“Then let’s do it,” suggested Ned. “We can take a good run up or down the river before dinner.”
“Oh—yes—dinner!” put in Bob. Then he stopped suddenly. “But I’m willing. Only I say let’s go down stream. There’s a better view, and we were up the river the other night,” he added.
So it was arranged, and soon the two Westerners were in the fine Dartaway, which was speeded to her limit down the river.
“This sure is some boat!” exclaimed Mr. Brill in admiration, as he looked at the little cabin, and at the various appointments.
“If we could only take it out West with us,” sighed Ned. “But it’s quite a job to pack it.”
“And there isn’t much water out where we’re going,” said the prospector. “Flathead Lake is about the biggest.”
“Flathead!” exclaimed Bob. “Is that where the Flathead Indians are?”
“Well, it might have been named after them,” admitted Mr. Brill. “Though I guess there aren’t any Flatheads there now. But there are some Blackfeet on their reservation, not so very far away.”
“Blackfeet Indians! Whoop!” yelled Bob. “Say, we’ll have some sport all right.”
“Not with them,” declared Jerry, decidedly. “This is no Wild West show we’re going on. We’re out for business—we’ve got to get those sixty nuggets.”