Farnum’s face darkened.
“There are not many,” he said. “I wish there were less. You may say all you please about the ‘noble red man.’ But all I ever heard about the Indians of the Far North doesn’t predispose me in their favor. They are cutthroats, thieves and liars. Usually they hunt somewhat to the south of us, and make their way in towards the northern Canadian settlements as Winter approaches. Let’s hope we encounter none of them.”
The boys wondered as they went along whether this were gold-producing country into which they were pushing. They spoke of the matter to Dick, their canoe mate, at times. Taciturn though he was usually, at every mention of gold his eyes brightened, and he became almost voluble.
“Never been this far north,” he said on one occasion, “no white man ever has been in here, reckon. But I’d like to stop at the foot o’ some of these rapids and wash a little gravel for luck. I sure would like to.”
“Let’s do it the next rapids we come to,” suggested Frank, with eager interest. “It wouldn’t take long, would it?”
“Orders is not to waste time.”
“Well, I’ll speak to father,” said Jack. “I’m sure he’d let us try it just once.”
In this surmise he was correct, for the noon halt happened to be at the foot of a rapids that would necessitate a portage, and Dick and Art reported the graveled bank showed signs of “color.” Even Farnum, his mind concentrated on the task of getting his party along and on the job in hand, showed interest when addressed on the subject. With pick and pan, therefore, the two men got busy, while the boys watched with breathless interest the process of rocking the pan and washing out the gravel.
“Whoopee,” cried Dick, suddenly. “Thar she is. Color in the pan.”
“Sure as I’m born,” ejaculated his partner. “Strong, too.”