He felt his heart thumping in an unfamiliar way as Duggan came on.  Was it conceivable that the riverman would not recognize him?  He forgot his beard, forgot the great change that four years had wrought in him.  He remembered only that Duggan had been his friend, that a hundred times they had sat together in the quiet glow of long evenings, telling tales of the great river they both loved.  And always Duggan’s stories had been of that mystic paradise hidden away in the western mountains—­the river’s end, the paradise of golden lure, where the Saskatchewan was born amid towering peaks, and where Duggan—­a long time ago—­had quested for the treasure which he knew was hidden somewhere there.  Four years had not changed Duggan.  If anything his beard was redder and thicker and his hair shaggier than when Keith had last seen him.  And then, following him from the Betsy M., Keith caught the everlasting scent of bacon.  He devoured it in deep breaths.  His soul cried out for it.  Once he had grown tired of Duggan’s bacon, but now he felt that he could go on eating it forever.  As Duggan advanced, he was moved by a tremendous desire to stretch out his hand and say:  “I’m John Keith.  Don’t you know me, Duggan?” Instead, he choked back his desire and said, “Fine morning!”

Duggan nodded uncertainly.  He was evidently puzzled at not being able to place his man.  “It’s always fine on the river, rain ’r shine.  Anybody who says it ain’t is a God A’mighty liar!”

He was still the old Duggan, ready to fight for his river at the drop of a hat!  Keith wanted to hug him.  He shifted his pack and said: 

“I’ve slept with it for a week—­just to have it for company—­on the way down from Cumberland House.  Seems good to get back!” He took off his hat and met the riverman’s eyes squarely.  “Do you happen to know if McDowell is at barracks?” he asked.

“He is,” said Duggan.

That was all.  He was looking at Keith with a curious directness.  Keith held his breath.  He would have given a good deal to have seen behind Duggan’s beard.  There was a hard note in the riverman’s voice, too.  It puzzled him.  And there was a flash of sullen fire in his eyes at the mention of McDowell’s name.  “The Inspector’s there—­sittin’ tight,” he added, and to Keith’s amazement brushed past him without another word and disappeared into the bush.

This, at least, was not like the good-humored Duggan of four years ago.  Keith replaced his hat and went on.  At the farther side of the clearing he turned and looked back.  Duggan stood in the open roadway, his hands thrust deep in his pockets, staring after him.  Keith waved his hand, but Duggan did not respond.  He stood like a sphinx, his big red beard glowing in the early sun, and watched Keith until he was gone.