“Dat’s right,” said Noel Sabattis.
“Guess we’ve got him, Ben,” said Uncle Jim.
The visitors set out on their homeward journey within an hour of Ben’s demonstration of how the shot had been fired by the owner of the fountain pen and pocket comb. But before packing their dunnage they marked the murderer’s position with a peg in the ground and blazes on several young spruces and they measured the distance in paddle lengths from that point to the point where the bullet had done its work. Then they went, in spite of old Noel’s protests and Uncle Jim’s willingness to remain until next morning. But Ben was in a fever of impatience. Now was not the time to humor Noel’s love of talk or his uncle’s instinctive objections to unseemly haste. Now was the time to follow the clew, to jump onto the trail and keep going, to hammer out the iron while it was hot. This was no time for talk. They had talked enough, reckoned enough, told enough and heard enough. Now was the time for action, for speed. Ben was right, and he had his way as far as McAllister and Noel Sabattis were concerned.
Ben took the stern of the fine canvas canoe and humped all his weight onto the paddle. Not only that, but he requested a little more weight from Uncle Jim in the bow; and the canoe boiled down French River like a destroyer.
It was about five o’clock in the afternoon when they approached the thrashing, flashing head of the big rapids on the main river. Uncle Jim waved his paddle toward the landing place above the first untidy rank of jumping, jostling white and black water. The imposing shout and hum of the rapids came threateningly to their ears.
“We’ll run her,” cried Ben.
“D’ye know the channel?” shouted McAllister, glancing back over his shoulder.
“I asked Noel. It’s close along this shore. He’s often run it.”
“But it ain’t easy at low water. We’d best land and carry around.”
“You can’t miss it, Noel says. And we’re in a hurry. Sit tight and keep your eye skinned, Uncle Jim. Here we go!”