The tall and emaciated Englishman drew himself up and glared at Colonel Howell.
“Get out!” exclaimed the latter in a tone that was wholly new to the three boys.
“I’ll go when I get my money!” mumbled Chandler, half defiantly.
Without more words, Colonel Howell shot out his right arm and caught the man by his shoulder. He whirled Chandler and sent him sprawling on the trail.
The man’s defiance was gone. “My pay’s comin’ to me,” he whimpered, “and I’ve worked hard for it.”
“We’ll see about that,” snapped the oil man, “when the time comes.”
As if dismissing the incident from his mind, he turned toward the scows.
“Look out!” exclaimed the three boys, almost together, but their warning was hardly needed. As Colonel Howell turned, the sinewy form of old Moosetooth had thrown itself upon the crouching Englishman. The two men sank to the ground and there was a surge forward by those near by. Then the Indian tore himself from the partly helpless Chandler and struggled to his feet. In his hand he held Chandler’s short double-edged knife. With indistinguishable imprecations and his arms waving in the air, the Englishman disappeared within the fringe of poplar trees.
Excited, but with no excuse for asking questions, the boys turned and, with Colonel Howell, resumed the task of getting their cargo ashore. Old Moosetooth looked at the knife, placed it inside his belt and began cutting a fresh pipe of tobacco.
“Life in the wilds!” remarked Colonel Howell, as he and the boys regained the scows. “A lazy man’s bad enough, but a booze fighter doesn’t belong in this camp.”