laughing river gurgled into Lake Nameless, and that night they camped
below its frowning shores on a narrow strip of beach, where the
driftwood of many years and many storms had stranded, seemingly forever.
All three had rolled into blankets, with sleep hovering above and about
them, when, noiselessly as the dawn, Fox-Foot slipped from his bed like
an eel, dipped under the tent, and was gone.

"Larry," whispered Jack, fearfully.

"Yes, boy?" came the reply.

"Did you see that?"

"Yes, boy."

"But--Larry, oh, it's horrible! I hate myself for saying it--but, oh,
Larry, he's taken a sack with him. I saw it."

"Yes, boy."

"Listen! Oh, Larry, s-s-h--"

Matt Larson turned on his back, every nerve strung to snapping pitch.
Two whispering voices assailed his ears. The horror of them seemed to
grip his heart and stop its very beating. Fox-Foot was speaking.

"You's not a good man. I hate you. You's bad all over, but I _have_ to
trust you. You got me cornered. Here's the gold, same's I promised. You
take half. I take half. _You hide it_. Bime-by when I get _them_ out
of this, I come back, _then_ we divide. But you sure _hide it now, hide