And now, even more cautiously than he had made the tiny opening, he began to work the muzzle of his rifle through the loophole.  As he did this he was thinking of Black Roger Audemard.  And yet, almost as quickly as suspicion leaped into his mind, he told himself that the thing was impossible.  It could not be Black Roger, or one of Black Roger’s friends, behind the cedar log.  The idea was inconceivable, when he considered how carefully the secret of his mission had been kept at the Landing.  He had not even said goodby to his best friends.  And because Black Roger had won through all the preceding years, Carrigan was stalking his prey out of uniform.  There had been nothing to betray him.  Besides, Black Roger Audemard must be at least a thousand miles north, unless something had tempted him to come up the rivers with the spring brigades.  If he used logic at all, there was but one conclusion for him to arrive at.  The man in ambush was some rascally half-breed who coveted his outfit and whatever valuables he might have about his person.

A fourth smashing eruption among his comestibles and culinary possessions came to drive home the fact that even that analysis of the situation was absurd.  Whoever was behind the rifle fire had small respect for the contents of his pack, and he was surely not in grievous need of a good gun or ammunition.  A sticky mess of condensed cream was running over Carrigan’s hand.  He doubted if there was a whole tin in his kit.

For a few moments he lay quietly on his face after the fourth shot.  His eyes were turned toward the river, and on the far side, a quarter of a mile away, three canoes were moving swiftly up the slow current of the stream.  The sunlight flashed on their wet sides.  The gleam of dripping paddles was like the flutter of silvery birds’ wings, and across the water came an unintelligible shout in response to the rifle shot.  It occurred to David that he might make a trumpet of his hands and shout back, but the distance was too great for his voice to carry its message for help.  Besides, now that he had the added protection of the pack, he felt a certain sense of humiliation at the thought of showing the white feather.  A few minutes more, if all went well, and he would settle for the man behind the log.

He continued again the slow operation of worming his rifle barrel between the pack and the rock.  The near-sighted little sandpiper had discovered him and seemed interested in the operation.  It had come a dozen feet nearer, and was perking its head and seesawing on its long legs as it watched with inquisitive inspection the unusual manifestation of life behind the rock.  Its twittering note had changed to an occasional sharp and querulous cry.  Carrigan wanted to wring its neck.  That cry told the other fellow that he was still alive and moving.