As the mentally queer inventor reached into the box for that bottle,
the three silent, observing "Injuns" saw that Garwood had on the
crude table before him a glass mortar and pestle, the former of
about two quarts' capacity.

In this mortar lay a quantity of powdered stuff, which Garwood
had evidently been grinding before their arrival. Now he poured
out a heaping handful of the chlorate crystals, dropping them
on top of the mixture in the mortar.

"A few turns---a little more fatigue of the wrist---and I am the
world's master---its owner!" cried Garwood exultantly.

"Ker-choo!" sneezed Tom Reade at the worst possible moment.

Amos Garwood turned like a flash, tottering to his feet.

"Spies! Traitors! Ingrates!" he gasped in hoarse terror.

"Nothing at all like it," Dick replied, with a pleasant smile.
"Mr. Garwood, we boys are playing in these woods. If we've meddled
with your affairs you'll pardon us, and let us pass on, won't you?"

"Didn't you try to find me here?" demanded Garwood, suspicious still.

"I give you my word of honor that we didn't, sir," answered Dick.
"Until a moment ago we hadn't any idea that you were within
fifty miles of this spot. You see, sir, we're playing Indians
and whites. We're the big Injuns, even if we don't look it.
And behind us, somewhere on our trail, is Captain Greg Holmes,