“Just the hand,” Jack overheard Farnum say in a tone of vexation, as he prepared to fire again. But the other, seizing his wounded hand in the unwounded one, did not wait for the attack. Running low and in zigzag fashion, he darted for the cover of the trees on the other side of the camp, at the same time shouting an unintelligible warning to his companions.
“Fire,” shrieked Farnum, pumping another shot after the fleeing man, that kicked up the dirt at his heels. “That’s Lupo the Wolf. Shoot to kill.”
Jack shot with the rest, but remembering his father’s exhortation fired high. The volley was general. From the rifles of Art, Dick and Farnum came deeper notes of heavy weapons, while from the four revolvers of the others poured a succession of shots. It sounded as if an army were opening fire from the woods.
The Indians did not stay upon the order of their going. Those grouped about the luggage ran after the disappearing man Farnum had called Lupo the Wolf, while the other group at the canoes dashed away along the graveled bank of the stream. One, however, sought to launch the canoes into the swift current before departing, but his first effort was ineffectual, and any further attempt was stopped by a bullet from Mr. Hampton’s revolver, which winged him in an arm and sent him scurrying after his fellows.
“Dick, Art, here,” cried Farnum, peremptorily.
“That was Lupo the Wolf,” Farnum explained rapidly, his voice betraying his excitement. “You can guess what that means?”
“I want you to trail them. Don’t run into danger, but see if their camp is nearby.”
With nods of understanding, the two frontiersmen were off at the run, not crossing the open camp, but circling it amongst the trees. Then Farnum turned to Mr. Hampton, and the boys crowding at his heels.
“That wasn’t just an attack from Indian thieves,” he said. “Mr. Hampton”—and his voice took on a solemn tone—“that was a blow from the enemy.”
“They were desperadoes under the personal leadership of Lupo the Wolf.”
“He is a cross-breed, half Indian, half white, and the most notorious bad man in the north. He is known not only throughout the length and breadth of Alaska, but throughout the Yukon of Canada, too. From Ketchikan to Arctic City, and from Nome to Dawson, he has gambled, fought, knifed, murdered, and never been brought to book. Ah, you consider Alaska is law-abiding these days. To a certain extent, the towns and mining camps have grown more orderly and there are sheriffs ‘north of 54.’ But might still rules in the camps.”