  The first night on their return trip to Half Way House the boys camped twenty miles south of the lake. Here they received their first set-back. In the morning they awoke to find their canoe was gone. Rage in their hearts, they gathered in a little group and stared at the place where it had been. They guessed immediately what had happened. After the first shock, Dick scowled and looked at his two chums. “Well, we know where we stand now,” he declared grimly. “Three against two,” blurted Sandy. “They can’t stop us.” Dick mopped his moist forehead and dug the tip of one moccasin into the loose sand. “That may be true. We have the advantage in numbers. But I’d also like to point out to you that even though that is so the odds are in their favor, nevertheless. We never know when to look for them. They’ll strike when we least expect it and always from under cover. They’ve already won the first round. Poling up the river in a raft is a tedious and disheartening undertaking. It will take us three times as long to reach our destination. I don’t know as I’m in favor of going on in that way.” “Why not?” “Too much danger.” “Not any more danger than there was in the canoe,” objected Sandy. “Probably not. But until this moment we haven’t been sure in our own minds that Wolf Brennan and Toby McCallum have taken the offensive. Now we know. There’s absolutely no question about it. They’ve struck once and they’ll strike again too. The next time it may be a stray shot that will get one of us.” “What do you mean by a stray shot?” demanded Sandy. “If one of us gets killed it might as well be a stray shot, mightn’t it? I mean, it will be a difficult thing to prove that we were deliberately fired on and that those two miscreants did the firing.” “You propose then to walk back?” “Yes, I think it will be safer.” “But they can shoot us just as well while we are going through the woods as they can if we were aboard a raft.” “I don’t agree with you there. There’s no better mark that I can think of then three standing figures on a raft, no obstructions of any kind to check the progress of a bullet, the best sort of cover along the shore in which they can hide.” “Well, I don’t mind walking,” said Sandy. “But what about our luggage here? We can’t carry all of that. I’m mighty glad now we left those tools back there at the island of the dinosaur.” “I’d suggest that we make a cache, right here, of what we can not carry. If we are to travel swiftly, we ought not to pack more than fifty pounds each. Isn’t that right, Toma?” The Indian nodded. “Not more than fifty pounds. That way we travel quick. Think much better like you say not to pole up river in raft. Next time Wolf Brennan him not be so easy on us.” Sandy suddenly clapped his hands. His face brightened and he laughed gleefully. “Cracky! I’ve just had an inspiration. We’ll beat them at their own game. We won’t set our course along the river. We’ll go a more roundabout way and put them off our trail entirely.” “But how?” questioned Dick, greatly interested. “I just happened to remember,” explained Sandy, “that sixty miles southwest of here is the Clear Spring River. It’s a large stream, fairly navigable. On this river, near what is called the Great Heart Portage, is an old trading post, now deserted, once the headquarters for an independent fur company. If I remember correctly, Uncle Walter said that this independent company has been out of business for something like eight years. But their stores and warehouses are still there. These have been made over into dwelling houses and are occupied by half-breeds and Indians during the winter months. If we proceed in a straight line toward this old trading post, we ought to reach it in two days. When we arrive there, the chances are, we may find Indians in the vicinity and may be able to purchase another canoe. If we do, we’ll proceed up the Clear Spring River to Halstead’s Island, which will bring us about fifteen miles west of Half Way House.” Sandy paused and regarded Dick and Toma questioningly. “What do you think of that for a plan?” “Good,” declared Toma. “I like it very much,” smiled Dick. “It ought to throw Brennan and McCallum completely off our trail. They’ll be waiting for us somewhere a short distance up the river and, when we fail to put in an appearance either by raft or on foot, they won’t know what has become of us. I doubt if they’ll ever tumble to the fact that we’ve gone over to the Clear Spring River. When they do come back here to investigate and stumble upon our trail, we’ll be so far away they won’t be able to overtake us.” While Dick had been talking, Toma paced restlessly back and forth near the campfire. For some unexplainable reason, he felt uneasy. For several minutes now, he had been watching closely a thicket of elders as a cat might watch a mouse. On two different occasions the leaves and branches of the elders had stirred gently. A light breeze flowed down along the river