"white boy heap good shot," repeated the indian with what was intended to be a friendly grin.
he was standing some twenty paces away, and where he had come from sparrer hadn't the least idea. if he had sprung out of the snow at his feet the boy would have been no more startled and surprised. he was short, thick-set, and was dressed in a nondescript pair of trousers much the worse for wear, a faded mackinaw spotted with grease and dirt and was, of course, on snow-shoes. the swarthy evil face was crowned with a cap of unplucked muskrat fur. save for a light axe carried in one hand and a knife in his belt he apparently was unarmed, a fact which sparrer noted at once with a feeling of relief.
"black fox no good. kill rabbits and birds. good to kill fox. what white boy do with him?" continued his unwelcome visitor.
"take his skin," replied sparrer for want of anything better to say.
"skin no good. red fox skin good. black fox no good—bad fur. no can sell. white boy take rabbit and give indian fox." this astounding proposal was accompanied with what was intended for an ingratiating smile, but which served only to make the face still more ugly.
"he's wised me fer a tenderfoot, an' thinks oi'm easy," thought sparrer. aloud he said, "what do youse want of it, if it's no good and youse can't sell it?"
once more the dark face broke into a grin. "no sell. make cap to wear." he touched his head to make clearer his meaning. "indian like black cap," he added guilelessly.
sparrer laughed aloud at the childish simplicity of the idea. then he shook his head. "nothin' doing," he replied. "oi want the fox meself."
a look of cunning swept across the dark visage. "indian buy fox. give two dollar," was the next bland proposal.
again sparrer grinned and shook his head. he was beginning to enjoy the situation. this was a method of barter he was accustomed to, the method of the lower east side. he began to feel at home.
"five dollar!" the indian pulled off a mitten and held up the hand with the fingers spread.
once more sparrer shook his head. "youse can't buy it," said he decidedly as if to end the parley. "an' youse can't put nothin' across on me," he added. "it's worth a lot of dough an' oi'm wise to it. youse better run along." he shifted his rifle to a handier position by way of a hint.
the indian, who had gradually advanced, stopped. his face changed completely. there was no longer any attempt to hide the greed in the beady eyes. he was no fool, and he saw the uselessness of trying to dissemble further. he meant to have that skin by fair means or foul, by fair means if possible, for he was keen enough to realize that thus he would avoid possible unpleasant consequences in the future. this youngster knew more than he had supposed he did, but he might not be proof against the temptation of ready money. pulling off his other mitten he held up both hands, closed his fingers, opened them again, closed them and then opened those of one hand.
"twenty-five dollar!" he exclaimed.
that was a larger sum than sparrer had ever possessed at one time in all his life and to have that in hand at once was a temptation. there was no denying the fact. the skin might be worth all that he had heard and then again it might not. he was too wise in the ways of the world to be ignorant of the fact that fabulous tales are built around comparatively modest facts. undoubtedly the skin was valuable. the fact that the indian was so eager to get it was proof of this. but as for its being worth any such sum as two thousand, or even one thousand, that seemed absurd. he glanced down at the black form at his feet and his imagination couldn't conceive of any one paying even a hundred dollars for such a little bit of fur. why, even when stretched it would be but a fraction of the size of the great bearskin back at the cabin and that was worth only fifteen dollars, and for his part he would much rather have the latter. he looked up to find the black beady eyes of the indian fixed upon him as if they read his very thoughts. the man had been quick to perceive his hesitation and now began to speak again.
"white boy staying at trappers' camp. fox no belong to white boy. him belong to trappers. trappers sell and get money. white boy get nothing. white boy sell to indian. no tell trappers. indian go away and no tell. white boy have all the money—twenty-five dollar." once more he held up his hands to indicate the amount.
sparrer gulped. the plan was simplicity itself. twenty-five dollars meant a great deal to him, and no one would ever know. a vision of the toil-worn face of his mother when he should place twenty-five dollars in her hands flashed before him. and wasn't the fox his? hadn't it been free and wild, belonging to nobody, and hadn't he waited and watched and with steady hands and a true eye made a clean kill? he knew nothing of the ethics of a trapper's camp. what the indian had said might be true, and he would get no share in the prize he had won. it wasn't fair. it was an aspect of the matter of which he had not thought. indeed, in the excitement of the hunt he had had no opportunity to think of anything but getting the shot. what he should do with the fox if he got it had not entered his head. and after the kill the appearance of the indian had put everything else out of his head.
