“But one trial remained, the race with the canoe. And now White Flower seemed to be putting all her strength into her paddle. Not a foot did she go farther than was necessary to make the turn and her frail craft seemed almost to leap from the water as she bore down toward the finish mark. Suspicions were lulled as it seemed certain that she would win by a good margin. Spotted Tail was doing his best and his canoe, too, was rushing over rather than through the water. But she rounded the turn a full length ahead of him and this lead she had steadily increased on the home stretch. Then with but a few rods to go a gasp of horror was heard as her paddle snapped fairly in the middle. There was no excuse in an Indian race. The first over the line won regardless of what might have happened.
“As Spotted Tail swept his canoe over the line the winner by several lengths Big Foot waded out into the lake and picked up the pieces of the broken paddle. For a moment he examined them and then, without a word he drew his bow and the next instant his arrow was buried in the heart of White Flower. It was so sudden that for a moment Spotted Tail stood motionless then, as if galvanized into action, he snatched a bow from a young brave and quicker than the eye could follow an arrow sped to the heart of Big Foot. Then with but a single glance at his hoped-for bride, he bounded away into the forest and was gone.
“That is the story of White Flower and Spotted Tail. The tribe moved away soon after but tradition tells that often on moonlight nights a pure white canoe paddled by a figure dressed in snow white buckskin can be seen skimming the waters of Umsaskis Lake. No Indian will go near the place and even the half-breeds give it a wide berth.”
“Did you see the ghost?” Bob asked as Mr. Golden brought his story to a close.
“No. I did not see it,” Mr. Golden smiled.
“It’s a pretty story,” Rex declared.
“Perhaps you will have better luck if you go up there,” Mr. Golden said just as the dinner bell rang.
“I would sure like to see it, or rather her,” Bob laughed as he followed the others into the house.
“How would you advise us to go?” Bob asked his father when they were again on the porch.
“If I were you I’d take the car up as far as North East Carry. Then you can get a canoe there and make a short carry to the West Branch of the Penobscot. Follow that for about twenty miles or perhaps a little more and it will bring you to the head of Chesuncook Lake. Wait a minute till I get a map and I’ll make out the rest of the course. Here we are now,” he resumed after Jack had returned with the map. “Now we’re right here,” pointing with his finger, “at the head of Chesuncook. Now you take this little stream up to Umbazooksses Lake. Then you’ll have to carry across to Chamberlain Lake. From there you see it’s clear sailing up through Pomgoewahem Lake and Churchill Lake into the Allagash River. You’ll find some pretty swift water part of the way along the Allagash and you’ll probably have to make a number of carries.”