“My hand on it!” came Jack’s reply, and once more those two fell fast asleep, palm to palm, but with a vastly different emotion from the one they had felt a few hours before.

“He will try once more,” said Fox-Foot, as they swallowed a hurried breakfast.  “He not quite give up yet.  At the head of that first big rapid—­you know where we portaged over Red Rock Falls—­there’s short cut through woods to Lake Nameless.  Maybe he catch us there.  We there about to-morrow noon.  But he can’t shoot; his gun here.”  And the boy tapped his shirt with an air of confidence.

“Yes, thanks to your stratagem, you young schemer,” said Larry.  “What do you think, Jack?  Are you equal to a good tussle with his mackinaw nibs?”

“I’m not only equal, but aching to get at him,” responded the boy, with spirit.  “I’d give him enough to battle against.”

But the man in the mackinaw had to battle against a far more formidable enemy than this little crew of three venturesome stalwarts.

For the next twenty-four hours things went on much as usual, then came the sweeping bend in the river, and the roar of the distant falls.  This meant to put ashore and to portage the canoe, duffle, guns and gold bags around to the foot of the falls, for no canoe could possibly live through such a cataract, and there was no record, even among the Indians, of anyone ever having “run” it.  All the morning Jack had paddled bow, and worked like a nailer, so the other two lifted the canoe to their shoulders, scrambling up the steep, rocky shores, and leaving Jack to bear the lighter burdens of blankets, tin kettles and one gold-sack.

Following their prearranged plan, Jack left the sack beside the water where he could keep a constant eye on it, while he made several trips up the heights, leaving his various packs on the summit only to return for more.  Last of all he shouldered the heavy gold sack, stumbling among the rocks under its weight.  As he reached the shore heights he noticed his comrades had already been swallowed up in the woods, canoe and all, but he could hear their voices and their feet crunching through the underbrush.

“Hi, boys, you’re doing well!” he called gayly after them, when suddenly a dark circle seemed to wheel about his head, drop over his shoulders, then grip him around the arms.  Instantly he felt the rope tighten.  Someone had thrown a noose—­lassoed him as they lasso cattle on the prairies.  In another second he was thrown flat on his back, the gold sack was jerked from his fingers by the concussion, and a dark, evil face was leaning above his own.  The man in the mackinaw had caught him at last!