“I’m in favour of breaking new ground to-morrow, Doc,” he observed

with energy, looking across at his employer. “We don’t stand a dead

Dago’s chance about here.”

“Agreed,” said Cathcart, always a man of few words. “Think the

idea’s good.”

“Sure pop, it’s good,” Hank resumed with confidence. “S’pose, now,

you and I strike west, up Garden Lake way for a change! None of us

ain’t touched that quiet bit o’ land yet — ”

“I’m with you.”

“And you, Defago, take Mr. Simpson along in the small canoe, skip

across the lake, portage over into Fifty Island Water, and take a good

squint down that thar southern shore. The moose Ôyarded’ there like

hell last year, and for all we know they may be doin’ it agin this year

jest to spite us.”

Defago, keeping his eyes on the fire, said nothing by way of reply.

He was still offended, possibly, about his interrupted story.

“No one’s been up that way this year, an’ I’ll lay my bottom dollar

on that!” Hank added with emphasis, as though he had a reason for

knowing. He looked over at his partner sharply. “Better take the little

silk tent and stay away a couple o’ nights,” he concluded, as though

the matter were definitely settled. For Hank was recognized as general

organizer of the hunt, and in charge of the party.

It was obvious to any one that Defago did not jump at the plan, but

his silence seemed to convey something more than ordinary disapproval,

and across his sensitive dark face there passed a curious expression

like a flash of firelight — not so quickly, however, that the three

men had not time to catch it. “He funked for some reason, I thought,”

Simpson said afterwards in the tent he shared with his uncle. Dr.

Cathcart made no immediate reply, although the look had interested him

enough at the time for him to make a mental note of it. The expression

had caused him a passing uneasiness he could not quite account for at

the moment.

But Hank, of course, had been the first to notice it, and the odd

thing was that instead of becoming explosive or angry over the other’s

reluctance, he at once began to humour him a bit.

“But there ain’t no speshul reason why no one’s been up there this

year,” he said with a perceptible hush in his tone; “not the reason you

mean, anyway! Las’ year it was the fires that kep’ folks out, and this

year I guess — I guess it jest happened so, that’s all!” His manner

was clearly meant to be encouraging.

Joseph Defago raised his eyes a moment, then dropped them again. A

breath of wind stole out of the forest and stirred the embers into a

passing blaze. Dr. Cathcart again noticed the expression in the guide’s

face, and again he did not like it. But this time the nature of the

look betrayed itself. In those eyes, for an instant, he caught the

gleam of a man scared in his very soul. It disquieted him more than he

cared to admit.

“Bad Indians up that way?” he asked, with a laugh to ease matters a

little, while Simpson, too sleepy to notice this subtle by-play, moved

off to bed with a prodigious yawn; “or — or anything wrong with the

country?” he added, when his nephew was out of hearing.

Hank met his eye with something less than his usual frankness.

“He’s jest skeered,” he replied good-humouredly, “Skeered stiff

about some ole feery tale! That’s all, ain’t it, ole pard?” And he gave

Defago a friendly kick in the moccasined foot that lay nearest the

fire.

Defago looked up quickly, as from an interrupted reverie, a

reverie, however, that had not prevented his seeing all that went on

about him.

“Skeered — nuthin’!” he answered, with a flush of defiance.