valley, yet it was so vagrant and listless that it scarcely could be felt fanning one’s cheek. Yet he had distinctly seen the elders moving. His quick eye had noted this and his first thought had been that possibly a squirrel was playing there. Catching up his rifle, he strode straight over to the clustered thicket and parted the branches. As he peered within, for one fleeting moment he was under the impression that he had caught sight of something brown. Then he heard a stealthy movement, followed, by the unmistakable crackling of dry branches. Pushing his way within the thicket, he paused to listen. He could hear no further sound. Yet something told him that that fleeting glimpse of something brown had not been of an animal but of a man—Wolf Brennan or McCallum! He took a few steps forward, critically examining the ground. A barely audible sound escaped his lips. He stooped quickly over the faint imprint of a moccasined foot. Satisfied, his suspicions confirmed, he dashed on through the thicket, emerging at its farther side, just as two figures topped a low hill not thirty feet ahead. Toma raised his rifle to his shoulder in a lightning motion, then came a blinding explosion and the two men ducked their heads as a bullet whistled between them. The skulkers did not hesitate for even a fraction of a second. They dashed down the hill toward the thicker growth just below. Just as they entered this welcome barrier, a second bullet clipped the leaves above their heads. In the wild scramble that followed, Wolf Brennan lost his hat. Cursing, he started back for it when still another lead pellet whizzed past, so close to his face that he thought better of it, turned and plunged on after his companion. Soon afterward, Toma strode back into camp as calmly as if nothing happened. His expression was reserved and dignified. Except for a faint sparkle in his eyes, one could never have guessed that only a short time before he had been so busy. “What were you shooting at?” Dick and Sandy demanded. The young Indian smiled faintly. “A wolf,” he answered. “Where did you see it? Pshaw, you’re joking,” accused Sandy. “A wolf! One seldom sees a wolf during the summer.” “I see ’em wolf,” declared Toma, “an’ I shoot at him one, two, three times.” “Yes, we heard you,” said Dick. “Hit him?” “I not try very hard. I have lots fun scare that wolf. Wolf no good to eat unless one pretty near starve. Why for I kill him?” “I’d kill a wolf any time I had a chance,” declared Dick. “I hate them.” Sandy started to say something, then suddenly paused. Of a sudden his eyes had grown very round and he stared at Toma as if fascinated. He was looking straight at the young Indian’s hip pocket. From it a bulky object protruded. The object was brown and it was a little difficult to tell just what it was, nevertheless, Sandy had his suspicions. He strode forward quickly and yanked it from his chum’s pocket. He smoothed it and held it out for better inspection. “Where did you get it?” he demanded. At the sharp question, Dick turned and he, too, stood goggling. “I no tell you a lie,” Toma explained. “That fellow him wolf all right—Wolf Brennan.” Dick turned pale. “Did you kill him?” he cried in horror. “Tell the truth, Toma, you didn’t hit him, surely? You wouldn’t do that.” “I just tell you I like make ’em run. Wolf Brennan, Toby McCallum do very fast run back there in the trees,” Toma pointed away in the direction he had just come. “Mebbe next time them fellows think twice before they try spy on our camp.” For a brief interval, Dick and Sandy grinned over the mental picture of those two racing figures, but their mirth was short-lived. The same thought came to each at the same time. “I’ll bet they heard what we were talking about,” gasped Sandy. “Sure they did,” said Dick. “In that case, no use going to Clear Spring River. Might as well go on the way we planned in the first place”—dolefully. “Might as well.” Toma, who had been gazing up and down along the shore, suddenly broke forth: “What you think them fellows do with our canoe?” “Set it adrift, of course,” grunted Sandy. “It’s probably miles away by this time. Might even have reached the Lake of Many Islands.” Toma rubbed his forehead with a grimy hand. “Mebbe not. Mebbe current take it close in to shore an’ that canoe not very far away this minute.” “Possible, I’ll admit,” agreed Dick, “but not very probable. More likely they took it out here in mid-stream and sunk it.” “If you fellow stay here,” suggested Toma, “I very willing to walk back to see if mebbe I find it.” “No,” said Dick, “I wouldn’t want you to do that. I mean it isn’t fair that you should take all the risks and do all the work, Toma. Let’s toss a coin to see who goes.” It was agreed. They tossed the coin and Dick lost. A few minutes later, carrying his rifle and a few emergency rations, he waved good-bye to his two chums and started out. |
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