The moccasined foot protruded from the water at the bow of his canoe. He soon saw the impossibility of attempting to work from the frail canoe, so he untied the rope which bound him to it, and pulled himself out on the logs. The rope from the shore was still around his body in case of a slip. He was taking no unnecessary chances.
The body was caught in some way under the same great log that his canoe was fastened to. The current tore at the projecting foot with a snarl. The foot oscillated continually under the pull, and sometimes disappeared altogether, only to spring back into sight with a ghastly life-like motion. Stonor cautiously straddled the log, and groped beneath it. His principal anxiety was that log and all might come away from the jam and be carried down, but there was little danger that his insignificant weight would disturb so great a bulk.
The body was caught in the fork of a branch underneath. He succeeded in freeing the other foot. He guessed that a smart pull up-stream would liberate the whole, but in that case the current would almost surely snatch it from his grasp. He saw that it would be an impossible task from his insecure perch to drag thebody out on the log, and in turn load it into the fragile canoe. His only chance lay in towing it ashore.
So, with the piece of line he had brought for the purpose, he lashed the feet together, and made the other end fast to the bow-thwart of the canoe. Then he got in and adjusted his stern-line as before—it became the bow-line for the return journey. In case it should become necessary to cut adrift from the canoe, he took the precaution of passing a line direct from his body to that which he meant to tow. When all was ready he signalled to Mary to haul in.
Now began the most difficult half of his journey. On the strength of Mary’s arms depended the freeing of the body. It came away slowly. Stonor had an instant’s glimpse of the ghastly tow bobbing astern, before settling down to the business in hand. For awhile all went well, though the added pull of the submerged body put a terrific strain on Mary. Fortunately she was as strong as a man. Stonor aided her all he could with his paddle, but that was little. He was kept busy fending his egg-shell craft off the rocks. He had instructed Mary, as the slack accumulated, to walk gradually up the beach. This was to avoid the danger of the canoe’s broaching too far to the current. But Mary could not do it under the increased load. The best she could manage was to brace her body against the stones, and pull in hand over hand.
As the line shortened Stonor saw that he was going to have trouble. Instead of working in-shore, the canoe was edging further into the stream, and ever presenting a more dangerous angle to the tearing current. Mary had pulled in about a third of the line, when suddenly the canoe, getting the current under her dead rise, darted out into mid-stream like a fish at the end of a line, and hung there canting dangerously. The current snarled along the gunwale like an animal preparing to crush its prey.
The strain on Mary was frightful. She was extended at full length with her legs braced against an outcrop of rock. Stonor could see her agonized expression. He shouted to her to slack off the line, but of course the roar of the water drowned his puny voice. In dumb-play he tried desperately to show her what to do, but Mary was possessed of but one idea, to hang on until her arms were pulled out.
The canoe tipped inch by inch, and the boiling water crept up its freeboard. Finally it swept in, and Stonor saw that all was over with the canoe. With a single stroke of his knife he severed the rope at the thwart behind him; with another stroke the rope in front. When the tug came on his body he was jerked clean out of the canoe. It passed out of his reckoning. By the drag behind him, he knew he still had the dead body safe.
He instinctively struck out, but the tearing water, mocking his feeble efforts, buffeted him this way and that as with the swing of giant arms. Sometimes he was spun helplessly on the end of his line like a trolling-spoon. He was flung sideways around a boulder and pressed there by the hands of the current until it seemed the breath was slowly leaving his body. Dazed, blinded, gasping, he somehow managed to struggle over it, and was cast further in-shore. The tendency of the current was to sweep him in now. If he could only keep alive! The stones were thicker in-shore. He was beaten first on one side, then the other. All his conscious efforts were reduced to protecting his head from the rocks with his arms.
The water may have been but a foot or two deep, but of course he could gain no footing. He still dragged his leaden burden. All the breath was knocked out of him under the continual blows, but he was conscious of no pain. The last few moments were a blank. He found himself in the back-water, and expended hislast ounce of strength in crawling out on hands and knees on the beach. He cast himself flat, sobbing for breath.
Mary came running to his aid. He was able to nod to her reassuringly, and in the ecstasy of her relief, she sat down suddenly, and wept like a white woman. Stonor gathered himself together and sat up groaning. The onset of pain was well-nigh unendurable. He felt literally as if his flesh all over had been pounded to a jelly. But all his limbs, fortunately, responded to their functions.
“Lie still,” Mary begged of him.
He shook his head. “I must keep moving, or I’ll become as helpless as a log.”
The nameless thing was floating in the back-water. Together they dragged it out on the stones. It was Stonor’s first sight of that which had cost him such pains to secure. He nerved himself to bear it. Mary was no fine lady, but she turned her head away. The man’s face was totally unrecognizable by reason of the battering it had received on the rocks; his clothes were partly in ribbons; there was a gaping wound in the breast.
For the rest, as far as Stonor could judge, it was the body of a young man, and a comely one. His skin was dark like that of an Italian, or a white man with a quarter or eighth strain of Indian blood in his veins. Stonor was astonished by this fact; nothing that he had heard had suggested that Imbrie was not as white as himself. This put a new look on affairs. For an instant Stonor doubted. But the man’s hand was well-formed and well-kept; and in what remained of his clothes one could still see the good materials and the neatness. In fact, it could be none other than Imbrie.
He was roused from his contemplation of the gruesome object by a sharp exclamation from Mary.Looking up, he saw Clare a quarter of a mile away, hastening to them along the beach. His heart sank.
“Go to her,” he said quickly. “Keep her from coming here.”
Mary hastened away. Stonor followed more slowly, disguising his soreness as best he could. For him it was cruel going over the stones—yet all the way he was oddly conscious of the beauty of the wild cascade, sweeping down between its green shores.
As he had feared, Clare refused to be halted by Mary. Thrusting the Indian woman aside, she came on to Stonor.
“What’s the matter?” she cried stormily. “Why did you both leave me? Why does she try to stop me?—Why! you’re all wet! Where’s your tunic, your boots? You’re in pain!”
“Come to the house,” he said. “I’ll tell you.”
She would not be put off. “What has happened? I insist on knowing now! What is there down there I mustn’t see?”
“Be guided by me,” he pleaded. “Come away, and I’ll tell you everything.”
“Iwillsee!” she cried. “Do you wish to put me out of my mind with suspense?”
He saw that it was perhaps kinder not to oppose her. “I have found a body in the river,” he said. “Do not look at it. Let me tell you.”
