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 shores 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 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. I take half. _You hide it_. Bime-by when I get