Thirlwell imagined that the roar of the river had drowned the fellow's steps, but he did not want to talk, about Driscoll yet, and when he put on his boots, which had been full of water, they started for the shack. After they had changed their clothes Scott sat down and lighted his pipe.
"What do you think was the matter with Black Steve?" he asked.
"It looked as if he'd taken some liquor, but I don't know," Thirlwell answered. "He was obviously scared."
"Sure," said Scott. "But he wasn't scared of getting drowned. Steve's a better canoe hand than either of us and has physical pluck."
"Then why was he afraid?"
Scott looked thoughtful. "I imagine he was afraid of the rapid and the dark. When he hailed us to take him over, I thought it an excuse; he could have got across in his own canoe if he had braced up. My notion is he didn't want to make the trip by himself." He paused and gave Thirlwell a keen glance. "Curious, isn't it?"
"He's a curious man," said Thirlwell, who had dark suspicions that he did not want to talk about. "When we were drifting into the rapid, I got a glimpse of his face and didn't look again. Thought I'd better not; the fellow's nerve had gone. Anyhow, if he hates the rapid, why does he stop here and live near the bank?"
"Steve is primitive; I guess you don't understand him yet. He's an old trapper and one gets superstitious in the bush. For all that, he's stubborn, and if he has an object, he'll persist until he carries it out."
"But what object has he got?"
Scott made a vague gesture. "I can't tell you that. Hadn't you better get out the plates? I want some food."