F you journey down the Little Pigeon by canoe from the height o' land, you shall come at sunset—if you have had moderate luck with rapids and the like—to a huge pine standing by the bank of the river on a tempting little flat. It is towering, enormous, a giant of its kind, rough-barked and venerable. It is heavily topped, and standing beneath it you may look up at a dense canopy of dark green, with never a glint of sunshine or sky striking through. Occasionally its odorous depths are invaded by garrulous crows or chattering squirrels, or more rarely an aristocratic marten; now and then a questing hawk alights on its feathery utmost top; otherwise, it is devoid of the smaller life.
Under its bushy top the ground, carpeted with fallen brown needles, is always dry. Far below, reaching out thirstily, its roots drink from living springs and from the river itself. On every side, save riverward, the little flat on which it stands is sheltered by wood of smaller growth—maple, birch, poplar, alder, and willow. In the middle of a howling, midwinter gale you can light a match there unshielded, so complete is the protection.
Through this lesser growth run the game trails, winding through swamps, through second growths, through hardwood, over Norway ridges, dipping down and rising up until they become faint, less trodden, and finally vanish.
Following these forest highways come the forest folk, sometimes by twos and threes, but more often singly; seldom hurried, always watchful, preferring to travel up wind when they may, ever intent on their business, be it food, water, safety, or love-making. Up and down them stray the slim, graceful red deer; the ungainly, lordly moose; the pig-eyed black bear; an occasional mountain lion; and many a huge-pawed lynx and ghostly timber wolf, with a host of lesser quality—fox, rabbit, fisher, wolverene, skunk, and porcupine.
Coming then at about the hour of sunset—which is the time when the sensible man thinks of making camp—to the big tree and this little flat so manifestly intended by Providence to spread blankets upon, the chances are that you will make the suggestion over your shoulder to the man in the other end of the canoe. But if he be Felix Desjardalais or Onesime Charron or Flatfoot McCarty or Moise Stick, or any one of the native born who use the Little Pigeon, he will tell you that it is not a good camping spot—which is manifestly a lie—and lean strongly against his paddle. And if you had eyes in the back of your head, you might see him bless himself hurriedly.
In the end you will camp after dark three or four miles farther on, in a spot which your judgment tells you is inferior in every way to the pine flat, and you will wonder why, and possibly ask why. And the chances are that Felix or Onesime or Flatfoot or Moise will either not tell you at all or merely lie again. But this is why:
Pierre Latour, thrusting strongly with stiffly outstretched arm and weight of shoulder on the paddle, swung his canoe around the bend above Burke's Landing and translated his satisfaction into purring blasphemy as the few log buildings that made up the Landing hove in sight. He laid the paddle across the gunwale and proceeded to fill his pipe leisurely, as one whose work is done.
The canoe, a light, roomy bark, was loaded to within three inches of the water and was consequently as unstable as a floating log. It was crammed with bundles, sacks, cooking utensils, tools, and traps; for Pierre Latour—better known as Latour Noir, from his exceeding swarthiness due to a dash of Indian blood, of which he was not proud—was down from the winter's hunt, and the canoe held not only his catch of skins, but most of his earthly belongings, since he did not intend to return again to the district in which he had just wintered.
For this there was a very good reason—namely, the suspicion of Baptiste Fish, a particularly vindictive and cunning old Cree, that Latour had, on one occasion, at least, robbed his traps.
There was no proof whatever of it, and there could be none. Baptiste had never even seen the silver fox whose beautiful robe was now carefully stowed in the canoe apart from skins of lower degree. Latour knew that, but he also knew that the suspicion would be good enough for Baptiste, who would in all probability shoot him if he visited that district again.
It was not that he was afraid. If he had greatly desired to trap there, he himself would have shot Baptiste, as a preliminary to peaceful enjoyment. But he considered that he had skimmed the cream from that territory; and in the event of a killing suspicion would point directly to him.