CHAPTER XV
UPS AND DOWNS
Stonor, raging in his helplessness, was nevertheless obliged to stop. Hefound Mary conscious, biting her lips until they bled to keep fromgroaning. Her face was ashy. Yet she insisted on sitting up to prove tohim 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. Goquick!"
"Be quiet! Let me think!" cried the distracted trooper. "I can't leaveyou here helpless. I can't tell when I'll be back. You must have food, ablanket, gun and ammunition."
As he spoke, he set about getting out what she needed; first of all thelittle medicine chest that he never travelled without. He laid aside thebreed woman's gun and shells for her, and one of his two blankets. Thedelay was maddening. With every second he pictured Imbrie drawingfurther and further away, Clare without a protector now. Though thedug-out was heavier than the bark-canoe, he would be handicapped by thedevilish breed woman, who would be sure to hinder him by every meanswithin her power. Yet he still closed his ears to Mary's urgings to beoff. He built up Imbrie's fire and put on water to heat for her. Hecarried her near the fire, where she could help herself.
As he worked a new plan came to him, a way out of part of hisdifficulties. "Mary," he said suddenly, "I'm going to leave the canoewith you, too, and this woman to take care of for me. I'll take to thebench. I can cut him off above."
"No! No!" she groaned. "Leave the woman and take the canoe. You can comeback when you get her."
But his mind was made up. A new hope lightened his despair. "No! Hemight get me. Then you'd starve to death. I don't mean to let him getme, but I can't take the chance. I'll travel faster light. Even if Idon't get him to-day, he shan't shake me off. The river is bound to getmore 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-streamin the canoe with the woman. It is up to you to take her out, anddeliver her to the authorities. The charge is attempted murder. You areto tell John Gaviller everything that has happened, and let him actaccordingly."
All this was said in low tones to keep it from reaching the breedwoman's ears. Stonor now dropped to his knees and put his lips to Mary'sear. "Tell Gaviller we know for sure that Imbrie is trying to escapeover the mountains by way of the head-waters of the Swan, and to makesure that he is intercepted there if he slips through our fingersbelow."
"I onerstan'," said Mary.
He gave her a pull from his flask, and she was able to sit up and attendto the dressing of her own wound.
In ten minutes Stonor was ready to start. He put on a cheery air forMary's benefit. Truly the Indian woman had a task before her that mighthave appalled the stoutest-hearted man.
"Good-bye, Mary!" he said, gripping her hand. "You're a good pardner. Ishan'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'svillage. And you'll have company--though I can't recommend it much. Keepthe 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 struckinto the bush.
He laid a course at right angles to the river. The floor of this part ofthe valley was covered with a forest which had never known axe nor fire,and the going was difficult and slow over the down timber, somefreshly-fallen, making well-nigh impassable barricades erected on thestumps 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 ascool and still as a room with a lofty ceiling. High overhead the leavessparkled in the sun.
It was about half a mile to the foot of the bench, that is to say, tothe side of the gigantic trough that carried the river through theprairie country, though it required an amount of exertion that wouldhave carried one over ten times that distance of road. As soon as Stonorbegan to climb he left the forest behind him; first it diminished intoscattered trees and scrub and then ceased altogether in clean, shortgrass, already curing under the summer sun. Presently Stonor was ableto look clear over the tops of the trees; it was like rising from amine.
The slope was not regular, but pushed up everywhere in fantastic knollsand terraces. He directed his course as he climbed for a bold projectingpoint from which he hoped to obtain a prospect up the valley. Reachingit at last, he gave himself a breathing-space. He saw, as he hoped, thatthe valley, which here ran due north and south, returned to its normalcourse from the westward a few miles above. Thus, by making a bee-lineacross 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. Heprayed that Imbrie might have many a rapid to buck that day.
