“Indians.”

That was all Frank said, but it was sufficient. Over the faces of Mr. Hampton, Farnum and the two men, Dick and Art, came looks of alarm.

“In camp,” asked Jack, a sudden thought striking him. “Maybe they’re just visitors.”

But Farnum shook his head decisively, before Frank could reply.

“The only Indians in this country hate the white man,” he said. “They have had some cause, goodness knows. But the point is, they hate us.” Turning abruptly to Frank, he said:

“Do they know where we are? Were you seen?”

“I was approaching our camp from this side,” said Frank, who had recovered his speech. “I was in search of a handkerchief, for I’ve got a little cold, and found I did not have one with me. Anyway, my feet made no sound on the pine needles, and I was screened from the camp by the trees. Suddenly, as I neared the last fringe, I saw a dozen Indians or more steal out of the trees on the other side of the clearing. They fell upon our belongings and started going through them. I hurried away to warn you.”

“Quick,” said Farnum, “there is no time to lose. We are seven and all armed. They saw us depart and probably thought this was a grand chance to rifle our camp. Waited a while to see if we were coming back at once. I imagine they are just thieves. Well, we’ll give them a lesson. Come on.”

Mr. Hampton laid a detaining hand on Farnum’s arm.

“Even if they are thieves,” he said. “We want no bloodshed. Shoot over their heads, if shooting is necessary.”

Farnum’s face fell.

“All right, sir,” he said. “Just as you say. But we’ll have to hurry, or they’ll get away with everything and escape in our canoes. Then we would be out of luck, indeed.”

With beating hearts, the party stole back through the trees, spread out with intervals of several yards between each. Dick and Art, who never stirred anywhere without their rifles with them, being old-timers who knew what it meant to be separated from their weapons in this wild land, were on the ends of the line. The boys had left their rifles behind, as had Mr. Hampton. Farnum, however, had brought his, and held the middle position. The other four were armed with their revolvers.

As they neared the fringe of trees forming the last rampart between them and camp, crouching behind tree trunks as they stole forward, they could see a group of Indians still busy over their disordered luggage, which had been opened and tossed about near the fire. Another group was at the water’s edge, loading the canoes which had been drawn up on the sand.

“Just in time,” thought Jack.

Then his eye was caught by a picturesque figure of a man emerging from the little tent which Mr. Hampton employed, because he was a sufferer from rheumatism and wanted some shelter to keep off night chills in case they were late in getting out of the country, but which at present frequently was not set up on their halts. The present occasion, however, a whim to sleep under canvas rather than the fir trees had possessed him, and the tent had been set up.

The man who caught Jack’s attention differed little in dress from Dick and Art, but about his head was bound a red bandanna handkerchief in piratical fashion, and this suggestion was increased by his long, drooping black mustaches. Jack could see him clearly, and thought that seldom had he looked upon a more villainous countenance. The fellow held a piece of paper in his hand, and was reading it with evident satisfaction.

A low exclamation from Farnum, next in line on his left, drew Jack’s attention. He looked at the latter, crouching behind a tree. Farnum’s eyes were ablaze. He had raised his rifle and was pointing it at the man before the tent. The next moment there was a report, the paper fell from the fellow’s hand, and he emitted a howl of surprise and pain.

“Just the hand,” Jack overheard Farnum say in a tone of vexation, as he prepared to fire again. But the other, seizing his wounded hand in the unwounded one, did not wait for the attack. Running low and in zigzag fashion, he darted for the cover of the trees on the other side of the camp, at the same time shouting an unintelligible warning to his companions.

“Fire,” shrieked Farnum, pumping another shot after the fleeing man, that kicked up the dirt at his heels. “That’s Lupo the Wolf. Shoot to kill.”

Jack shot with the rest, but remembering his father’s exhortation fired high. The volley was general. From the rifles of Art, Dick and Farnum came deeper notes of heavy weapons, while from the four revolvers of the others poured a succession of shots. It sounded as if an army were opening fire from the woods.

The Indians did not stay upon the order of their going. Those grouped about the luggage ran after the disappearing man Farnum had called Lupo the Wolf, while the other group at the canoes dashed away along the graveled bank of the stream. One, however, sought to launch the canoes into the swift current before departing, but his first effort was ineffectual, and any further attempt was stopped by a bullet from Mr. Hampton’s revolver, which winged him in an arm and sent him scurrying after his fellows.

“Dick, Art, here,” cried Farnum, peremptorily.

The two ran to his side.

“That was Lupo the Wolf,” Farnum explained rapidly, his voice betraying his excitement. “You can guess what that means?”

The others nodded, with compressed lips.

“I want you to trail them. Don’t run into danger, but see if their camp is nearby.”

With nods of understanding, the two frontiersmen were off at the run, not crossing the open camp, but circling it amongst the trees. Then Farnum turned to Mr. Hampton, and the boys crowding at his heels.

“That wasn’t just an attack from Indian thieves,” he said. “Mr. Hampton”—and his voice took on a solemn tone—“that was a blow from the enemy.”

“What do you mean?”

“They were desperadoes under the personal leadership of Lupo the Wolf.”

“And he?”

“He is a cross-breed, half Indian, half white, and the most notorious bad man in the north. He is known not only throughout the length and breadth of Alaska, but throughout the Yukon of Canada, too. From Ketchikan to Arctic City, and from Nome to Dawson, he has gambled, fought, knifed, murdered, and never been brought to book. Ah, you consider Alaska is law-abiding these days. To a certain extent, the towns and mining camps have grown more orderly and there are sheriffs ‘north of 54.’ But might still rules in the camps.”

Farnum spoke bitterly, and leaned a moment on his rifle. As it was evident, however, that he had not yet finished, the others did not interrupt. Presently he resumed.

“Lupo recruits his men from the fisheries. Men of the lowest type come there in Summer, in droves, lured by the high wages. They form temporary alliances with the native women. Then in the Fall, they depart. You can guess what the children of such lawless unions are like. They are cross-breeds, inheriting the most vicious and lawless characteristics of the human race. It is from them Lupo recruits his following.”

“But why should they be away over here, in this unpeopled wilderness?” asked Mr. Hampton. “Unless—” He paused and looked questioningly at Farnum.

The latter nodded.

“That’s it,” he said. “Why? Unless, if you will let me finish for you, Lupo is on our trail. And that I believe to be the case. When Frank here first came with word of Indians in camp, I considered them merely raiders from some passing body of hunters. But when I found Lupo at their head, I knew better. The wonder to me is,” he said, growing thoughtful, “that he did not send men to trail us and kill us or take us prisoner.”

Mr. Hampton shrugged.

“Even the cunningest slip up now and then,” he said. “Perhaps his men wanted to loot first. And, anyway, they had only been here a few moments when, thanks to Frank, we were able to surprise them. Well, thanks to our good angel, we came off as well as we did. Nothing stolen, our canoes still here, nobody hurt.”

“Ah,” said Farnum, darkly, “we’re not out of the woods yet. If Lupo the Wolf is after us, well—there is trouble ahead.”