Two days subsequent, late in the afternoon, Dick pointed out what looked to be a dark streak beneath a bowlder that lay some distance from the banks on a shale bar.
"What's that animal?" he asked.
"Can't make her out," said Bolton, after inspection.
"Ninny-moosh," said the Indian girl, indifferently. It was the first word she had spoken since her talk with the older man.
"It's a dog, all right," conceded Sam. "She has sharp eyes."
The animal rose and began to bark. Two more crashed toward him through the bushes. A thin stream of smoke disengaged itself from the tops of the forest trees. As they swept around the bend, the travellers saw a man contemplating them stolidly through a screen of leaves.
The canoe floated on. About an hundred yards below the Indians Sam ordered a landing. Camp was made as usual. Supper was cooked. The fire replenished. Then, just before the late sunset of the Far North, the bushes crackled.
"Now let me do the talking," warned Sam.
"All right. I'll just keep my eye on this," Dick nodded toward the girl. "She's Ojibway, too, you know. She may give us away."
"She can't only guess," Sam reminded. "But there ain't any danger, anyway."