Catherine gave the intruder a warning glance.
Akerley sighed and told a story of his past—a very patchy one—along the lines which he had planned while lying awake in the barn the night before. But his heart was not in it. He felt that the old woodsman was doing him an injustice and an injury in believing in flying devils and at the same time refusing to believe in flying men. He felt that, but for this crazy kink in Gaspard’s brain, he could safely be as frank with him as he had been with Catherine—for he saw the qualities of kindness and understanding in the old man. But he had to invent a silly story as he valued his life.
He was from the big river, he said: but he had lived in towns sometimes and even gone to school. He had made his living in the woods of late years in lumber-camps and on the “drives” and that sort of thing. He had trapped for one winter, without much success; and he had taken city sportsmen up-country several times, for fishing in summer and to hunt moose and deer in the fall. He was not a registered guide, and he had not kept to any one part of the country for long at a time.
“What started ye fer Injun River?” asked Gaspard.
“I had to start for somewhere, and quick at that,” replied Akerley.
“Had to, hey? Chased out?”
“I didn’t wait to see if I was chased. I had plenty of gas, as it happened, and—”
“Hey?”
“Grub. I shifted my ground quick and stepped light so’s not to leave any tracks in the mud. My canoe was ready.”
“I reckon ye mean that the Law’s on yer tracks,” said Gaspard, eyeing him keenly. “Ye don’t look like a law-breaker to me—onless maybe it was a game-law ye busted.”