“That seems reasonable, Mick.”
“An’ maybe he don’t walk, what?”
Catherine glanced over to assure herself that her grandfather was out of ear-shot, then descended from her perch on the top rail and stepped close to the old Maliseet.
“What do you mean, Mick Otter?” she asked in a whisper.
“That young feller no guide nor lumberman,” said Mick. “Big man, him. See his picter in the paper, all dress up like soldier.”
While he spoke his round, bright eyes searched her eyes.
“Keep quiet,” she whispered. “Grandad doesn’t know—nobody knows. I’ll tell you first chance I get. You are my friend, Mick. You’ll keep quiet, won’t you? Grandad thinks it was a devil—and he is always hunting around with his rifle.”
“That a’ right,” said the Indian; and he returned to his work.
Catherine soon found an opportunity for speech with Akerley. She told him of her conversation with Mick Otter.
“I am not afraid of him,” she continued. “He is kind and sane: He will keep your secret, if we are perfectly frank with him. I am afraid of the newspapers. A mail comes in once a fortnight to Millbrow, and that is only ten miles below Boiling Pot; and perhaps Ned Tone has already seen a paper with your photograph and story in it.”