“Not to-night, anyhow,” Tom responded, smiling. “My father is coming to-morrow. May be a fight then. But how did you get here? Got a canoe? Where’d you get it?”
“My canoe. That red-hair man steal him from you—I steal him back again.”
“Good!” Tom looked across at the dying firelight and the dim tents. “Put me across there, Charlie. I want to see how much of that timber they’ve got out.”
The Ojibway seemed to vanish without a word into the gloom. Within a few minutes the canoe glided up, a darker shadow in the shadow of the lake-side spruces. Tom stepped in cautiously, and Charlie, dipping the paddle without a sound, guided the canoe across the channel and touched the extremity of the half-built raft.
It was not all of walnut, of course. It had to be buoyed with lighter wood, and even in the faint light Tom could see the fresh-cut spruce and pine logs. It was impossible to estimate how much of the old timber there was. He climbed out of the canoe and stood upon the raft itself, which felt as solid under him as a ship.
He raked the silent camp with another cautious glance and walked toward the shore. Reaching the land he could see the earth torn up in wild hollows and mounds, where the walnut had been disinterred. Piles of logs lay in every direction. It looked as if surely the greater part of the lost raft was there, ready for rebuilding again, and Tom was filled with renewed anxiety. They were running it fine. If anything should delay his father and the men from Ormond, Harrison might still get away with his plunder.
He stepped off the raft upon the earth and looked keenly about again. Through his mind passed the idea of doing something to wreck operations—to halt them, at any rate; but he dismissed it. The gain would not be worth the danger. Next day he would have reinforcements on the spot. The best thing would be to retreat into the darkness again and wait.
He had taken half a dozen steps, and he turned to go back. Some dim obstacle lay at his feet. Trying to avoid it, he tripped on something, with a clashing of chains. He stumbled forward and blundered into a hole where a log had been dug up, knocking down a pile of cant-hooks and spades, mingled with chains, which made a deafening crash and clatter. The rifle flew out of his hand.
Almost instantly he heard a voice asking what was the matter. A man dived out of the nearest tent, stared about, and then started toward him. Tom lay flat where he had fallen, invisible, as he hoped, in the darkness. The man came within two yards of him, gazed about again, while Tom lay holding his breath, and then, with a muttered exclamation, struck a match. In the quick, brilliant flare Tom caught a glimpse of the man’s fox-colored hair. He jerked his legs under him and made a plunge to get away, but the fellow was even more agile. He was upon him before Tom touched the raft, and the boy was pulled back by rough hand on his collar.
McLeod turned Tom’s face to the moonlight.