She broke away from him. “I must know the worst,” she muttered.
He let her go. She ran on down the beach, and he hobbled after. She stopped beside the body, and looked down with wide, wild eyes. One dreadful low cry escaped her.
“Ernest!”
She collapsed. Stonor caught her sagging body. Her head fell limply back over his arm.
Stonor, refusing aid from Mary, painfully carried his burden all the way back to the shack. He laid her on the bed. There was no sign of returning animation. Mary loosened her clothing, chafed her hands, and did what other offices her experience suggested. After what seemed like an age to the watchers, she stirred and sighed. Stonor dreaded then what recollection would bring to her awakening. But there was neither grief nor terror in the quiet look she bent first on one then the other; only a kind of annoyed perplexity. She closed her eyes again without speaking, and presently her deepened breathing told them that she slept.
“Thank God!” whispered Stonor. “It’s the best thing for her.”
Mary followed him out of the shack. “Watch her close,” he charged her. “If you want me for anything come down to the beach and hail.”
Stonor procured another knife and returned to the body. In the light of Clare’s identification he could have no further doubt that this was indeed the remains of the unhappy Imbrie. She had her own means of identification, he supposed. The man, undoubtedly deranged, must have pushed off in his canoe and let the current carry him to his death. Stonor, however, thinking of the report he must make to his commanding officer, knew that his speculations were not sufficient. Much as he disliked the necessity, it was incumbent on him to perform an autopsy.
This developed three surprising facts in this order: (a) there was no water in the dead man’s lungs, proving that he was already dead when his body entered the water: (b) there was a bullet-hole through his heart: (c) the bullet itself was lodged in his spine.
For a moment Stonor thought of murder—but only for a moment. A glance showed him that the bullet was of thirty-eight calibre, a revolver-bullet. Revolvers are unknown to the Indians. Stonor knew that there were no revolvers in all the country round except his own, Gaviller’s forty-four, and one that the dead man himself might have possessed. Consequently he saw no reason to change his original theory of suicide. Imbrie, faced by that terrible drop, had merely hastened the end by putting a bullet through his heart.
Stonor kept the bullet as possible evidence. He then looked about for a suitable burial-place. His instinct was to provide the poor fellow with a fair spot for his last long rest. Up on top of the low precipice of rock that has been mentioned, there was a fine point of vantage visible up-river beyond the head of the rapids. At no small pains Stonor dragged the body up here, and with his knife dug him a shallow grave between the roots of a conspicuous pine. It was a long, hard task. He covered him with brush in lieu of a coffin, and, throwing the earth back, heaped a cairn of stones on top. Placing a flat stone in the centre, he scratched the man’s name on it and the date. He spoke no articulate prayer, but thought one perhaps.
“Sleep well, old fellow. It seems I was never to know you, though you haunted me—and may perhaps haunt me still.”
Dragging himself wearily back to the shack, Stonor found that Clare still slept.
“Fine!” he said with clearing face. “There’s no doctor like sleep!”
His secret dread was that she might become seriously ill. What would he do in that case, so far away from help?
He sat himself down to watch beside Clare while Mary prepared the evening meal. There were still some three hours more of daylight, and he decided to be guided as to their start up-river by Clare’s condition when she awoke. If she had a horror of the place they could start at once, provided she were able to travel, and sleep under canvas. Otherwise it would be well to wait until morning, for he was pretty nearly all in himself. Indeed, while he waited with the keenest anxiety for Clare’s eyes to open, his own closed. He slept with his head fallen forward on his breast.
He awoke to find Clare’s wide-open eyes wonderingly fixed on him.
“Who are you?” she asked.
It struck a chill to his breast. Was she mad? This was a more dreadful horror than he had foreseen. Yet there was nothing distraught in her gaze, merely that same look of perplexed annoyance. It was an appreciable moment before he could collect his wits sufficiently to answer.
“Your friend,” he said, forcing himself to smile.
“Yes, I think you are,” she said slowly. “But it’s funny I don’t quite know you.”
“You soon will.”
“What is your name?”
“Martin Stonor.”
“And that uniform you are wearing?”
“Mounted police.”
She raised herself a little, and looked around. The puzzled expression deepened. “What a strange-looking room! What am I doing in such a place?”
To Stonor it was like a conversation in a dream. It struck awe to his breast. Yet he forced himself toanswer lightly and cheerfully. “This is a shack in the woods where we are camping temporarily. We’ll start for home as soon as you are able.”
“Home? Where is that?” she cried like a lost child.
A great hard lump rose in Stonor’s throat. He could not speak.
After a while she said: “I feel all right. I could eat.”
“That’s fine!” he cried from the heart. “That’s the main thing. Supper will soon be ready.”
The next question was asked with visible embarrassment. “You are not my brother, are you, or any relation?”
“No, only your friend,” he said, smiling.
She was troubled like a child, biting her lip, and turning her face from him to hide the threatening tears. There was evidently some question she could not bring herself to ask. He could not guess what it was. Certainly not the one she did ask.
“What time is it?”
“Past seven o’clock.”
“That means nothing to me,” she burst out bitterly. “It’s like the first hour to me. It’s so foolish to be asking such questions! I don’t know what’s the matter with me! I don’t even know my own name!”
That was it! “Your name is Clare Starling,” he said steadily.
“What am I doing in a shack in the woods?”
He hesitated before answering this. His first fright had passed. He had heard of people losing their memories, and knew that it was not necessarily a dangerous state. Indeed, now, this wiping-out of recollection seemed like a merciful dispensation, and he dreaded the word that would bring the agony back.
“Don’t ask any more questions now,” he begged her. “Just rest up for the moment, and take things as they come.”
“Something terrible has happened!” she said agitatedly. “That is why I am like this. You’re afraid to tell me what it is. But I must know. Nothing could be so bad as not knowing anything. It is unendurable not to have any identity. Don’t you understand? I am empty inside here. The me is gone!”
He arose and stood beside her bed. “I ask you to trust me,” he said gravely. “I am the only doctor available. If you excite yourself like this only harm can come of it. Everything is all right now. You have nothing to fear. People who lose their memories always get them back again. If you do not remember of yourself I promise to tell you everything that has happened.”
“I will try to be patient,” she said dutifully.
Presently she asked: “Is there no one here but us? I thought I remembered a woman—or did I dream it?”
Stonor called Mary in and introduced her. Clare’s eyes widened. “An Indian woman!” their expression said.