On top of the bench the prairie rolled to the horizon with nothing tobreak the expanse of grass but patches of scrub. Stonor's heart,burdened as it was, lifted up at the sight. "After all, there's nothinglike the old bald-headed to satisfy a man's soul," he thought. "If Ionly had Miles Aroon under me now!" Taking his bearings, he set offthrough 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 grasspresented no distinguishing features; he was alone with the west wind'snoble clouds. He came up on the wind on a brown bear with cream-colouredsnout staying his stomach with the bark of poplar shoots until theberries 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 tookbeside a stream of clear water at the bottom of a vast coulee that layathwart his path. While his biscuits were baking he bagged a couple ofprairie-chickens. One he ate, and one he carried along with him, "forClare's supper."
At about four o'clock in the afternoon, that is to say, the time of thesecond spell, he struck the edge of the bench again, and once more thevalley was spread below him. He searched it eagerly. The forest coveredit like a dark mat, and the surface of the river was only visible inspots here and there. He found what he was looking for, and his heartraised a little song; a thin thread of smoke rising above the treesalongside 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 furtherover the prairie. He decided that the margin of safety was not yet quitewide enough, and took another line along the bench.
Three hours later he came out on the river's edge with a heart beatinghigh with hope. The placid empty reach that opened to his view told himnothing, of course, but he was pretty sure that Imbrie was safely belowhim. His principal fear was that he had come too far; that Imbrie mightnot make it before dark. The prospect of leaving Clare unprotected inhis hands through the night was one to make Stonor shudder. He decidedthat if Imbrie did not come up by dark, he would make his way downalongshore until he came on their camp.
Meanwhile he sought down-stream for a better point of vantage. He cameto a rapid. The absence of tracks on either side proved positively thatImbrie had not got so far as this. Stonor decided to wait here. The manwould have to get out to track his dug-out up the swift water, andStonor would have him where he wanted him. Or if it was late when he gothere, he would no doubt camp.
Stonor saw that the natural tracking-path was across the stream; on theother side also was the best camping-spot, a shelving ledge of rock witha low earth bank above. In order to be ready for them, therefore, hestripped and swam a
cross below the rapid, towing his clothes and hispack on an improvised raft, that he broke up immediately on landing.Dressing, he took up his station behind a clump of berry-bushes thatskirted 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 theriver for a furlong or so.
He lay there with his eyes fixed on the point around which the dug-outmust appear. The sun was sinking low; they must soon come or they wouldnot come. On this day he was sure Imbrie would work to the limit. Hesmiled grimly to think how the man would be paddling with his head overhis shoulder, never guessing how danger lay ahead. Oh, but it was hardto wait, though! His muscles twitched, the blood hammered in histemples.
By and by, from too intense a concentration on a single point, the wholescene became slightly unreal. Stonor found himself thinking: "This isall a dream. Presently I will wake up."
In the end, when the dug-out did come snaking around the bend, he rubbedhis eyes to make sure they did not deceive him. Though he had beenwaiting 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 alittle. Then suddenly, as they came closer, a great calm descended onhim. He realized that this was the moment he had planned for, and thathis calculations were now proved correct. For the last time he threwover the mechanism of his gun and reloaded it.
Imbrie was paddling in the stern, of course. The man looked prettynearly spent, and there was little of his cynical impudence to be seennow. Clare lay on her stomach on the baggage amidships, staring aheadwith her chin propped in her palms, a characteristic boy's attitude thattouched Stonor's heart. Her face was as white as paper, and bore a lookof desperate composure. Stonor had never seen that look; seeing it nowhe 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 climbedout over the baggage without waiting to be spoken to, and walked awayup-stream a few steps, keeping her back turned to the man. Her head wassunk between her shoulders; she stared out over the rapids, seeingnothing. At the sight of the little figure's piteous dejection ragesurged up in Stonor; he saw red.
Imbrie got out and went to pick his course up the rapids. He cast asidelong look at Clare's back as he passed her. The man was too weary tohave much devilry in him at the moment. But in his dark eyes there was apromise of devilry.
