The river was of great depth as well as breadth,—­one of the king rivers of the land.  Ben found himself staring into its depths with a quickening pulse.  He had a momentary impression that this great stream was his ally, a mighty agent that he could bend to his will.

He approached the long, sloping bank on which stood Neilson’s cabin; and he suddenly drew up short at the sight of a light, staunch canoe on the open water.  It was a curious fact that he noticed the craft itself before ever he glanced at its occupant.  A thrill of excitement passed over him.  He realized that this boat simplified to some degree his own problem, in that it afforded him means of traversing this great water-body, certainly to be a factor in the forthcoming conflict.  The boat had evidently been the property of Hiram Melville.

Then he noticed, with a strange, inexplicable leap of his heart, that its lone occupant was Beatrice Neilson.  His eye kindled at the recognition, and the beginnings of a smile flashed to his lips.  But at once remembrance came to him, crushing his joy as the heel crushes a tender flower.  The girl was of the enemy camp, the daughter of the leader of the triumvirate of murderers.  While she herself could have had no part in the crime, perhaps she already had guilty knowledge of it, and at least she was of her father’s hated blood.

He had builded much on his friendship with this girl; but he felt it withering, turning black—­like buds under frost—­in his cold breast.  There could be no friendly words, except in guile; no easy comradeship between them now.  They were on opposite sides, hated foes to the last.  Perhaps she would be one of the innocents that must suffer with the guilty; but he felt no remorse.  Not even this lovely, tender wood child must stand in his way.

Nevertheless, he must not put her on guard.  He must simulate friendship.  He lifted his hat in answer to her gay signal.

She wore a white middy blouse, and her brown, bare forearms flashed pleasantly in the spring sun.  Her brown hair was disarranged by the wind that found a passway down the river, and her eyes shone with the sheer, unadorned love of living.  Evidently she had just enjoyed a brisk paddle through the still stretches of the river.  With sure, steady strokes she pushed the craft close to the little, board landing where Ben stood.  She reached up to him, and in an instant was laughing—­at nothing in particular but the fun of life—­at his side.

The man glanced once at Fenris, spoke in command, then turned to the girl.  “All rested from the ride, I see,” he began easily.

Her instincts keyed to the highest pitch, for an instant she thought she discerned an unfamiliar tone, hard and hateful, in his voice.  But his eyes and his lips were smiling; and evidently she was mistaken.  “I never get tired,” she responded.  She glanced at the tools in his arms.  “I suppose you’ve found a dozen rich lodes already this morning.”