“Not Malemute Slade, the scout for the mounted!” Dick exclaimed, for the man’s reputation as a scout was a fable in the north country, and many times he had heard it spoken with awe and admiration.
“There’s them call me Malemute Slade,” admitted the tall man cooly, “but what was that about this here scar faced Indian?”
Dick then related the queer experiences at the fort.
The canoes were permitted to drift on down the river while they talked. Malemute Slade listened attentively.
“His name’s Many-Scar Jackson,” Slade told them when they had finished with their story. “He’s wanted for murder down the river a piece. But that’s nothin’ to this Henderson breakin’ loose. That’s news to me, an’ it’ll be news for the mounted maybe. I’ve heard rumors f’r a long time, but didn’t think much of it. A tough customer, Henderson. You fellers wants to watch y’r step. If I seen any of the gang that was foller’n you I’ll square up with ’em.”
In the keen eyes and the lean jaw of the far-famed Malemute Slade the boys saw that which made them confident that Slade could “square up” with most any one or any number.
“Tell the factor you saw us and that we’re all right—only got a ducking when we shot Little Moose Rapids,” Dick said.
Malemute Slade’s eyes lighted up. He looked with new respect at Dick’s wiry figure. “So you fellers shot the Little Moose an’ come through alive—wal, I swan. You must have toted a dozen rabbit’s feet.”
“Not a one,” Dick replied modestly, while Sandy grinned with pride.
“Y’r apt to have somethin’ worse on your hands afore you get to Mackenzie’s,” Malemute surprised them. “There’s a forest fire whoopin’ it up back a piece, an’ it’ll maybe hit the river afore you pass it. There’s a bit of smoke in the air now. Hey!”