“I got my grub stole back river a piece,” the stranger said, pointing over his shoulder with one thumb. “Have you fellers got plenty of grub?”
“Sure,” Dick answered. “Want to eat with us? Our grub’s a little wet, but it swallows all right.”
“I’d be obliged,” the stranger returned, “but mebbe you wasn’t figgerin’ to stop jest now.”
“We just had a snack,” Dick admitted, “but if you’re hungry we’ll split what we have.”
“I jest need enough to get me to Fort du Lac.”
“Fort du Lac!” Dick and Sandy chorused. “We just came from there!”
“So? Wal, it’ll be nigh three days canoein’ up river, an’ I’ll need grub. No time to hunt. You fellers didn’t happen to run across an Injun with a heap of scars on his face?” the man asked, searching their faces.
“A scar faced Indian!” Sandy exclaimed. “Why——”
“Well, yes,” Dick broke in with a warning look at his chum. “We noticed a fellow of that description at the fort. Didn’t think much about him,” Dick was cautious.
“You fellers needn’t be afraid to tell me all you know,” the stranger had noticed Dick’s reserve and his interruption of Sandy. “I ain’t publishin’ my business but my name’s Slade.”