in swift review there passed through his mind all that he had heard about the silver fox of smugglers' hollow. he thought of the traps which alec had set especially for the wily king and how he and pat had openly planned for his capture. this was their trapping territory by right of preëmption. he, sparrer, was their guest, and but for pat he would never have had this wonderful outing. it was even a borrowed rifle with which he had made the fatal shot. it was luck, mere luck, the luck of a novice, that had given him the opportunity. but was that any reason why he should not profit by it? if he had not killed it the animal would still be running at large and pat and alec might never have gotten it. it was his, his, his and no one else had any claim on it. why should he not do as he pleased with it?
meanwhile the indian had been watching with an intense fixed stare that noted every change of expression in the boy's face. a less close observer than he would have realized that the boy was tempted. he was cunning enough to know that now was the time to play his trump card and catch the lad before he had fully regained possession of himself and spurned the temptation. with a single swift step forward he exclaimed, "fifty dollar!"
there was a note of finality in his voice which sparrer recognized. it was his last bid. he would go no higher. there would be no more bartering. if twenty-five dollars had seemed big the doubling of the amount meant little less than a fortune in the boy's eyes.
"youse hasn't got fifty dollars," he said weakly. "youse is bluffin'."
in truth he had every reason for thinking so from the indian's appearance. one does not expect to find so large a sum on a man presenting so rough an appearance as this fellow, particularly in the woods. imagine sparrer's surprise therefore when the indian felt inside his shirt and brought out a worn buckskin bag which apparently had been suspended by a thong around his neck and from it drew forth a wad of greasy bills. squatting on his heels he unfolded these and began to count them out before him on the snow. they were in small denominations and as he slowly spread them out, counting aloud as he did so, the effect was most impressive. he meant that it should be. he counted on the influence that the sight of so much currency would have.
it was a cunning move. had he shown the money in a pile, or had the bills been in large denominations the effect would not have been nearly so impressive. as it was the snow around him was literally carpeted with bills. in spite of himself sparrer gave vent to a little gasp. the indian heard. stuffing the two bills which remained after he had counted out fifty back in the little bag he rose to his feet and with a dramatic sweep of one hand above the green carpet exclaimed:
"all white boy's for fox! white boy count—fifty dollar! white boy buy much things. have good time." he smiled meaningly. "indian take fox and leave much money. white boy hide um—so." he thrust a hand into his shirt. "nobody know. indian go way—far." he swept a hand toward the mountains. then he pointed at the bills at his feet. "much money. very much money. white boy count."
sparrer looked down in a fascinated stare and unconsciously he did count. he had but to say the word and all those bills would be his, his to hide away in his bosom and gloat over in secret until he should reach home. and then? a vision of the things they would buy passed before him—things his boyish heart had coveted; things which his mother and brothers and sisters needed; things which would for a time make life brighter and better. and it would not be stealing. the fox was his. he had shot it and he had a right to do what he pleased with it "it would not be stealing," he repeated to himself almost fiercely.
but would it be honorable? could he go back to his companions and tell them freely and openly what he had done? no. he must keep his deed a secret, locked in his heart, to be boasted of only among his companions of the street gang. once he would have had no qualms whatever. his conscience would not have been troubled in the least. but that was when he was sparrer muldoon, street gamin and champion scrapper of the gang; with no higher ethics than the right of might. now he was edward muldoon boy scout, sworn "to keep physically strong, mentally awake, and morally straight;" to obey the scout law of which the first commandment is to be trustworthy and the second to be loyal.
would he be either mentally awake or morally strong if he yielded to this temptation? could he regard himself in the future us trustworthy or as loyal to his friends? two selves were battling in one boy.
"it ain't nothin' wrong," insisted sparrer muldoon.
"a scout's honor is to be trusted," whispered edward muldoon.
