from _you_!"

Then came a hurried good-bye between the two creatures outside, and
Fox-Foot slipped back into the tent, slipped back noiselessly, snakily
as an eel in its own slime.

For a full hour Larry and Jack lay there in the dark, hand gripping
hand. One sack of gold had gone, stolen by their trusted friend, who
lay near them, a loaded revolver inside his shirt, and a threat on his
lips--a threat to kill them both.

At the end of the hour the Indian arose, struck a match, lighted a bit
of candle, and taking the revolver from his shirt, examined it closely.
Through narrowed lids Larry could see by even that faint light that it
was fully loaded.

With a sweet, almost motherly movement, Matt Larson curled his arm
around the boy at his side. They at least would face death together. But
the Indian was crawling slowly, silently up towards them, closer,
closer. At last the slim, brown fingers touched Larry's shoulder, and
the soft Chippewa voice whispered:

"Larry, Jack, wake! See, see, the great thing I got. I got _his_
revolver. He never harm us now."

Larry sat bolt upright.

"What do you mean, Foxy? What do you mean, I say? What have you done
_with my gold_?"