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 like to 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 eyes to stare.
“But but this is nonsense!” he cried.

Clare could no longer contain her curiosity. “What is the matter, Martin?” she asked.

“Some red-skin mumbo-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 he wished 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.”