Stonor, raging in his helplessness, was nevertheless obliged to stop. He found Mary conscious, biting her lips until they bled to keep from groaning. Her face was ashy. Yet she insisted on sitting up to prove to him that she was not badly hurt.

“Go on! Go on!” she was muttering as he reached her. “I all right. Don’ stop! Go after him!”

“Where are you hurt?” Stonor demanded.

“Just my leg. No bone broke. It is not’ing. Go after him!”

“I can’t leave you like this!”

“Give me your little medicine-bag. I dress it all right myself. Go quick!”

“Be quiet! Let me think!” cried the distracted trooper. “I can’t leave you here helpless. I can’t tell when I’ll be back. You must have food, a blanket, gun and ammunition.”

As he spoke, he set about getting out what she needed; first of all the little medicine chest that he never travelled without. He laid aside the breed woman’s gun and shells for her, and one of his two blankets. The delay was maddening. With every second he pictured Imbrie drawing further and further away, Clare without a protector now. Though the dug-out was heavier than the bark-canoe, he would be handicapped by the devilish breed woman, who would be sure to hinder him by every means within her power. Yet he still closed his ears to Mary’s urgings to be off. He built up Imbrie’s fire and put on water to heat for her. He carried her near the fire, where she could help herself.

As he worked a new plan came to him, a way out of part of his difficulties. “Mary,” he said suddenly, “I’m going to leave the canoe with you, too, and this woman to take care of for me. I’ll take to the bench. I can cut him off above.”

“No! No!” she groaned. “Leave the woman and take the canoe. You can come back when you get her.”

But his mind was made up. A new hope lightened his despair. “No! He might get me. Then you’d starve to death. I don’t mean to let him get me, but I can’t take the chance. I’ll travel faster light. Even if I don’t get him to-day, he shan’t shake me off. The river is bound to get more difficult as he goes up. And it’s prairie-land above.”

He hastened to get together his pack: gun and ammunition, knife, hatchet, matches, and a little cooking-pot; a small store of flour, salt, baking-powder and smoked meat.

“Mary, as soon as you feel able to travel, you are to start down-stream in the canoe with the woman. It is up to you to take her out, and deliver her to the authorities. The charge is attempted murder. You are to tell John Gaviller everything that has happened, and let him act accordingly.”

All this was said in low tones to keep it from reaching the breed woman’s ears. Stonor now dropped to his knees and put his lips to Mary’s ear. “Tell Gaviller we know for sure that Imbrie is trying to escape over the mountains by way of the head-waters of the Swan, and to make sure that he is intercepted there if he slips through our fingers below.”

“I onerstan’,” said Mary.

He gave her a pull from his flask, and she was able to sit up and attend to the dressing of her own wound.

In ten minutes Stonor was ready to start. He put on a cheery air for Mary’s benefit. Truly the Indian woman had a task before her that might have appalled the stoutest-hearted man.

“Good-bye, Mary!” he said, gripping her hand. “You’re a good pardner. I shan’t forget it. Keep up a good heart. Remember you’re a policeman now. Going down you’re only about three days’ journey from Myengeen’s village. And you’ll have company though I can’t recommend it much. Keep the gun in your own hands.”

Mary shrugged, with her customary stoicism. “I make her work for me.” She added simply: “Good-bye, Stonor. Bring her back safe.”

“I won’t come without her,” he said, and with a wave of his hand struck into the bush.

He laid a course at right angles to the river. The floor of this part of the valley was covered with a forest which had never known axe nor fire, and the going was difficult and slow over the down timber, some freshly-fallen, making well-nigh impassable barricades erected on the stumps of its broken branches, some which crumbled to powder at a touch. There was no undergrowth except a few lean shrubs that stretched great, pale leaves to catch the attenuated rays that filtered down. It was as cool and still as a room with a lofty ceiling. High overhead the leaves sparkled in the sun.

