“No, ther ain’t no law,” agreed the tall borderer readily, “’cept that o’ pistol an’ knife. But pistol an’ knife have alus kept me safe; an’ as long as a man kin shoot fast an’ straight, ther ain’t no need to show the white feather to any bogus badman the likes o’ you.” CHAPTER 3 At Point of Rocks That next morning, after the fracas at the Turtle, Ben and Tom, having nothing definite in mind for the day, decided to take a tramp north along the shore of mighty Lake Michigan. Their destination was Point of Rocks, four miles distant, where the fishing was said to be unsurpassed. “The landlady says she’ll broil us a fresh lake trout, if we can catch one,” declared Ben. “If we do,” proposed Tom, “what say we invite in our new friend, Bill Brown, and make it a party?” “Good old Bill! He’s going to call on Captain Van Alstyne today about his Injun warning. Wonder how he’ll make out.” “Well, he wasn’t overly hopeful, you know. He maintains that the Captain is a complete donkey.” From the village a fairly well-worn Indian trail led northward along the shore. The progress of the two young fishermen was, therefore, steady and not too arduous; but the rocky point proved to be somewhat farther from the fort than they had been led to believe. “These western miles are longer than the ones we have back east,” stated Tom emphatically, as he rested for a moment on a rock and gazed out over the wide expanse of blue-green water. “Just what I was thinking, Tom. I’d call this more like six miles than four from the feel of my leg muscles. But perk up! Isn’t that the rocks about a half-mile ahead?” “Maybe so. There’s some sort of a point sticking out in the lake. Must be the place.” Vastly encouraged, now that the goal was close at hand, the two red-heads pressed forward at a faster rate. “Say, Ben,” said Tom presently, slackening his pace, “there’s someone there ahead of us.” “By George, there is!” “Looks like an Injun.” “An Injun it is, sure as I’m a foot high.” Tom’s conjecture proved to be correct. As the boys approached the stony point, they could make out a lithe, coppery-colored figure, naked to the waist, squatting on a rock ledge that fell off steeply to the water. “What’s that in his hand?” questioned Tom, peering intently up shore. “Looks like a spear.” “Must be spearing fish.” “I reckon so. That’s the usual Injun way to catch them, I understand. Or else with nets.” In another moment the two lads were within fifty yards of the ledge, where they could plainly see the savage fisherman. “Well, I’ll be scalped,” exclaimed Tom, “if it isn’t Bright Star, the young Pottawattomee!” “By golly, it is! Looks like he came out of the big duel with nary a scratch.” “But he sure enough put his mark on the Wolf. What a thrilling fight it was! I’ll never forget it.” When the white boys had come to within a few rods of the ledge, the lithe young chief rose to his feet fishing spear in hand. “Ho!” he said, his tone friendly.