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."



CHAPTER XI

THE MYSTERY

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."



CHAPTER XII

IMBRIE

Stonor went ashore at Ahcunazie's village, searched every tepee, and questioned the inhabitants down to the very children. The result was nil. The Indians one and all denied that Imbrie had come back up the river. Stonor was convinced that they were lying. He said nothing of what had happened down at the falls, though the young Kakisa, Ahteeah, displayed no little curiosity on his own account.

They went on, making the best time they could against the current. Clare wielded a third paddle now. The river was no less beautiful; the brown flood moved with the same grace between the dark pines; but they had changed. They scarcely noticed it. When they talked it was to discuss the problem that faced them in businesslike voices. Like the Kakisas they searched the shores now, but they were looking for two-legged game. What other Indians they met on the river likewise denied having seen Imbrie.

Stonor had in mind the fact that the devoted Kakisas could hide Imbrie in any one of a thousand places along the shores. It was impossible for him to make a thorough search single-handed, nor did he feel justified in remaining on the river with Clare. His plan was to return to Fort Enterprise as quickly as possible, making the best search he could by the way, and, after obtaining assistance, to return. In the end, unless he got out, the river would be like a trap for Imbrie. It was quite likely that he understood this, and was even now struggling to get away as far as possible.

On the morning of the tenth day after leaving Imbrie's shack they arrived at the Horse Track, and Ahchoogah's village. Their coming was hailed with the same noisy excitement, in which there was no trace of a welcome. Stonor instantly sought out the head man, and abruptly demanded to know when Imbrie had returned, and where he had gone. Ahchoogah, with the most perfect air of surprise, denied all knowledge of the White Medicine Man, and in his turn sought to question Stonor as to what had happened. It was possible, of course, that Ahchoogah's innocence was real, but he had the air of an accomplished liar. He could not quite conceal the satisfaction he took in his own fine acting.

Stonor posted Clare at the door of the shack, whence she could overlook the entire village, with instructions to raise an alarm if she saw anybody trying to escape. Meanwhile, with Mary, he made his usual search among the tepees, questioning all the people. Nothing resulted from this, but on his rounds he was greatly elated to discover among the canoes lying in the little river the one with the peculiar notches cut in the bow-thwart. So he was still on his man's track! He said nothing to any one of his find.

He set himself to puzzle out in which direction Imbrie would likely next have turned. Certainly not to Fort Enterprise; that would be sticking his head in the lion's mouth. It was possible Ahchoogah might have concealed him in the surrounding bush, but Stonor doubted that, for they knew that the policeman must soon be back, and their instinct would be to get the man safely out of his way. There remained the third Kakisa village at Swan Lake, seventy miles up the river, but in that case, why should he not have gone on in the canoe? However, Stonor learned from Mary that it was customary for the Kakisas to ride to Swan Lake. While it was three days' paddle up-stream it could be ridden in a day. In fact, everything pointed to Swan Lake. If Imbrie was trying to get out of the country altogether the upper Swan provided the only route in this direction. Stonor decided to take the time to pay a little surprise visit to the village there.

Stonor announced at large that he was returning to Fort Enterprise that same day. Ahchoogah's anxiety to speed his departure further assured him that he was on the right track. Collecting their horses and packing up, they were ready for the trail about five that afternoon. The Indians were more cordial in bidding them farewell than they had been in welcoming them. There was a suspicious note of "good riddance" in it.

After an hour's riding they came to the first good grass, a charming little "prairie" beside the stream that Clare had christened Meander. Stonor dismounted, and the two women, reining up, looked at him in surprise, for they had eaten just before leaving the Indian village, and the horses were quite fresh, of course.

"Would you and Mary be afraid to stay here all night without me?" he asked Clare.

"Not if it is necessary," she answered promptly. "That is, if you are not going into danger," she added.

He laughed. "Danger! Not the slightest! I think I know where Imbrie is. I'm going after him."

Clare's eyes widened. "I thought you had given him up for the present."

He shook his head. "I couldn't tell you back there, but I found his canoe among the others."

"Where are you going?"

"To the Kakisa village at Swan Lake."

He saw Mary's expression change slightly, and took encouragement therefrom. Mary, he knew, divided between her loyalty to Clare and her allegiance to her own people, was in a difficult position. Stonor was very sure, though, that he could depend on her to stand by Clare.

"Haven't you come far out of your way?" Clare asked.

"Not so far as you might think. We've been travelling south the last few miles. By crossing the Meander here and heading east through the bush I'll hit the Swan River in four miles or so. I'll be out of the bush long before dark. I've heard there's a short-cut trail somewhere, if I only knew where to find it."

He said this purposely within Mary's hearing. She spoke up: "Other side this little prairie where the ford is. There the trail begins."

