oistened his lips again, but no words seemed to come to him. It was
Fox-Foot who spoke first. Touching one splendid nugget almost
contemptuously with the toe of his moccasin, he sneered "It is the
curse of the paleface, this gold. 'Most every white man he sell the
soul within his body for gold, gold, but not so Larry. _I_ know him.
He prize this thing because it is the reward of pluck, of work, of
great patience, of what white men call 'grit.'"

"Thank you, Foxy," said Larry, rising and extending his fine hand, which
grasped the Indian's with a warm, true grip. "You mean that--mean it
with all your loyal young redskin heart. Yes, boys, I hope it is for the
love of pluck, the pride of 'grit,' that I value this thing. I hope it
is not greed, not avarice, not--"

"_Never_!" interrupted Jack's ringing voice. "Never any greed of gold in
you, Larry. You best and bulliest of men alive, but I _am_ glad the gold
is yours. You deserve every ounce of it," and Jack was clinging to his
handsome young uncle's other hand with a heartiness that rang as true
as the nuggets lying at his feet. Presently he stooped to lift one. Its
rugged yellow bulk reflected the dying sun. It was a goodly thing
to look at, rare, precious, beautiful. Then he dropped it among its
fellows, his fingers curled into his palms. Unconsciously his hands
moulded themselves into fists, and each fist rested with a peculiar
bulldog movement above each sturdy hip. His eyes met Larry's.

"We'll have a tough fight for it," he said, meaningly, "but that gold is
going to get past the man in the mackinaw."

"It certainly will, if you're going to act as you look now," laughed
Larry. "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.

"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 the