Clare’s eyes darted to him full of relief and gratitude; she had not expected so great a sacrifice. The brave lip trembled.
Imbrie laughed. “Good!” he cried. “Redbreasts don’t relish starving in the bush any better than ordinary men!”
The breed woman, on the verge of an angry outburst, checked herself, and merely shrugged again. She said quietly in her own tongue: “He thinks he’s going to escape.”
“Sure he does!” answered Imbrie, “and I’m the man who will prevent him. I’ll keep the weapons in my own hands.”
True to his word he collected all the weapons in the outfit; three guns, the revolver and three knives. He gave the breed woman her own gun and her ammunition-belt, which she strapped round her; he kept his gun, and the other two fire-arms he disabled by removing parts of the mechanism, which he put in his pocket. He stuck two knives in his belt, and gave the woman the third, which she slipped into its customary resting-place in the top of her moccasin. Imbrie ordered Stonor to get up and strike Clare’s tent.
“He must be fed,” said Clare quickly.
“Sure, I don’t mind feeding him as long as he’s going to earn it,” said Imbrie.
Clare hastened to carry Stonor her untasted plate, but Imbrie intercepted her. “No more whispering,” he said, scowling. “Eat your own breakfast. The woman will feed him.”
In half an hour they were on their way back up the river. They allowed Stonor to rest and recuperate in the dug-out until they came to the first rapid. Later, the policeman bent to the tracking-line with a good will. This was better luck than he had hoped for. His principal fear was that he might not be able to dissemble sufficiently to keep their suspicions lulled. He knew, of course, that if they should guess of what he was thinking his life would not be worth a copper penny. His intuition told him that even though he was a prisoner, Clare was safe from Imbrie while he was present, and he had determined to submit cheerfully to anything in order to keep alive. He only needed three or four more days!
So, with a loop of the tracking-line over his shoulder, he plodded through the ooze of the shore, and over the stones; waded out round reefs, and plunged headlong through overhanging willows. Imbrie walked behind him with his gun over his arm. Clare lay on the baggage in the dug-out wistfully watching Stonor’s back, and the breed woman steered. In the more sluggish reaches of the river, the men went aboard and paddled.