It was about half a mile to the foot of the bench, that is to say, to the side of the gigantic trough that carried the river through the prairie country, though it required an amount of exertion that would have carried one over ten times that distance of road. As soon as Stonor began to climb he left the forest behind him; first it diminished into scattered trees and scrub and then ceased altogether in clean, short grass, already curing under the summer sun. Presently Stonor was able to look clear over the tops of the trees; it was like rising from a mine.

The slope was not regular, but pushed up everywhere in fantastic knolls and terraces. He directed his course as he climbed for a bold projecting point from which he hoped to obtain a prospect up the valley. Reaching it at last, he gave himself a breathing-space. He saw, as he hoped, that the valley, which here ran due north and south, returned to its normal course from the westward a few miles above. Thus, by making a bee-line across the prairie, he could cut off a great bend in the watercourse, not to speak of the lesser windings of the river in its valley. He prayed that Imbrie might have many a rapid to buck that day.

On top of the bench the prairie rolled to the horizon with nothing to break the expanse of grass but patches of scrub. Stonor’s heart, burdened as it was, lifted up at the sight. “After all, there’s nothing like the old bald-headed to satisfy a man’s soul,” he thought. “If I only had Miles Aroon under me now!” Taking his bearings, he set off through the grass at the rolling walk he had learned from the Indians.

Of that long day there is little to report. The endless slopes of grass presented no distinguishing features; he was alone with the west wind’s noble clouds. He came up on the wind on a brown bear with cream-coloured snout staying his stomach with the bark of poplar shoots until the berries should be ripe, and sent him doubling himself up with a shout. Time was too precious to allow of more than one spell. This he took beside a stream of clear water at the bottom of a vast coulee that lay athwart his path. While his biscuits were baking he bagged a couple of prairie-chickens. One he ate, and one he carried along with him, “for Clare’s supper.”

At about four o’clock in the afternoon, that is to say, the time of the second spell, he struck the edge of the bench again, and once more the valley was spread below him. He searched it eagerly. The forest covered it like a dark mat, and the surface of the river was only visible in spots here and there. He found what he was looking for, and his heart raised a little song; a thin thread of smoke rising above the trees alongside the river, and at least a couple of miles in his rear.

“I’ll get him now!” he told himself.

He debated whether to hasten directly to the river, or continue further over the prairie. He decided that the margin of safety was not yet quite wide enough, and took another line along the bench.

Three hours later he came out on the river’s edge with a heart beating high with hope. The placid empty reach that opened to his view told him nothing, of course, but he was pretty sure that Imbrie was safely below him. His principal fear was that he had come too far; that Imbrie might not make it before dark. The prospect of leaving Clare unprotected in his hands through the night was one to make Stonor shudder. He decided that if Imbrie did not come up by dark, he would make his way down alongshore until he came on their camp.

Meanwhile he sought down-stream for a better point of vantage. He came to a rapid. The absence of tracks on either side proved positively that Imbrie had not got so far as this. Stonor decided to wait here. The man would have to get out to track his dug-out up the swift water, and Stonor would have him where he wanted him. Or if it was late when he got here, he would no doubt camp.

Stonor saw that the natural tracking-path was across the stream; on the other side also was the best camping-spot, a shelving ledge of rock with a low earth bank above. In order to be ready for them, therefore, he stripped and swam across below the rapid, towing his clothes and his pack on an improvised raft, that he broke up immediately on landing. Dressing, he took up his station behind a clump of berry-bushes that skirted the bank. Here he lay at full length with his gun in his hands. He made a little gap in the bushes through which he could command the river for a furlong or so.

He lay there with his eyes fixed on the point around which the dug-out must appear. The sun was sinking low; they must soon come or they would not come. On this day he was sure Imbrie would work to the limit. He smiled grimly to think how the man would be paddling with his head over his shoulder, never guessing how danger lay ahead. Oh, but it was hard to wait, though! His muscles twitched, the blood hammered in his temples.

By and by, from too intense a concentration on a single point, the whole scene became slightly unreal. Stonor found himself thinking: “This is all a dream. Presently I will wake up.”

