“Sm-smoke!” the girl stared. Then she breathed a sigh of relief. “Oh, from Canada! Forest fires. I’ve heard—”
“No Canada. Come from Isle Royale, that smoke. Island on fire.”
“On—on fire?” It was Dave who spoke.
“Yes.”
“Then that—that’s the end.” His voice was toneless with discouragement.
Isle Royale on fire! Florence tried to think what that might mean. For weeks there had been no rain. During their short stops at Chippewa Harbor, Tobin’s and Belle Isle, she had often walked back into the forests. She had found the trees, the moss, the soil dry as tinder.
“Wha—what part of the island is on fire?” she managed to ask.
“Siskowit Bay.” The Indian took the wheel, relieving Dave.
“Where all those boys are camped?” the girl asked.
The Indian nodded.