"Do you mean desperadoes?" questioned Jack.
"Well," hesitated his uncle, "perhaps I do; perhaps I mean other things, too." And that was all Jack could get him to say on the subject. But the boy was very proud of his "gun," and a little curious as to just why his uncle had given it to him, so that night, when they were alone a moment, he said: "Larry, that shooter is—bully! It's great to have it. I'd rather have it at my hip than be in a position sometime to wish I had it."
"I was there once, and not so very long ago, my boy," said Matt Larson, with a quick frown. Then, half to himself, "But the man in the mackinaw* will never catch me unarmed again."
[*A mackinaw is a short, rough coat of material much like a grey horse blanket. It is worn by most lumberjacks, explorers, miners and woodsmen in the regions north of the great Canadian lakes.]
"The man in the mackinaw, eh?" echoed Jack, lifting his eyebrows meaningly.
"Oh, ho, youngster! You're the boy for me!" grinned his uncle. "You're sharp! You've caught on, all right. Yes; he's the man you've got to keep your eyes in the back of your head to watch for. He's a bad lot. He may bother us. Now, are you afraid to tackle the wilderness, since you know there is menace—perhaps danger?"
"I'm not afraid of anything with you, Matt Larson," said the boy, gravely, looking the other directly in the eyes.
"But suppose we should get separated, by some unlucky chance, what then?" asked the man.
"I don't think I would be afraid—I shall not be afraid, even then,"
Jack answered.
"That's the way to talk! Now I know you are game," said Larson, seizing the boy by the shoulders and peering into his eyes. Then they shook hands silently, but it was an unspoken pledge nevertheless.