In the end, when the dug-out did come snaking around the bend, he rubbed his eyes to make sure they did not deceive him. Though he had been waiting for it all that time, it had the effect of a stunning surprise. His heart set up a tremendous beating, and his breath failed him a little. Then suddenly, as they came closer, a great calm descended on him. He realized that this was the moment he had planned for, and that his calculations were now proved correct. For the last time he threw over the mechanism of his gun and reloaded it.

Imbrie was paddling in the stern, of course. The man looked pretty nearly spent, and there was little of his cynical impudence to be seen now. Clare lay on her stomach on the baggage amidships, staring ahead with her chin propped in her palms, a characteristic boy’s attitude that touched Stonor’s heart. Her face was as white as paper, and bore a look of desperate composure. Stonor had never seen that look; seeing it now he shuddered, thinking, what if he had not found them before nightfall!

Imbrie grounded the canoe on the shelf of rock immediately below Stonor, and no more than five paces from the muzzle of his gun. Clare climbed out over the baggage without waiting to be spoken to, and walked away up-stream a few steps, keeping her back turned to the man. Her head was sunk between her shoulders; she stared out over the rapids, seeing nothing. At the sight of the little figure’s piteous dejection rage surged up in Stonor; he saw red.

Imbrie got out and went to pick his course up the rapids. He cast a sidelong look at Clare’s back as he passed her. The man was too weary to have much devilry in him at the moment. But in his dark eyes there was a promise of devilry.

Having laid out his course he returned to the bow of the dug-out for his tracking-line. This was the moment Stonor had been waiting for. He rose up and stepped forward through the low bushes. Clare saw him first. A little gasping cry broke from her. Imbrie spun round, and found himself looking into the barrel of the policeman’s Enfield. No sound escaped from Imbrie. His lips turned back over his teeth like an animal’s.

Stonor said, in a voice of deceitful softness: “Take your knife and cut off a length of that line, say about ten feet.”

No one could have guessed from his look nor his tone that an insane rage possessed him; that he was fighting the impulse to reverse his gun and club the man’s brains out there on the rock.

Imbrie did not instantly move to obey.

“Look sharp!” rasped Stonor. “It wouldn’t come hard for me to put a bullet through you!”

Imbrie thought better of it, and cut off the rope as ordered.

“Now throw the knife on the ground.”

Imbrie obeyed, and stepped towards Stonor, holding the rope out. There was an evil glint in his eye.

Stonor stepped back. “No, you don’t! Keep within shooting distance, or this gun will go off!”

Imbrie stopped.

“Miss Starling,” said Stonor. “Come and tie this man’s wrists together behind his back, while I keep him covered.”

She approached, still staring half witlessly as if she saw an apparition. She was shaking like an aspen-leaf.

“Pull yourself together!” commanded Stonor with stern kindness. “I am not a ghost. I am depending on you!”

Her back straightened. She took the rope from Imbrie’s hands, and passed a turn around his extended wrists. Stonor kept his gun at the man’s head.

“At this range it would make a clean hole,” he said, grinning.

To Clare he said: “Tie it as tight as you can. I’ll finish the job.”

When she had done her best, he handed his gun over and doubled the knots. Forcing Imbrie to a sitting position, he likewise tied his ankles.

“That will hold him, I think,” he said, rising.

The words seemed to break the spell that held Clare. She sank down on the stones and burst into tears, shaking from head to foot with uncontrollable soft sobs. The sight unnerved Stonor.

“Oh, don’t!” he cried like a man daft, clenching his impotent hands.

Imbrie smiled. Watching Stonor, he said with unnatural perspicacity: “You’d like to pick her up, wouldn’t you?”

Stonor spun on his heel toward the man. “Hold your tongue!” he roared. “By God! another word and I’ll brain you! You damned scoundrel! You scum!”

If Imbrie had wished to provoke the other man to an outburst, he got a little more than enough. He cringed from the other’s blazing eyes, and said no more.

Stonor bent over Clare. “Don’t, don’t grieve so!” he murmured. “Everything is all right now.”

