With difficulty they collected a little dry kindling from the interior of hollow logs, and managed to start a fire. Fortunately it was a warm night for the season, since they had no blankets, and the only possible camping preparations were to pull off armfuls of damp spruce twigs for a softer couch than the bare ground.
Harrison was silent, busying himself in drying out a piece of plug tobacco which he had found in his pocket, and trying to smoke it. Finally he settled himself back on his sapin and appeared to sleep. But Tom was determined not to close an eye that night.
He was afraid of some treachery; he did not know what. He settled back on his spruce boughs, with his rifle close beside him, and tried to think out a course of action. Harrison was after the same thing as himself, and he must know now that Tom knew it. Which of them had the better legal right, or whether either of them had any legal right at all, Tom had no idea. He would have given anything for his father’s advice. He thought of making a bolt for Oakley and sending out a telegram to Mr. Jackson to come immediately. But he dared not leave the place, and besides his father would very likely disregard the wire as a piece of boy’s foolishness.
Time passed. It had grown very dark. Harrison snored from his couch. Tom himself was growing very weary, but he was resolved not to let himself sleep.
He was desperately hungry besides, faint and miserable. He got up quietly and built up the fire, feeling chilled. At moments a nervous panic swept over him. Fifty thousand derelict dollars lay by that lake, and the gain or loss of them hung on his single wit and skill. Thinking it over he felt that Uncle Phil or Dave held the key of the problem. They must be the owners of this land—hence the owners of the timber. If that was the case, Tom knew well that he would get his rightful share. But this could not be settled without locating them. Greatly he regretted now that he had not made more searching inquiries at Oakley.
Harrison turned over uneasily and appeared to sleep again. Tom envied him his rest. His own eyes were desperately heavy, and he felt worn out with physical and mental fatigue. He must have dozed then, for presently he roused with a start and saw that the fire had burned low. Looking at his watch, he saw that it was after midnight.
Harrison did not appear to have stirred. Tom got up and replenished the fire again. Lying down, he tried to keep his eyes open, once more turning over the heavy problem in his mind. An owl was calling dismally from a tree-top not far away. The soft wailing note mingled with his confused thoughts, growing more and more confused till they melted into something dreamlike.
He awoke next with daylight in his eyes. With a rush of panic he sat up. The fire was burning brightly. A figure was squatting beside it—not Harrison. Harrison was nowhere to be seen, but Tom looked into the dark face of Ojibway Charlie.
“Charlie!” he stammered, jumping up. “Where did you come from? Where’s that man? Where’s Harrison?”
“No see um,” returned Charlie, stolidly. “I see your smoke—come here. You sleep—nobody else here.”