“Well, what do you see?” Jack asked, expectantly.
“For one thing,” Frank replied, “the smoke of a campfire.”
“I saw that, too,” Jack said, “and didn’t know what to make of it. Also, I saw a rowboat sneaking around that green point to the east.”
“That is what is puzzling me,” Frank replied. “Years ago there was a Blackfoot reservation just over the divide, and a Flathead Indian reservation down by Flathead lake, to the south, but I had no idea the Indians were still about. Still, the people you saw were probably Indians. Suppose we go down there and look the matter up. We’ve got to have some sort of a yarn to tell Pat when we get back to camp.”
The two boys scrambled down almost vertical surfaces, edged along narrow ledges, slid down easier inclines, and finally came to the rim of beach about the lake. There, at the eastern end of the pretty body of water, they came upon the still glowing embers of a fire.
Close to the spot where the remains of the fire glimmered in the hot air, they saw the mouth of a cavern which seemed to tunnel under the body of the mountain to the east. There were numerous tracks about the fire, and some of them led to the entrance to the cavern.
“Whoever built this fire,” Jack exclaimed, “wore big shoes, so it wasn’t Indians. No, wait!” he added, in a moment, “there are tracks here which show no heel marks. What do you make of that?”
“Must be moccasins,” Frank said. “The Indians may still be in the woods about here.”
“I’m going into the cavern to see what’s stirring there,” Jack said, “and before I go I’ll have a look at my artillery.”
The boy looked his revolver over, and before Frank could utter a warning, he darted away into the gloom of the cave. Frank did not follow him, but turned in the direction of the point where the boat had disappeared.