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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.


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