But there was no incompetence in Cy Liskard on the water. He travelled swiftly and without doubt or hesitation. For he meant to reach those distant coast hills with the last of the tide, driven hard by that which lay back of his mind.
His search for his quarry about the oil camp in the hills had been fruitless. He had prosecuted it with infinite determination. He had lain cached when he encountered McLagan’s river men. He had well and truly covered his tracks, when at night he had reconnoitred the camp itself. Then, when he had ascertained beyond all possibility of doubt that the man he sought was not at the camp, he had passed on all undetected, unsuspected. Now he was on the last stages of his journey to the coast. The coast and that crazy, high-perched shanty overlooking the bay.
Cy Liskard betrayed no outward sign. He looked to belong to the long trail of the wilderness whose peace and calm his soulless eyes expressed so well. His outfit looked to be the outfit of those who live by trap and gun, and the protruding muzzle of a modern rifle over the curved bows of his craft increased the illusion. But his purpose was no less for these things. Perhaps, even, it was the contrary.
The miles passed rapidly behind him. They drifted away on a winding course that flashed and gleamed in the brilliant summer daylight. But for all his speed, the outlook seemed to remain the same, the distant hills to come no nearer.
But they were approaching very rapidly. And, as the late afternoon ripened the sparkle of earlier day, at last they rose abruptly till their height seemed to overwhelm the monotonous level of the muskeg.
Now the watchful eyes became less watchful. The need was less. The level, sodden banks had given place to sharp-cut, solid granite, and the widened stream had slackened and given place to deep, clear water free of all hidden traps. A sense of ease and safety permitted the man’s attention to wander to that which lay ahead and about him.
The river bent sharply away to the right behind the first of the foothills and doubled its breadth. Farther on was a leftward sweep, and as he approached it he realised that he no longer had the river to himself. A canoe—an Eskimo kyak—had swung round the far bend, on the outer circle of it, and was driving like an arrow against the sluggish stream.
Just for an instant there was hesitation, and the dip of Cy Liskard’s paddle was less unruffled. Then, seemingly, the man’s doubt passed and he kept straight on. He made no attempt to hail the stranger. He never even permitted his gaze to turn in his direction. But nothing escaped the search of his pale eyes.
He had recognised the man in the kyak for what he was. He had seen him before. Something of an Eskimo or Indian. A sturdy, squat figure, with broad, fleshy shoulders and lank black hair, and eyes that might have been the folds of a crease in the flesh of his ugly face had it not been for the deep sockets in which they were set.
Oh, yes. He had seen him before, and he let him pass him without word or greeting.