Noel had to paddle hard to catch sight of the pirogue before it turned into the main river. He kept close inshore, glimpsing the pirogue every now and again without showing himself in return. He saw Sherwood and the child disembark at the head of the rapids and make a line fast to the stern of the big dugout and drop it slowly down through the white and black water. That eased his anxiety considerably, for he saw that Sherwood was sane in his care of little Marion, at least. Had he been mad in every respect he would have run the rapids or made a try at it.
Noel carried his canoe around to the pool below; when he next caught sight of the big pirogue he was astonished to see that the little girl was in the stern, paddling steadily and easily and that Sherwood had vanished. Perhaps Sherwood had taken to the woods in a spasm of terror or perhaps he was still in the pirogue, lying low. Noel continued to follow cautiously. He saw nothing more of Sherwood. He saw Marion rest and drift. He saw her eat. Once she ran the bow of the pirogue against the beach and remained there for more than an hour, seated motionless, save for slow turning of her head, as if she listened and watched for something or some one. At last she continued her journey and Noel followed again. He felt quite sure that Sherwood had taken to the woods. Mad!
When within five or six miles of O’Dell’s Point Noel turned and headed upstream for home. He knew that there was no dangerous water between Marion and the Point and that she would reach safe landing soon after sundown. He got back to French River next day.
That was his story. It was the story he had told to the deputy sheriff and Mel Lunt, though he had not given those worthies so detailed a version of it.
“Are you the only settler on the river?” asked Ben.
“But don’t strangers come here sometimes, sportsmen and that sort of thing?”
“Yes—but the sports who fish dis river don’t come dis summer. But I see one stranger. I tell Sherwood ’bout dat feller, but he don’t care. He too crazy. I tell Lunt ’bout ’im too an’ Lunt call me a liar.”
“What about the stranger?” asked McAllister. “Suspicious-looking character was he, or what?”
“Dat right. He come onto dis clearin’ one day, sudden, an’ look t’rough dat door at me an’ say ‘Hullo, frien’, you know good feller ’round here somewheres name of Louis Balenger, hey, what?’ ‘Nope, don’t never see Balenger,’ I tell dat man. ‘Balenger go off dis river ten-twelve year ago an’ don’t come back. You his brodder, maybe, hey?’ ‘Brodder be tam!’ dat stranger say. ‘Do bizness wid him one time. Got somet’ing for him, but it don’t matter. Good day.’ Den he walk off quick, dat stranger, an’ I don’t foller him, no. He smile kinder nasty at me, wid two-t’ree gold tooth, so I t’ink maybe Noel Sabattis may’s well go right on wid cookin’ his little dinner. Don’t see dat stranger no more.”