We got away from Détour du Lac in the early morning, and reached the outlet, the head of the Madawaska River, after a brisk paddle of some eight miles. The run down the Madawaska was swift and easy,—a rapid current and a clear channel. What more could canoemen wish? Late in the afternoon we pitched tent on a woody hill half a mile above Edmundston. To signalize our return to civilization we visited the hotel and post-office, and then returned to camp for tea. The fire blazed right merrily that night, and to ward off melancholy thoughts we told stories as usual.
“Boys,” said Stranion, “I’ve saved for this last night in camp the one that I count choicest of all my yarns. The scene of it lies on those very waters which we have lately passed through!”
“Name?” demanded I, sharpening my pencil with a business air.
“Just—
‘INDIAN DEVILS,’
replied Stranion.
“It was a scorching noon in mid-July of 1885. Dear old H—— and I were in camp on the upper waters of the Squatook, not far below the mouth of Beardsley Brook. How H—— loved to get away from his professorial dignity and freely unbend in the woods! He used to swear he would never again put on a starched collar. But his big American university keeps him prim enough now!
“We had called a halt for dinner and siesta in a little sandy cove, where the river eddied listlessly. It was a hollow between high banks, down which drew a soft breeze as through a funnel, and the deep grass fringing the tiny beach was densely shadowed by a tangle of vines and branches.
“Our birch canoe was behind us, her resined sides well shaded from the heat. At the water’s edge flickered the remnants of our fire, paled and browbeaten by the steady downpour of sunshine. The stream itself, for a wonder grown drowsy, idled over its pebbly bed with a sleep-inducing murmur.
“While we were thus half idling and dreaming, I was startled wide awake by the grating of a paddle on a line of gravelly shoals above the point. A moment more and a birch canoe swept into view, and drew up at our landing-place. The crew, two youngish-looking Indians, having lifted their craft out of the water, stalked silently up the beach and paused before us, leaning on their paddles. With a non-committal grunt they accepted some proffered tobacco, glanced over our baggage, eyed greedily the bright nickel-plating on our trout-rods, and murmured something in Melicete which I failed to comprehend.