Their tremendous relief was not the sort that is communicated by words. A firm handclasp, an arm thrown carelessly around the shoulders, speaks louder than any well-turned sentence. Thus it was that on that journey back to their camp there was little said besides Pop’s interminable: “Snakes!” and Roy’s: “I’ll tell a maverick!” whenever Teddy made a statement.
Roy’s story was soon told. Pop marveled much and examined the boy’s wounds with care, treating them with the antiseptic they had brought along. When Roy’s tale was finished, Teddy sprang his bit of news.
“We found the canoe!”
Roy’s eyes opened wide.
“You mean to say there is anything left of it?”
“Sure, there is!” Bug Eye exclaimed. “We can fix her up in no time! She’s got quite a hole in her, but Pop can mend that. Hey, Pop?”
“Betcher boots,” the veteran rancher replied, as he grinned. “I am one grand little fixer. Let’s take another look at it.”
Roy, clothed “in assembled finery,” as Bug Eye said, was delighted when he saw that the craft was not irreparably damaged. It had been washed ashore a short distance below the rock, and, aside from the hole in the stern, it was as good as ever.
“Guess dad’ll be at Jake Trummer’s by now,” Teddy declared. “But we’ll soon have the old boat on the way. Give your orders, Pop! You can be the boss carpenter. What do we do first?”
“Get out that strip of canvas,” Pop suggested. “Where’s yore knife, Roy? Snakes, you ain’t washed it yet!” He took it from the boy and looked at it silently. Darkening the blades was dried blood—the blood of the eagle. Sticking to the blade were a few tiny, grey feathers. Pop held it in the palm of his hand and nodded his head slowly.