Part 7 (1/2)
”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. Now, boys, for supper, but we'll tuck away these pretty little playthings first.”
The nuggets were divided into two stout canvas sacks, which were never to leave the lynx eyes of these three adventurers. They were to eat off those sacks, sleep on them, sit on them, think of them, dream of them, work for them, swim for them, fight for them. That was the vow that these three st.u.r.dy souls and manly hearts made one to another, before they sat down to bacon and beans, in the vast wilderness of the North, that glorious summer night.
”Downy pillow, this!” growled Larry, as he folded his sweater over a gold sack to get at least a semblance of softness for his ear to burrow into.
”Never mind, Larry, you can swap it for a good slice of 'down' when we get to the front,” said Jack from the depths of his blankets. ”It strikes me that it will be the cause of your sleeping on 'down' for the rest of your life.”
”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. ”The gold only goes to itself when it goes to you. You're gold right through and through.
Good-night.”
”Good-night,” came Jack's voice.
”How,” answered the Chippewa, after the quaint custom of his tribe.
IV
And all night long they slept the hours peacefully away, the strong, athletic, well-knit, muscular white boy, the slender, agile, adroit Indian side by side, their firm young cheeks pillowed on thousands and thousands of dollars' worth of yellow gold.
With the first hint of dawn, Fox-Foot was astir. Before he left the tent, however, he cautiously placed his sack under Larry's blanket, and within the turn of that gentleman's elbow. Once more good luck attended his efforts with rod and line, and he got a dozen trout in almost as many minutes. 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. The dense pine forest, the forbidding rocks, the silver upper reaches of the river where his fought-for treasure had lain hidden for two years from all human eyes, unknown to any living man save himself. Then the canoe swung into midstream for the return voyage, its narrow little bow facing the south at last.
For many days the taut little craft danced merrily, homeward bound. For many nights the three voyageurs camped, slept, and dreamed, with only the laughing loons, the calling herons, the plaintive owls, and distant fox bark to sweep across their slumbers. But as the days went on, the Indian boy grew more wary; his glance seemed keener, his ears forever on the alert; he appeared like a lithe, silent watchdog, holding itself ready to spring, and snap, and bury its fine white teeth in the throat of an enemy to its household. His paddle dipped noiselessly, his head turned rapidly, his eye narrowed dangerously. Larry and Jack saw it all, but they said nothing, only relieved the Chippewa of all the work they possibly could, so that, should necessity demand that Fox-Foot must lose rest and food, he would be well fortified for every tax placed upon him. 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. But the evening came when the laughing river gurgled into Lake Nameless, and that night they camped below its frowning sh.o.r.es on a narrow strip of beach, where the driftwood of many years and many storms had stranded, seemingly forever.
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.”
”Yes, boy.”
”Listen! Oh, Larry, s-s-h--”
Matt Larson turned on his back, every nerve strung to snapping pitch.
Two whispering voices a.s.sailed his ears. The horror of them seemed to grip his heart and stop its very beating. Fox-Foot was speaking.