“This could be Wenebojo now,” whispered the chief.
The bear turned toward them, stopped, and then stood up on its hind legs. On its chest was a large, white, diamond-shaped blaze. The deep growls from Waabishki and Makade grew louder and more threatening. The bear stood frozen for a moment, before it ambled down the trail away from them.
“Wenebojo? Really?” asked Tor, heart pounding.
“Who can say? Wenebojo may have revealed himself to us as a makwaa. Perhaps, like the eagle, he shows us the way. We are very close.”
They continued down the trail, following the bear through another steep ravine before it disappeared into the thick woods. Both dogs suddenly spun around, looking behind. Makade growled again.
Namakagon turned, looking back down the trail just as a black-bearded man holding a double-barrel shotgun stepped out. “Animosh, hide!” said the chief to his dogs in a strong whisper. Both dogs dashed into the underbrush.
“Stand tall and reach high,” shouted the short, heavy man. Both Tor and Namakagon obeyed. “Where’d them two dogs go off to?”
“You scared them so bad they ran off, mister. We have no money to rob,” shouted Tor.
“Sonny,” came the reply. “I ain’t after no small change.”
Namakagon recognized his voice. “Tor, I believe we are in the company of Percival Wilkins.”
“That bandit who drowned under the Hayward trestle?”
“That’s me, Sonny, the one yer Indian friend, here, left fer dead under the bridge. Well, no—such—luck. You see, Indian, there was a pocket of air under all that snow and ice. I laid there in that freezin’ water till I heard the train pull off. Then I broke through and climbed out of that icy grave you left me in. I been fixin’ every day since to square up, Indian. And to learn the whereabouts’ of yer silver poke. High time we even up the score. Show me to yer mine or the boy, here, won’t see hisself another sunrise.”
“There is no silver, Percy, just the tall tales of lumberjacks,” said Namakagon. “You have wasted your chance to put your past behind.”
“Lies!” shouted the thug, pointing the double barrel at Tor and pulling back one of the hammers. “Show me the silver, Chief, or I pull this here trigger!”
“All right! I will show you the way if you let the boy leave.”
“I’ll let the both of yous go when you show me the silver. Not before.”
“How do we know you won’t kill us both?” said Tor.
“You ain’t no good to me dead, Sonny. After I fill my bags with silver I’ll be needin’ the both of yous to help me pack it out. Now, Indian, what’s it gonna be? Do I kill the boy or do we go get that silver?”
“This is the place. The cave is right here.”
The bandit’s eyes searched the surroundings, seeing no cave, no silver.
“You takin’ me for a fool?” The gunman thrust the gun barrel forward.
Chief Namakagon pushed aside the lower branches of the closest balsam tree to reveal a large, flat, knee-high boulder with a shallow opening under its center. “It is here. It’s at the foot of any passerby.”
The bandit moved toward the cave entrance, keeping his gun trained on Tor. He bent down, looking into the opening. “Well, so it is. Now, just how are we gonna to go about this? You, boy. You first. Git in there, find me some silver and git back here fast.”
Namakagon nodded, and Tor obeyed. Kneeling down before the entrance, he gave Namakagon a quick glance and then slid head first on his belly, wiggling through the shallow opening. His legs and feet disappeared.
Inside, the cavern’s interior was totally black. Waabishki and Makade startled him, licking his face in the dark. Soon, the cave took on form as his eyes adjusted. Only a soft glow came from under the cave entrance.
“What do you see in there, boy?” came a voice from outside.
“Nothing. Too dark.”
“Strike a match, then.”
“I have none.”
“You, Indian, you got matches?”
“No,” replied the chief, “Flint and steel.”
“Well, reach it under there. Hand it to the boy.”
Namakagon pulled a small buckskin pouch from his belt, knelt, then reached under the large rock with his fire kit. The thug eased the shotgun’s hammer down.
“I cannot reach him,” said Namakagon.
“Get on yer damn belly, then.”
The chief flattened out, reaching far under the rock with both hands.
“Boy,” shouted Wilkins, “can you reach it?”
“No.”
“Farther. Reach farther,” shouted the bandit. Namakagon crawled forward into the cave.
“Now, boy?”
“Nope. Still can’t.”
“Damn it all! Reach farther in there.”
Chief Namakagon slid farther under the rock. Now, the gunman could see only his calves and feet sticking out.
Inside the cavern, Tor could now make out the hands and wrists of his friend. He reached down, grabbed onto both of Chief’s wrists and shouted “I think I can reach it now. Should I take it?”
Namakagon answered, “Do you think you can, Tor?”
“I know I can. Should I take it?”
“Well, ‘course you should, Sonny,” shouted the thief, resting his gun against the trunk of the balsam.
“Namakagon,” called Tor, “should I?”
“Pull,” bellowed the chief. “Pull!”
That was all Tor needed to hear. He tightened his grip on Chief’s wrists and lunged back into the darkness, whisking Chief Namakagon into the black cavern with him. Both dogs greeted him with wet tongues as they had Tor.
Outside, Wilkins saw the chief’s legs and feet disappear under the rock. He reached for his shotgun, pulled back the hammers but no target remained.
“Damn you. Damn you both!” he screamed. “Don’t think fer one minute that I won’t wait here till you both starve yourselves dead or come out with my silver. Damn you both.”
“Good work, young woodsman. We are safe from the slow-witted hoodlum, for now.”
“Chief, with that bushwhacker out there and the four of us in here, well, just what are we gonna do? We sure could use some help from ol’ Wenebojo.”
“Wenebojo. Yes. It would be good if we could call on him in this time of need. Yes. Wenebojo.”