And now, even more cautiously than he had made the tiny opening,
he began to work the muzzle of his rifle through the loophole. As
he did this he was thinking of Black Roger Audemard. And yet,
almost as quickly as suspicion leaped into his mind, he told
himself that the thing was impossible. It could not be Black
Roger, or one of Black Roger's friends, behind the cedar log. The
idea was inconceivable, when he considered how carefully the
secret of his mission had been kept at the Landing. He had not
even said goodby to his best friends. And because Black Roger had
won through all the preceding years, Carrigan was stalking his
prey out of uniform. There had been nothing to betray him.
Besides, Black Roger Audemard must be at least a thousand miles
north, unless something had tempted him to come up the rivers with
the spring brigades. If he used logic at all, there was but one
conclusion for him to arrive at. The man in ambush was some
rascally half-breed who coveted his outfit and whatever valuables
he might have about his person.

A fourth smashing eruption among his comestibles and culinary
possessions came to drive home the fact that even that analysis of
the situation was absurd. Whoever was behind the rifle fire had
small respect for the contents of his pack, and he was surely not
in grievous need of a good gun or ammunition. A sticky mess of
condensed cream was running over Carrigan's hand. He doubted if
there was a whole tin in his kit.

For a few moments he lay quietly on his face after the fourth
shot. His eyes were turned toward the river, and on the far side,
a quarter of a mile away, three canoes were moving swiftly up the