“That was bad,” remarked Jack.
“That wasn’t all. When I woke next morning Bill was gone. I never saw him again, and I had a pretty hard time getting back.”
“Do you think he had killed somebody?”
“Probably. Folks’ consciences seem to get a grip of them in sleep, and to go to sleep themselves in the daytime. It’s a queer enough story.”
As they talked the paddles were busy, the mist melted, and they ran swiftly down-stream a mile or more below the Cliff Camp. Here, at a bend, where the river made a bold curve to the northwest, they ran ashore.
“That will do, Michelle. Be on the lookout about six or seven to put us over. Come, Jack. Give me the knapsack. Do not load yet.” As he spoke they left the shore, and Carington, leading, struck into the woods.
They walked slowly through a tangled wilderness of trees, dead and alive, set in perplexing undergrowth, Carington explaining his plans to the boy as they tramped along.
“We shall go up the hill to left, over the crest and down on to Loon Lake. It is a mere pond, but the berries are thick on the far side, and, although now there are none, the bears have a habit of going there. We shall read our fortune clear when we get on the shore.”
“By the tracks on the edge?”
“Yes. The deep print of the foot makes little pools; and if the water in these is still muddy, the prints are recent; if not, we shall get no chance.”