Stonor was not a little touched by this. "Good for you, Mary!" he said simply. "I shan't forget it. You've saved me a struggle through the bush."

Mary only looked inscrutable. One had to take her feelings for granted.

"When will you be back?" Clare asked.

"By land it's about ninety miles' round trip. As I must ride the same horse the whole way, say three or four to-morrow afternoon. I won't take Miles Aroon, he's too valuable to risk. I'll ride the bay. If anything should delay me Tole Grampierre is due to arrive from the post day after to-morrow."

They made camp beside the ford that Mary pointed out. Clare waved Stonor out of sight with a smile. His mind was at ease about her, for he knew of no dangers that could threaten her there, if her fears created none.

The side trail was little-used and rough, and he was forced to proceed at a slow walk: the roughest trail, however, is infinitely better than the untrodden bush. This part of the country had been burned over years before, and the timber was poplar and fairly open. Long before dark he came into the main trail between the two Indian villages. This was well-travelled and hard, and he needed to take no further thought about picking his way; the horse attended to that. For the most part the going was so good he had to hold his beast in, to keep him from tiring too quickly. He saw the river only at intervals on his right hand in its wide sweeps back and forth through its shallow valley.

He spelled for his supper, and darkness came on. Stonor loved travelling at night, and the unknown trail added a zest to this ride. The night world was as quiet as a room. Where one can see less one feels more. The scents of night hung heavy on the still air; the pungency of poplar, the mellowness of balsam, the bland smell of river-water that makes the skin tingle with desire to bathe, the delicate acidity of grass that caused his horse to whicker. The trail alternated pretty regularly between wooded ridges, where the stones caused him to slacken his pace, and long traverses of the turfy river-bottoms, where he could give his horse his head. Twice during the night he picketed his horse in the grass, and took a short nap himself. At dawn, from the last ridge, he saw the pale expanse of Swan Lake stretching to the horizon, and at sun-up he rode among the tepees of the Kakisa village.

It was built on the edge of the firm ground bordering the lake, though the lake itself was still half a mile distant across a wet meadow. Swan Lake was not a true lake, but merely a widening of the river where it filled a depression among its low hills. With its flat, reedy shores it had more the characteristics of a prairie slough. As in the last village, the tepees were raised in a double row alongside a small stream which made its way across the meadow to the lake. In the middle of their village the stream rippled over shallows, and here they had placed stepping-stones for their convenience in crossing. Below it was sluggish and deep, and here they kept their canoes. These Kakisas used both dug-outs, for the lake, and bark-canoes for the river. The main body of the lake stretched to the west and south: off to Stonor's right it gradually narrowed down to the ordinary dimensions of the river.

When Stonor reined up alongside the little stream not a soul was stirring outside the tepees. He had at least succeeded in taking them by surprise. The first man who stuck his head out, aroused by the dogs, was, to his astonishment, white. But when Stonor got a good look at him he could scarcely credit his eyes. It was none other than Hooliam, the handsome young blackguard he had deported from Carcajou Point two months before. Seeing the policeman, Hooliam hastily made to withdraw his head, but Stonor ordered him out in no uncertain terms. He obeyed with his inimitable insolent grin.

Stonor dismounted, letting his reins hang. The well-trained horse stood where he left him. "What are you doing here?" the policeman demanded.

"Just travelling," drawled Hooliam. "Any objection?"

"I'll take up your case later. First I want the white man Ernest Imbrie. Which tepee is he in?"

Hooliam stared, and a peculiar grin wreathed itself around his lips. "I've seen no white man here," he said. "Except myself. They call me a white man." He spoke English without a trace of the red man's clipped idiom.

Stonor's glance of scorn was significant. It meant: "What are you doing in the tepees, then?"

But the other was quite unabashed. "I'll get Myengeen for you," he said, turning to go.

He seemed a bit too eager. Stonor laid a heavy hand on his shoulder. "You stay where you are."

Meanwhile the little Kakisas had begun to appear from the tepees, the men hanging back bashfully, the women and children peering from under flaps and under the edges of the tepees, with scared eyes.

"I want Myengeen," said Stonor to the nearest man.

All heads turned to a figure crossing the stream. Stonor waited for him, keeping an eye on Hooliam meanwhile. The individual who approached was a little larger than the average of the Kakisas; well-favoured, and with a great shock of blue-black hair hanging to his neck. He was quite sprucely dressed in store clothes. His close-set eyes and extremely short upper lip gave him a perpetual sneer. He had the walled look of a bold child caught in mischief. He came up to Stonor and offered his hand with a defiant air, saying: "How!"

Stonor shook hands with him, affecting not to notice the signs of truculence. The other Indians, encouraged by the presence of their head man, drew closer.

