to Paquita
Island at the lower end of the lake in the shortest time possible.”
“Why--why! Your uncle has surely taken the idea of his lake-dwelling
and his scow or ‘ark’ from Fenimore Cooper’s famous novel, the
‘Deerslayer,’” gasped Sergeant Dick.
“That is so. My uncle was so charmed with the idea of the
lake-fortress in Fenimore Cooper’s tale, the ‘Deerslayer,’ that he
determined to adopt the same mode of living when he first came here.
We have the book at Water Castle, as we call our lake-home, and it
is the most-read book in our little library, I believe, except as
regards Jenny, who, just like poor, half-witted Hetty Hutter in the
novel, is always reading her Bible. Uncle Alf has said that having a
half-witted daughter like Hetty Hutter also helped to put into his
head the idea of living like ‘Floating Tom Hutter’ in ‘The
Deerslayer’; and poor Jenny herself models her life on Hetty
Hutter’s, reading the Bible regularly, and trying to do good always
in her own simple way. You will come with us in the buggy? Uncle Alf
contrived an extra seat at the back, on which we might carry extra
marketing. Our name, by the way, is Arnold.”
“Thank you. I shall be glad to avail myself of your kind offer, Miss
Arnold. Certainly I must reach the Indian Reservation before news of
the robbery of the stage, and the gold they were to receive by it,
gets to their ears.”
Sergeant Dick was helped on to the back seat of the buggy, all the
marketing being disposed under it inside a kind of locker; and then,
parting from the stage-coach people, away the two girls and he
whirled at top speed along the leafy avenue. His lame horse, of
course, he left behind, to be brought along in the rear of the
stage-coach, which would perforce proceed at a walk as far as the
next stopping-place.
At the speed it traveled, the buggy was soon out of the gorge, and
at a point where the road forked, the coach road continuing on in a
straight line, and the other--a mere grass-grown cattle track,
barely perceptible--leading away at right angles through dense
woods.
Along this second leafy avenue the two girls and the sergeant bowled
more rapidly still. They presently came out on the shores of a
lovely lake, lying placidly in the bosom of the mountains, which
dense woods covered from the water-line to their rounded summits.
“Behold our lake home--Water Castle!” cried the younger girl,
pointing out across the storm-ruffled water to a most
strange-looking structure--a house like a huge Madeira-cake standing
on innumerable legs, about a quarter of a mile from the shore.
CHAPTER III--THE HOUSE IN THE LAKE
“It is certainly a most admirable situation for safety and defensive
purposes,” said Sergeant Dick, regarding the distant lake-dwelling
with great curiosity and interest.
“You will find it even stronger than it looks,” laughed Muriel
Arnold. “My uncle has been quite ingenious, I consider, in the way
he has fortified it. He has improved on Fenimore Cooper’s idea; and
I am sure that you will say that the place is almost impregnable
when you have seen over it. We keep our horses and the buggy on that
little island you see just behind the castle.”
“Signal to mother, Muriel,” said her cousin Jenny, a little
impatiently.
They had all three alighted from the buggy. Muriel drew an automatic
pistol from her belt, and fired three shots into the air.
At the southern end of the strange dwelling out in the lake appeared
to be a kind of platform; and, quickly on the echoing reports of the
pistol shots--which would carry far in the light mountain air and
across the water at any time, but were now blown directly towards
the house by the strong wind--the figure of a woman appeared on the
platform.
She seemed to regard them through a spyglass, and remained gazing at
them a long time, so long, in fact, that Jenny Arnold asked:
“What ails mother? Surely she can see that it is you and I, Muriel,
through the field-glass. And the sergeant’s red coat ought to
reassure her. She knows the uniform of the Mounted Police.”
Muriel was waving her long white scarf vigorously to the distant
figure.
“Naturally she does not know what to make of you being in my
company,” said Sergeant Dick.
“Of course,” said Muriel, “she is concerned, and fears something
terrible must have happened to us or to my uncle and cousins.”
The figure on the platform of “Water Castle” turned and hurried to
the farther end, where she evidently stepped into a boat of some
kind, concealed by the house.
A minute later Sergeant John Dick saw a long, low craft, not unlike
the ordinary conception of Noah’s ark, slowly emerging into view
round the far side of the platform and house.
As it came round the corner of the “castle” into full view, Sergeant
Dick saw it was furnished with a short, stumpy mast, upon which a
ridiculously small leg-of-mutton sail was being hoisted by the only
apparent occupant.
Small though the sail was, it served its purpose well, and, bellying
before the wind, caused the great, clumsy-looking craft to slip with
considerable speed through the choppy little waves caused by the
moaning wind. The figure aboard ran aft, and, taking a long sweep
which was rigged astern to act as tiller and rudder combined,
brought the ark’s broad nose steadily round almost into the eye of
the wind, and headed the craft for a point close to where the two
girls and the police officer stood.
Leading the horses, Muriel made along the shore for the point the
ark was steering towards. Her cousin and Sergeant Dick followed