On the afternoon of the fourth day they suddenly issued out of big timber to find themselves at the edge of a plateau overlooking a shallow green valley, bare of trees in this place, and bisected by a smoothly-flowing brown river bordered with willows. The flat contained an Indian village.

“Here we are!” said Stonor, reining up.

“The unexplored river!” cried Clare. “How exciting! But how pretty and peaceful it looks, just like an ordinary river. I suppose it doesn’t realize it’s unexplored.”

On the other side there was a bold point with a picturesque clump of pines shading a number of the odd little gabled structures with which the Indians cover the graves of their dead. On the nearer side from off to left appeared a smaller stream which wound across the meadow and emptied into the Swan. At intervals during the day their trail had bordered this little river, which Clare had christened the Meander.

The tepees of the Indian village were strung along its banks, and the stream itself was filled with canoes. On a grassy mound to the right stood a little log shack which had a curiously impertinent look there in the midst of Nature untouched. On the other hand the tepees sprang from the ground as naturally as trees.

Their coming naturally had the effect of a thunderclap on the village. They had scarcely shown themselves from among the trees when their presence was discovered. A chorus of sharp cries was raised, and there was much aimless running about like ants when the hill is disturbed. The cries did not suggest a welcome, but excitement purely. Men, women, and children gathered in a dense little crowd beside the trail where they must pass. None wished to put themselves forward. Those who lived on the other side of the little stream paddled frantically across to be in time for a close view.

As they approached, absolute silence fell on the Indians, the silence of breathless excitement. The red-coat they had heard of, and in a general way they knew what he signified; but a white woman to them was as fabulous a creature as a mermaid or a hamadryad. Their eyes were saved for Clare. They fixed on her as hard, bright, and unwinking as jet buttons. They conveyed nothing but an animal curiosity. Clare nodded and smiled to them in her own way, but no muscle of any face relaxed.

“Their manners will bear improving,” muttered Stonor.

“Oh, give them a chance,” said Clare. “We’ve dropped on them out of a clear sky.”

Some of the tepees were still made of tanned skins decorated with rude pictures; they saw bows and arrows and bark-canoes, things which have almost passed from America. The dress of the inhabitants was less picturesque; some of the older men still wore their picturesque blanket capotes, but the younger were clad in machine-made shirts and pants from the store, and the women in cotton dresses. They were a pure race, and as such presented for the most part fine, characteristic faces; but in body they were undersized and weedy, showing that their stock was running out.

Stonor led the way across the flat and up a grassy rise to the little shack that has been mentioned. It had been built for the Company clerk who had formerly traded with the Kakisas, and Stonor designed it to accommodate Clare for the night. They dismounted at the door. The Indians followed them to within a distance of ten paces, where they squatted on their heels or stood still, staring immovably. Stonor resented their curiosity. Good manners are much the same the world over, and a self-respecting people would not have acted so, he told himself. None offered to stir hand or foot to assist them to unpack.

Stonor somewhat haughtily desired the head man to show himself. When one stepped forward, he received him sitting in magisterial state on a box at the door. Personally the most modest of men, he felt for the moment that Authority had to be upheld in him. So the Indian was required to stand.

His name was Ahchoogah (as near as a white man could get it) and he was about forty years old. Though small and slight like all the Kakisas, he had a comely face that somehow suggested race. He was better dressed than the majority, in expensive “moleskin” trousers from the store, a clean blue gingham shirt, a gaudy red sash, and an antique gold-embroidered waistcoat that had originated Heaven knows where. On his feet were fine white moccasins lavishly embroidered in coloured silks.

“How,” he said, the one universal English word. He added a more elaborate greeting in his own tongue.

Mary translated. “Ahchoogah say he glad to see the red-coat, like he glad to see the river run again after the winter. Where the red-coats come there is peace and good feeling among all. No man does bad to another man. Ahchoogah hope the red-coat come often to Swan River.”

Stonor watched the man’s face while he was speaking, and apprehended hostility behind the smooth words. He was at a loss to account for it, for the police are accustomed to being well received. “There’s been some bad influence at work here,” he thought.

