“So would I. And I’m going to make a proposal. Let’s divide our ownership in the mine with them, all of us sharing equally in the profits.”
“But they don’t care for money,” protested Sandy. “Gold! What does it mean to them? Nothing! It would be a whole lot more sensible to stake them to a winter’s grub-stake. I think they’d appreciate it more.”
“That’s exactly what I’m coming to,” declared Dick. “My proposal is to divide the property in this way: We’ll own a half interest, the Indians the other half. It will be necessary to appoint a guardian for the Indians. This guardian will look after their interest and——”
“Spend their money!” laughed Sandy.
“Sure. Buy them the things they really need and can enjoy—food, guns, knives, traps, clothing. As long as the mine continues to produce, they’ll never, never want for any of these things.”
“It sounds all right. It would work out all right, too, if only we could find an honest, absolutely trustworthy guardian.”
“What about the Royal North West Mounted,” suggested Dick.
“By George! You have it. They’ll be the guardians!” Sandy rose in his enthusiasm and smote Toma a resounding whack. “What do you think of it, old sober-face? We haven’t heard from you yet.”
“I think ’em mighty fine idea,” their guide responded quickly.
The chief’s son appeared at this juncture and smiled at them through the opening.