Having put the guns back into the log again, Jake once more raised me to his shoulder, and started off through the woods. But he and Sam moved with long, noiseless steps, stopping frequently to reconnoiter the ground before them, and if they conversed at all it was in low and guarded tones. At the end of half an hour they struck a “carry”—a dim path leading from the pond to another body of water that lay deeper in the forest—and here they became doubly cautious in their movements.
“Now you toddle on ahead,” said Jake to his brother, “an’ if you see one of them city chaps an’ his guide comin’ along the carry, fetch a little whistle so’t I can hide in the bresh afore they see me.”
But, as it happened, this precaution was unnecessary. The carry was deserted by all save themselves, and at the end of another half hour Jake took me through a little clearing and into a dilapidated log shanty, where we found the squatter and his wife waiting for us.
“Well, Jakey, you found your boat whar you left him, didn’t you?” said Matt Coyle, as the boy deposited me in a corner of the shanty near the wide fire-place. “I didn’t know but mebbe Swan an’ the rest of ’em had nosed him out an’ took him off.”
“Well, they didn’t,” answered Jake. “We found him all right, an’ the guns, too. We hauled ’em out an’ took a good look at ’em, me an’ Sam did. It’s a mean shame that we can’t keep ’em out an’ use ’em like they b’longed to us.”
The squatter made no reply, and I had leisure to look about me before any one spoke again. I was surprised to see how much furniture there was in the shanty, for I knew that Matt had lost the bulk of his property when the guides burned his camp. Of course, it was of the rudest description, but it would answer very well when nothing better could be had. I have seen many a well-appointed camp whose owners were not any better supplied with needful things than Matt Coyle was. There were two comfortable looking shake-downs on the floor; three-legged stools and chairs without any backs were abundant; the home-made table supported more dishes than Matt and his family were ever likely to fill with provender, and under it were piled a lot of miscellaneous articles, including a frying-pan, camp-kettle, and coffee-pot. To complete the picture, three of the stools and broken chairs were occupied by Matt Coyle, his wife, and a roughly dressed man whom I had never seen before. They were all smoking, and sat with their elbows resting on their knees. Taken as a group, they were the laziest looking lot I ever happened to meet. The stranger was the first to speak.
“What guns is them you’re talkin’ about?” said he, in a drawling tone.
“Oh, they’re some that I picked up while I was a roamin’ around,” replied Matt, with a knowing wink.
“An’ you got that there canvas canoe in the same way, I reckon,” continued the stranger, nodding toward the corner in which I lay, listening to the conversation.
“Well, p’raps I did,” answered Matt. “It’s jest like I told you, Rube. I would be willin’ to work hard an’ faithful if they would only give me a chance to be a guide, but they won’t do it, an’ me an’ the boys have set ourselves the job of bustin’ up the hul business. We’ve done right smart of damage already, but we ain’t through yet. I’ll bet you there won’t be as many guests up to them hotels at Injun Lake next summer as there was this.”