So the grandeur of the night scene, the sublimity of Nature’s profound calm, lost for a few brief moments by the invasion of an expression of surging human passions, returned again, all undefeated, to the rugged heart of the northern wilderness.
The moon was still high in the starlit heavens, shedding its cold benignity upon the flowing waters. The belt of the northern lights had extended. Their ghostly sheen had deepened, and the vivid arc of a burnished aurora had joined their legions. The world was lit anew. The twilight had glorified; the night was transformed. No longer was the moon the dominant light giver. The jewel-like sparkle of the stars had dimmed in contrast. For the aurora, the glory of the Arctic night, had ascended its triumphant throne.
The whiteman swung along, approaching the camping ground above the Falls, filled with satisfaction and hope at the beneficent change. For practical purposes the night light was all-sufficient. In fancy he saw the completion of his labours in far less time than he had anticipated, and something like ultimate security for those he sought to succour.
The further portage would be easy now. The first trip was over. Now there was the bearing of the packs in which he would have the assistance of those others. Then the last—the portage of their—
He had reached the low shore clearing of the landing. A great flood of silvery light illuminated the whole breadth of the river. There it lay a wide, swift tide, with the great hills far across its bosom rising a jagged snowcapped line, gleaming like burnished silver under the amazing heavenly lights.
But the scene as Nature had painted it made not an instant’s claim upon him. How should it? He had come to a sudden halt, his gaze riveted upon a vision that made him draw his breath sharply, and set his heart leaping. He became rooted to the spot. Two boats were out there on the broad bosom of the river. Two of them. And both were moving on down the stream towards—
A shout broke from him. It came with all the power of his well-nigh bursting lungs. It was the natural impulse which his surge of feeling inspired. He shouted again and again. Then of a sudden he charged down to the water’s edge, and stood staring helplessly, silently, a prey to unspeakable horror.
Two boats! The leading vessel was a long low kyak. There was no mistaking its build. Just as there was no mistaking, to his mind, the burly figure propelling it. The second boat he recognised on the instant. It was the canoe he had expected to portage on his third trip. In it were two figures sitting up. They were motionless. They were paddleless. They were sitting, inert, like bundles set there, and quite incapable of any movement, incapable of any resistance. And between the two boats stretched a taut line.
It needed no second thought for Wilder to realise the thing that was being enacted. The inhuman vengeance of the crazy Indian had descended upon those benighted helpless folk and no power on earth could save them.