"I want Ernest Imbrie," Stonor said sternly. "Where is he?"

Myengeen could speak no English, but the spoken name and the tone were significant enough. He fell back a step, and scowled at Stonor as if he suspected him of a desire to make fun of him. Then his eyes went involuntarily to Hooliam. Stonor, following his glance, was struck by the odd, self-conscious leer on Hooliam's comely face. Suddenly it flashed on him that this was his man. His face went blank with astonishment. The supposed Hooliam laughed outright.

"Is this Imbrie??" cried Stonor.

Myengeen nodded sullenly.

Hooliam said something in Kakisa that caused the surrounding Indians to grin covertly.

And in truth there was a comic aspect to Stonor's dismay. His brain was whirling. This hardy young villain married to the exquisite Clare! This the saviour of the Indians! This the high-minded gentleman whose diary Clare had read to him! It was inexplicable. Yet Stonor suddenly remembered Hooliam's curiosity concerning the reports that were in circulation about the White Medicine Man; this was understandable now. But how could Clare have so stooped——? Well, it must be left to time to unravel.

He pulled himself together. "So you're Imbrie," he said grimly.

"That was my dad's name," was the impudent reply.

"I'll have to trouble you to take a journey with me."

"What's the charge?"

"Oh, we merely want to look into your doings up here."

"You have no right to arrest me without some evidence of wrong-doing."

"Well, I'm going to arrest you anyhow, and take my chances of proving something on you."

Hooliam scowled and pulled at his lip.

Stonor thought: "You'd give a lot to know how much I know, my man!"

Myengeen addressed Imbrie. Stonor watched him narrowly. He could only understand one word, the man's name, "Eembrie," but Myengeen's whole attitude to the other was significant. There was respect in it; admiration, not unmixed with awe. Stonor wondered afresh. Clearly there could be no doubt this was their White Medicine Man.

Imbrie said to Stonor, with his cynical laugh: "I suppose you want to know what he's saying. I don't understand it all. I'm just learning their lingo. But he's offering me the homage of the tribe or something like that."

"It's more than you deserve," thought Stonor. Aloud he said: "Imbrie, if you do what I tell you you can ride as you are. But if you want to make trouble I'll have to tie you up. So take your choice."

"Oh, I don't hanker after any hempen bracelets," said Imbrie. "What do you want of me?"

"First of all order somebody to bring out all your gear and spread it on the ground."

"That's not much," said Imbrie. By word and by sign he communicated the order to one of the Kakisas. It seemed to Stonor that something was reserved.

The Indian disappeared in the tepee and presently returned with Imbrie's "bed," that is to say, a pair of heavy blankets and a small, grimy pillow, and Imbrie's hatchet.

"That's all I brought," said Imbrie, "except a little dried moose-meat, and that's eaten up."

"I want your gun," said Stonor.

"Didn't bring any."

"Then what are you wearing a cartridge-belt for?" Imbrie shrugged airily.

"Produce your gun, or I'll tie you up, and search for it myself."

Imbrie spoke, and the Kakisa disappeared again, returning with a revolver, which he handed to Stonor. Stonor was careful not to betray the grim satisfaction he experienced at the sight of it. It was of thirty-eight calibre, the same as the bullet that reposed in his pocket. While not conclusive, perhaps, this was strong evidence. Since he had seen this man he had lost his dread of bringing the crime home to him. He wished to convict him now. He dropped the revolver in his side pocket, and held out his hand for the ammunition-belt, which was handed over.

"Now get a horse," he said.

Myengeen objected with violent shakes of the head.

"He says he's got no horses to hand over," said Imbrie, grinning.

"Make him understand that I will give a receipt for the horse. If it is not returned the company will pay in trade."

"No spare horses," he says.

"Let him give you the horse you came on."

"I walked."

Stonor did not believe this for a moment. "Very well then, you can walk back," he said coolly.

Imbrie thought better of this. He entered into a colloquy with Myengeen which eventually resulted in a horse being caught and led up and saddled. Stonor gave a receipt for it as promised. Myengeen handled the bit of paper fearfully.

"Now mount!" said Stonor.

"Aren't you going to let me have my breakfast?"

"We'll spell beside the trail."

Myengeen became visibly excited and began to harangue Imbrie in a fiery style, with sidelong looks at the policeman. Stonor out of the tail of his eye saw answering scowls gather on the faces of the other Indians as they listened. Myengeen's gestures were significant; with a sweep of his arm he called attention to the number of his followers, and then pointed to Stonor, who was but one.

Imbrie said with a sneering laugh: "He's telling me that I have only to say the word, and you'll never take me."

"Rubbish!" said Stonor coolly. "Men do not oppose the police."

