The big canoe which Dick and Art had captured from the Indians was turned over to MacDonald. It was easily capable of transporting five—the three prisoners, MacDonald and Dick. With the two latter in the bow and stern respectively, and the prisoners unarmed between, there was little danger so long as MacDonald and Dick maintained reasonable watchfulness. Two of the half-breeds were cowed and broken in spirit, moreover, while Long Tom was hors de combat on account of the injury to his arm, and would be for some time to come. MacDonald’s skin kayak was to be towed behind, containing his slender outfit, and one of the prisoners could carry the whole business alone at portages.

MacDonald had entered the lake by a considerable stream flowing into it from the southwest, and not the stream down which the Hampton party had come. He set out for this other stream before the others quit the island, with the intention of retracing his steps into the wilderness in large measure. This would facilitate his travel. Farther to the south, he said, was a large river which could be reached by a ten-mile portage, and down which they could travel for many miles.

“If you ever want to join the Mounted,” he said to Bob, to whom he had taken a great fancy, “let me know. I’ll fix it for you.”

Bob laughed, but he was young enough to be flattered by the sincere compliment.

“I may take you up on that some day,” he said. “Who knows?”

Then MacDonald stepped into the canoe, goodbyes were said, and the craft shot away.

“There go a couple of good men,” commented Farnum, as under the powerful strokes of the paddles the canoe drew swiftly down the lake.

“One good man, anyhow,” said Art, who overheard the observation. “Ol’ Dick an’ me had a li’l talk. I’m going to join up with the Mounted, too, when we git back. We been pals fifteen year.”

“Fifteen years,” exclaimed Frank. “In the wilderness all that time?”

Art nodded absently, his eyes on the retreating canoe.

“Sure,” said Art. “It’s home to us. Ain’t no wilderness. Cities is the real wilderness. Dick an’ me’s been separated now and then, like now, but we always come together agin. I expect when we git to be old men like some prospectors I seen we’ll be together all the time, fightin’ and jawin’ each other, but ready to tear the heart out o’ anybody that jumps one of us.”

“It’s a wonder Dick went off with MacDonald like he did, in that case,” said Jack.

“Huh. Somebody had to go. He knew we’d meet agin.”

Art said no more, but turned away to busy himself with the outfit.

Presently everything was in readiness for departure and then the two remaining canoes, with the outfit distributed between them, the three boys in one and the three men in the other, started up the lake in the opposite direction from that taken by MacDonald and Dick. Previously, when in pursuit of Lupo, Mr. Hampton had discovered the lake was of so considerable extent that, despite their hours of travel up the side, they had been unable to discern the farther end. In fact, the lake broadened out considerably some distance beyond the island. It was his intention, inasmuch as it followed the general northeastward direction they would pursue, to stick to it as long as possible. He believed there would be some stream at the farther end sufficiently large to float their canoes.

In this he was not mistaken, for after four hours of steady paddling, they discerned the outlet of a stream of considerable width, quartered across the lake and entered it. Almost immediately Jack called to his father, in surprise:

“Dad! Oh, Dad! This stream flows out of the lake; not into it. Do you notice?”

The leading canoe slowed up while the boys approached.

“It certainly does, Jack,” said his father. “What do you make of it, Farnum?”

The latter shook his head, puzzled.

“I don’t know,” he said. “You must remember this is unexplored country. We’re liable to find anything here. But, maybe——”

“What?”

“I don’t know. We’re near the Coppermine, aren’t we, Art?”

“Figure we must be.”

“Maybe this stream flows into the Coppermine.”

“I’ll bet that’s it,” Art approved. “The waters of that lake empty into the Coppermine. Yes, sir; I’ll bet that’s what it is. Well, that makes travel easy for awhile, anyhow.”

Two days of travel, unbroken by any but routine incidents such as the occasional shooting of wild duck Or geese, brought the party at camping time at the end of the second day to a pleasant, open, grassy prairie between two low-wooded hills. Here it was decided to make camp.

After the evening meal was over, and while Mr. Hampton, who was feeling out of sorts, retired to his little tent to try and sleep without taking part in the usual desultory conversation about the fire—which was kept going for the companionship and cheer it imparted and not from any need of warmth you may be sure—Jack arose and stretched.

“My legs are stiff from that position in the canoe all day,” he said. “I want to stretch them a bit. Who’ll come with me to the top of that nearest hill? The sun is pretty low, but we ought to get a considerable view.”

Bob and Frank both volunteered to accompany him. Farnum sat, smoking his pipe and staring into the fire absently. He didn’t care to go. But Art arose and joined the party. It was not far to the top of the hill, although a stiff climb through the trees and brush. The crest, however, was bare of timber.

Frank, who lighter than the others, was first to reach the top, stood struck with amazement. He turned to beckon the others forward with one hand, while laying the other over his mouth in a gesture enjoining silence.

“For the love o’ Pete,” whispered Art, eyes bulging, as he stood beside Frank and peered down into the grassy vale beyond, half overgrown with young willows.

“Are they caribou?” asked Jack, low-voiced. “They don’t look like the caribou we’ve run across along the streams.”

“They ain’t, neither,” said Art. “They’re reindeer.”