Stonor said, as if speaking of the most everyday matter: “Mary, Miss Starling’s memory is gone. It will soon return, of course, and in the meantime plenty of food and sleep are the best things for her. She has promised me not to ask any more questions for the present.”
Mary paled slightly. To her, loss of memory smacked of insanity of which she was terribly in awe—like all her race. However, under Stonor’s stern eye she kept her face pretty well.
Clare said: “I’d like to get up now,” and Stonor left the shack.
Nothing further happened that night. Clare ate a good supper, and a bit of colour returned to her cheeks. Stonor had no reason to be anxious concerning her physical condition. She asked no more questions. Immediately after eating he sent her and Mary to bed.Shortly afterwards Mary reported that Clare had fallen asleep again.
Stonor slept in the store-room. He was up at dawn, and by sunrise he had everything ready for the start up-river.
It was an entirely self-possessed Clare that issued from the shack after breakfast, yet there was something inaccessible about her. Though she was anxious to be friends with Stonor and Mary, she was cut off from them. They had to begin all over again with her. There was something piteous in the sight of the little figure so alone even among her friends; but she was bearing it pluckily.
She looked around her eagerly. The river was very lovely, with the sun drinking up the light mist from its surface.
“What river is this?” she asked.
Stonor told her.
“It is not altogether strange to me,” she said. “I feel as if I might have known it in a previous existence. There is a fall below, isn’t there?”
“Yes.”
“How do you suppose I knew that?”
He shrugged, smiling.
“And the—the catastrophe happened down there,” she said diffidently. He nodded.
“I feel it like a numb place inside me. But I don’t want to go down there. I feel differently from yesterday. Some day soon, of course, I must turn back the dreadful pages, but not quite yet. I want a little sunshine and laziness and sleep first; a little vacation from trouble.”
“That’s just as it should be,” said Stonor, much relieved.
“Isn’t it funny, I can’t remember anything that ever happened to me, yet I haven’t forgotten everything I knew. I know the meaning of things. I still seem totalk like a grown-up person. Words come to me when I need them. How do you explain that?”
“Well, I suppose it’s because just one little department of your brain has stopped working for a while.”
“Well, I’m not going to worry. The world is beautiful.”
The journey up-stream was a toilsome affair. Though the current between the rapids was not especially swift, it made a great difference when what had been added to their rate of paddling on the way down, was deducted on the way back. Stonor foresaw that it would take them close on ten days to make the Horse-Track. He and Mary took turns tracking the canoe from the bank, while the other rested. Clare steered. Ascending the rapids presented no new problems to a river-man, but it was downright hard work. All hands joined in pulling and pushing, careless of how they got wet.
The passing days brought no change in Clare’s mental state, and in Stonor the momentary dread of some thought or word that might bring recollection crashing back, was gradually lulled. Physically she showed an astonishing improvement, rejoicing in the hard work in the rapids, eating and sleeping like a growing boy. To Stonor it was enchanting to see the rosy blood mantle her pale cheeks and the sparkle of bodily well-being enhance her eyes. With this new tide of health came a stouter resistance to imaginative terrors. Away with doubts and questionings! For the moment the physical side of her was uppermost. It was Nature’s own way of effecting a cure. Towards Stonor, in this new character of hers, she displayed a hint of laughing boldness that enraptured him.
At first he would not let himself believe what he read in her new gaze; that the natural woman who had sloughed off the burdens of an unhappy past wasdisposed to love him. But of course he could not really resist so sweet a suggestion. Let him tell himself all he liked that he was living in a fool’s paradise; that when recollection returned, as it must in the end, she would think no more of him; nevertheless, when she looked at him like that, he could not help being happy. The journey took on a thousand new delights for him; such delights as his solitary youth had never known. At least, he told himself, there was no sin in it, for the only man who had a better claim on her was dead and buried.
One night they were camped beside some bare tepee poles on a point of the bank. Mary had gone off to set a night-line in an eddy; Stonor lay on his back in the grass smoking, and Clare sat near, nursing her knees.
“You’ve forbidden me to ask questions about myself,” said she; “but how about you?”
“Oh, there’s nothing to tell about me.”
She affected to study him with a disinterested air. “I don’t believe you have a wife,” she said wickedly. “You haven’t a married look.”
“What kind of a look is that?”
“Oh, a sort of apologetic look.”
“Well, as a matter of fact, I’m not married,” he said, grinning.
“Have you a sweetheart?” she asked in her abrupt way, so like a boy’s.
Stonor regarded his pipe-bowl attentively, but did not thereby succeed in masking his blushes.
“Aha! You have!” she cried. “No need to answer.”
“That depends on what you mean,” he said, determined not to let her outface him. “If you mean a regular cut and dried affair, no.”
“But you’re in love.”
“Some might say so.”
“Don’t you say so?”
“I don’t know. I’ve had no instruction on the subject.”
“Pshaw! It’s a poor kind of man that needs instruction!”
“I daresay.”
“Tell me, and maybe I can instruct you.”
“How can you tell the untellable?”
“Well, for instance, do you like to be with her?”
Stonor affected to study the matter. “No,” he said.
She gave him so comical a look of rebuke that he laughed outright. “I mean I’m uncomfortable whether I’m with her or away from her,” he explained.
“There may be something in that,” she admitted. “Have you ever told her?”
“No.”
“Why don’t you tell her like a man?”
“Things are not as simple as all that.”
“Obstacles, eh?”
“Rather!”
A close observer might have perceived under Clare’s scornful chaffing the suggestion of a serious and anxious purpose. “Bless me! this is getting exciting!” she said. “Maybe the lady has a husband?”
“No, not that.”
A glint of relief showed under her lowered lids. “What’s the trouble, then?”
“Oh, just my general unworthiness, I guess.”
“I don’t think you can love her very much,” she said, with pretended scorn.
“Perhaps not,” he said, refusing to be drawn.
She allowed the subject to drop. It was characteristic of Clare in her lighter moments that her conversation skipped from subject to subject like a chamois on the heights. Those who knew her well, though, began to suspect in the end that there was often a method in her skipping. She now talked of the day’s journey,of the weather, of Mary’s good cooking, of a dozen minor matters. After a long time, when he might naturally be supposed to have forgotten what they had started with, she said offhand:
“Do you mind if I ask one question about myself?”
“Fire away.”
“You told me my name was Miss Clare Starling.”
“Do you suspect otherwise?”
