Chilcoot had flung his length on the ground, but Bill Wilder was still standing. His eyes were turned at once on the approaching vessel.
Red Mike laughed.
“That trader guy’s sent us along a scout,” he said. “He’s a reas’nable sort of citizen. I guess that Injun’s goin’ to save us portage.”
Wilder shook his head.
“Needham was all in beating it down river. And anyway—”
“He wouldn’t be passin’ us along a white gal to show us them rapids.”
Chilcoot was sitting up. His hard face was wearing a grin that might well have seemed impossible to it. And he spoke with an assurance that brought the Irishman to his feet, with his food thrown aside as though it were the last thing to be desired at such a moment.
The kyak approached the bank within some twenty yards. Then with a thrust of the paddle the Kid held it up and sat contemplating the men on the shore.
The whole camp was agog. The crews lounging over their rough trail food watched the intruder curiously. But seemingly they had missed, in the sunburnt figure, clad in familiar mannish buckskin, the thing which the lightning eye of Chilcoot had discovered on the instant.
Wilder and Red Mike passed hastily down the bank while the older man followed more leisurely.