At noon he rested for an hour and ate luncheon, his eyes now and then scanning the back reach of the lake.  But he saw nothing, and from an aspen thicket scarce half a mile away Alex Thumb watched in silence.

As the afternoon wore to a closer the half-breed drew nearer.  The shadows of the bordering balsams were long on the water when Wentworth first caught sight of the pursuing canoe.  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.  He turned his head and saw that the man was only two lengths behind him.  What would he do?  With the mechanical swing of his arms the words of Murchison and Downey repeated themselves in his brain.  “Serving with the devils in hell; serving with the devils in hell,” with a certain monotonous rhythm the words kept repeating themselves through his brain.  Why had he ever come North?  Why hadn’t he told McNabb that he would have nothing to do with his pulp-wood?  The half-breed’s canoe was alongside, but its occupant did not speak.  He merely jabbed at the waves with his paddle and looked with that devilish twisted smile.

Wentworth hardly knew when his canoe grated upon the gravel.  Stiffly he half walked, half crawled to the bow and lifted out his pack.  Alex Thumb stood upon the gravel and smiled.

“What do you want?” faltered Wentworth, his voice breaking nervously.

The half-breed shrugged.  “You no lak no pardner on de trail?” he asked.

“Where are you going?”

Thumb pointed vaguely toward the south.  “Me—­I’m lak de pardner on de trail.”