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?”