"Fire my Mill!"
That was Long Mac's "tumtum," his thought, his notion.
"If he ain't really skipped out, that's what a cuss like Pete would do to you, Sir," said Mac. "He's made a holy record for himself, ain't he? We know he spiked the logs and killed poor Skookum, and there ain't the shadder of a doubt he fixed your brother's cattle. And then he's laid him out, and started off down here. They traced him to Ruby Creek, and it's tol'ble sure he kapsuallowed a canoe there. But no one's got on his tracks. It's bad luck there's been such a mighty poor salmon run this year, or he'd ha' been seen on the River."
As it was, the lordly tyee salmon, the quinnat, had been making a poor show in the Fraser that year, as he will at intervals, more or less regular. The canneries were fairly frozen out and shut down. The river was empty of boats and men.
"I'll set another night-watchman on," said Quin. "There's something in what you say, McClellan. The police are damn fools, though."
"I'll take a night or two at it myself, if you like, Mr. Quin," said Long Mac.
"You're the very man," replied Quin.
That night Pete got his hidden dug-out into the water. But his chief thoughts were not of the Mill.