“What am I doing with a wedding-ring?”
It took him unawares. He stared at her a little clownishly. “I—I never noticed it,” he stammered.
“It’s hanging on a string around my neck.”
“Your husband is dead,” he said bluntly.
She cast down her eyes. “Was that—the catastrophe that happened up here?”
While he wished to keep the information from her as long as possible, he could not lie to her. “Yes,” he said. “Don’t ask any more.”
She bowed as one who acknowledges the receipt of information not personally important. “One more question; was he a good man, a man you respected?”
“Oh, yes,” he said quickly.
She looked puzzled. “Strange I should feel no sense of loss,” she murmured.
“You had been parted from him for a long time.”
They fell silent. The charming spell that had bound them was effectually broken. She shivered delicately, and announced her intention of going to bed.
But in the morning she showed him a shining morning face. To arise refreshed from sleep, hungry for one’s breakfast, and eager for the day’s journey, was enough for her just now. She was living in her instincts. Her instinct told her that Stonor loved her, and that sufficed her. The dreadful things might wait.
Having ascended the last rapid, they found they could make better time by paddling the dug-out, keeping close under the shore as the Kakisas did, and cutting across from side to side on the inside of each bend to keep out of the strongest of the current. The seating arrangement was the same as at their start; Mary in the bow, Stonor in the stern, and Clare facing Stonor. Thus all day long their eyes were free to dwell on each other, nor did they tire. They had reached that perfect stage where the eyes confess what the tongue dares not name; that charming stage of folly when lovers tell themselves they are still safe because nothing has been spoken. As a matter of fact it is with words that the way to misunderstanding is opened. One cannot misunderstand happy eyes. Meanwhile they were satisfied with chaffing each other.
“Martin, I wonder how old I am.”
He studied her gravely. “I shouldn’t say more than thirty-three or four.”
“You wretch! I’ll get square with you for that! I can start with any age I want. I’ll be eighteen.”
“That’s all right, if you can get away with it. If I could keep you up here awhile maybe you could knock off a little more.”
“Oh, Martin, if one could only travel on this river for ever! It’s so blessed not to have to think of things!”
“Suit me all right. But I suppose Mary wants to see her kids.”
“Let her go.”
Her eyes fell under the rapt look that involuntarily leapt up in his. “I mean we could get somebody else,” she murmured.
Stonor pulled himself up short. “Unfortunately there’s the force,” he said lightly. “If I don’t go back and report they’ll come after me.”
“What is this place we are going to, Martin?”
“Fort Enterprise.”
“I am like a person hanging suspended in space. I neither know where I came from, nor where I am going. What is Fort Enterprise like?”
“A trading-post.”
“Your home?”
“Such as it is.”
“Why ‘such as it is’?”
“Well, it’s a bit of a hole.”
“No society?”
“Society!” He laughed grimly.
“Aren’t there any girls there?”
“Devil a one!—except Miss Pringle, the parson’s sister, and she’s considerable oldish.”
“Don’t you know any real girls, Martin?”
“None but you, Clare.”
She bent an odd, happy glance on him. It meant: “Is it possible that I am the first with him?”
“Why do you look at me like that?” he asked.
“Oh, you’re rather nice to look at,” she said airily.
“Thanks,” he said, blushing. He was modest, but that sort of thing doesn’t exactly hurt the most modest of men. “Same to you!”
They camped that night on a little plateau of sweet grass, and after supper Mary told tales by the fire. Mary, bland and uncensorious, was a perfect chaperon. What she thought of the present situation Stonor never knew. He left it to Clare to come to an understanding with her. That they shared many a secret from which he was excluded, he knew. Mary had soon recovered from her terror of Clare’s seeming illness.
“This the story of the Wolf-Man,” she began. “Once on a tam there was a man had two bad wives. They had no shame. That man think maybe if he go away where there were no other people he can teach those women to be good, so he move his lodge away off on the prairie. Near where they camp was a high hill,and every evenin’ when the sun go under the man go up on top of the hill, and look all over the country to see where the buffalo was feeding, and see if any enemies come. There was a buffalo-skull on that hill which he sit on.
“In the daytime while he hunt the women talk. ‘This is ver’ lonesome,’ one say. ‘We got nobody talk to, nobody to visit.’
“Other woman say: ‘Let us kill our husband. Then we go back to our relations, and have good time.’
“Early in the morning the man go out to hunt. When he gone his wives go up the hill. Dig deep pit, and cover it with sticks and grass and dirt. And put buffalo-skull on top.
“When the shadows grow long they see their husband coming home all bent over with the meat he kill. So they mak’ haste to cook for him. After he done eating he go up on the hill and sit down on the skull. Wah! the sticks break, and he fall in pit. His wives are watching him. When he fall in they take down the lodge, pack everything, and travel to the main camp of their people. When they get near the big camp they begin to cry loud and tear their clothes.
“The people come out. Say: ‘Why is this? Why you cry? Where is your husband?’
“Women say: ‘He dead. Five sleeps ago go out to hunt. Never come back.’ And they cry and tear their clothes some more.
“When that man fall in the pit he was hurt. Hurt so bad can’t climb out. Bam-bye wolf traveling along come by the pit and see him. Wolf feel sorry. ‘Ah-h-woo-o-o! Ah-h-woo-o-o!’ he howl. Other wolves hear. All come running. Coyotes, badgers, foxes come too.
“Wolf say: ‘In this hole is my find. It is a man trapped. We dig him out and have him for our brother.’
“All think wolf speak well. All begin to dig. Soonthey dig a hole close to the man. Then the wolf say: ‘Wait! I want to say something.’ All the animals listen. Wolf say: ‘We all have this man for our brother, but I find him, so I say he come live with the big wolves.’ The others say this is well, so the wolf tear down the dirt and drag the man out. He is almost dead. They give him a kidney to eat and take him to the lodge of the big wolves. Here there is one old blind wolf got very strong medicine. Him make that man well, and give him head and hands like wolf.
“In those days long ago the people make little holes in the walls of the cache where they keep meat, and set snares. When wolves and other animals come to steal meat they get caught by the neck. One night wolves all go to the cache to steal meat. When they come close man-wolf say: ‘Wait here little while, I go down and fix place so you not get caught.’ So he go and spring all the snares. Then he go back and get wolves, coyotes, badgers and foxes, and all go in the cache and make feast and carry meat home.
