"Are you sure?" asked Ainley, betraying no particular surprise.
The Indian nodded his head gravely, and fitted his little finger in the groove.
"Bullet-mark!"
Ainley did not dispute the contention, nor apparently was he greatly troubled by the Indian's contention. He looked round a little anxiously.
"But where is the canoe?" he asked. "And Miss Yardely?"
The Indian waved a hand down river. "Canoe miss this bar, and go in the current like hell to the meeting of the waters. Better we keep straight on and watch out."
As they started down river again, Ainley's face took on a settled look of anxiety. It was now close on midnight, but very light, and on either bank everything could be clearly seen. They kept a sharp look out, but found no further trace of the missing canoe, and the early dawn found them in a quickening current, racing for the point where the tributary river joined the main stream.
Presently it came in sight, and between walls of spruce and a foaming crest of water they swept into the broader river, which rolled its turbid way towards its outfall in one of the great Northern lakes. The canoe pranced like a frightened horse at the meeting of the waters, and when they were safely through it, Ainley looked back and questioned his companion.
"Would Miss Yardely's canoe come through that?"
"Like a dry stick," answered the Indian, letting the canoe drift for a moment in order to swing into the main current of the broader stream.