“I love you just same as ever; no difference if you did suspect, I no change,” said the Indian, as Larry’s splendid arms closed about his lithe young shoulders.

Then Jack Cornwall’s voice found utterance.  “Fox-Foot!  Oh, Fox-Foot!” was all he could say, but the Indian boy laid his slim finger across Jack’s honest, boyish lips, saying: 

“I know.  Indian he always know.  I love you just same as if you never doubt.”

And Jack knew that Fox-Foot spoke the truth.

“But we must go, go at once,” continued the Chippewa.  “He maybe come back, if he find I cheat him.  I bad fellow—­me.  Long ago, before you come on train, I think maybe he follow us, maybe steal your gold, so I find him, I speak to him with two tongues, one false tongue, one straight tongue.  I bargain with him to come to Lake Nameless.  I meet him here.  We divide your gold, he and I. All the time I make bargain with him I have plan in my heart, just trick to get all his revolver from him, so he can’t shoot you, Larry.  I know he shoot you if I don’t get that gun from him.  So—­I do all this to-night.  I play my trick on him.  We save our gold, we save our lives, maybe.  So—­you understand now?  I bad fellow, me, but I am only bad to bad man like him.  You understand now?  You?”

“Understand?” cried Larry, leaping to his feet.  “Understand?  Why, Foxy, you’re a prince!  You’re a king!  You’re the best boy that ever drew the breath of life.  You are—­”

“Don’t stop now to tell me what I am,” laughed Fox-Foot.  “It is enough that I am your friend, Jack’s friend, and the man may be back with his sack of pebbles.”  Here the Indian sat down in a fit of irresistible laughter.  Then, controlling himself, he continued, “We must be away inside ten minutes—­quick!”

The other two had long ago grasped the entire situation, and in a twinkling camp was struck, and they were heading for the far shore, Larry paddling bow, the Indian astern, and both working for dear life.

Before daybreak they had reached the outlet of the lake, and, wearied as they were with excitement, haste and continuous paddling, Larry still urged that they proceed.  But the Indian would not listen to it.  Larry and Jack must sleep, he insisted, or none of them would be fit to face the man should he follow, which he undoubtedly would, as soon as he discovered the trick which had been played on him.  So the two palefaces once more rolled in their blankets, not waiting to pitch the tent, and the Indian crouched forward near the water’s edge to watch, watch, watch, with sleepless, peering eyes, that nothing, living or dead, could hope to escape.

V

Jack found sleep impossible.  “I feel myself such a cad,” he began to Larry, “such a sneak ever to have doubted our Fox-Foot; but oh, Larry, things did look so against him.”

“They certainly did, son,” assented Matt Larson, “and I feel just as caddish as you do—­more so, in fact, for I should have known, and you were not expected to.  From now on, Jack, let’s you and I make it a life rule, no matter how much things look against any chap, not to believe it of him, but just believe the best and the noblest of everybody.”