"Fling away, son," was the reply. "Only always remember: don't _use_
your revolver unless he is killing you."

"Or killing you or Fox-Foot," supplemented the boy.

"Same thing," said Larry. "We are all one in this matter, but I don't
want you to be sorry in after years that you pulled a gun too quickly,
that is all."

"No gun," joined Fox-Foot, slyly. "You leave the man to me. I fix him."

"I guess that's right," answered Larry. "Foxy's the boy to trip up Mr.
Mackinaw in his nice little race for what does not belong to him. Now,
boys, for supper, but we'll tuck away these pretty little playthings
first."

The nuggets were divided into two stout canvas sacks, which were never
to leave the lynx eyes of these three adventurers. They were to eat off
those sacks, sleep on them, sit on them, think of them, dream of them,
work for them, swim for them, fight for them. That was the vow that
these three sturdy souls and manly hearts made one to another, before
they sat down to bacon and beans, in the vast wilderness of the North,
that glorious summer night.

"Downy pillow, this!" growled Larry, as he folded his sweater over a
gold sack to get at least a semblance of softness for his ear to burrow
into.

"Never mind, Larry, you can swap it for a good slice of 'down' when