It was a large pen-and-ink map, skillfully drawn, for Horace was a practiced map-maker.
"It's the country of the Abitibi and Missanabie Rivers," Horace explained. "These red crosses show where I found my diamonds—see, in the Whitefish River, the Smoke River, and another river that hasn't any name, so far as I know. Right here is the trappers' cabin where you boys found me. My bones might have been up there now but for you, old boy!"
And he thumped Fred's back affectionately.
"If you hadn't come along when you did I'm pretty certain our bones would be there, anyway," said Fred.
"Well, let's hope we all saved one another. But see, most of these diamonds were found many miles apart. They didn't grow where I found them. They must have been washed down, perhaps from the very headwaters of the river. Now look at the map. Do you see, all these three rivers rise in pretty much the same region."
"So they do," said Fred, his eyes fixed on the paper. "Then you think—"
"The stones were probably all washed down from that region. The blue-clay beds, the diamond field, must be up there, somewhere within this black circle I've drawn."
Fred's heart began to throb with excitement.
"But some prospector would have hit on them before now," he said.
"I doubt if any prospector has ever gone in there. They say it's one of the roughest bits of country in the North, and no mineral strikes have ever been made in that region. I've never been up there myself. It's up in the hills, you see; the rivers are too broken for a canoe, and the ground is too rough to get over on foot, except in the winter. The Ojibwas hunt there in the winter, they say, and I dare say there's plenty of game."