"Gold? Your gold?" exclaimed the Indian boy in surprise. "Your gold?
Why, she's all here"; and flinging back his cover blanket he displayed
a gorgeous sight. There, in a thick, deep layer, piled on his under
blanket, lay every single, blessed nugget belonging to the one sack he
had slept on.

"But," stammered Larry, his eyes popping out of his head in amazement,
"but, Foxy, I _heard_ you bargain with him, I _heard_ you give him the
sack of gold."

"No," replied the Indian, smiling; "heard me give him the _sack_, the
sack filled with stones and pebbles, _not_ with gold. But I've got his
gun, got it _here, here_ in my shirt. He is now unarmed. _He can't shoot
you now_!"

Matt Larson held out his arms. "Oh, Foxy, Foxy, forgive me, forgive me!
For the moment I mistrusted you, I doubted you, my boy."

"I love you just same as ever; no difference if you did suspect, I no
change," said the Indian, as Larry's splendid arms closed about his
lithe young shoulders.

Then Jack Cornwall's voice found utterance. "Fox-Foot! Oh, Fox-Foot!"
was all he could say, but the Indian boy laid his slim finger across
Jack's honest, boyish lips, saying:

"I know. Indian he always know. I love you just same as if you never
doubt."

And Jack knew that Fox-Foot spoke the truth.