he sun had risen by this time, but the boys were not anxious to break
camp and start on that journey which would perhaps prove fatal to all
of them. They lingered, talking, discussing, hesitating, reluctant to
make the start.

Fred had not contributed a single word to the discussion. He had
barely managed to swallow a little breakfast, and was too miserable to
join in the talk. He knew how slim their chances were; he imagined how
the party would struggle on, growing weaker daily, until--

If only they had a canoe! If only they could run the robbers down and
ambush them in their turn! And as he puzzled on the problem, an
idea--an inspiration--flashed into his mind.

He bent over, and studied the map intently for a second.

"Look! Look here!" he cried, wildly. "What fools we are! We can
overtake those fellows--catch 'em--cut 'em off before they get
anywhere--and get back our grub, and the foxes, and the
canoe--everything--why--"

"What's that? What do you mean?" cried Horace and Mac together.

Fred placed a trembling finger on the map.

"See, this is where we are, isn't it? Those thieves will go down here
to the mouth of the Smoke River, and turn up it to their camp. They
didn't have much outfit with them; so they'll go back to their shanty.
It's about fifty miles round by the way they'll go, but if we cut
straight across country--this way--we'd strike the Smoke in twenty-five
miles, and be there before them."

"I do believe you've hit something, Fred!" Mac exclaimed.

In fact, the Smoke and the Missanabie Rivers made the arms of an acute
angle. Between twenty and thirty miles straight to the northwest would
bring them out on the former stream somewhere in the neighborhood of
"Buck Rapids."

"Let's see!" calculated Horace hurriedly. "They can run down to the
mouth of the Smoke in a few hours from here. After that it'll be
slower work, but they'll have the portage trails that we cut, and they
ought to get up beyond the long lake by this evening. Can we get
across in time to head 'em off?"

"We must. Of course we can!" Fred insisted. "It's our only chance,
and you both know it. We never could get home with our boots gone, and
with the food we have, but this venison will last us across to the
Smoke."

"Patch our boots up with the deerskin!" cried Mac. "We'll ambush 'em.
We'll catch 'em on a hard carry. Only let me get my hands on 'em!"

"Then we haven't a minute to lose!" said Horace.

"