They could not understand the words, but the tone intimidated them. Their eyes bolted as he looked sternly from man to man. He saw that look of angry pain come into their eyes that he knew in their race. It was not that they did not wish to defy him, but they dared not, and they knew they dared not.

"Oh, I'm helping you out, old man," said Imbrie, with airy impudence. "I'm telling them I don't mind going with you, because you've got nothing in the world against me. I'm going to give them some good advice now. Listen."

He did indeed address Myengeen earnestly at some length. Stonor could not guess what he was saying, for he used no gestures. He saw that it was true Imbrie was unpractised in their tongue, for he spoke with difficulty, hesitating for words, and they had to pay close attention to get his meaning. Myengeen listened with a face as inscrutable as Imbrie's own. At the end he nodded with an expression of approval, and bent a queer look on Stonor that the trooper was unable to fathom.

Imbrie then tied his bed behind his saddle and swung himself on the horse. Stonor signed to him to start first, and they trotted out from among the tepees. Stonor sat stiffly with the butt of his gun on his thigh, and disdained to look around. The instant they got in motion a wailing sound swept from tepee to tepee. Stonor wondered greatly at the hold this fellow had obtained over the simple people; even the Kakisas, it seemed to him, should have been able to see that he was no good.

They trotted smartly over the first ridge and out of sight. A long, grassy bottom followed. When they had put what Stonor considered a safe distance between them and the village, he called a halt. Picketing the horses, and building a fire, he set about preparing their simple meal. Imbrie seemed willing enough to do his share of unpacking, fetching wood and water, etc.; indeed in his cynical way he was almost good-natured.

As they sat over their meal he said tauntingly: "Why are you afraid to tell me what the charge is against me?"

Stonor had no intention of letting out what he knew. He figured that Imbrie's mind was probably perfectly at ease regarding the murder—always supposing there had been a murder—because he could not possibly guess that the body had not been carried over the falls. He retorted: "If your conscience is easy, what do you care what charge is made?"

"Naturally I want to know why I'm obliged to upset all my plans to make this journey."

"There is no charge yet."

"But when you bring me in you'll have to make some kind of a charge."

"Oh, I suppose they'll merely ask you to explain your business up here."

"And if I stand on my rights as a free man, and refuse to tell my business?"

Stonor shrugged. "That's not up to me. I shan't be the one to question you."

"Is it a crime to live alone?"

"No. But why did you run away when I came to see you?"

"I didn't run away."

"Don't know what you call it, then. When you saw us coming you hid in a tree."

"Who was us?" asked Imbrie, with a leer.

Stonor could not bring himself to name Clare's name to the man. "I think you know," he said quietly. "When night came you fell or jumped out of the tree, and took to the bush. Later you attempted to sneak into the house——"

"Well, it was my own house, wasn't it?"

"Sure, that's what puzzles me. What were you afraid of? Then when the Indian woman screamed you lit out for the beach, and beat it up the river."

"Well, was that a crime?"

"No, only a suspicious circumstance. Frankly, now, don't you consider yourself a suspicious character?"

"Oh, it's your business to suspect everybody!"

"Well, when I first met you, why did you lie to me concerning your identity?"

"I didn't lie. I just kept the truth to myself."

"You told me your name was Hooliam."

"Can't a man have more than one baptismal name?"

"Is it Ernest William, or William Ernest?" asked Stonor mockingly.

"I shan't tell you. I shan't tell you anything about myself until I know what I'm wanted for. I suppose that's my right, isn't it?"

"Sure!" said Stonor good-naturedly. "Anything you like. Travellers must be saying something to each other."

But Imbrie was not content to let the matter drop. There was a little gnawing anxiety somewhere. He burst out: "And have I got to put myself to the trouble of taking this long journey, just because you're too thick-witted to understand my perfectly natural motives?"

"Put it that way if you like," said Stonor, grinning. "The police are thick sometimes in dealing with clever fellows like you."

"Well, I'll tell you. I came up to this country because I choose to live alone. My reasons are my own affair. I'm not wanted by the police of this or any other country. But I don't choose to be spied on and followed up. That's why I got out of the way."

"Did you live alone down there?" asked Stonor casually.

"What do you mean?"

"Well, there was that lady who left Carcajou Point with you."

"Oh, that was just a temporary affair," said Imbrie, with a leer.

Stonor, thinking of Clare, could have struck him for it. With an effort he swallowed his rage. "Did you never have any visitors?" he asked coolly.

Imbrie favoured him with a lightning glance. "What put that idea into your head?"

Stonor lied in the good cause. "One of the Indians said you had a visitor."

"When?"

"Just a few days before we went down."

"What kind of visitor?"

"A man much like yourself," said Stonor.

Imbrie lost his grin for the moment. "It's a lie," he said thickly.

