“Al—alright, Jeanne.” Vivian put her strong arm about Jeanne’s waist and together they made their way across the lake to the foot of the ridge.
“Jeanne,” said Vivian as they left the lake, “I wonder how long paint keeps its color at the bottom of a lake.”
“I wonder who knows?” Strangely enough, there was a fresh note of hope in Jeanne’s voice.
As they reached the crest of the ridge, Jeanne turned back. Her gaze took in not the lake alone, but the lower ridge beyond that, a broad stretch of lower land.
“Look!” she said, pointing to the distant shore. “Smoke below.”
“Smoke?” There was a puzzled expression on Vivian’s face. “Whose fire can it be?”
“Does no one live there?” asked Jeanne.
“No one. There is a cabin there. It was owned by an Indian, John Redfeather. He died two years ago. All his stuff is in the cabin, nets for fishing, canned goods, salt fish in kegs, everything. But, until this moment, I believed we people at Chippewa Harbor were the only ones on the island.
“Vivian!” Jeanne gripped her arm hard. “You don’t suppose—”
“No.” Vivian read her meaning. “How could they? No one could live on this island for years without being seen. Small boats are going around the island all summer long. No, no! It is impossible.