Seating himself upon a fallen tree he scribbled a hasty note to Sir James Yardely, telling him that he had news of Helen and that he hoped very shortly to return to camp with her, and having addressed it gave it to the half-breed.
"There is need for haste," he said. "I will reward you now, and the great man whose niece the girl is, will reward you further when you take the news of her that is in the letter. But you will remember not to talk. I should say nothing about what you saw up the river a few days back. Sir James is a suspicious man and he might think that you fired those shots yourself—in which case——" He shrugged his shoulders, then taking out a ten-dollar note, handed it to the half-breed, whose eyes gleamed as he took it. "Now," he continued, "shoulder your canoe, and come along to the river. I should like to see you start. I'll carry your gun, and that sack of yours."
He took the half-breed's gun, picked up the beans, and in single file they marched through the wood back to where the Indian sat patiently waiting. On their appearance he looked round, and as his eyes fell on the half-breed's face a momentary flash came into them, and then as it passed he continued to look at the new-comer curiously.
Ainley rapidly explained the situation and the Indian listened without comment. He waited until the half-breed was actually afloat and out of earshot, and then he spoke.
"Bad man!" he said. "No good. Heem liar. I have seen heem b'fore."
"Maybe," answered Ainley lightly. "So much the better—for one thing! But there's no reason why he should lie about this matter, and I think he was telling the truth about that meeting up the other river. We'll follow the trail anyway; and we will start at once. Will the portage or the river be the better way?"
"Portage," said the Indian, following the half-breed with his eyes.
"Then we had better get going. We've no time to lose, and you needn't worry yourself about that fellow. He'll do what I've asked him, for the sake of himself. He can have no reason for doing otherwise."
But in that, as in his statement that the half-breed could have no reason for lying, Ainley was mistaken. The stolen canoe was a very ample reason, and so little inclined was the thief to seek the presence of Sir James Yardely, that when he reached a creek three miles or so up the river, he deliberately turned aside, and at his first camp he used Ainley's note to light his pipe, tossing what was left of it into the fire without the least compunction. Then, as he smoked, a look of malice came on his face.
"No, I not meestake. Dat man fire zee shots. I sure of dat; an' by Gar! I get heem one of dese days, an' I make heem pay for it, good an' plenty. Mais—I wonder—why he shoot? I wonder eef zee white mees, she knew?"