morning the Indian stirred; he did not seem to awake as other boys do,
but more like a rabbit. His eyes opened without drowsiness; he shot to
his knees, sweeping the river bank with a glance like the boring of a
gimlet. Larry, looking at him, knew that nothing---nothing, bird, beast
or man--could escape that penetrating scrutiny. Then, without comment,
the boy curled down among his blankets again and slept.

They did not stop for "grub" at midday--just opened a can of pork and
beans, finished up the cold fried fish, and drank from the clear blue
waters of the river. Then on once more upstream, which now began to
broaden into placid lakelets, thereby lessening the current and giving
them a chance to make more rapid headway. At four o'clock they reached
the forks of the stream--one flowed towards them from the north, the
other from the west.

"Which way?" asked Larson, rousing the Chippewa. The boy got up
immediately and took the stern paddle, steering the western course. They
had paddled something over two miles up that arm when Fox-Foot beached
the canoe, built a fire, spilled out the remainder of the pork and
beans, threw the tin can on the bank, then marshalled his crew aboard
again, and deliberately steered over the course they had already come.

"We lose two miles good work," he explained. "We build decoy fire, we
leave tin can, he come; he think we go that way, but we go north." Back
to the forks and up the northern branch they pulled, both Larry and Jack
not only willing to have done four miles of seemingly unnecessary
paddling, but loud in their praise and appreciation of the Indian's
shrewd tactics. At supper time Fox-Foot would allow no fire to be built,
no landing to be made, no trace of their passing to be left. They ate
canned meat and marmalade, drank again of the stream and pushed on,