he remarked. "I don't think a white man could turn out anything as handy, unless, of course, he had one to copy."

"The point is that it took the Siwash a mighty long while to make the salmon spear," said Harry. "It's quite likely they spent two hundred years over it. Their spears are all on the same pattern, so are their traps and canoes." Seeing a puzzled look cross Frank's face, he smiled.

"An Indian is no smarter than a white man--in fact, when you stop to think of it, he's not half as smart, though most everything he makes is excellent. It's this way. If we want a saw for a new purpose or a different kind of wood, we write to the Disston people or somebody of the kind and they set their boss designer to work. He considers, and then because he knows all about the physical sciences he draws the thing on paper and sends it to the forges or grinding shops. In a general way, that saw does its work, though I guess if the designer had to use it for a year or two he'd make the next one better."

"Of course," agreed Frank.

"It's different with the Indians," Harry continued. "One fellow made a fish spear ever so long ago and found that it wouldn't do. He made the next one different and was satisfied with it, but his son made it a little longer and thinner. Then his grandson altered the barb, and his son added another one. After that each fellow made it a little handier, until nothing more could be done to it, and they stuck to the pattern."

He turned and glanced at the spear. "This thing is the product of the skill of ever so many generations."

It was simple but convincing, for it explained the efficiency of the Indian's tools, and also why he had not progressed. He worked along the same line, sticking to one simple implement until he had perfected it, and, though this was his greatest disadvantage, the man who killed the fish generally made the spear. He got so far and stopped, content, and incapable of going any farther. The white man, on the other hand, changed his methods continually with his changing needs and, what counted more than all, he very seldom made the tools he used, because he had discovered that somebody who did nothing else could make them better. When the Americans of the Pacific Slope wanted salmon they did not whittle spears, but sent east to the cordage factories, whose owners brought in fibers from all over the world and spun the netting with which to build gigantic fish traps.

"We could do with another fish," ventured Harry. "Let's see if you can get one."

Frank took up his pole again. It was a heavy and clumsy affair, but Harry had told him that he would probably break the Indian spear. They waited awhile until another swift shadow swept around with the eddy beneath their feet.

"Hold on!" cried Harry. "Wait till the stream heads him and then strike as quick as you can."

The fish's speed was checked for a moment as it entered the furious rush beneath the fall, and Frank, who could just see its dusky back amidst the foam, swung his pole. There was a splash and then a curious shock which sent a thrill through him, and the haft jerked sharply in his hands.

"Heave him out!" cried Harry. "That thing won't break."

Frank tugged with all his might and the salmon flew up over his shoulder. The next moment he had seized it and was almost reluctant to let it go when his companion clubbed it on the head.

"Two's as many as we have any use for and we'll go along," said the latter. "We haven't made much of a show at that draining lately."

Frank would have preferred to stay where he was, but he followed Harry toward the bush, and soon after they struck a cleared trail to the ranch, which was, however, not the way they had come. A little later they were somewhat astonished to see a group of figures among the trees, and hurrying forward they found Mr. Oliver and Mr. Barclay talking to Jake, who apparently had been driving home two or three steers.

Mr. Oliver, looking unusually grave, nodded to the boys. "We have just met Jake," he said. "He tells me Tillic.u.m's back a little way up the trail with a broken leg."

"I guess he's done," murmured Jake, adding significantly, "I wouldn't have left him like that if I'd had a gun."

"Go on with the steers," said Mr. Oliver. "We'll turn back."

The boys accompanied him and Mr. Barclay, and leaving the trail by and by where the bush was thinner they stopped before a pitiable sight. It was Tillic.u.m who stood awkwardly before them, his head lowered and one leg that seemed distorted out of its usual shape hanging limp. Caked mire was spattered about the poor animal, its coat was foul, and every line of its body seemed expressive of pain and exhaustion. As it raised its drooping head and looked at them pitifully, Frank felt a thrill of hot anger against the outlaws who were responsible for its condition.

Mr. Oliver stepped up to the horse and gently felt of its injured limb, after which he turned abruptly toward Mr. Barclay and Frank noticed that his face was set.

"There's only one thing to be done," he said. "Have you a pistol?"