“Must be Santy Claus’s,” chuckled Bob. “Always did believe there was something to that story about the old boy living up here near the North Pole, even though people insisted on calling it a fairy tale. Now I know.”

His joke was ignored, however, as Art continued:

“Yes, sir, reindeer. Caribou are always brown. Some o’ these are white, some brown, and some spotted. Then they ain’t the size o’ caribou. Besides, I know they’re reindeer. I see ’em often enough in Alaska to know.”

“Alaska? Do these reindeer come from there?”

Art nodded.

“Look at ’em. They’re tame. Must’a winded us, but that don’t scare ’em none. They’re used to humans. No more scared o’ bein’ hunted than cattle are back in the States.”

“Tame?” queried Frank. “What do you mean?”

“Why, the Eskimos in Alaska, not the wild one, of this Far North, but the regular ones that come in touch with the white man, they keep herds o’ reindeer just like a farmer in the States keeps cows. Look at ’em. Must be two-three hundred there right now. They’re eight-ten hundred miles from home, too. Must ’a wandered away. Bet you there’s a desprit Eskimo lookin’ for ’em right now.”

Jack looked thoughtful.

“What a shame for a man to lose a big herd like that,” he said.

“Yes, sir,” affirmed Art emphatically. “Must be six-seven thousand dollars worth o’ tame reindeer there. Pretty tough.”

“We can’t do anything about it, though,” said Bob.

“Seems a pity-like we can’t ride herd on ’em till some Eskimo shows up to claim ’em,” said Art. “But it can’t be done. Yore father, Jack, is all for pushin’ on fast as we kin.”

After some further discussion, the party retraced its steps, with Art explaining to the boys the big difference existing between the semi-civilized Eskimos of Alaska and the little that was known of the wild Eskimos of the Arctic.

“Folks think Alaska’s right up next to the North Pole,” he said. “Leastways folks in the States do. People comin’ to Nome from the States every so often give me that knowledge. But they’re shore mistaken. Alaska’s great country that’ll be settled up some day. Shore, we got hard Winters. But boys, in the Summer, with the sun a-shinin’ all the time, everything grows just three times as fast as in the States. My Pap was a farmer back in York State, an’ I was raised on a farm. We had hard scratchin’ an’ our Winters was long an’ hard, too. An’ we didn’t have Summers like in Alaska to make up for ’em. I’ll bet if my Pap were livin’ today an’ farmin’ in Alaska he’d find life a lot easier than what we had it on the old farm.”

“But why don’t more people live in Alaska, then?” asked Frank.

“Oh, I don’t know. Hard to get to, for one thing. Ain’t developed up with railroads, neither. Some day, though, you’ll see ’em forced to come here, the way they’re a-crowdin’ up down in the States. Why, we got only 60,000 people in all Alaska, yet she’s quarter as big as the States an’ could darn near feed the whole push herself, if she was put to it and farmed right.”

“Art, why don’t you go to farming? I’d think that would be the thing for you to do.”

“Mebbe I will some day,” said Art. “But I’m an old batch. Got no wife, an’ kind o’ like to feel free to knock around instead o’ bein’ tied to one place.”

It was a feeling with which the boys could sympathize. They were young, with life ahead of them, and they wanted to see the world. In fact they had seen a good deal of it already, as those who have followed them through their various adventures, know. Of this they spoke as they made their way back to camp, where they discovered Farnum ready to turn in, and merely awaiting their return before doing so. Since their first encounter with Lupo, and their discovery that they were not alone in the wilderness, a watch was always kept, and Farnum had combatted sleepiness in order to keep guard until their return.

“Art, you’ve got the first watch,” he said, when they appeared. “The rest of you better turn in, and not sit up talking. With luck we ought to make the Coppermine tomorrow, I figure, and then we’ll do some traveling. We’ve got to hit a fast pace from now on, for already we are having real twilight, and pretty soon we’ll be having short nights while the sun dips entirely below the horizon. That means the season is growing short, and we have not got much time left before we’ll have to start for the outside.”

Jack and Bob heeded the injunction and followed Farnum’s example shortly, but Frank, who did not feel sleepy and, moreover, loved to talk, sat up a considerable time gossiping with Art and telling him of some of their previous adventures.

Suddenly, as he talked along, low-voiced so as not disturb the nearby sleepers, Frank noticed Art was not paying attention, and stopped.

“Oh, well,” he said, half petulantly, “if I’m boring you——”

Art leaned close, and laid a hand on his arm.

“Sorry, Frank,” he said, in a whisper, “but I was a-listenin.’ I got a strange feelin’ like as if somebody had his eyes on the back a’ my head. I wasn’t payin’ no attention to you but a-listenin’ to see if I could hear anything.”

He was so intense that he communicated some of his trepidation to Frank. Instinctively, the latter reached for his rifle as Art half stood up to peer at their twilit surroundings. They were camped in a tiny grove of a half dozen spruces, like an islet in a midst of long, matted grass.

As Art stood up, a single shot rang out, shattering the stillness. He threw himself prone, dragging Frank down with him. Then a fusillade was poured in on them, seemingly from all sides.