“We’ll be pitching camp inside an hour, men,” said the leader. “Our headquarters will be at the old spot at the far end of the lake, up by that tall dead spruce. From there we’ll have to use our feet instead of our paddles, to make the summit of Kinnecut.”
“Huh!” remarked Ugly Brown. “I’ve been usin’ my feet all day. I don’t mind hikin’, if I don’t have to carry a canoe with me. Why, after today, I’ll probably race up to the top of that little mountain tomorrow just to get an appetite for breakfast!”
“We’ll never even pitch camp before dark if you yearlings don’t stop argufyin’ and get started,” drawled Cowboy. “I want lots of wood cut for the fire, and somebody mentioned he was goin’ to hook some fish.”
“Well, we’ll move along, then, and do our resting when we get to camp,” said Mr. Carrigan. “It’s the old earth that will be your bed tonight, if I don’t cut some spruce tips for mattresses—so let’s be on our way!”
The _Red Fox_ and the _Whiffenpoof_ pushed out on the lake for the last lap of the day’s long journey.
“Well,” asked Brick Ryan, paddle in hand, “aren’t you goin’ to stir, my son?”
“I suppose so.” Dirk rose stiffly, and stretched. “Gollies, I hate to move, though. I could go to sleep right now.”
“Not here, my bucko.” The red-headed boy playfully prodded his canoe-mate in the ribs. “Stir your stumps. Look, the other guys are almost out of sight around Flint Island. Old Wise-Tongue is wavin’ for us to come on.”
The two foremost canoes vanished behind the bulk of the little island as the _Sachem_ pushed out.
“Steer over along the shore of the island, will you?” asked Dirk, after a moment. “I thought I saw something moving in the bushes. It looked like——See it? Why, it’s a man! And he’s waving to us! What do you suppose he wants?”
He quickened his stroke, and they pulled toward the rocky edge where the waterline of the lake marked the island. A low, hoarse cry rose from the twilight of the thickets.
A man’s head was visible through a gap between the trees. The hair was long and black, the skin dark, and the features that could be made out were rugged and wild-looking. The voice was that of one in pain.
“Why, it’s an Indian! Hurry, Brick—he’s hurt. Maybe a tree fell on him!”