"Haven't _you_?" his companion asked with a slight trace of astonishment in his tone.

"If I'd had one would I have wanted to borrow yours?" retorted Mr.

Oliver.

"Well," said Mr. Barclay, "it's seldom I carry one, but in this case it seemed advisable." He put his hand into his pocket. "Here you are. It's a big caliber."

Mr. Oliver took the weapon and held it behind him, and turning back toward the horse, gently stroked its head. Then there was a flash and detonation, and the beast dropped like a stone. After a moment the rancher turned around with a very curious look in his eyes, with the smoking weapon clenched hard in his hand.

"I've had that faithful animal six years," he said in a harsh voice.

"We'll get away."

They walked on in silence for a while, and then Mr. Barclay spoke.

"The breaking of its leg was probably an accident," he suggested.

"Yes," said Mr. Oliver. "It's possible he broke it after they turned him loose, but that doesn't seem to affect the case." He paused and looked around at his companion. "You understand that I'm with you right through this thing."

Nothing more was said until they approached the ranch, when Mr. Oliver turned to the boys.

"I'll take the fish," he said. "You can go on with whatever you were doing."

They moved away toward the drain, and when they reached it Harry stood still a moment or two.

"It's a long while since I've seen dad look half so mad," he said. "When he sets his face that way it's sure to mean trouble. Anyway, when I saw Tillic.u.m I felt kind of boiling over--as well as sorry."

"Did you notice what Mr. Barclay said about the pistol?" Frank asked.

"Why, of course," said Harry thoughtfully. "Now I don't know what they've been after, but it's plain enough that there was some danger in the thing. Mr. Barclay doesn't seem extra smart, but there's something in his look that suggests he wouldn't be easy scared, and he took a pistol along." Then he laughed in a significant manner and jumped down into the trench. "It's my idea those dope fellows are going to be sorry before dad gets through with them, and now we'll go on with the draining."

He fell to with the grubhoe and for the next half hour worked furiously, after which Jake appeared and called them in to dinner.

CHAPTER IX

A PLAIN HINT

Mr. Oliver bought another horse from one of his scattered neighbors, and a few days afterward he and Jake set off for an inlet along the coast near which a few ranchers lived. Harry explained to Frank that as they clubbed together and bought their supplies from Seattle a little steamer from the latter place called at the inlet now and then to deliver the goods, and his father had ordered a mower which was to be sent down by her.

Mr. Oliver did not come back until late in the evening a couple of days later, but as soon as he arrived he and Jake set to work to put the machine together, and it was getting dusk when at last they left it standing beneath the trees near the edge of a ravine. Early on the following morning the boys went back with them to see if it would work satisfactorily in cutting a little green timothy, but as they crossed the clearing Jake, who was leading the team a little distance in front of his companions, stopped suddenly.

"You didn't go back and move that machine after we left it?" he asked.

"No," replied Mr. Oliver. "What made you think I did?"

Jake looked at his employer rather curiously. "Well," he said, "somebody must have moved it. The thing's gone."

Mr. Oliver broke into a run and the rest followed. When they reached the clump of trees they could discover no sign of the mower, except for the track of wheels among the withered needles and undergrowth. This led toward the ravine, at the bottom of which a little water flowed, and Frank saw Mr. Oliver's face harden as he followed this guide. A minute later they stood on the brink of the declivity and saw the mower lying upon its side among the stones thirty or forty feet below them. The slope was almost precipitous, but Mr. Oliver went down sliding amidst a rush of loosened soil, and Frank and Harry with some difficulty scrambled down after him. A glance was sufficient to show them that the implement was not likely to be of the least use to its owner. Mr. Oliver examined it quietly and then clambered back up the side of the ravine, after which he sat down and took out his pipe before he turned to Jake.

"Every bit of cast-iron in it is smashed," he said. "The pinion wheels are broken, and the other parts are bent. I'll have to order another one."

Jake made a gesture of sympathy.

"If I could get hold of the folks who did the thing it would be a consolation, but I haven't the least notion how to trail them."

"One man couldn't have moved it," said Mr. Oliver.

"There were three of them. The question is, what brought them here? I guess they didn't come just to smash the machine."