The Wendigo | Page 2

the Frenchman
had finally subsided into a sulky silence which nothing seemed likely
to break. Dr. Cathcart and his nephew were fairly done after an
exhausting day. Punk was washing up the dishes, grunting to himself
under the lean-to of branches, where he later also slept. No one
troubled to stir the slowly dying fire. Overhead the stars were brilliant
in a sky quite wintry, and there was so little wind that ice was already
forming stealthily along the shores of the still lake behind them. The
silence of the vast listening forest stole forward and enveloped them.
Hank broke in suddenly with his nasal voice.
"I'm in favor of breaking new ground tomorrow, Doc," he observed
with energy, looking across at his employer. "We don't stand a dead
Dago's chance around here."
"Agreed," said Cathcart, always a man of few words. "Think the idea's
good."
"Sure pop, it's good," Hank resumed with confidence. "S'pose, now,
you and I strike west, up Garden Lake way for a change! None of us
ain't touched that quiet bit o' land yet--"
"I'm with you."

"And you, Défago, take Mr. Simpson along in the small canoe, skip
across the lake, portage over into Fifty Island Water, and take a good
squint down that thar southern shore. The moose 'yarded' there like hell
last year, and for all we know they may be doin' it agin this year jest to
spite us."
Défago, keeping his eyes on the fire, said nothing by way of reply. He
was still offended, possibly, about his interrupted story.
"No one's been up that way this year, an' I'll lay my bottom dollar on
_that!_" Hank added with emphasis, as though he had a reason for
knowing. He looked over at his partner sharply. "Better take the little
silk tent and stay away a couple o' nights," he concluded, as though the
matter were definitely settled. For Hank was recognized as general
organizer of the hunt, and in charge of the party.
It was obvious to anyone that Défago did not jump at the plan, but his
silence seemed to convey something more than ordinary disapproval,
and across his sensitive dark face there passed a curious expression like
a flash of firelight--not so quickly, however, that the three men had not
time to catch it.
"He funked for some reason, I thought," Simpson said afterwards in the
tent he shared with his uncle. Dr. Cathcart made no immediate reply,
although the look had interested him enough at the time for him to
make a mental note of it. The expression had caused him a passing
uneasiness he could not quite account for at the moment.
But Hank, of course, had been the first to notice it, and the odd thing
was that instead of becoming explosive or angry over the other's
reluctance, he at once began to humor him a bit.
"But there ain't no speshul reason why no one's been up there this
year," he said with a perceptible hush in his tone; "not the reason you
mean, anyway! Las' year it was the fires that kep' folks out, and this
year I guess--I guess it jest happened so, that's all!" His manner was
clearly meant to be encouraging.
Joseph Défago raised his eyes a moment, then dropped them again. A
breath of wind stole out of the forest and stirred the embers into a
passing blaze. Dr. Cathcart again noticed the expression in the guide's
face, and again he did not like it. But this time the nature of the look
betrayed itself. In those eyes, for an instant, he caught the gleam of a
man scared in his very soul. It disquieted him more than he cared to

admit.
"Bad Indians up that way?" he asked, with a laugh to ease matters a
little, while Simpson, too sleepy to notice this subtle by-play, moved
off to bed with a prodigious yawn; "or--or anything wrong with the
country?" he added, when his nephew was out of hearing.
Hank met his eye with something less than his usual frankness.
"He's jest skeered," he replied good-humouredly. "Skeered stiff about
some ole feery tale! That's all, ain't it, ole pard?" And he gave Défago a
friendly kick on the moccasined foot that lay nearest the fire.
Défago looked up quickly, as from an interrupted reverie, a reverie,
however, that had not prevented his seeing all that went on about him.
"Skeered--_nuthin'!_" he answered, with a flush of defiance. "There's
nuthin' in the Bush that can skeer Joseph Défago, and don't you forget
it!" And the natural energy with which he spoke made it impossible to
know whether he told the whole truth or only a part of it.
Hank turned towards the doctor. He was just going to add something
when he