“In the morning the people much surprise’ find meat gone and snares sprung. All say, how was that done? For many nights the meat is stolen and the snares sprung. But one night when the wolves go there to steal find only meat of a tough buffalo-bull. So the man-wolf was angry and cry out:
“‘Bad-you-give-us-ooo! Bad-you-give-us-ooo!’
“The people hear and say: ‘It is a man-wolf who has done all this. We catch him now!’ So they put nice back-fat and tongue in the cache, and hide close by. After dark the wolves come. When the man-wolf see that good food he run to it and eat. Then the people run in and catch him with ropes and take him to a lodge. Inside in the light of the fire they see who it is. They say: ‘This is the man who was lost!’
“Man say: ‘No. I not lost. My wives try to killme.’ And he tell them how it was. He say: ‘The wolves take pity on me or I die there.’
“When the people hear this they angry at those bad women, and they tell the man to do something about it.
“Man say: ‘You say well. I give them to the Bull-Band, the Punishers of Wrong.’
“After that night those two women were never seen again.”
Mary Moosa, when one of her stories went well, with the true instinct of a story-teller could seldom be persuaded to follow it with another, fearing an anti-climax perhaps. She turned in under her little tent, and soon thereafter trumpeted to the world that she slept.
Stonor and Clare were left together with self-conscious, downcast eyes. All day they had longed for this moment, and now that it had come they were full of dread. Their moods had changed; chaffing was for sunny mornings on the river; in the exquisite, brooding dusk they hungered for each other. Yet both still told themselves that the secret was safe from the other. Finally Clare with elaborate yawns bade Stonor good-night and disappeared under her tent.
An instinct that he could not have analysed told him she would be out again. Half-way down the bank in a little grassy hollow he made a nest for her with his blankets. When she did appear over the top of the bank she surveyed these preparations with a touch of haughty surprise. She had a cup in her hand.
“Were you going to spend the night here?” she asked.
“No,” he said, much confused.
“What is this for, then?”
“I just hoped that you might come out and sit for a while.”
“What reason had you to think that?”
“No reason. I just hoped it.”
“Oh! I thought you were in bed. I just came out to get a drink.”
Stonor, considerably dashed, took the cup and brought her water from the river. She sipped it and threw the rest away. He begged her to sit down.
She sat in a tentative sort of way, and declined to be wrapped up. “I can only stay a minute.”
“Have you a pressing engagement?” he asked aggrievedly.
“One must sleep some time,” she said rebukingly.
Stonor, totally unversed in the ways of women, was crushed by her changed air. He looked away, racking his brains to hit on what he could have done to offend her. She glanced at him out of the tail of her eye, and a wicked little dimple appeared in one cheek. He was sufficiently punished. She was mollified. But it was so sweet to feel her power over him, that she could not forbear using it just a little.
“What’s the matter?” he asked sullenly.
“Why, nothing!” she said with an indulgent smile, such as she might have given a small boy.
An intuition told him that in a way it was like dealing with an Indian; to ask questions would only put him at a disadvantage. He must patiently wait until the truth came out of itself.
In silence he chose the weapon she was least proof against. She tried to out-silence him, but soon began to fidget. “You’re not very talkative,” she said at last.
“I only seem to put my foot in it.”
“You’re very stupid.”
“No doubt.”
She got up. “I’m going back to bed.”
“Sorry, we don’t seem to be able to hit it off after supper.”
“I’d like to beat you!” she cried with a little gust of passion.
This was more encouraging. “Why?” he asked, grinning.
“You’re so dense!”
At last he understood, and a great peace filled him. “Sit down,” he said coaxingly. “Let’s be friends. We only have nine days more.”
This took her by surprise. She sat. “Why only nine days?”
“When we get out your life will claim you. This little time will seem like a dream.”
She began to see then, and her heart warmed towards him. “Now I understand what’s the matter with you!” she cried. “You think that I am not myself now; that this me which is talking to you is not the real me, but a kind of—what do they call it?—a kind of changeling. And that when we get back to the world, or some day soon, this me will be whisked away again, and my old self come back and take possession of my body.”
“Something like that,” he said, with a rueful smile.
“Oh, you hurt me when you talk like that!” she cried. “You are wrong, quite, quite wrong! This is my ownest self that speaks to you now; that is—that is your friend, and it will never change! Think a little. What I have lost is not essential. It is only memory. That is to say, the baggage that one gradually collects through life; what was impressed on your mind as a child; what you pick up from watching other people and from reading books; what people tell you you ought to do; outside ideas of every kind, mostly false. Well, I’ve chucked it all—or it has been chucked for me. Such as I am now, I am the woman I was born to be! And I will never change. I don’t care if I never find my lost baggage. My heart is light without it. But if I do it can make no difference. Baggage is only baggage. And having once found your own heart you never could forget that.”
They both instinctively stood up. They did not touch each other.
“Do you still doubt me?” she asked.
“No.”
“You will see. I understand you better now. I shall not tease you any more. Good-night, Martin.”
“Good-night, Clare.”
Next morning, when they had been on the river for about three hours, they came upon their friend Etzooah, he of the famous hair, still hunting along shore in his canoe, but this time without the little boy. Stonor hailed him with pleasure; for of all the Kakisa Indians only this one had acted towards them like a man and a brother.
But the policeman was doomed to disappointment. When they overtook Etzooah they saw that the red man’s open, friendly look had changed. He turned a hard, wary eye on them, just like all the other Kakisas. Stonor guessed that he must have visited his people in the interim, and have been filled up with their nonsensical tales. Affecting to notice no change, Stonor said:
“We are going to spell here. Will you eat with us?”
No Indian was ever known to refuse a meal. Etzooah landed without a word, and sat apart waiting for it to be prepared. He made no offer to help, but merely sat watching them out of his inscrutable, beady eyes. Stonor, hoping to find him with better dispositions after he had filled up, let him alone.
Throughout the meal Etzooah said nothing except to answer Stonor’s questions in monosyllables. He denied having been up to Ahcunazie’s village. Stonor was struck by the fact that he made no inquiry respecting his friend Imbrie. Stonor himself did not liketo bring up the subject of Imbrie in Clare’s hearing. Altogether baffled by the man’s changed air, he finally said:
“Mary, translate this just as I give it to you.—When the policeman come down the river he meet Etzooah. He is glad to see Etzooah. He say, here is a good man. Etzooah give the policeman good talk. They part friends. But when the policeman come back up the river Etzooah is changed. He is not glad to see the policeman. He gives him black looks. Why is that? Has anyone spoken evil of the policeman to Etzooah? He is ready to answer. He asks this in friendship.”