“I know,” she whispered. “It’s just just relief. I’m just silly now. To-day was too much too much to bear!”

“I know,” he said. “Come away with me.”

He helped her to her feet and they walked away along the beach. Imbrie’s eyes as they followed were not pleasant to see.

“Martin, I must touch you to prove that you’re real,” she said appealingly. “Is it wrong?”

“Take my arm,” he said. He drew her close to his side.

“Martin, that man cannot ever have been my husband. It is not possible I could ever have given myself to such a one!”

“I don’t believe he is.”

“Martin, I meant to throw myself in the river to-night if you had not come.”

“Ah, don’t! I can’t bear it! I saw.”

“My flesh crawls at him! To be alone with such a monster so terribly alone I can’t tell you !”

“Don’t distress yourself so!”

“I’m not now. I’m relieving myself. I’ve got to talk, or my head will burst. The thing that keeps things in broke just now. I’ve got to talk. I suppose I’m putting it all off on you now.”

“I guess I can stand it,” he said grimly.

She asked very low: “Do you love me, Martin?”

“You know I do.”

“Yes, I know, but I had to make you say it, because I’ve got to tell you. I love you. I adore you. If loving you in my mind is wicked, I shall have to be a wicked woman. Oh, I’ll keep the law. From what I told you in the beginning, I must have already done some man a wrong. I shall not wrong another. But I had to tell you. You knew already, so it can do no great harm.”

He glanced back at Imbrie. “If the law should insist on keeping up such a horrible thing it would have to be defied,” he said “even if I am a policeman!”

“I tell you he is not the man.”

“I hope you’re right.”

“But if I am not free, I should not let you ruin yourself on my account.”

“Ruin? That’s only a word. A man’s all right as long as he can work.”

“Oh, Martin, it seems as if I brought trouble and unhappiness on all whom I approach!”

“That’s nonsense!” he said quickly. “You’ve made me! However this thing turns out. You’ve brought beauty into my life. You’ve taken me out of myself. You’ve given me an ideal to live up to!”

“Ah, how sweet for you to say it!” she murmured. “It makes me feel real. I am only a poor wandering ghost of a woman, and you’re so solid and convincing!

“There! I’m all right now!” she said, with an abrupt return to the boyish, prosaic air that he found utterly adorable. “I have exploded. I’m hungry. Let’s go back and make supper. It’s your turn to talk. Tell me how you got here in advance of us, you wonderful man! And Mary !” She stopped short and her eyes filled. “How selfish of me to forget her even for a moment!”

“She was not badly wounded,” he said. “We’ll probably overtake her to-morrow.”

“And you? I thought I saw a ghost when you rose up from the bushes.”

“No magic in that,” said Stonor. “I just walked round by the hills.”

“Just walked round by the hills,” she echoed, mocking his offhand manner, and burst out laughing. “That was nothing at all!” Her eyes added something more that she dared not put into words: “You were made for a woman to love to distraction!”

When they returned to the dug-out, Imbrie studied their faces through narrowed lids, trying to read there what had passed between them. Their serenity discomposed him. Hateful taunts trembled on his lips, but he dared not utter them.

As for Clare and Stonor, neither of them sentimental persons, their breasts were eased. Each now felt that he could depend on the other in the best sense until death: meanwhile passion could wait. They made a fire together and cooked their supper with as unconscious an air as if they had just come out from home a mile or two to picnic. They ignored Imbrie, particularly Clare, who, with that wonderful faculty that women possess, simply obliterated him by her unconsciousness of his presence. The prisoner could not understand their air towards each other. He watched them with a puzzled scowl. Clare was like a child over the prairie-chicken. An amiable dispute arose over the division of it, which Stonor won and forced her to eat every mouthful.

She washed the dishes while he cleared a space among the bushes on top of the bank, and pitched her little tent. The camp-bed was still in Imbrie’s outfit, and Stonor set it up with tender hands, thinking of the burden it would bear throughout the night. Also in Imbrie’s outfit he found his own service revolver, which he returned to Clare for her protection.

