The Indian's reply came on the instant, and it was full to the brim of that contempt which the mention of his race never failed to arouse.
"Damn fool neche not know," he said icily.
Kars watched him set out for the cook-house. Then he moved over to the hospital where Bill was at work.
He passed within the crude storehouse. He had not come out of any curiosity. He had not come to contemplate the havoc wrought on the bodies of this flotsam of dissolute life. He had come for the simple purpose of offering some cheer in the darkness of suffering.
For all the ruggedness of exterior displayed by this man when the call of the northern wilderness claimed him, deep in his heart there were warm fires glowing which the bond of loyal comradeship never failed to fan. These Breeds and scallawag Indians were no less to him for their color, or their morals. They were fighters—fighters of the trail like himself. It was enough.
A desultory rifle fire played over the camp. It was the signal of passing day. It was a reminder that the day's cessation of hostilities marked no abatement in the enemy's purpose. The defence was at its post. A long line of rifles held their vicious muzzles searching for a target that would repay. Wastage of ammunition was strictly forbidden. The night, like its predecessor, was obscure. The targets were far off, and, as yet, invisible. So the defence remained unanswering, but ready.
Beyond the new defences on the river front a shadowy figure was stirring. His movements were stealthy. His moccasined feet gave out no sound. But there was sound. It was the muffled grating of something being slid over the gravelly beach at the water's edge. Then came a gentle splash of water. It was scarcely more than the sound of a leaping fish. After that came the lapping of the stream against an obstruction to its course.
The figure stood up, tall and slim. The rawhide rope in his hand strung taut. A moment later he secured the end of it by the simple process of resting a small boulder upon its knotted extremity.
The canoe had swung to the stream and lay in against the river bank. The silent figure stooped over its gunwale and deposited various articles within its shallow depths. It was the merest cockle-shell of stoutly strutted bark, a product of the northland Indian which leaves modern invention far behind in the purpose for which it is designed.
The sound of a footstep on the beach drew the crouching figure to its full height. Then, at the sound of a familiar voice, all suspicion died out.