But it was all wasted on the Indian. He shrugged, and said with bland, unrelenting gaze: “Etzooah not changed. Etzooah glad to see the policeman come back.”
When they had finished eating, Clare, guessing that Stonor could talk more freely if she were out of hearing, strolled away to a little distance and sat down to do some mending.
Stonor said to Etzooah through Mary: “I have bad news for you.”
The Indian said: “You not find White Medicine Man?”
“He is dead.”
Etzooah’s jaw dropped. He stared at Stonor queerly. “What for you tell me that?” he demanded.
The style of the question nonplussed Stonor for the moment. “Why do I tell you? You said you were his friend.”
Etzooah veiled his eyes. “So—he dead,” he said stolidly. “I sorry for that.”
Now it was perfectly clear to Stonor that while the man’s first exclamation had been honest and involuntary, his later words were calculated. There was no trace of sorrow in his tones. It was all very puzzling.
“I think he must have been crazy,” Stonor went on. “He shoved off in his canoe, and let the current carry him down. Then he shot himself.”
Etzooah still studied Stonor like a man searching for ulterior motives. Clearly he did not believe what he was being told. “Why you think that? The falls never tell.”
“His body didn’t go over the falls. It caught on a log-jam in the rapids.”
“I know that log-jam. How you know his body there?”
“I brought it ashore. Mary helped me.”
Etzooah smiled in a superior way.
Stonor, exasperated, turned to Mary. “Make it clear to him that I am telling the truth if it takes half-an-hour.” He turned away and filled his pipe.
Mary presumably found the means of convincing the doubter. Etzooah lost his mask. His mouth dropped open; he stared at Stonor with wild eyes; a yellowish tint crept into the ruddy copper of his skin. This agitation was wholly disproportionate to what Mary was telling him. Stonor wondered afresh. Etzooah stammered out a question.
Mary said in her impassive way: “Etzooah say how we know that was the White Medicine Man’s body?”
“Was there any other man there?” said Stonor.
When this was repeated to the Indian he clapped his hands to his head. “Non! Non!” he muttered.
Stonor indicated Clare. “She said it was Imbrie’s body. She was his wife.”
Etzooah stared stupidly at Clare.
Suddenly he started to rise.
Mary said: “He say he got go now.”
Stonor laid a heavy hand on the Indian’s shoulder. “Sit down! Not until this matter is explained. Perhaps the man did not kill himself. Perhaps he was murdered.”
Etzooah seemed beside himself with terror.
“Ask him what he’s afraid of?”
“He say he sick in his mind because his friend is dead.”
“Nonsense! This is not grief, but terror. Tell him I want the truth now. I asked as a friend at first: now I ask in the name of the law.”
Etzooah suddenly rolled away on the ground out of Stonor’s reach. Then, springing to his feet with incredible swiftness, he cut for the water’s edge. But Mary stuck out her leg in his path and he came to earth with a thud. Stonor secured him. Clare from where she sat looked up with startled eyes.
“For the last time I ask you what you know about this matter,” said Stonor sternly. “If you refuse to answer, I’ll carry you outside and put you in the white man’s jail.”
Etzooah answered sullenly.
“He say he know not’ing,” said Mary.
“Get the tracking-line, and help me tie his hands and feet.”
When Etzooah saw that Stonor really meant to do what he said, he collapsed.
“He say he tell now,” said Mary.
Etzooah spoke rapidly and tremblingly to Mary. Little doubt now that he was telling the truth, thought Stonor, watching him. The effect of his communication on the stolid Mary was startling in the extreme. She started back, and the same look of panic terror appeared in her eyes. She was unable to speak.
“For God’s sake, what’s the matter with you all?” cried Stonor.
Mary moistened her dry lips. She faltered: “He say—he say he so scare when you say you find Imbrie’s body five sleeps ago because—because two sleeps ago Imbrie spell wit’ him beside the river.”
It was the turn of Stonor’s jaw to drop, and his eyesto stare. “But—but this is nonsense!” he cried.
Clare could no longer contain her curiosity. “What is the matter, Martin?” she asked.
“Somered-skinmumbo-jumbo,” he answered angrily. “I’ll soon get to the bottom of it.”
Lowering his voice, he said to Mary: “Have him tell me exactly what happened two sleeps ago.”
Mary translated as Etzooah spoke. “Two sleeps ago. The sun was half-way to the middle of the sky. I spell down river near the rapids on the point where the tepee-poles are. I see White Medicine Man come paddling up. I moch surprise see him all alone because I know you gone down to see him. I call to him. He come on shore to me.”
“What kind of a canoe?” asked Stonor.
“Kakisa canoe. Got willow-branches in it, for cause Eembrie sit on his knees and paddle, not like Kakisa.”
This was a convincing detail. Little beads of perspiration sprang out on Stonor’s brow.
Etzooah went on: “We talk——”
“Could he speak Kakisa?”
“No. We talk by signs. He know some Kakisa words. I teach him that. I say to him Red-coat and White girl gone down river to see you. You not see them? How is that? Eembrie laugh: say: ‘I see them, but they not see me. Red-coat want to get me I guess, so I run away.’ Eembrie say: ‘Don’ you tell Red-coat you see me.’ That is why I not want tell. I mean no harm. Eembrie is my friend. I not want police to get him.”
Stonor scarcely heard the last words. His world was tumbling around his ears. But Etzooah’s and Mary’s sly, scared glances in his face brought him to himself. “Anything more?” he asked harshly.
Etzooah hastened on: “Eembrie moch in a hurry. Not want spell. Say he come away so quick got no grub but duck him shoot. I got not’ing but little rabbit, but I say, come to my camp, got plenty dry meat, dry fish. So we paddle up river till the sun is near gone under. Eembrie not talk much. Eembrie not want come to my camp. Not want my wife, my brot’er, my children see him. My camp little way from river. Eembrie wait beside the river. I go bring him dry meat, dry fish, matches and a hatchet. Eembrie go up river. That is all.”
The story had a convincing ring. So far as it went Stonor could scarcely doubt it, though there was much else that needed to be explained. It pricked the bubble of his brief happiness. How was he going to tell Clare? He had much ado to keep his face under the Indians’ curious glances. They naturally were ascribing their terrors to him. This idea caused him to smile grimly.
“What kind of a gun did Imbrie have?” he asked.
