"Halt! Hands up!" shouted Horace, raising the repeater.
The man stopped, fired a wild shot, turned and bolted back toward the landing. Fred and his brother rushed after him; they reached the landing just in time to see him leap into the birch canoe, which still held the fox cage, shove off, and digging his paddle furiously into the water, shoot down the stream.
"After him! The canoe! Quick!" shouted Horace.
They dashed back. The man that Fred had struck was nowhere to be seen. Macgregor had pinned his antagonist to the ground, and seemed to have him well subdued.
"Never mind him, Mac!" Fred cried. "Pick up that canoe in a hurry! One of the scoundrels has got away with the foxes!"
All three of them seized the canoe and rushed it down to the landing. There they found the shore strewn with articles of camp outfit where the men had unloaded the canoes.
"Load it in, boys!" cried Horace. "Take what we need. We're not coming back."
They pitched an armful or two of supplies into the canoe. Fred's shotgun was there, and several other articles that the boys recognized as their own. The rest was a fair exchange for the outfit that they had abandoned in their tent.
They shoved the canoe off. The half-breed had gained a long lead by this time. He was nearly a quarter of a mile ahead, paddling frantically; he did not even stop to fire at the boys. But there were three paddles in pursuit, and the boys began to gain on him noticeably. More than two miles flashed by, and then the roar of rapids sounded ahead.
"Got him!" panted Mac. "He'll have to land now."