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Updated: June 14, 2025
All three had rolled into blankets, with sleep hovering above and about them, when, noiselessly as the dawn, Fox-Foot slipped from his bed like an eel, dipped under the tent, and was gone. "Larry," whispered Jack, fearfully. "Yes, boy?" came the reply. "Did you see that?" "Yes, boy." "But Larry, oh, it's horrible! I hate myself for saying it but, oh, Larry, he's taken a sack with him. I saw it."
Larry's nose usually awakened him when it sniffed early cooking, so now he rolled over to pummel Jack, then up to sing and whistle through his morning toilet like a schoolboy. Breakfast over, they struck camp, Fox-Foot taking command in packing the canoe, giving most rigid instructions as to saving the sacks should there be an upset. Larry took one long, last look at the wild surroundings.
"Here, take my revolver," replied the man. "And I tell you, Fox-Foot, if they kick up, you put a bullet clean through them, both of them." "Sure. Give me it," said the Indian in a soft, oily voice. Then, "Now, now, I feel safer with that inside my shirt." Matt Larson's face was white as a sheet.
All day they searched in the river far below the falls, but not a trace could be found of the man in the mackinaw. "Is there a particle of chance that the poor fellow could escape death?" asked Larry of Fox-Foot that night, when, wearied and thoroughly played out, they pitched their camp for the last night in the forest. "Yes; one chance in fifty. My father he knows two men escape long time ago."
Go to sleep; our Fox-Foot is his own man, nobody else's." "All right, Larry, but I'm here, if anyone wants me," yawned Jack. And Matt Larson knew in his heart of hearts that Jack Cornwall spoke truly that he was there to stand by his uncle and Fox-Foot should he be called upon to do so. Dawn was breaking as they awoke simultaneously to a slight crackling sound outside.
"I shall never sleep or rest for long, son, nor do I want a downy life, but there is a difference between rose leaves and these bulky nuggets prodding a fellow in the neck." "You sleep on blankets, I sleep on the wampum," said Fox-Foot, extracting with his slim brown fingers the "pillow" from beneath Larry's tired head. "All right, Foxy," murmured the man, sleepily.
But those two shots had told their story. With almost stunning horror Larry and Fox-Foot heard them. "He's got him! He's got Jack!" gasped the Indian, dropping the canoe, and turning with the fleetness of a deer, he disappeared up the portage. Spitting out the strange foreign word he only used in extreme moments, Larry followed hard on his heels. "He's got him down!
"And he don't get King's Coin, not while I live me," said the low voice of Fox-Foot, as, with squared shoulders and set teeth, he gripped his paddle firmly and started up the long stretch of Ten-mile Lake. All that night Larry and Jack slept in the canoe, while the Chippewa boy paddled noiselessly, mile after mile.
It was the voice of the man in the mackinaw, and it was hissing: "Bet your life I'll hide it, Fox-Foot, and you're a good, decent Indian boy. You shall have half, sure, but get both of those dogs out of here. Get 'em away, right off." "I scairt," replied the Indian, "I clean scairt. When he finds out, maybe he kill me. I got no knife, no gun nothing. I scairt."
At supper time Fox-Foot would allow no fire to be built, no landing to be made, no trace of their passing to be left. They ate canned meat and marmalade, drank again of the stream and pushed on, until just at dusk they reached the edge of a long, still lake, with shores of granite and dense fir forest. "Larry and Jack, you sleep in canoe to-night; no camp.
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