Holfax dropped the bundle of wood he was carrying, seized a long stick, and ran at the other. The latter turned and fled, easily distancing Holfax, who had no snowshoes, while his assailant had on a pair.
"Are you hurt?" asked Mr. Baxter anxiously, hurrying toward the guide, who turned back as the other passed out of sight in a hollow.
"No hurt. Him bad shot. Him miss."
"Who was it? Why did he fire at you? What did he want?"
"Him bad Indian. Him come spy on camp. Him Toldez, friend of Zank—no good. Me catch," and Holfax, who had donned his snowshoes, prepared to race after his assailant.
"No!" exclaimed Mr. Baxter quickly. "Don't go, Holfax. There is something queer about this," he added. "That Indian tried to kill you, Holfax. Why did he do it?"
"Me no know. Him bad, guess. Maybe want gold."
"That's it!" cried Mr. Baxter. "He's a spy, sent on by some others. You say he is a friend of Zank? Zank knows that one-eyed man. Do you suppose there are more Indians around here, Holfax?"
"Mebby so. Plenty Indians live over there," and the guide pointed to the west. "Toldez live there. Him come spy on camp. Me like shoot Toldez, but him no shoot me. Too much bad aim," and he chuckled over his narrow escape, as though it was a thing of no consequence.
"Boys," said Mr. Baxter solemnly, "I'm afraid we're in for trouble. The thieving Alaskans know about our finding the gold. That one may have been hiding around here for some time, and probably watched us put the sacks on the sleds."