That night Marian lay awake for a long time. She had a vague feeling that they were approaching a crisis. Many agencies were at work. Some appeared to favor the success of their enterprise, and some were working directly against them. Scarberry, with his herd, was some hours ahead of them. That was bad. If he succeeded in retaining this lead, the race was lost. However, less than half the distance had been covered, the easiest half. Many a peril awaited each herd. Who could tell when prowling wolves, large bands of Indians, a caribou herd, an impassable river, might bring either to a halt?
Marian could not answer all of the questions that troubled her. The Indians? Would they be satisfied with her gift of food, or would they continue to prey upon the herd? Would they go back to some large tribe and lead them to the herd that they might drive them away, an easy bounty?
She had dealt with Eskimos; knew about what to expect from them. “But Indians,” she whispered to herself, “What are they like?”
As if in answer to her perplexity, there came to her mind the words of a great and good man:
“Humanity is everywhere very much the same.”
This thought gave her comfort. She could not help but feel that the Indian she had befriended would not betray her, but might even come to her aid in some emergency.
“But those of the purple flame?” she whispered to herself. “That silent watcher on the hill—what did he mean by sitting there with a rifle across his knee? Is he and his companions our friends or our enemies?”
Here, indeed, was a problem. Until this day, she had felt that these persons were to be distrusted and feared. However, there had been something about that silent watcher that had given her a feeling of safety in spite of her prejudice.
“It was as if he were set there as a watch to see that the Indian did us no harm,” she told herself. “And yet, how could he?”
It was in the midst of this perplexity that she fell asleep.