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.