The Indian moved slightly, and turned a copper-colored profile over one shoulder.
“Him held up above,” he suggested. “Mebbe jam.”
“Jam!” repeated Bainbridge sharply. “Why should there be a jam? The stream’s straight and wide enough, with a fine head of water. The hard parts come farther down. With a boss on the job, and halfway attending to business, the drive ought to be down as far as Loon Lake by this time.”
Still frowning, he gave a wide, powerful sweep of his paddle, which headed the canoe upstream.
“Besides,” he went on, as the craft danced along under the impetus of their sturdy, practiced strokes, “Schaeffer’s had time to break up half a dozen ordinary jams. He’s no fool, and he knows his business as well as any man in the country. He knows this high water can’t last much longer, and that we’re altogether dependent on it till we reach the Penobscot. If he ——”
A sudden extremely unpleasant thought made the speaker break off abruptly, with a swift catching of his breath. His frown deepened into a scowl, and a touch of angry red glowed under the clear, healthy tan of his clean-cut face.
“Mebbe him no care about making hurry,” remarked the Indian coolly, without even glancing around. “Mebbe him like to see drive hang up.”
The extraordinary manner in which the guide’s comment chimed in with his own mental process fairly took Bob’s breath away. He hesitated for an instant, wondering whether the Indian knew anything special or whether his remark had been prompted by mere guesswork. Knowing Moose for many years, Bainbridge had never been quite able to determine whether the man was attached to him personally, as sometimes in his stolid, self-restrained manner he seemed to be. It was more likely to be simply the canny shrewdness of the native knowing on which side his bread was buttered. At all events, Bob had never counted on it to the extent of any great familiarity, though, under the conditions in which they were frequently alone together in the woods, he could scarcely help letting down the bars a little.
“What makes you say that?” he asked, suddenly making up his mind. “What earthly reason could Pete Schaeffer have for wanting to see the drive hang up? He’s been offered a bonus for every extra day he gains in landing the logs at the mill booms.”
The square, buckskin-covered shoulders hunched again, “Mebbe not offer ’nuff,” retorted the Indian stolidly. “Mebbe he get more to hang up drive.”