followed, then another, and another and still another in regular
interval. Not a sound could be heard. In the distance their occupants
gave the illusion of cowled figures,--the Indian women close wrapped in
their shawls, dropping their heads modestly or turning them aside as
their customs commanded them to do on encountering strangers. Against
the evening glow of the reflected sky for a single instant they stood
out in the bright yellow of the new birch-bark, the glow of warm colour
on the women's dress. Then instantaneously, in the darkness of the
opposite bank, they faded wraith-like and tenuous. Like phantoms of the
past they glided by, a river's width away; then vanished around the
upper bend. A moment later the river was empty.

"Th' squaws goin' ahead to start camp," commented Sam Bolton,
indifferently; "we'll have th' bucks along pretty quick."

They drove their paddles strongly, and drifted to the middle of the
river.

Soon became audible shouts, cries, and laughter, the click of canoe
poles. The business of the day was over. Until nearly sundown the men's
canoes had led, silent, circumspect, seeking game at every bend of the
river. Now the squaws had gone on to make camp. No more game was to be
expected. The band relaxed, joking, skylarking, glad to be relieved for
a little while of the strain of attention.

In a moment the canoes appeared, a long, unbroken string, led by
Haukemah. In the bow sat the chief's son, a lad of nine, wielding his
little paddle skilfully, already intelligent to twist the prow sharply
away from submerged rocks, learning to be a canoe-man so that in the
time to come he might go on the Long Trail.