Having laid out his course he returned to the bow of the dug-out for histracking-line. This was the moment Stonor had been waiting for. He roseup and stepped forward through the low bushes. Clare saw him first. Alittle gasping cry broke from her. Imbrie spun round, and found himselflooking into the barrel of the policeman's Enfield. No sound escapedfrom Imbrie. His lips turned back over his teeth like an animal's.
Stonor said, in a voice of deceitful softness: "Take your knife and cutoff a length of that line, say about ten feet."
No one could have guessed from his look nor his tone that an insane ragepossessed him; that he was fighting the impulse to reverse his gun andclub 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 abullet 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. Therewas an evil glint in his eye.
Stonor stepped back. "No, you don't! Keep within shooting distance, orthis gun will go off!"
Imbrie stopped.
"Miss Starling," said Stonor. "Come and tie this man's wrists togetherbehind his back, while I keep him covered."
She approached, still staring half witlessly as if she saw anapparition. She was shaking like an aspen-leaf.
"Pull yourself together!" commanded Stonor with stern kindness. "I amnot a ghost. I am depending on you!"
Her back straightened. She took the rope from Imbrie's hands, and passeda turn around his extended wrists. Stonor kept his gun at the man'shead.
"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 theknots. Forcing Imbrie to a sitting position, he likewise tied hisankles.
"That will hold him, I think," he said, rising.
The words seemed to break the spell that held Clare. She sank down onthe stones and burst into tears, shaking from head to foot withuncontrollable 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! Youscum!"
If Imbrie had wished to provoke the other man to an outburst, he got alittle more than enough. He cringed from the other's blazing eyes, andsaid 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'seyes as they followed were not pleasant to see.
"Martin, I must touch you--to prove that you're real," she saidappealingly. "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 Icould 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 notcome."
"Ah, don't! I can't bear it! I saw."
"My flesh crawls at him! To be alone with such a monster--so terriblyalone--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 willburst. 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 tellyou. I love you. I adore you. If loving you in my mind is wicked, Ishall have to be a wicked woman. Oh, I'll keep the law. From what Itold you in the beginning, I must have already done some man a wrong. Ishall not wrong another. But I had to tell you. You knew already, so itcan do no great harm."
He glanced back at Imbrie. "If the law should insist on keeping up sucha horrible thing it would have to be defied," he said--"even if I am apoliceman!"
"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 myaccount."
"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 allwhom I approach!"
"That's nonsense!" he said quickly. "You've made me! However this thingturns out. You've brought beauty into my life. You've taken me out ofmyself. 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 andconvincing!
"There! I'm all right now!" she said, with an abrupt return to theboyish, 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. Tellme 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 hereven for a
moment!"
"She was not badly wounded," he said. "We'll probably overtake herto-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 offhandmanner, and burst out laughing. "That was nothing at all!" Her eyesadded something more that she dared not put into words: "You were madefor a woman to love to distraction!"
When they returned to the dug-out, Imbrie studied their faces throughnarrowed lids, trying to read there what had passed between them. Theirserenity discomposed him. Hateful taunts trembled on his lips, but hedared not utter them.
As for Clare and Stonor, neither of them sentimental persons, theirbreasts were eased. Each now felt that he could depend on the other inthe best sense until death: meanwhile passion could wait. They made afire together and cooked their supper with as unconscious an air as ifthey had just come out from home a mile or two to picnic. They ignoredImbrie, particularly Clare, who, with that wonderful faculty that womenpossess, simply obliterated him by her unconsciousness of his presence.The prisoner could not understand their air towards each other. Hewatched them with a puzzled scowl. Clare was like a child over theprairie-chicken. An amiable dispute arose over the division of it, whichStonor won and forced her to eat every mouthful.
She washed the dishes while he cleared a space among the bushes on topof the bank, and pitched her little tent. The camp-bed was still inImbrie's outfit, and Stonor set it up with tender hands, thinking of theburden it would bear throughout the night. Also in Imbrie's outfit hefound his own service revolver, which he returned to Clare for herprotection.
