CHAPTER VIII THE LOG SHACK
It struck them as odd that no one appeared out of the shack. For a man living beside a river generally has his eye unconsciously on the stream, just as a man who dwells by a lonely road lets few pass by unseen. Stonor sent him a hail, as is the custom of the country—but no surprised glad face showed itself.
“He is away,” said Stonor, merely to break the racking silence between him and Clare.
“Would he leave the door open?” she said.
They landed. On the beach lay two birch-bark canoes, Kakisa-made. One had freshly-cut willow-branches lying in the bottom. Stonor happened to notice that the bow-thwart of this canoe was notched in a peculiar way. He was to remember it later. Ordinarily the Kakisa canoes are as like as peas out of the same pod.
From the beach the shack was invisible by reason of the low bank between. Stonor accompanied Clare half-way up the bank. “Mary and I will wait here,” he said.
She looked at him deeply without speaking. It had the effect of a farewell. Stonor saw that she was breathing fast, and that her lips were continually closing and parting again. Leaving him, she walked slowly and stiffly to the door of the shack. Her little hands were clenched. He waited, suffering torments of anxiety for her.
She knocked on the door-frame, and waited. She pushed the door further open, and looked in. She went in, and was gone for a few seconds. Reappearing, she shook her head at Stonor. He went up and joined her. Mary, who, in spite of her stolidity, was as inquisitive as the next woman, followed him without being bid.
They all entered the shack. Stonor sniffed.
“What is that smell?” asked Clare. “I noticed it at once.”