I have travel to de headwater. I know dees countree."
McDuff looked at Gordon. Over John Gordon swept a sense of disappointment—of regret. If the half-breed's tale was true, David, whom he trusted, whom he had made his friend in the strenuous weeks behind them, was deceiving them. If the tale was true, the Indian surely had a powerful reason for insisting that the location of the road must swing north.
That the old Indian with whom he was accustomed often at night to talk in Ojibway of the life and folk-lore of his people, whom he had found the whitest Indian he had ever known, should lie to them, was incredible. And yet—there were suspicious circumstances.
"You say that a river breaks through the ridge a few miles above here?" asked McDuff.
"Oua, yes? To-day I hear you have talk wid Daveed an' I cum to tell you he lie."
The half-breed seemed nervous. He turned to the tent-door and peered out into the darkness, then waited for McDuff's reply.
"When were you on this river?"
"Four—five year back. I come up here from the Kabenakagami for to hunt fur."
"Um-m." The Scotchman scratched his bearded jaw. "All right, Jean! We'll soon know who's wrong. That's all—get out!" The engineer pointed to the tent-opening.
As the half-breed left, a dark form noiselessly arose