"Oh, well, it's no crime to have a visitor," said Stonor smoothly.

Imbrie saw his mistake, and quickly commanded himself. He laughed easily. "Just my way," he said. "I'm cracked on the subject of living alone."

They had to spell at short intervals during the day, for Stonor's horse was growing very tired. Whenever they halted they began to fence with words in much the same way, each trying to discover the other's weak joint without letting down his own guard. It seemed to Stonor that, under his cynical insolence, his prisoner was growing ever more anxious.

On one occasion Imbrie said with a careless air: "Did you see the big falls when you were down the river?"

"No," said Stonor instantly.

"Very fine sight."

It occurred to Stonor that a certain amount of curiosity on his part would appear natural. "What are they like?"

Imbrie looked at him through slightly narrowed lids. "Big horse-shoe effect. The water falls all around in a sort of half-circle, and there are tremendous rocks below. The water falls on the rocks."

This description sounded purposely misleading. The place, of course, was not like that at all. Stonor thought: "What does he tell me that for? Living there all that time, it isn't possible he hasn't seen the falls. In his diary he mentioned going there." Suddenly the explanation came to him. "I know! He's trying to tempt me to call him a liar, and then he'll know I've been there."

"Must be great!" he said offhand.

During the last spell Imbrie slept part of the time. Stonor dared not close his eyes, though he needed sleep sorely. He sat smoking and watching Imbrie, trying to speculate on what lay behind that smooth, comely mask.

"It's like a book I read once," he thought. "A man had two natures in him, one good, one bad. At one time the good nature would have the upper hand; at another time the bad. He was like two entirely different people. A case of double personality, they called it. It must be something like that with this man. Clare married the good man in him, and the bad turned up later. No doubt that was why she left him. Then the good man reappeared, and she felt she had done him a wrong. It explains everything."

But a theory may work too perfectly to fit the haphazard facts of life. There was still the dead man to be explained. And a theory, however perfect, did not bring him any nearer to solving the personal problems concerned. What was one to do with a man who was at once sane and irresponsible? He could give up Clare like a man, he told himself, if it were necessary to her happiness; but to give her up to this——! He jumped up and shook himself with the gesture that was becoming habitual. He could not allow himself to dwell on that subject; frenzy lay that way.



CHAPTER XIII

THE RESCUE

They had struck off from the main trail between the two Indian villages, and were within a mile or two of Stonor's camp. Their pace was slow, for the going was bad, and Stonor's horse was utterly jaded. The trooper's face was set in grim lines. He was thinking of the scene that waited ahead.

Imbrie, too, had the grace to look anxious and downcast. He had been exasperatingly chipper all the way, until it had occurred to him just now to ask Stonor what he had done with the women. Upon learning that they were waiting just ahead, his feathers drooped. A whine crept into his voice, and, without saying anything definite, he began to hedge in an odd way.

"The truth about this case hasn't come out yet," he said.

"I never thought it had," said Stonor.

"Well, a man under arrest has the right to lie to protect his interests, at least until he has the opportunity to consult a lawyer."

"Sure, and an officer has the right to draw his own inferences from the lies."

"Hell! I don't care what you think. As you said, you're not going to try me."

"When did you lie to me?"

"Well, if I thought it necessary to lie to you awhile ago, I'm not going to tell the truth now."

"All right. Why bring the matter up?"

"I just wanted to warn you not to jump to conclusions."

The trooper was dead tired, and dead sick of gazing at the smooth, evil face of his companion. "Oh, go to hell!" he said. "You talk too much!"

Imbrie subsided into a sullen silence.

Stonor thought: "For some reason he's afraid of meeting Clare. I suppose that's natural enough when he's like this. He must know what's the matter with him. Probably he hates everything connected with his better side. Well, if he doesn't want Clare it may simplify matters." Thus he was still making his theory work.

At last they came out from among the trees, and the little grassy valley of the Meander lay below them. There were the three little tents pitched on the other side of the stream, and the four horses quietly grazing in the bottom. Mary was baking bread at the fire. It was a picture of peace, and Stonor's first anxiety for their safety was relieved.

He had not the heart to hail them; they would see soon enough. And almost immediately Mary did look up and see the two horsemen. She spoke over her shoulder, and Clare quickly appeared from her tent. The two women awaited them motionless.

Imbrie still rode ahead, hunched in his saddle. He glanced over his shoulder, and Stonor saw that a sickly yellow tint had crept under his skin. He looked at Stonor's failing horse. Suddenly he clapped heels to his own beast, and, jerking the animal's head round, circled Stonor and attempted to regain the trail behind him. He evidently counted on the fact that the policeman would be unable to follow.

