His first thought was that
Orcutt had arrived at the post and that Downey had taken the trail. He
ceased paddling for a moment and his light canoe swung into the trough
of the waves and rocked crankily.
The other canoe was only a half mile behind, and Wentworth saw with
relief that its occupant was not Downey. Some Indian fishing, he
thought, and resumed his paddling. The south shore was only an hour
away now, and tired as he was, he redoubled his efforts.
Farther on he looked back again. The canoe still followed. Surely no
Indian would set his nets so far from his camp. Yet the man was an
Indian. He had drawn closer and Wentworth could distinguish the short,
jabbing strokes of the paddle.
Another quarter of an hour and Wentworth looked again--and as he
looked, the blood seemed to freeze in his veins. The pursuing canoe
was close now, and he was staring straight into the eyes of Alex Thumb.
The half-breed was smiling--a curious, twisted smile that was the very
embodiment of savage hate. Wentworth's muscles felt weak, and it was
with difficulty that he drove them to the task of forcing the canoe out
of the trough of the waves. Mechanically he paddled with his eyes
fixed on the ever nearing south shore. He was very tired. He would
soon make land now. But when he did make land--what then? He cursed
himself for going unarmed. He could hear the slop of the waves on
Thumb's canoe.
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