With the aid of the slow current and a long dry pole, she succeeded at last in coaxing the thing ashore.
As she grasped it, a trio of bright feathers bound to a slender shaft came to view. She caught her breath again. And as she pricked her hand on the broad head sharp as a razor at the other end of the shaft, her face lost some of its heightened color.
Turning, she raced back to the spot where the crude bucket still rested. There, without pausing to complete her errand, she dashed up the slope to a spot where a tumbled-down cabin rested among the trees.
A man, very tall, very straight and quite old, a bearded patriarch, rose at her approach.
“Grandfather!” she exclaimed, almost in a whisper. “We must leave this cabin at once.”
The old man threw her a questioning look. For answer she held up the arrow she had found floating feather up in the stream.
Taking it from her, he examined it closely in the waning light.
“White man,” he pronounced at last, as if reading from a book. “Somewhat new at the game, but possessed of a considerable knowledge of the art. A very good arrow.
“We must go up,” he said after a moment of silence. “We will go up at once.”
They entered the cabin together. Some twenty minutes later, with well arranged packs on their backs, they emerged from the shadowy interior to go marching briskly down toward the banks of the rushing stream. There they began leaping from rock to rock. In this manner they traveled a considerable distance without leaving a single tell-tale footprint behind.