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Updated: May 14, 2025
My boy, nuggets and nuggets of gold, that I prospected for myself up in these wilds two years ago, found pockets of it in the rocks, cached it, away, as I thought, from all human eyes, awaiting the time I could safely bring it to 'the front. I knew of but one being in all the North that I could trust with my secret. That being is Fox-Foot.
"Yes, boy." "Listen! Oh, Larry, s-s-h " Matt Larson turned on his back, every nerve strung to snapping pitch. Two whispering voices assailed his ears. The horror of them seemed to grip his heart and stop its very beating. Fox-Foot was speaking. "You's not a good man. I hate you. You's bad all over, but I have to trust you. You got me cornered. Here's the gold, same's I promised. You take half.
Then away upstream once more, this time Jack paddling bow, with young Fox-Foot, lying on a blanket amidships, wrapped in a well-earned sleep. But once during the entire morning the Indian stirred; he did not seem to awake as other boys do, but more like a rabbit. His eyes opened without drowsiness; he shot to his knees, sweeping the river bank with a glance like the boring of a gimlet.
Jack took to cooking the meals, as a wild duck takes to the water, insisting that Fox-Foot rest after paddling, and the Indian accepting it all without comment, and sleeping at a moment's notice seemingly storing it up against future needs.
"Same thing," said Larry. "We are all one in this matter, but I don't want you to be sorry in after years that you pulled a gun too quickly, that is all." "No gun," joined Fox-Foot, slyly. "You leave the man to me. I fix him." "I guess that's right," answered Larry. "Foxy's the boy to trip up Mr. Mackinaw in his nice little race for what does not belong to him.
The boy got up immediately and took the stern paddle, steering the western course. They had paddled something over two miles up that arm when Fox-Foot beached the canoe, built a fire, spilled out the remainder of the pork and beans, threw the tin can on the bank, then marshalled his crew aboard again, and deliberately steered over the course they had already come.
So you understand now? I bad fellow, me, but I am only bad to bad man like him. You understand now? You?" "Understand?" cried Larry, leaping to his feet. "Understand? Why, Foxy, you're a prince! You're a king! You're the best boy that ever drew the breath of life. You are " "Don't stop now to tell me what I am," laughed Fox-Foot.
Both of the paleface friends then arose, yawned, stretched, stripped and plunged into the lake, to swim about for a few moments, and then to jump into their shirts and sweaters, and fall upon the coffee and bacon with fine relish. "I believe," said Jack, devouring his third helping, "that my eyes are better. They don't ache or smart in the least to-day." "Eye bad?" asked Fox-Foot. Jack explained.
Once it was a whole mile through brush and rock and deep, soft mosses, but still they struggled on, until one evening, as they pitched camp and lighted their fire, Fox-Foot said coolly: "You know this place, Larry?" "No," was the answer, "never saw it before." "The reason you say that," said the Indian, "is 'cause you come and go over that bluff behind us.
"I love you just same as ever; no difference if you did suspect, I no change," said the Indian, as Larry's splendid arms closed about his lithe young shoulders. Then Jack Cornwall's voice found utterance. "Fox-Foot! Oh, Fox-Foot!" was all he could say, but the Indian boy laid his slim finger across Jack's honest, boyish lips, saying: "I know. Indian he always know.
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