_them_ out
of this, I come back, _then_ we divide. But you sure _hide it now, hide
it. Good. GOOD_."

Then came the reply in English, good English. There was only one voice
in all the world that had that hissing, snaky sound, and Larry knew it
to his cost. It was the voice of the man in the mackinaw, and it was
hissing:

"Bet your life I'll hide it, Fox-Foot, and you're a good, decent Indian
boy. You shall have half, _sure_, but get both of those _dogs_ out of
here. Get 'em away, right off."

"I scairt," replied the Indian, "I clean scairt. When he finds out,
maybe he kill me. I got no knife, no gun--nothing. I scairt."

"Here, take my revolver," replied the man. "And I tell you, Fox-Foot,
if they kick up, you put a bullet clean through them, _both_ of them."

"Sure. Give me it," said the Indian in a soft, oily voice. Then, "Now,
now, I feel safer with _that_ inside my shirt."

Matt Larson's face was white as a sheet. He did not care a dollar
for his lost gold, but for this Indian boy to fail him--oh, it was
heartbreaking! He buried his face in his hands. "Oh, Foxy!" he almost
sobbed. "Foxy, my little Chippewa friend, I have tried _so_ hard to
treat you square--and--Foxy, you've failed me! You've failed me." And
big, burly Jack Cornwall's tear-wet face was lying against Larry's hand,
and poor, big, burly Jack Cornwall's voice was catching in his throat
as he said:

"Oh, Fox-Foot! Fox-Foot! I'd rather have died than heard this--this
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!