He said grimly to Mary: “Tell him that I hear his good words, but I do not see from the faces of his people that we are welcome here.”

This was repeated to Ahchoogah, who turned and objurgated his people with every appearance of anger.

“What’s he saying to them?” Stonor quietly asked Mary.

“Call bad names,” said Mary. “Swear Kakisa swears. Tell them go back to the tepees and not look like they never saw nothing before.”

And sure enough the surrounding circle broke up and slunk away.

Ahchoogah turned a bland face back to the policeman, and through Mary politely enquired what had brought him to Swan River.

“I will tell you,” said Stonor. “I come bearing a message from the mighty White Father across the great water to his Kakisa children. The White Father sends a greeting and desires to know if it is the wish of the Kakisas to take treaty like the Crees, the Beavers, and other peoples to the East. If it is so, I will send word, and my officers and the doctor will come next summer with the papers to be signed.”

Ahchoogah replied in diplomatic language that so far as his particular Kakisas were concerned they thought themselves better off as they were. They had plenty to eat most years, and they didn’t want to give up the right to come and go as they chose. No bad white men coveted their lands as yet, and they needed no protection from them. However, he would send messengers to his brothers up and down the river, and all would be guided by the wishes of the greatest number.

At the beginning of this talk Clare had gone inside to escape the piercing stares. While he talked, Ahchoogah was continually trying to peer around Stonor to get a glimpse of her. When the diplomatic formalities were over, he said (according to Mary):

“I not know you got white wife. Nobody tell me that. She is very pretty.”

“Tell him she is not my wife,” said Stonor, with a portentous scowl to hide his blushes. “Tell him Oh, the devil! he wouldn’t understand. Tell him her name is Miss Clare Starling.”

“What she come for?” Ahchoogah coolly asked.

“Tell him she travels to please herself,” said Stonor, letting him make what he would of that.

“Ahchoogah say he want shake her by the hand.”

Stonor was in a quandary. The thought of the grimy hand touching Clare’s was detestable yet, if the request had been made in innocence it seemed churlish to object. Clare, who overheard, settled the question for him, by coming out and offering her hand to the Indian with a smile.

To Mary she said: “Tell him to tell the women of his people that the white woman wishes to be their sister.”

Ahchoogah stared at her with a queer mixture of feelings. He was much taken aback by her outspoken, unafraid air. He had expected to despise her, as he had been taught to despise all women, but somehow she struck respect into his soul. He resented it: he had taken pleasure in the prospect of despising something white.

Clare went back into the shack. Ahchoogah, with a shrug, dismissed her from his mind. He spoke again with his courteous air; meanwhile (or at any rate so Stonor thought) his black eyes glittered with hostility.

Mary translated: “Ahchoogah say all very glad you come. He say to-morrow night he going to give big tea-dance. He send for the Swan Lake people to come. A man will ride all night to bring them in time. He say it will be a big time.”

“Say we thank him for the big time just as if we had had it,” said Stonor, not to be outdone in politeness. “But we must go on down the river to-morrow morning.”

When this was translated to Ahchoogah, he lost his self-possession for a moment, and scowled blackly at Stonor. Quickly recovering himself, he began suavely to protest.

“Ahchoogah say the messenger of the Great White Father mustn’t go up and down the river to the Kakisas and ask like a poor man for them to take treaty. Let him stay here, and let the poor Kakisas come to him and make respect.”

“My instructions are to visit the people where they live,” said Stonor curtly. “I shall want the dug-out that the Company man left here last Spring.”

Ahchoogah scowled again. Mary translated: “Ahchoogah say, why you want heavy dug-out when he got plenty nice light bark-canoes.”

“I can’t use bark-canoes in the rapids.”

A startled look shot out of the Indian’s eyes. Mary translated: “What for you want go down rapids? No Kakisas live below the rapids.”

“I’m going to visit the white man at the Great Falls.”

When Ahchoogah got this he bent the look of a pure savage on Stonor, walled and inscrutable. He sullenly muttered something that Mary repeated as: “No can go.”

“Why not?”

“Nobody ever go down there.”

“Well, somebody’s got to be the first to go.”

“Rapids down there no boat can pass.”