Afterwards they made a little private fire for themselves a hundred feetor 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 tohunt my horses that morning."
"I feel like it," she said, with a smile. "It is such a comfort to beable to talk again. Mary and I scarcely dared whisper. You had been goneabout half an hour that morning when all the Indians rode down out ofthe woods, and crossed the ford to our side. There were about thirty ofthem, I should say. I did just what you told me, that is, went on withmy packing as if they were not there. For a little while they stoodaround staring like sulky children. Finally one of them said to methrough Mary with a sort of truculent air, like a child experimenting tosee how far he can go, that they were going to take Imbrie back. I toldMary to tell him that that was up to him; that he would have to dealwith you later, if they did. Meanwhile I noticed they were edgingbetween me and Imbrie, and presently Imbrie stood up, unbound. He tookcommand of the band. It seemed he had known they were coming. I was onlyanxious to see them all ride off and leave us.
"Soon I saw there was worse coming. At first I knew only by Mary'sscared face. She argued with them. She would not tell me what it was allabout. Gradually I understood that Imbrie was telling them I was hiswife, and they must take me, too. I almost collapsed. Mary did the bestshe could for me. I don't know all that she said. It did no good. Theprincipal Indian asked me if I was Imbrie's wife, and I could onlyanswer that I did not know, that I had lost my memory. I suppose thisseemed like a mere evasion to them. When Mary saw that they weredetermined, she said they must take her, too. She thought this was whatyou would want. They refused, but she threatened to identify every manof them to the police, so they had to take her.
"One man's horse had been killed, and they sent him and three others offto the Horse Track village on foot to get horses to ride home on. Thatprovided horses for Imbrie, Mary, and me. They made them go at top speedall 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 forMary 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 hadanything to eat but tough smoked meat of some kind, dry biscuits, andbitter tea, horrible stuff! It didn't make much difference, though.
"Imbrie told the Indians what to say when the police came. He couldn'tspeak their language very well, so he had to use Mary to translate, andMary told me. Mary was trying to get on Imbrie's good side now. She saidit wouldn't do any harm, and might make things easier for us. If welulled 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 hadhappened, and simply deny everything if they were questioned. Nothingcould be proved he said, for he and Mary and I would never be found norheard of again. He was going to take us back to his country, he said. Bythat they understood, I think, that we were going to disappear off theearth. They seemed to have the most absolute faith in him. They thoughtyou wouldn't dare follow until you had secured help from the post, whichwould take many days."
"What about the breed woman?" interrupted Stonor.
"She was waiting there at the Swan Lake village. She came with us as amatter of course, and helped paddle the dug-out. Mary paddled, too, butshe didn't work as hard as she made believe. We got in the river beforedark, 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 hethought I was crazy. After that, you may be sure, I played up to thatidea. It worked for a day or two, but I saw from his eyes that he wasgradually becoming suspicious.
"At night Imbrie and the breed woman took turns watching. Whenever wegot a chance Mary and I talked about you, and what you would do. We knewof course that the man was coming out from Fort Enterprise, and I wassure that you would send him back for aid, and come right after usyourself. So Mary wrote you the note on a piece of bark, and set itadrift in the current. It was wonderful how she deceived them rightbefore their eyes. But they gave us a good deal of freedom. They knew wecould do nothing unless we could get weapons, or steal the canoes. Shewent 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 likea nightmare. All we did was to watch for you, and listen at night. Thencame yesterday. By that time Imbrie was beginning to feel secure, andwas taking it easier. We were sitting on the shore after the secondspell when the breed woman came running in in a panic. We understoodfrom her gestures that she had seen you turning into the next reach ofthe river below. Mary's heart and mine jumped for joy. Imbrie hustled usinto the dug-out, and paddled like mad until he had put a couple ofbends between us and the spot.
"Later, he put the breed woman ashore. She had her gun. We wereterrified for you, but could do nothing. Imbrie carried us a long wayfurther before he camped. That was a dreadful night. We had no way ofknowing what was happening. Then came this morning. You saw whathappened then."
