Kars only waited to see him rise to the surface. Then, as the man was carried down on the swift tide, swimming strongly, he turned away with a laugh and hurried from the scene.
John Kars halted abruptly in response to a whistle. The sound came from the thick scrub with which the low bank of the river beyond the gorge was deeply overgrown. It was a whistle he knew. It came low and rose to a piercing crescendo. Then it died away to its original note. His answer was verbal.
"That you, Charley?" he demanded.
His demand was answered by the abrupt appearance of the figure of his faithful scout from within the bush.
"Sure, Boss. Charley him wait. Charley him hear much shoot. Boss kill 'em plenty good?"
Kars laughed.
"Not kill 'em," he said. "Half-breed wash 'em in river."
"Boss no kill 'em?" The Indian's disappointment was pathetic.
"No-o."
Kars passed a hand wearily across his eyes. There was a drag, too, in his negative. It was almost indifferent.