“The white man came up to the Indians when they were sick last fall. If he can come up I can go down.”

“He got plenty strong medicine.”

Stonor laughed. “Well, I venture to say that my medicine is as strong as his in the rapids.”

Ahchoogah raised a whole cloud of objections. “Plenty white-face bear down there. Big as a horse. Kill man while he sleeps. Wolf down there. Run in packs as many as all the Kakisas. Him starving this year.”

“Women’s talk!” said Stonor contemptuously.

“You get carry over those falls. Behind those falls is a great pile of white bones. It is the bones of all the men and beasts that were carried over in the past. Those falls have no voice to warn you above. The water slip over so smooth and soft you not know there is any falls till you go over.”

“Tell Ahchoogah he cannot scare white men with such tales. Tell him to bring me the dug-out to the river-shore below here.”

Ahchoogah muttered sulkily. Mary translated: “Ahchoogah say got no dug-out. Man take it up to Swan Lake.”

“Very well, then; I’ll take two bark-canoes and carry around the rapids.”

He still objected. “If you take our canoes, how we going to hunt and fish for our families?”

“You offered me the canoes!” cried Stonor wrathfully.

“I forget then that every man got only one canoe.”

Stonor stood up in his majesty; Ahchoogah was like a pigmy before him. “Tell him to go!” cried the policeman. “His mouth is full of lies and bad talk. Tell him to have the dug-out or the two canoes here by to-morrow morning or I’ll come and take them!”

The Indian now changed his tone, and endeavoured to soften the policeman’s anger, but Stonor turned on his heel and entered the shack. Ahchoogah went away down-hill with a crestfallen air.

“What do you make of it all?” Clare asked anxiously.

Stonor spoke lightly. “Well, it’s clear they don’t want us to go down the river, but what their reasons are I couldn’t pretend to say. They may have some sort of idea that for us to explode the mystery of the river and the white medicine man whom they regard as their own would be to lower their prestige as a tribe. It’s hard to say. It’s almost impossible to get at their real reasons, and when you do, they generally seem childish to us. I don’t think it’s anything we need bother our heads about.”

“I was watching him,” said Clare. “He didn’t seem to me like a bad man so much as like a child who’s got some wrong idea in his head.”

“That’s my idea too,” said Stonor. “One feels somehow that there’s been a bad influence at work lately. But what influence could reach away out here? It beats me! Their White Medicine Man ought to have done them good.”

“He couldn’t do them otherwise than good so far as they would listen to him,” she said quickly.

They hastily steered away from this uncomfortable subject.

“Maybe Mary can help us,” said Stonor. “Mary, go among your people and talk to them. Give them good talk. Let them understand that we have no object but to be their friends. If there is a good reason why we shouldn’t go down the river let them speak it plainly. But this talk of danger and magic simply makes white men laugh.”

Mary dutifully took her way down to the tepees. She returned in time to get supper but threw no further light on the mystery.

“What about it, Mary?” asked Stonor.

“Don’t go down the river,” she said earnestly. “Plenty bad trip, I think. I ’fraid for her. She can’t paddle a canoe in the rapids nor track up-stream. What if we capsize and lose our grub? Don’t go!”

“Didn’t the Kakisas give you any better reasons than that?”

Mary was doggedly silent.

“Ah, have they won you away from us too?”

This touched the red woman. Her face worked painfully. She did her best to explain. “Kakisas my people,” she said. “Maybe you think they foolish people. All right. Maybe they are not a wise and strong people like the old days. But they my people just the same. I can’t tell white men their things.”

“She’s right,” put in Clare quickly. “Don’t ask her any more.”

“Well, what do you think?” he asked. “Do you not wish to go any further?”

“Yes! Yes!” she cried. “I must go on!”

“Very good,” he said grimly. “We’ll start to-morrow.”

“I not go,” said Mary stolidly. “My people mad at me if I go.”

Here was a difficulty! Stonor and Clare looked at each other blankly.

“What the devil !” began the policeman.

“Hush! leave her to me,” said Clare, urging him out of the shack.

By and by she rejoined him outside. “She’ll come,” she said briefly.

“What magic did you use?”

“No magic. Just woman talk.”