Afterwards they made a little private fire for themselves a hundred feet or so from Imbrie, and sedately sat themselves down beside it to talk.

Stonor said: “If you feel like it, tell me what happened after I went to hunt my horses that morning.”

“I feel like it,” she said, with a smile. “It is such a comfort to be able to talk again. Mary and I scarcely dared whisper. You had been gone about half an hour that morning when all the Indians rode down out of the woods, and crossed the ford to our side. There were about thirty of them, I should say. I did just what you told me, that is, went on with my packing as if they were not there. For a little while they stood around staring like sulky children. Finally one of them said to me through Mary with a sort of truculent air, like a child experimenting to see how far he can go, that they were going to take Imbrie back. I told Mary to tell him that that was up to him; that he would have to deal with you later, if they did. Meanwhile I noticed they were edging between me and Imbrie, and presently Imbrie stood up, unbound. He took command of the band. It seemed he had known they were coming. I was only anxious to see them all ride off and leave us.

“Soon I saw there was worse coming. At first I knew only by Mary’s scared face. She argued with them. She would not tell me what it was all about. Gradually I understood that Imbrie was telling them I was his wife, and they must take me, too. I almost collapsed. Mary did the best she could for me. I don’t know all that she said. It did no good. The principal Indian asked me if I was Imbrie’s wife, and I could only answer that I did not know, that I had lost my memory. I suppose this seemed like a mere evasion to them. When Mary saw that they were determined, she said they must take her, too. She thought this was what you would want. They refused, but she threatened to identify every man of them to the police, so they had to take her.

“One man’s horse had been killed, and they sent him and three others off to the Horse Track village on foot to get horses to ride home on. That provided horses for Imbrie, Mary, and me. They made them go at top speed all day. I expect it nearly killed the horses. I was like a dead woman; I neither felt weariness nor anything else much. If it had not been for Mary I could not have survived it.

“We arrived at their village near Swan Lake early in the afternoon. Imbrie stopped there only long enough to collect food. We never had anything to eat but tough smoked meat of some kind, dry biscuits, and bitter tea, horrible stuff! It didn’t make much difference, though.

“Imbrie told the Indians what to say when the police came. He couldn’t speak their language very well, so he had to use Mary to translate, and Mary told me. Mary was trying to get on Imbrie’s good side now. She said it wouldn’t do any harm, and might make things easier for us. If we lulled his suspicions we might get a chance to escape later, she said. She wanted me to make up to Imbrie, too, but I couldn’t.

“Imbrie told the Indians to go about their usual work as if nothing had happened, and simply deny everything if they were questioned. Nothing could be proved he said, for he and Mary and I would never be found nor heard of again. He was going to take us back to his country, he said. By that they understood, I think, that we were going to disappear off the earth. They seemed to have the most absolute faith in him. They thought you wouldn’t dare follow until you had secured help from the post, which would take many days.”

“What about the breed woman?” interrupted Stonor.

“She was waiting there at the Swan Lake village. She came with us as a matter of course, and helped paddle the dug-out. Mary paddled, too, but she didn’t work as hard as she made believe. We got in the river before dark, but Imbrie made them paddle until late. I dreaded the first camp, but Imbrie let me alone. Mary said he was afraid of me because he thought I was crazy. After that, you may be sure, I played up to that idea. It worked for a day or two, but I saw from his eyes that he was gradually becoming suspicious.

“At night Imbrie and the breed woman took turns watching. Whenever we got a chance Mary and I talked about you, and what you would do. We knew of course that the man was coming out from Fort Enterprise, and I was sure that you would send him back for aid, and come right after us yourself. So Mary wrote you the note on a piece of bark, and set it adrift in the current. It was wonderful how she deceived them right before their eyes. But they gave us a good deal of freedom. They knew we could do nothing unless we could get weapons, or steal the canoes. She went down the shore a little way to launch her message to you.

