But the two boys were already shaking hands, friends at once because of their friendship for Matt Larson.  Then came the packing of duffle and dunnage bags into the narrow bark canoe beached on the river bank, fifty yards away.  A last look at the outfit, to see if there were sufficient matches and other prime necessities, then they were off—­off on that strange quest Jack knew so little of.  His alert senses had long ago grasped the fact that furs alone were not taking them north, that something unspoken of was the real cause of this expedition; but he was content to wait until the time came when he should be told.  His handsome young uncle knelt at the bow thwart, the silent Chippewa boy at the stern.  The canoe shot forth like a slender arrow, and the wilderness closed in about them Just as they rounded the bend of the river which was to shut the settlement from sight, Matt Larson turned his head several times quickly, looking behind them with something of the lightning movement and sharp rapidity of a wild animal.  It struck Jack as an odd action, betraying suspicion—­suspicion perhaps that they might be followed.  That night wisdom came to him.  The day had been a heavy one, paddling upstream against a cruel current; and, after they had pitched camp for the night at the foot of an exquisite cascade of water called the Red Rock Falls, and eaten a tremendous supper, Jack strolled to the water’s margin to see that the canoe was properly beached high and safe.  On the opposite side of the river a slim shadow slipped along—­a canoe that contained a single man, who wore a rough coat of indefinite greyish plaid.  Jack crept noiselessly up the river bank.  “Larry, Fox-Foot,” he said in a hoarse, low whisper, “look, look across the river!  A canoe, with a man in it—­a man in a mackinaw!”

II

Matt Larson sprang to his feet, spitting out a strange foreign word that boded no good to the intruder.  His hand leaped to his revolver instantly.  Then he swung around to look at Fox-Foot, but the boy had disappeared for a moment.  The two stood silent, then Jack’s quick eye caught sight of the Chippewa many yards distant crawling on his belly like a snake, in and out among the blueberry bushes upstream.  “Foxy’s gone for all night; we’ll never see him until daylight.  He’ll watch that canoe like a lynx.  He’s worth his weight in gold,” murmured Matt Larson.  Then he added, addressing Jack, “I thought I brought you out here because your eyes were gone smash!  Why, boy, you have an eye like a vulture, to make out that canoe and that coat in this twilight.”

Jack fairly beamed with pride at this praise.  “Larry,” he said, “I believe I saw that canoe as much with my brain as with my eyes; besides, my eyes don’t hurt unless I strain them.”

“Your eyes are bully; we’ll take care of them, and of you, too, Jack.  You are—­yes, invaluable.  Well, somebody has got to sleep to-night to be fit to work up-stream to-morrow, so, Jack, you and I shall be the somebodies, for Foxy will never close an eye to-night.  We’re safe as a church with that boy a-watch.  You must paddle all to-morrow, son, while Foxy sleeps amidships.”