To urge his spent beast to a run would only have been to provoke a fall. Stonor made no attempt to follow. Pulling his horse round, he whipped up his gun and fired into the air. It was sufficient. Imbrie pulled up. Stonor possessed himself of the other's bridle-rein and turned him round again. They said nothing to each other.

They splashed across the shallow ford. On the other side Stonor curtly bade Imbrie to dismount and ungirth. He did likewise. Clare and Mary awaited their coming at a few paces' distance. Clare's eyes were fixed on Imbrie with a painful intensity. Curiosity and apprehension were blended in her gaze. Imbrie avoided looking at her as long as possible.

They turned out the weary beasts to the grass, and Stonor marched his prisoner up to Clare—there was no use trying to hedge with what had to be gone through.

"Here is Imbrie," he said laconically.

The man moistened his dry lips, and mustered a kind of bravado. "Hello, Clare!" he said flippantly.

"Do you recognize him?" asked Stonor—dreading her answer.

"No—I don't know—perhaps," she stammered. "I feel that I have seen him before somewhere."

Imbrie's face underwent an extraordinary change. He stared at Clare dumbfounded.

"You're sure," murmured Clare uncertainly to Stonor.

"Oh, yes, this is the Kakisas' White Medicine Man."

Imbrie turned sharply to Stonor. "What's the matter with her?" he demanded.

"She's temporarily lost her memory."

"Lost her memory!" echoed Imbrie incredulously. He stared at Clare with sharp, eager eyes that transfixed her like a spear. She turned away to escape it. Imbrie drew a long breath, the ruddy colour returned to his cheeks, the old impudent grin wreathed itself about his lips once more.

"Too bad!" he said, with a leer. "You don't recognize your hubby!"

Clare shrank back, and involuntarily flung an arm up over her face.

Stonor saw red. "Hold your tongue!" he cried, suddenly beside himself.

Imbrie cringed from the clenched fist. "Can't a man speak to his wife?" he snarled.

"Speak to her with respect, or I'll smash you!"

"You daren't! You've got to treat me well. It's regulations."

"Damn the regulations! You mind what I tell you!"

Imbrie looked from one to another with insufferable malice. "Ah! So that's the way the wind lies," he drawled.

Stonor turned on his heel and walked away, grinding his teeth in the effort to get a grip on himself.

Imbrie was never one to forego such an advantage. He looked from one to another with bright, spiteful eyes. When Stonor came back he said:

"You must excuse me if I gave you a turn. To tell the truth, a man forgets how attractive his wife is. I'm sorry I had to turn up, old man. Perhaps you didn't know that she had a Mrs. to her name. She took back her maiden name, they told me."

"I knew it very well," said Stonor. "Since before we started to look for you."

"Well, if you knew it, that's your look-out," said Imbrie. "You can't say I didn't do my best to keep out of your way."

This was intolerable. Stonor suddenly bethought himself what to do. In a low voice he bade Mary bring him the tracking-line. Imbrie, who stood stroking his chin and surveying them with the air of master of the situation, lost countenance when he saw the rope. Stonor cut off an end of it.

"What's that for?" demanded Imbrie.

"Turn round and put your hands behind you," said the policeman.

Imbrie defiantly folded his arms.

Stonor smiled. "If you resist my orders," he said softly, "there is no need for me to hold my hand.—Put your hands behind you!" he suddenly rasped.

Imbrie thought better to obey. Stonor bound his wrists firmly together. He then led Imbrie a hundred yards from their camp, and, making him sit in the grass, tied his ankles and invited him to meditate.

"I'll get square with you for this, old man!" snarled Imbrie. "You had no right to tie me up!"

"I didn't like the style of your conversation," said Stonor coolly.

"You're damn right, you didn't! You snivelling preacher! You snooper after other men's wives! Oh, I've got you where I want you now! Any charge you bring against me will look foolish when I tell them——"

"Tell them what?"

"Tell them you're after her!"

Stonor walked away and left the man.

Clare still stood in the same place like a carven woman. She waited for him with wide, harassed eyes. As he came to her she said simply:

"This is worse than I expected."

"The man is not right in his head!" said Stonor. "There is something queer. Don't pay any attention to him. Don't think of him."

"But I must think of him; I can't escape it. What do you mean by not right?"

"A screw loose somewhere. What they call a case of double personality, perhaps. It is the only way to reconcile what you told me about him and what we see."

Clare's glance was turned inward in the endeavour to solve the riddle of her own blind spot. She said slowly: "I have known him somewhere; I am sure of that. But he is strange to me. He makes my blood run cold. I cannot explain it."

"Do not brood on it," urged Stonor.

She transferred her thoughts to Stonor. "You look utterly worn out. Will you sleep now?"

"Yes. We won't leave here until morning. My horse must have a good rest."