“Well, that’s about all I can remember. The days on the river were like a nightmare. All we did was to watch for you, and listen at night. Then came yesterday. By that time Imbrie was beginning to feel secure, and was taking it easier. We were sitting on the shore after the second spell when the breed woman came running in in a panic. We understood from her gestures that she had seen you turning into the next reach of the river below. Mary’s heart and mine jumped for joy. Imbrie hustled us into the dug-out, and paddled like mad until he had put a couple of bends between us and the spot.

“Later, he put the breed woman ashore. She had her gun. We were terrified for you, but could do nothing. Imbrie carried us a long way further before he camped. That was a dreadful night. We had no way of knowing what was happening. Then came this morning. You saw what happened then.”

Stonor asked: “What did you make of that breed woman?”

“Nothing much, Martin. I felt just as I had with Imbrie, that I must have known her at some time. She treated me well enough; that is to say, she made no secret of the fact that she despised me, but was constrained to look after me as something that Imbrie valued.”

“Jealous?”

“No.”

“What is the connection between her and Imbrie?”

“I don’t know. They just seemed to take each other for granted.”

“How did Imbrie address her?”

“I don’t know. They spoke to each other in some Indian tongue. Mary said it sounded a little like the Beaver language, but she could not understand it.”

“Where do you suppose this woman kept herself while Imbrie was living beside the falls?”

Clare shook her head.

“If we knew that it would explain much!”

“Well, that’s all of my story,” said Clare. “Now tell me every little thing you’ve done and thought since you left us.”

“That’s a large order,” said Stonor, smiling.

When he had finished his tale he took her to the door of her tent.

“Where are you going to sleep?” she asked anxiously.

“Down by the fire.”

“Near him?”

“That won’t keep me awake.”

“But if he should work loose and attack you?”

“I’ll take precious good care of that.”

“It’s so far away!” she said plaintively.

“Twenty-five feet!” he said smiling.

“Couldn’t you sleep close outside my tent where I could hear you breathing if I woke?”

He smiled, and gave her his eyes deep and clear. There comes a moment between every two who deeply love when shame naturally drops away, and to assume shame after that is the rankest hypocrisy. “I couldn’t,” he said simply.

She felt no shame either. “Very well,” she said. “You know best.
Good-night, Martin.”

Stonor went back to the fire. He was too much excited to think of sleeping immediately, but it was a happy excitement; he could even afford at the moment not to hate Imbrie. The prisoner watched his every movement through eyes that he tried to make sleepy-looking, but the sparkle of hatred betrayed him.

“You seem well pleased with yourself,” he sneered.

“Why shouldn’t I be?” said Stonor good-naturedly. “Haven’t I made a good haul to-day?”

“How did you do it?”

“I just borrowed a little of your magic for the occasion and flew through the air.”

“Well, you’re not out of the woods yet,” said Imbrie sourly.

“No?”

“And if you do succeed in taking me in, you’ll have some great explaining to do.”

“How’s that?”

“To satisfy your officers why you hounded a man simply because you were after his wife.”

Stonor grinned. “Now that view of the matter never occurred to me!”

“It will to others.”

“Well, we’ll see.”

“What’s become of the two women?” asked Imbrie.

“They’re on their way down-stream.”

“What happened anyway, damn you?”

Stonor laughed and told him.

Later, after a thoughtful silence, Stonor suddenly asked: “Imbrie, how did you treat measles among the Kakisas last year? That would be a good thing for me to know.”

“No doubt. But I shan’t tell you,” was the sullen answer.

“The worst thing we have to deal with up here is pneumonia; how would you deal with a case?”

“What are you asking me such questions for?”

“Well, you’re supposed to be a doctor.”

“I’m not going to share my medical knowledge with every guy who asks. It was too hard to come by.”

“That’s not the usual doctor’s attitude.”

“A hell of a lot I care!”

Stonor took out his note-book, and wrote across one of the pages: “The body was not carried over the falls.” He then poked the fire into a bright blaze, and showed the page to Imbrie.

“What have I written?” he asked, watching the man narrowly.

