again. He recalled every gesture
she had made, every word she had spoken. He felt the thrill of her hand
on his forehead, her kiss, and in his brain her softly spoken words
repeated themselves over and over again, "I think that if you lived
very long I should love you." And as she had spoken those words _she
knew that he was not going to die_!

Why, then, had she gone away? Knowing that he was going to live, why
had she not remained to help him if she could? Either she had spoken
the words in jest, or--

A new thought flashed into his mind. It almost drew a cry from his
lips. It brought him up tense, erect, his heart pounding. Had she gone
away? Was it not possible that she, too, was playing a game in giving
the impression that she was leaving down-river on the hidden scow? Was
it conceivable that she was playing that game against Kedsty? A
picture, clean-cut as the stars in the sky, began to outline itself in
his mental vision. It was clear, now, what Mooie's mumblings about
Kedsty had signified. Kedsty had accompanied Marette to the scow. Mooie
had seen him and had given the fact away in his fever. Afterward he had
clamped his mouth shut through fear of the "big man" of the Law. But
why, still later, had he almost been done to death? Mooie was a
harmless creature. He had no enemies.

There was no one at the Landing who would have assaulted the old
trailer, whose hair was white with age. No one, unless it was Kedsty
himself--Kedsty at bay, Kedsty in a rage. Even that was inconceivable.
Whatever the motive of the assault might be, and no matter who had
committed it, Mooie had most certainly seen the Inspector of Police
accompany Marette Radisson to the scow. And the question which Kent
found it impossible to answer was, had Marette Radisson really gone
down the river on that scow?

It was almost with a feeling of disappointment that he told himself it
was possible she had not. He wanted her on the river. He wanted her
going north and still farther north. The thought that she was mixed up
in some affair that had to do with Kedsty was displeasing to him. If
she was still in the Landing or near the Landing, it could no longer be
on account of Sandy McTrigger, the man his confession had saved. In his
heart he prayed that she was many days down the Athabasca, for it was
there--and only there--that he would ever see her again. And his
greatest desire, next to his desire for his freedom, was to find her.
He was frank wit