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 to answer 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 to talk 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 was disposed 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. Soon they 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 kill me.’ 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.”