Part 5 (2/2)
”Just father's expression!” smiled Jack.
”Well, to bed and sleep now! If you hear any creeping noise in the night it will be Foxy. He'll never let another living soul near us while we sleep,” said Larry, as he prepared for his blanket bed.
”What are you thinking of, boy?” he added, curiously.
”I am wondering if by any chance I could possibly be right,” replied Jack. ”Tell me, Larry, did that man out there, the man in the mackinaw, have anything to do with causing those grey hairs above your ears--did he?”
”You _certainly_ have the intuition of an animal,” was the reply. ”Jack, I love you, old pal; you're white and sharp and clean right through!
Yes, he 'powder-puffed' my hair. I'll tell you about it some day. Not to-night. You must sleep to-night, and remember, 'all's well' as long as Foxy's at the helm.”
”The man wouldn't shoot Fox-Foot, wouldn't _kill_ him, would he, Larry?”
came Jack's anxious voice.
”Shoot him! Shoot Foxy!” Then Matt Larson laughed gleefully into his blankets. ”Why, Jack, no man living could ever get a bead on Foxy in this wilderness. No man could ever find him or see him, though he were lying right at the man's own feet. I think too much of Foxy to expose him to danger. But the best of it is, you can't put your eye, or your ear, or your fingers on that boy. You can't even _smell_ him. He's the color of the underbrush, silent as midnight, quick as lightning. You can't detect the difference between the smell of his clothes and of his skin and burning brushwood, or deer-hide. He can sidle up to the most timid wild thing. Oh! don't you worry, son! Go to sleep; our Fox-Foot is his own man, n.o.body else's.”
”All right, Larry, but I'm here, if anyone wants me,” yawned Jack.
And Matt Larson knew in his heart of hearts that Jack Cornwall spoke truly--that he was there to stand by his uncle and Fox-Foot should he be called upon to do so.
Dawn was breaking as they awoke--simultaneously to a slight crackling sound outside. Larry's head burrowed out of the tent.
”Foxy cooking breakfast,” was his cool remark. Then, ”Jingo! He's got a fish--a regular crackerjack! It's as long as my arm! Ha! there's a breakfast for you!” But Jack was already up and out.
”Fine luck I have! Big fis.h.!.+” smiled Fox-Foot, as fresh and alert as if he had had a night in blankets instead of hours of watchfulness. Already half of the freshwater beauty was sizzling in the frying-pan, the Indian lifting and turning it with a long pointed stick. Matt Larson got busy coffee-making. ”We'll pit these two odors one against the other,” he remarked; ”though I am bound to admit that the only time a frying fish does really smell good and appetizing is when it has been dead about twenty minutes, and is cooking over a camp-fire.” Then quickly, in a low, tense voice: ”Where is he, Foxy? Where did you leave him?”
The Indian went on turning the fish, indicating with his head the direction across the river.
”He's over there, asleep.”
”He may wake at any moment; we must get away at once,” hurried Larry.
”No,” said Fox-Foot, with indifference, ”he won't wake. There is a flower grows here, small seeds; I creep up close, put it in his teapot.
He not see me. He boil tea, he drink it; he wake--maybe sundown to-night.”
Larry and Jack looked at each other. Then with one accord they burst into laughter.
”Flower seeds! Where did you learn of these seeds, boy?” asked Larry.
”My mother teach me when I'm small. She said only use when pain is great, or,” he hesitated, then, with a sly, half humorous look, ”or when your enemy is great.”
”Beats all, doesn't it, Jack?” said Larry. ”Foxy, you're a wonder!
Did you do anything else to him?”
”No, just to his canoe,” replied the boy. ”I wore a hole through the bottom with rocks; he'll think he did it himself. Takes time mend that canoe; we be far up river by then--far beyond the forks; he not know which headwater we take.”
Matt Larson laid his hand on the straight, jet-black hair. ”Bless you, my boy!” he said comically, but his undertone held intense relief, which did not escape Jack's ears.
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