The scorn in the yellow man’s tone was something bitter beyond words.
Nothing more was said, and the man returned to his listening.
A long low kyak glided up to the landing. It came without sound, for the stream was swift, and the shore ice had been broken up by those who had come before. The trailing paddle was lifted quickly from the water and the vessel’s occupant reached out and caught the side of the boat lying moored against the bank. Skilfully he guided the nose of his craft in between the moored vessel and the bank, and the whole thing was completed in absolute soundlessness.
With his vessel lying stationary he remained for a moment unmoving. His great body towered as he knelt up against his paddling strut. He was surveying the moored boat with eager, dark eyes and an acutely reading mind. Presently he turned from the contemplation of the thing that had set a wild fierce hope stirring in his savage heart. His gaze was flung upon the landing itself, and upon the surrounding slope of the river bank, and the adjacent bluff of woods. The brilliant night revealed all he sought with a clearness which left him without a shadow of doubt. Finally he discovered beyond, just within the shelter of the woods, the last dying smoulder of the camp fire. He reached towards the nose of his kyak, and seized the long rifle lying there. Then he stepped ashore.
The dark figure moved swiftly up the shore. It reached the edge of the woods and stood for a moment gazing down on the dying camp fire. The dark eyes had suddenly become fiercely urgent as he searched every sign that was there for his interpretation.
After a few moments the man moved about in the neighbourhood of the fire. His moccasined feet gave out no sound. He was searching diligently in the trodden snow. At last he came again to a halt. He threw up his head and stared about him. It was the attitude of a creature of the forest scenting its prey, and in his eyes was a look of fierce exulting as he gazed into the dark shelter of the woods. Then his whole attitude underwent a change. He seemed to crouch down. His long rifle was borne at the trail in his hand, and he moved forward stealthily, and became swallowed up by the shadowed depths.
The hush of the night left the falling of a pine cone a sound that was almost startling. The droning roar of the distant Falls was only part of the awesome quiet. The windlessness was a threat of greater and greater depths of cold, while the brilliant moon and cloudless sky only helped to impress more deeply the intense frigidity of the coming season. It was all perfect, in its exquisite peace, a vision of superlative splendour in the amazing twilight. It suggested a sublime creation unspoiled, unsullied by any inharmonious blemish, a broad indefinite sketch set out by the mighty brush and divine inspiration of a God-like artist who only requires to inset the subtle, finishing details. Such was the seeming of the moment.
A cry. A series of raucous human cries. They came from somewhere within the forest belt. They came full of terror, and maybe pain. They came full of ferocious unyielding and savage passion. They came again and again, with the shrill of a woman’s voice mingling. Then the last sound died out, swallowed up by the immense silence.