"You'd wait for him, but not for yourself!"

"Tole ought to be along in the morning to help pack, and to guard the prisoner."

Before Stonor had a chance to lie down, Imbrie called him. There was a propitiatory note in his voice.

The trooper went to him. "What do you want?" he asked sternly.

"Say, I'm sorry I riled you, Sergeant," said Imbrie with a grin. "I was a bit carried off my feet by the situation. I'll be more careful hereafter. Untie this damned rope, will you?"

Stonor slowly shook his head. "I think we're both better off with a little distance between us."

Imbrie repented of his honeyed tones. His lip curled back. But he made an effort to control himself. "Aren't you afraid your spotless reputation will suffer?" he asked, sneering.

"Not a bit!" said Stonor promptly.

Imbrie was taken aback. "Well—can I speak to my wife for a minute?" he asked sullenly.

Stonor observed, wincing, how he loved to bring out the word "wife." "That's up to her," he answered. "I'll put it to her."

Returning to Clare, he said: "He wants to speak to you."

She shrank involuntarily. "What should I do, Martin?"

"I see nothing to be gained by it," said Stonor quickly.

"But if, as you say, in a way he's sick, perhaps I ought——"

"He's not too sick to have a devil in him. Leave him alone!"

She shook her head. She was gaining in firmness. "It won't hurt me to hear what he has to say. It may throw some light on the situation."

"I doubt it," said Stonor. "His object is to raise as much dust as possible. But go ahead. If he's insulting, leave him instantly. And don't let him know what I suspect him of."

She went, and Stonor walked up and down in the grass in a fever until she returned. She was with Imbrie some little time. Stonor could not guess of what they talked. Clare's white composed face, and Imbrie's invariable grin, told him nothing.

The instant she came towards him he burst out: "He didn't annoy you?"

She shook her head. "No, he seemed quite anxious to please. He apologized for what he said before."

Stonor said, blushing and scowling: "Perhaps you do not care to tell me what you——"

"Certainly!" she said, with a quick look. "Don't be silly, Martin. It was just what you might expect. Nothing important. He asked me dozens of questions as to what we did down the river."

"You did not tell him?"

"How could I? Apparently he is greatly puzzled by my condition. He seems not fully to believe, or at least he pretends not to believe, that I cannot remember. He tried to work on my feelings to get you to liberate him. And of course he was most anxious to know what he was wanted for. I told him I could not interfere in your affairs, that's all."

Stonor nodded.

"Martin," she said, with the withdrawn look that he had marked before, "I cannot remember anything, yet I am conscious of a deep resentment against this man. At some time in the past he has injured me cruelly, I am sure.—Yet I told you I had injured him, didn't I?" She passed a hand across her face. "It is very puzzling."

"Don't worry!" he said cheerily. "It's bound to be made clear in the end."

"You wish to do all the worrying, don't you?" she said, with a wry smile.

He could not meet her dear eyes. "Worry nothing!" he cried. "I only have one idea in my mind, and that is to get some sleep!" He bustled to get his blankets.

They awoke him for the evening meal. After eating, he inspected his camp, sent Clare to bed, moved Imbrie closer, instructed Mary to keep watch that he did not succeed in freeing himself, and went back to sleep again. Mary was to call him at dawn, and they would take the trail at sunrise.

In the middle of the night he was brought leaping to his feet by a cry out of the dark: a cry that was neither from wolf, coyote, nor screech-owl. Wakened from a deep sleep, his consciousness was aware only of something dreadful. Outside the tent Mary ran to him: her teeth were chattering with terror: she could not speak. Clare crept from her tent. Both women instinctively drew close to their protector.

"What was it?" Clare asked, tremblingly.

A shriek answered her; a dreadful urgent cry of agony that made the whole night shudder. It came from a little way down the trail, from the edge of the woods perhaps, not more than a quarter of a mile away.

"A human voice!" gasped Clare.

"A woman's!" muttered Stonor grimly.

Again it shattered the stillness, this time more dreadful, for they heard words in their own tongue. "Don't hurt me! Don't hurt me!" Then a horrible pause, and with added urgency: "Help! Help!"

"By God! English words!" cried Stonor, astounded.

"Go to her! Go to her!" cried Clare, urging him with her hands.

On the other hand, Mary, falling to her knees, clung to him, fairly gibbering in the extremity of her terror.

Stonor was suspicious, yet every instinct of manliness drew him towards these cries. Under that pull it was impossible to think clearly. He shook Mary off, and started to run. He took three steps and pulled himself up short.

"Look at Imbrie," he muttered. "Strange he hasn't wakened."

It was true the prisoner still lay motionless, entirely covered with his blanket.

