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Updated: June 14, 2025
"I feel myself such a cad," he began to Larry, "such a sneak ever to have doubted our Fox-Foot; but oh, Larry, things did look so against him." "They certainly did, son," assented Matt Larson, "and I feel just as caddish as you do more so, in fact, for I should have known, and you were not expected to.
Lake Nameless just twenty yards 'cross that bluff." "What!" yelled Larry. "I bring you in other side. Bluff separate this river and Lake Nameless. There is your cache," laughed Fox-Foot, throwing a pebble and striking a point of red rock ten yards away. Larry and Jack fairly stumbled over their own feet to get there.
Beside Jack, whose straining eyes watched for the inevitable end, stood Fox-Foot, his arms folded tightly across his chest, his gaze riveted on the drifting speck. Then both boys shuddered, for the swirling speck seemed suddenly to stand erect, then plunged feet foremost over the brink. Larry returned very slowly, his legs lagging heavily at every step.
The instant Jack Cornwall saw those eyes, he knew that they could see almost unseeable things. But Matt Larson was introducing them. "Fox-Foot," he said, turning to the Indian, "here is Jack, my own sister's son. He has my confidence. He will know all that I know. You may trust him with everything. Jack, old man, this Chippewa boy, Fox-Foot, is my friend and our guide.
On the opposite side of the river a slim shadow slipped along a canoe that contained a single man, who wore a rough coat of indefinite greyish plaid. Jack crept noiselessly up the river bank. "Larry, Fox-Foot," he said in a hoarse, low whisper, "look, look across the river! A canoe, with a man in it a man in a mackinaw!"
The Indian went on turning the fish, indicating with his head the direction across the river. "He's over there, asleep." "He may wake at any moment; we must get away at once," hurried Larry. "No," said Fox-Foot, with indifference, "he won't wake. There is a flower grows here, small seeds; I creep up close, put it in his teapot. He not see me.
So, at noon, while Larry and Jack cooked the dinner, Fox-Foot penetrated the woods, returning with some crooked little brown roots, which he bound about Jack's forehead and made him inhale. They exuded a peculiar sweetish odor, that seemed to wash the eyeball like water, and when the afternoon was half spent, Jack remarked that his eyelids had ceased to smart.
He could hardly define the reason, until, glancing up suddenly, he found himself looking into a pair of dark eyes of very rare beauty. Then he knew that this strangely happy feeling came from the simple fact that there were to be no "good-byes," that Fox-Foot was still beside him. A Night With "North Eagle" A Tale Founded on Fact.
"Why, boy, you look as if you would stop at nothing to outwit our unpleasant follower." "I shall stop at very little," said Jack doggedly. "Your gold will get to the front, Larry, if I have full fling in the matter." "Fling away, son," was the reply. "Only always remember: don't use your revolver unless he is killing you." "Or killing you or Fox-Foot," supplemented the boy.
And big, burly Jack Cornwall's tear-wet face was lying against Larry's hand, and poor, big, burly Jack Cornwall's voice was catching in his throat as he said: "Oh, Fox-Foot! Fox-Foot! I'd rather have died than heard this this from you!"
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