Dick took a position in the shadow of a clump of willows where the firelight would not reveal him to any prowlers of the night that might investigate too closely. Here he squatted Indian fashion, his rifle across his knees. Many thoughts passed through his mind as the time slowly passed. That Sandy and he were on the most perilous mission of their lives he knew. But contrary to being frightened by impending danger, he was overjoyed. It was what he and Sandy had come north for—adventure. And they were getting it.
“We ought to get to Mackenzie’s Landing day after tomorrow,” he mused, talking low to himself to keep from going to sleep. It was too dangerous to walk about. “That means three or four more camps before we get a guide. Gee, I wish we could go on by ourselves. If Sandy or I only knew the country around Fort Dunwoody—but we’d get lost, and we can’t afford to lose any time with Sandy’s uncle in Bear Henderson’s hands. Wonder——”
Dick sat up suddenly, listening. It seemed to him that above the ripple of the river water and the low rumble of the distant rapids he heard the scrape of a canoe bottom on the gravel. His heart leaped and beat on painfully. What if some one stole their canoe, or crept up and attacked them! The thought galvanized him into action.
He dropped to his hands and knees, his rifle clutched in his right fingers. It was only a short distance to that part of the beach where they had dragged the canoe up out of the water. Dick crawled quietly along among the shadows to the fringe of undergrowth bordering the beach. At first the glare of the firelight in his eyes made all appear very dark by contrast, but gradually his vision was adjusted, and he could make out the vague form of the canoe.
“Wonder if it was only my imagination,” he mumbled, not seeing anything amiss. “But——” he caught his breath. The canoe had moved!
Sure enough, difficult as it was to see distinctly, he knew the canoe had rocked from side to side.
“What could it be?” he whispered, straining his eyes.
It seemed now that he could see a darker blot of darkness moving above the rim of the canoe, but he was not sure. There was but one thing to do—crawl out of the sheltering bushes and across the sand to a point from which he could ascertain just what was moving the canoe.
The decision made, Dick did not hesitate a moment. Half way to the canoe, he stopped and lay prone on his stomach, listening and watching. What little breeze there was blew from the canoe toward him, so that an animal would not easily detect his approach unless it heard him. Faintly, Dick could hear a scratching sound, as if some sharp instrument agitated the sand and gravel. He was more puzzled than ever.
He moved on again, drawing one knee cautiously after the other, careful that his rifle was ready for instant firing. Ten feet further and the scratching sound ceased suddenly. Dick was now within a few feet of the prow of the canoe. He stopped dead still, and, resting on his knees, raised his rifle.