"It's a trick!" said Stonor. "There could be no English woman near here. It's a trick to draw me out of camp!"

"But none of the Kakisas could speak English," said Clare.

"I don't know," muttered Stonor, in an agony of indecision. "My first duty is here. Look at Mary. She thinks it's a trick."

Mary was lying on the ground, muttering a Kakisa word over and over.

"What is it?" Stonor harshly demanded.

"Spirits!" she gasped.

Stonor turned away, flinging his arms up. "Good God! Ghosts again!" he cried, in exasperation.

The dreadful cries were raised again. "Help! Help! He's killing me!"

"I can't stand it!" cried Clare. "I must go myself!"

"Stay where you are!" commanded Stonor. "It is too strange a thing to happen so close to our camp if it was not staged for our benefit!"

Just the same, it was not easy for him to hold himself. When the cries were raised again a deep groan was forced from him:

"If I only had another man!"

"Go! Mary and I will be all right!" said Clare.

"Don' go! Don' go!" wailed Mary from the ground.

Stonor shouted into the darkness. "Come this way! Help is here!"

The cries were redoubled.

Imbrie suddenly awoke, and rolled clear of his blanket. "What's that?" he cried, with an admirable assumption of surprise. "A woman's voice! A white woman! Why don't you go to her?"

It was a little too well done; Stonor felt partly reassured.

Imbrie appeared to be struggling desperately in his bonds. "For God's sake, man!" he cried. "If you won't go, cut me loose! I can't stand it!"

"I am sure now," said Stonor, in a voice of relief. "This was what he fixed up with Myengeen this morning. I ought to have been prepared for it. Mary, help me make up the fire. A blaze will help chase the horrors."

"Oh, you coward!" taunted Imbrie. "If I had my hands free! This is the famous nerve of the police!"

Stonor could afford to laugh at this. His courage was tried.

The voice came with a fresh note of despair. "He's taking me away! He's taking me away! Oh, come! come!" Sure enough the sounds began to recede.

But the spell was broken now. They were only conscious of relief at the prospect of an end to the grim farce.

"Damn clever work here," said Stonor. "She says the very things that ought to pull the hardest."

"Where could they have got the English words?" said Clare.

"Search me! It's another mystery to add to what's facing us."

Meanwhile the flames were beginning to lick the twigs that Mary placed with trembling hands.

"If we make a big fire won't it reveal us to them?" said Clare nervously.

"They won't shoot," said Stonor contemptuously. "Stage business is more their line; conjure-tricks."

Imbrie, seeing that the game was up, had given over trying to taunt Stonor, and lay watching them with an unabashed grin. He seemed rather proud of his scheme, though it had failed.

"Can I smoke?" he said.

"Mary, fill his pipe, and stick it in his mouth," said Stonor.

They heaped up a big fire, and at Stonor's initiative, sat around it clearly revealed in the glare. He knew his Indians. At first Clare trembled, thinking of the possible hostile eyes gazing at them from beyond the radius of light, but Stonor's coolness was infectious. He joked and laughed, and, toasting slices of bacon, handed them round.

"We can eat all we want to-night," he said. "Tole will be along with a fresh supply to-morrow."

Imbrie lay about fifteen paces from the fire, near enough to make himself unpleasant, if not to hear what was said. "Mighty brave man by the fire," he sneered.

Stonor answered mildly. "One more remark like that, my friend, and I'll have to retire you again from good society."

Imbrie held his tongue thereafter.

Clare, wishing to show Stonor that she too could set an example of coolness, said: "Let's sing something."

But Stonor shook his head. "That would look as if we were trying to keep our courage up," he said, smiling, "and of course it is up. But let Mary tell us a story to pass the time."

Mary, having reflected that it was her own people and not ghostly visitants that had made the hideous interruption in the night, had regained her outward stolidity. She was not in the humour for telling stories, though.

"My mout' too dry," she said.

"Go ahead," coaxed Stonor. "You know your own folks better than I do. You know that if we sit here by the fire, eating, talking, and laughing like a pleasant company, it will put respect into their hearts. They'll have no appetite for further devilry."

"Can't tell stories," she said. "Too late, too dark, too scare. Words won't come."

"Just tell us why the rabbits have a black spot on their backs. That's a short one."

After a little more urging Mary began in her stolid way:

"One tam Old Man him travel in the bush. Hear ver' queer singin'. Never hear not'ing like that before. Look all round see where it come. Wah! he see cottontail rabbits singing and making medicine. They mak' fire. Got plenty hot ashes. They lie down in those ashes and sing, and another rabbit cover them up with ashes. They not stay there ver' long for cause those ashes moch hot.

"Old Man say: 'Little brothers, that is wonderful how you lie down in those hot ashes without burning. Show me how to do it.'