Imbrie glanced at it indifferently, and away again. There was not the slightest change in his expression. Stonor was convinced he had not understood it.

“I won’t tell you,” muttered Imbrie.

“Just as you like. If I untie your hands, will you write a line from my dictation?”

“No. What foolishness is this?”

“Only that I suspect you can neither read nor write. This is your opportunity to prove that you can.”

“Oh, go to hell!”

“I’m satisfied,” said Stonor, putting away the book.

Travelling down the river next morning was child’s play by comparison with the labour of the ascent. The current carried them with light hearts. That is to say, two of the hearts on board were light. Imbrie, crouched in the bow with his inscrutable gaze, was hatching new schemes of villainy perhaps. Clare sat as far as possible from him, and with her back turned. All day she maintained the fiction that she and Stonor were alone in the dug-out. In the reaction from the terrors of the last few days her speech bubbled like a child’s. She pitched her voice low to keep it from carrying forward. All her thoughts looked to the future.

“Three or four days to the village at Swan Lake, you say. We won’t have to wait there, will we?”

“My horses are waiting.”

“Then four days more to Fort Enterprise. You said there was a white woman there. How I long to see one of my own kind! She’ll be my first in this incarnation. Then we’ll go right out on the steamboat, won’t we?”

“We’ll have to wait a few days for her August trip.”

“You’ll come with me, of course.”

“Yes, I’ll have to take my prisoners out to headquarters at Miwasa landing perhaps all the way to town if it is so ordered.”

“And when we get to town, what shall I do? Adrift on the world!”

“Before that I am sure we will meet with anxious inquiries for you.”

“Yes, I have a comfortable feeling at the back of my head that I have people somewhere. Poor things, what a state they must be in! It will be part of your duty to take me home, won’t it? Surely the authorities wouldn’t let me travel alone.”

“Surely not!” said Stonor assuming more confidence than he felt.

“Isn’t it strange and thrilling to think of a civilized land where trolley cars clang in the streets, and electric lights shine at night; where people, crowds and crowds of people, do exactly the same things at the same hours every day of their lives except Sundays, and never dream of any other kind of life! Think of sauntering down-town in a pretty summer dress and a becoming hat, and chatting with scores of people you know, and looking at things in the stores and buying useless trifles where have I done all that, I wonder? Think of pulling up one’s chair to a snowy tablecloth and, oh, Martin! the taste of good food! Funny, isn’t it, when I have forgotten so much, that I should remember things so well!”

Clare insisted that Stonor had overtired himself the last few days, and made him loaf at the paddle with many a pause to fill and light his pipe. Even so their progress was faster than in the other direction. Shortly after midday she told him that they were nearing the spot where Mary had been shot the day before. They looked eagerly for the place.

To their great disappointment Mary had gone. However, Stonor pointed out that it was a good sign she had been able to travel so soon.

They camped for the night at a spot where Mary had spelled the day before. Stonor observed from the tracks that it was the breed woman who had moved around the fire cooking. Mary apparently had been unable to leave the canoe. It made him anxious. He did not speak of it to Clare. He saw Imbrie examining the tracks also.

This camping-place was a bed of clean, dry sand deposited on the inside of one of the river-bends, and exposed by the falling water. Stonor chose it because it promised a soft bed, and his bones were weary. The bank above was about ten feet high and covered with a dense undergrowth of bushes, which they did not try to penetrate, since a dead tree stranded on the beach provided an ample store of fuel. Clare’s tent was pitched at one end of the little beach, while Imbrie, securely bound, and Stonor slept one on each side of the fire a few paces distant.

In the morning Stonor was the first astir. A delicate grey haze hung over the river, out of which the tops of the willow-bushes rose like islands. He chopped and split a length of the stranded trunk, and made up the fire. Imbrie awoke, and lay watching him with a lazy sneer. Stonor had no warning of the catastrophe. He was stooping over sorting out the contents of Imbrie’s grub-bag, his back to the bushes, when there came a crashing sound that seemed within him yet outside. That was all he knew.