Etzooah replied through Mary that he had not seen Imbrie’s gun, that it was probably covered by his blankets.
Stonor seemed to be pondering deeply on what he had heard. As a matter of fact, conscious only of the hurt he had received, he was incapable of consecutive thought. The damnable question reiterated itself. “How am I going to tell Clare?” Even now she was waiting with her eyes upon him for some word. He dared not look at her.
He was roused by hearing Etzooah and Mary talking together in scared voices.
“What does Etzooah say?” he demanded.
Mary faltered: “He say Eembrie got ver’ strong medicine. Him not stay dead.”
“That is nonsense. You saw the body. Could a man without a face come to life?”
She asked Etzooah timidly if Imbrie’s face was all right.
“Well, what does he say?” Stonor demanded with a scornful smile.
“He say Eembrie’s face smooth lak a baby’s,” Mary replied with downcast eyes.
“If Etzooah’s story is true it was another man’s body that we buried,” said Stonor dejectedly.
He saw by the dogged expression on both red faces that they would not have this. They insisted on the supernatural explanation. In a way they loved the mystery that scared them half out of their wits.
“What man’s body was that?” asked Etzooah, challengingly.
And Stonor could not answer. Etzooah insisted that no other man had gone down the river, certainly no white man. Stonor knew from the condition of the portage trail that no one had come up from below that season. There remained the possibility that Imbrie had brought in a companion with him, but everything in his shack had been designed for a single occupant; moreover the diary gave the lie to this supposition. Etzooah said that he had been to Imbrie’s shack the previous fall, and there was no other man there then. There were moments when the bewildered policeman was almost forced to fall back on the supernatural explanation.
It would never do for him, though, to betray bewilderment; not only the two Indians, but Clare, looked to him for guidance. He must not think of the wreck of his own hopes, but only of what must be done next. He rose stiffly, and gave Mary the word to pack up. At any rate his duty was clear. The fleeing Imbrie held the key to the mystery, and he must be captured—Imbrie, Clare’s husband, and now a possible murderer!
“Martin, tell me what’s the matter,” Clare said again, as he held the dug-out for her to get in.
“I’ll tell you as soon as I get rid of this Indian,” he said, with as easy an air as he could muster.
He ordered Etzooah to take him to his camp, as hewished to search it, and to question his family. The Indian stolidly prepared to obey.
It was at no great distance up-stream. It consisted of three tepees hidden from the river, a Kakisa custom dating from the days when they had warlike enemies. The tepees were occupied by Etzooah’s immediate family, and the households respectively of his brother and his brother-in-law.
The search and the examination revealed but one significant fact, and that corroborated Etzooah’s story. Two days before he had undoubtedly come into camp and had taken meat and fish from their slender store. Exerting the prerogative of the head of the family, he had declined to tell them what he wanted it for, and the women recited the fact to Stonor as a grievance. It was a vastly relieved Etzooah that Stonor left among his relatives. The fear of being carried off among the white men remained with him until he saw the policeman out of sight. Stonor had warned him to say nothing of what had happened down-river.
Stonor rejoined Clare and Mary, and they continued up-stream. Stonor had now to tell Clare what he had learned. She was waiting for it. In her anxious face there was only solicitude for him, no suspicion that the affair concerned herself. He had wished to wait until night, but he saw that he could not travel all day in silence with her. No use beating about the bush either; she was an intelligent being and worthy of hearing the truth.
“Clare,” he began, avoiding her eyes, “you know I told you how I found your husband’s body in the river, but I did not tell you—I merely wished to spare you something horrible—that it was much mutilated by being thrown against the rocks, especially the face.”
She paled. “How did you know then—how did we know that it was he?” she asked, with a catch in her breath.
“You appeared to recognize it. You cried out his name before you fainted. I thought there must be certain marks known to you.”
“Well?”
“It appears we were mistaken. It must have been the body of another man. According to the story the Indian has just told, Imbrie went up the river two days ago. The story is undoubtedly true. There were details he could not have invented.”
There was a silence. When he dared look at her, he saw with relief that she was not so greatly affected as he had feared. She was still thinking of him, Stonor.
“Martin,” she murmured, deprecatingly, “there’s no use pretending. I don’t seem to feel it much except through you. You are so distressed. For myself it all seems—so unreal.”
He nodded. “That’s natural.”
She continued to study his face. “Martin, there’s worse behind?” she said suddenly.
He looked away.
“You suspect that this man … my husband … whom I do not know … that other man … murder, perhaps?”
He nodded.
She covered her face with her hands. But only for a moment. When they came down she could still smile at him.
“Martin, do not look so, or I shall hate myself for having brought all this on you.”
“That’s silly,” he said gruffly.
She did not misunderstand the gruffness. “Do not torment yourself so. It’s a horrible situation, unspeakably horrible. But it’s none of our making. We can face it. I can, if I am sure you will always—be my friend—even though we are parted.”
He raised his head. After all she was the comforter.“You make me ashamed,” he said. “Of course we can face it!”
“Perhaps I can help you. I must try to remember now. We must work at it like a problem that does not concern us especially.”
“Have you the diary?” he asked suddenly. “That’s essential now.”
“Did I have it?”
“In the side pocket of your coat.”
“It’s not there now. It’s not among my things. I haven’t seen it since—I came to myself.”
He concealed his disappointment. “Oh, well, if it was left in the shack it will be safe there. I’m sure no Indian would go within fifty miles of the spot now.”
“Have you any idea who the dead man could have been?”
“Not the slightest. It’s a black mystery.”
Stonor went ashore at Ahcunazie’s village, searched every tepee, and questioned the inhabitants down to the very children. The result was nil. The Indians one and all denied that Imbrie had come back up the river. Stonor was convinced that they were lying. He said nothing of what had happened down at the falls, though the young Kakisa, Ahteeah, displayed no little curiosity on his own account.
They went on, making the best time they could against the current. Clare wielded a third paddle now. The river was no less beautiful; the brown flood moved with the same grace between the dark pines; but they had changed. They scarcely noticed it. When they talked it was to discuss the problem that faced them in businesslike voices. Like the Kakisas they searched the shores now, but they were looking for two-legged game. What other Indians they met on the river likewise denied having seen Imbrie.
