“Forget it! Tie his feet together so he can’t wander and go to bed now!”
Mary Moosa’s little mosquito-tent was still in Imbrie’s outfit, but the woman preferred to roll up in her blanket by the fire like a man. Soon the two of them were sleeping as calmly as two children, and Stonor was left to his own thoughts.
It was a silent quartette that took to the river next day. Imbrie was sulky; it appeared that he no longer found any relish in gibing at Stonor. Clare was pale and downcast. After an hour or so they came to the rapids where Stonor had intercepted Imbrie and Clare, and thereafter the river was new to them. Stonor gathered from their talk that the river was new, too, to Imbrie and the woman, but that they had received information as to its course from Kakisa sources.
For many miles after that the current ran smooth and slow, and they paddled the dug-out; Stonor in the bow, Imbrie guarding him with the gun, Clare behind Imbrie, and the breed woman with the stern-paddle. All with their backs to each other and all silent. About ten o’clock they came to the mouth of a little creek coming in at the left, and here Imbrie indicated they would spell.
“So this is the spot designed for my murder,” thought Stonor, looking over the ground with a natural interest.
The little brook was deep and sluggish; its surface was powdered with tiny lilies and, at its edges, long grass trailed in the water. A clean, grassy bank sloped up gradually. Further back were white-stemmed aspen-trees gradually thickening into the forest proper.
“Ideal place for a picnic,” thought Stonor grimly. As they went ashore he perceived that the breed woman was somewhat agitated. She continually wiped her forehead on her sleeve. This was somehow more reassuring than her usual inhuman stolidity. Imbrie clearly was anxious, too, but not about Stonor or what was going to happen to him. His eyes continually sought Clare’s face.
The breed woman glanced inquiringly at Imbrie. He said in the Indian tongue: “We’ll eat first.”
“So I have an hour’s respite,” thought Stonor.
None of them displayed much appetite. Stonor forced himself to eat. Imbrie glanced at him oddly from time to time. “He’s sorry to see good food wasted,” thought the trooper. “Well, it won’t be, if I can help it!”