Stonor asked: "What did you make of that breed woman?"
"Nothing much, Martin. I felt just as I had with Imbrie, that I musthave known her at some time. She treated me well enough; that is tosay, she made no secret of the fact that she despised me, but wasconstrained 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 saidit sounded a little like the Beaver language, but she could notunderstand it."
"Where do you suppose this woman kept herself while Imbrie was livingbeside 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 littlething 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 d
oor 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 youbreathing if I woke?"
He smiled, and gave her his eyes deep and clear. There comes a momentbetween every two who deeply love when shame naturally drops away, andto assume shame after that is the rankest hypocrisy. "I couldn't," hesaid 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 ofsleeping immediately, but it was a happy excitement; he could evenafford at the moment not to hate Imbrie. The prisoner watched his everymovement through eyes that he tried to make sleepy-looking, but thesparkle 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 goodhaul to-day?"
"How did you do it?"
"I just borrowed a little of your magic for the occasion and flewthrough 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 greatexplaining to do."
"How's that?"
"To satisfy your officers why you hounded a man simply because you wereafter 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, howdid you treat measles among the Kakisas last year? That would be a goodthing 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 wouldyou 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. Itwas 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: "Thebody was not carried over the falls." He then poked the fire into abright 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 theslightest change in his expression. Stonor was convinced he had notunderstood it.
"I won't tell you," muttered Imbrie.
"Just as you like. If I untie your hands, will you write a line from mydictation?"
"No. What foolishness is this?"
"Only that I suspect you can neither read nor write. This is youropportunity 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 comparisonwith the labour of the ascent. The current carried them with lighthearts. That is to say, two of the hearts on board were light. Imbrie,crouched in the bow with his inscrutable gaze, was hatching new schemesof villainy perhaps. Clare sat as far as possible from him, and with herback turned. All day she maintained the fiction that she and Stonor werealone in the dug-out. In the reaction from the terrors of the last fewdays her speech bubbled like a child's. She pitched her voice low tokeep 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 haveto wait there, will we?"
"My horses are waiting."
"Then four days more to Fort Enterprise. You said there was a whitewoman there. How I long to see one of my own kind! She'll be myfirst--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 Miwasalanding--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 havepeople somewhere. Poor things, what a state they must be in! It will bepart of your duty to take me home, won't it? Surely the authoritieswouldn'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 wheretrolley cars clang in the streets, and electric lights shine at night;where people, crowds and crowds of people, do exactly the same things atthe same hours every day of their lives except Sundays, and never dreamof any other kind of life! Think of sauntering down-town in a prettysummer dress and a becoming hat, and chatting with scores of people youknow, and looking at things in the stores and buying uselesstrifles--where have I done all that, I wonder? Think of pulling up one'schair 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, andmade him loaf at the paddle with many a pause to fill and light hispipe. Even so their progress was faster than in the other direction.Shortly after midday she told him that they were nearing the spot whereMary had been shot the day before. They looked eagerly for the place.
To their great disappointment Mary had gone. However, Stonor pointed outthat 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 daybefore. Stonor observed from the tracks that it was the breed woman whohad moved around the fire cooking. Mary apparently had been unable toleave 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 insideof one of the river-bends, and exposed by the falling water. Stonorchose it because it promised a soft bed, and his bones were weary. Thebank above was about ten feet high and covered with a dense undergrowthof bushes, which they did not try to penetrate, since a dead treestranded on the beach provided an ample store of fuel. Clare's tent waspitched 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 hungover the river, out of which the tops of the willow-bushes rose likeislands. He chopped and split a length of the stranded trunk, and madeup the fire. Imbrie awoke, and lay watching him with a lazy sneer.Stonor had no warning of the catastrophe. He was stooping over sortingout the contents of Imbrie's grub-bag, his back to the bushes, whenthere came a crashing sound that seemed within him--yet outside. Thatwas all he knew.