between them that was destined to last throughout their lives.

* * * * * * * *

They left the luxurious sleeping-car of the great Canadian Pacific
Railway, at a little settlement on the north shore of Lake Superior.
There were but three buildings in the place, all of logs: the railway
station, the Hudson's Bay Company's trading post, and "French" Pierre's
"bunk and eating-house." The northern forest closed in on all sides, and
the little settlement in all amounted to nothing more than a clearing.

The instant they stepped from the car, Matt Larson's eyes swept the
platform, alighting with a pleased expression on the figure of a wiry,
alert-looking boy of perhaps eighteen, who stepped forward silently,
quickly, and laid his hand in Larson's, outstretched to greet him. The
boy was Indian through and through, with a fine, thin, copper-colored
face, and eyes of very rare beauty. The instant Jack Cornwall saw those
eyes, he knew that they could see almost unseeable things. But Matt
Larson was introducing them. "Fox-Foot," he said, turning to the Indian,
"here is Jack, my own sister's son. He has my confidence. He will know
all that I know. You may trust him with _everything_. Jack, old man,
this Chippewa boy, Fox-Foot, is my friend and our guide. His canoe is
ours for weeks ahead. He knows what I know. You may trust him with
_everything_. Shake hands."

But the two boys were already shaking hands, friends at once because of
their friendship for Matt Larson. Then came the packing of duffle and
dunnage bags into the narrow bark canoe beached on the river bank, fifty
yards away. A last look at the outfit, to see if there were sufficient
matches and other prime necessities, then they were off--off on that