"you bet it is!" unconsciously the boy spoke aloud. the battle was won. his face cleared. in that moment he understood many things. he knew now exactly what he would do. he would take the fox to the cabin and turn it over to pat and alec. he knew that that was what he had intended to do all along before the indian had appeared. he knew, too, who this low-browed, ugly-faced redskin was. he was one of the thieves who had been stealing fur and who had butchered the deer the day before. it came over him all in a flash that it was he who had set those traps at the beaver houses, that he himself had been seen there and followed. doubtless the indian had been in hiding close by all the time and the killing of the fox had brought him forth because he could not let so rich a prize slip through his fingers. yes, everything was clear to sparrer now. in his first surprise, his own problem following hard on the heels of it, he had no chance to think or even to wonder how the man had happened to appear there at that moment. now he understood and his face flushed with anger.
the money was no longer a temptation. he scowled down at it and he wondered if it had been come by honestly. he could not know that the man was an outlaw and had been forced to leave a lumber camp between suns with no chance to spend his accumulated wages. so he regarded the money with growing suspicion and his anger grew at the thought of how near he had come to selling his honor, perhaps for tainted money at that.
"here, youse, take yer money an' git!" he growled. he motioned with the barrel of his rifle by way of emphasis. "an' youse better take up dem traps," he added significantly.
the indian's expression changed as he squatted once more and picked up the bills. he was too shrewd a sign reader not to know when it was useless to follow a trail further. the fox couldn't be bought, therefore it must be obtained in some other way, by craft or violence. if he could get near enough to the boy to disarm him the rest would be easy. if not—well, there was another way. he would avoid it if possible, for the boy's friends were too near. they would be on his trail inside of twenty-four hours. it would mean a long, hurried flight across the border with two of the best woodsmen in the whole section behind him, and every warden and lumber camp on both sides of the line watching for him. it would mean a battle if ever they came up with him, a battle to the death. but a thousand, perhaps two thousand dollars! one would dare much for such a sum. he had friends across the border. through them the skin could be disposed of while he remained in hiding. once across the line with the booty he had no fear, that is if he could obtain it without committing the blood crime. he would strike north and then market the pelt in the spring. it would be difficult to prove that it was not of his own killing. there were no witnesses. it would be only the word of this boy against him even should he be traced. given a reasonable start he had little fear of this.
he looked over at the black fox and the lust of greed glittered in his eyes. the animal was of unusual size, and the fur was extra prime. assuredly it would bring a great sum. after all, it was but a boy with whom he had to deal and by the looks of him a novice in the woods. he stuffed the money bag back in his shirt and rose, his axe in hand. then without warning he leaped forward, axe upraised, his face contorted with rage like that of a demon.
"stop!"
there was something menacing and sinister in the sound of the word, but more menacing and sinister was the muzzle of the little rifle into which he was staring. it brought him up short in the middle of a stride. he had seen the boy shoot and now the rifle was held as steadily as when it had been pointed at the fox. there was something in the sound of the boy's voice that warned him that he would not hesitate to shoot again, and at that distance he could not miss. the indian froze into a statue.
"turn around and git!" commanded sparrer. he was not afraid. he knew that the rifle gave him the whip hand. a boy of his age from higher walks in life might have been intimidated. not so sparrer. young in years, he was old in experience. he had seen too many drunken brawls, too many "bad men" in his street life, and knew too much of human nature to feel fear with that gun at his shoulder. instead a white hot consuming rage welled up within him as when he had rushed to the defense of some weakling against the attack of a cowardly bully. he saw red.
"youse git!" he repeated and there was a threat in the very way in which he said it.
for a brief second the indian hesitated. then with an ugly snarl like that of a trapped beast he slowly turned. baffled rage distorted his face until it was more like that of some savage animal than of a human being. it was humiliating to be balked by a slip of a boy. it was worse to have a fortune almost within his reach and be forced to leave it. there was murder, black murder, in his heart as he slowly shuffled forward a few steps.
suddenly he turned like a flash and with a peculiar swing threw the axe. sparrer knew nothing of the art of axe throwing at which many woodsmen are expert and are deadly in their quickness and precision. he was wholly unprepared for the move and it caught him off guard. he caught a glimpse of glinting steel and instinctively ducked as he had learned to do in fighting. at the same time he threw up his rifle. the axe struck the barrel of the latter just enough to be slightly deflected from its course and the end of the handle instead of the keen blade struck the boy a crashing blow on the side of the head. without a sound he dropped in his tracks.
a slow grin overspread the face of his assailant as he strode over and looked down at the white still face of his victim. after all it was better so. he had not killed him and there was less to fear from the long arm of the law. contemptuously he touched the still form with the toe of a shoe. then gloatingly he picked up the fox, hesitated and picked up the rabbit. without another glance at the huddled form on the snow he turned and vanished among the trees.
