He was able to get dinner at the mine boarding-house, and then hung about until the stage left late in the afternoon. An hour’s ride placed him at the railway station, and he boarded a mixed train, which carried him about fifty miles. He changed to a connecting line, waited half the night, and once more took the long stage drive to Oakley.
It was late in the afternoon, but he was desperately anxious to find what was going on at Coboconk Lake. By this time Tom was somewhat known at Oakley, and he was able to borrow a canoe, by paying four dollars for the accommodation; and, after snatching a hurried meal, he started up the river.
Daylight lasted late at that season, and Tom pushed ahead as fast as possible. The recent plentiful food and rest had restored his youthful physique to its full strength, and he was expert at the paddle now. Night found him on the river, however, but an almost full moon rose immediately after sunset, making it possible to go on. He was on the lookout for the trail of which Dave had spoken as leading to his uncle’s homestead, but in the dim light on the shore he could not pick it out. The house was several miles back, anyhow, and he had no idea of trying to reach it that night. He wanted to visit the timber treasure first.
Little Coboconk spread dark and silvery under the moon as he came into it from the river. He paddled ahead, straight up to the narrows, and then paused, checking the paddle. There was a fire on the shore, apparently a large fire that had burned low, and close to it in the shadow two or three large white blurs that looked strangely like tents.
He went on cautiously, in desperate anxiety. They were tents, sure enough, two very large ones, and a smaller one. But no one was in sight about the encampment. It was little after midnight, and doubtless everybody was asleep.
Tom could hardly doubt who had set up this camp. All his hopes sank to nothing; nevertheless, determined to find out the truth, he paddled up to the shore, landed, and stood looking about for a moment. He saw that several of the half-buried logs had been dug out and rolled together, but before he could investigate any further a tent flap was pulled open, there was a sudden exclamation, and a man bounded out, half dressed, presenting a revolver.
“We’ve got you this time! Throw up your hands!” he cried, triumphantly.
Tom instantly put his hands up. The man approached. The boy had never seen him before. He looked like a woodsman or lumber-jack. He peered into Tom’s face, and uttered an exclamation of surprise.
“I thought it was that murdering young Injun. Who are you? What do you want here?”
“Who are you yourself?” returned Tom angrily. “This is my place. I was here before you. What are you camping here for?”