Stonor had in mind the fact that the devoted Kakisas could hide Imbrie in any one of a thousand places along the shores. It was impossible for him to make a thorough search single-handed, nor did he feel justified in remaining on the river with Clare. His plan was to return to Fort Enterprise as quickly as possible, making the best search he could by the way, and, after obtaining assistance, to return. In the end, unless he got out, the river would be like a trap for Imbrie. Itwas quite likely that he understood this, and was even now struggling to get away as far as possible.
On the morning of the tenth day after leaving Imbrie’s shack they arrived at the Horse Track, and Ahchoogah’s village. Their coming was hailed with the same noisy excitement, in which there was no trace of a welcome. Stonor instantly sought out the head man, and abruptly demanded to know when Imbrie had returned, and where he had gone. Ahchoogah, with the most perfect air of surprise, denied all knowledge of the White Medicine Man, and in his turn sought to question Stonor as to what had happened. It was possible, of course, that Ahchoogah’s innocence was real, but he had the air of an accomplished liar. He could not quite conceal the satisfaction he took in his own fine acting.
Stonor posted Clare at the door of the shack, whence she could overlook the entire village, with instructions to raise an alarm if she saw anybody trying to escape. Meanwhile, with Mary, he made his usual search among the tepees, questioning all the people. Nothing resulted from this, but on his rounds he was greatly elated to discover among the canoes lying in the little river the one with the peculiar notches cut in the bow-thwart. So he was still on his man’s track! He said nothing to any one of his find.
He set himself to puzzle out in which direction Imbrie would likely next have turned. Certainly not to Fort Enterprise; that would be sticking his head in the lion’s mouth. It was possible Ahchoogah might have concealed him in the surrounding bush, but Stonor doubted that, for they knew that the policeman must soon be back, and their instinct would be to get the man safely out of his way. There remained the third Kakisa village at Swan Lake, seventy miles up the river, but in that case, why should he not have gone on in the canoe? However, Stonor learned from Mary that itwas customary for the Kakisas to ride to Swan Lake. While it was three days’ paddle up-stream it could be ridden in a day. In fact, everything pointed to Swan Lake. If Imbrie was trying to get out of the country altogether the upper Swan provided the only route in this direction. Stonor decided to take the time to pay a little surprise visit to the village there.
Stonor announced at large that he was returning to Fort Enterprise that same day. Ahchoogah’s anxiety to speed his departure further assured him that he was on the right track. Collecting their horses and packing up, they were ready for the trail about five that afternoon. The Indians were more cordial in bidding them farewell than they had been in welcoming them. There was a suspicious note of “good riddance” in it.
After an hour’s riding they came to the first good grass, a charming little “prairie” beside the stream that Clare had christened Meander. Stonor dismounted, and the two women, reining up, looked at him in surprise, for they had eaten just before leaving the Indian village, and the horses were quite fresh, of course.
“Would you and Mary be afraid to stay here all night without me?” he asked Clare.
“Not if it is necessary,” she answered promptly. “That is, if you are not going into danger,” she added.
He laughed. “Danger! Not the slightest! I think I know where Imbrie is. I’m going after him.”
Clare’s eyes widened. “I thought you had given him up for the present.”
He shook his head. “I couldn’t tell you back there, but I found his canoe among the others.”
“Where are you going?”
“To the Kakisa village at Swan Lake.”
He saw Mary’s expression change slightly, and took encouragement therefrom. Mary, he knew, divided between her loyalty to Clare and her allegiance to her ownpeople, was in a difficult position. Stonor was very sure, though, that he could depend on her to stand by Clare.
“Haven’t you come far out of your way?” Clare asked.
“Not so far as you might think. We’ve been travelling south the last few miles. By crossing the Meander here and heading east through the bush I’ll hit the Swan River in four miles or so. I’ll be out of the bush long before dark. I’ve heard there’s a short-cut trail somewhere, if I only knew where to find it.”
He said this purposely within Mary’s hearing. She spoke up: “Other side this little prairie where the ford is. There the trail begins.”
Stonor was not a little touched by this. “Good for you, Mary!” he said simply. “I shan’t forget it. You’ve saved me a struggle through the bush.”
Mary only looked inscrutable. One had to take her feelings for granted.
“When will you be back?” Clare asked.
“By land it’s about ninety miles’ round trip. As I must ride the same horse the whole way, say three or four to-morrow afternoon. I won’t take Miles Aroon, he’s too valuable to risk. I’ll ride the bay. If anything should delay me Tole Grampierre is due to arrive from the post day after to-morrow.”
They made camp beside the ford that Mary pointed out. Clare waved Stonor out of sight with a smile. His mind was at ease about her, for he knew of no dangers that could threaten her there, if her fears created none.
The side trail was little-used and rough, and he was forced to proceed at a slow walk: the roughest trail, however, is infinitely better than the untrodden bush. This part of the country had been burned over years before, and the timber was poplar and fairly open. Long before dark he came into the main trail betweenthe two Indian villages. This was well-travelled and hard, and he needed to take no further thought about picking his way; the horse attended to that. For the most part the going was so good he had to hold his beast in, to keep him from tiring too quickly. He saw the river only at intervals on his right hand in its wide sweeps back and forth through its shallow valley.
He spelled for his supper, and darkness came on. Stonor loved travelling at night, and the unknown trail added a zest to this ride. The night world was as quiet as a room. Where one can see less one feels more. The scents of night hung heavy on the still air; the pungency of poplar, the mellowness of balsam, the bland smell of river-water that makes the skin tingle with desire to bathe, the delicate acidity of grass that caused his horse to whicker. The trail alternated pretty regularly between wooded ridges, where the stones caused him to slacken his pace, and long traverses of the turfy river-bottoms, where he could give his horse his head. Twice during the night he picketed his horse in the grass, and took a short nap himself. At dawn, from the last ridge, he saw the pale expanse of Swan Lake stretching to the horizon, and at sun-up he rode among the tepees of the Kakisa village.
It was built on the edge of the firm ground bordering the lake, though the lake itself was still half a mile distant across a wet meadow. Swan Lake was not a true lake, but merely a widening of the river where it filled a depression among its low hills. With its flat, reedy shores it had more the characteristics of a prairie slough. As in the last village, the tepees were raised in a double row alongside a small stream which made its way across the meadow to the lake. In the middle of their village the stream rippled over shallows, and here they had placed stepping-stones for their convenience in crossing. Below it was sluggish and deep, and here they kept their canoes. These Kakisas used both dug-outs, for the lake, and bark-canoes for the river. The main body of the lake stretched to the west and south: off to Stonor’s right it gradually narrowed down to the ordinary dimensions of the river.