Dane smiled as he again dipped his paddle into the water.

"Come, Pete, let's get on. There's a nasty run ahead, and it'll take
us over two hours after we land to reach the Fort."

"Plenty rum to-night, eh?" the Indian queried, as he guided the canoe
out into the open.

"Not plenty, remember, Pete. You've got to be careful this time and
not take too much. If there are slashers hanging around the trading
post they'll be only too anxious to get you drunk, and put you out of
business. There's too much at stake to run any risk."

"Umph! me no get drunk," the Indian retorted. "Me no fool. Me no
crazee white man."

It took them almost a half hour to cross to the mainland. Here they
landed, concealed the canoe, and ate a frugal meal of bread and dried
meat. This detained them but a short time, and they then started forth
upon the trail which led along the river not far from the shore. They
swung rapidly on their way, up hill and down, leaping small brooks, and
crossing swamps overgrown with a tangle of alders, rank grass, and
succulent weeds. Small game was plentiful. Rabbits scurried across
the trail, and partridges rose and whirred among the trees. But the
travellers never paused in their onward march. Although they had been
on the way since early morning, they showed no sign of fatigue. Their
strong athletic bodies, bent somewhat forward, swayed in rythmic
motion, and their feet beat a silent tatoo upon the well-worn trail.