THE MYSTERY
Next morning, when they had been on the river for about three hours,
they came upon their friend Etzooah, he of the famous hair, still
hunting along shore in his canoe, but this time without the little boy.
Stonor hailed him with pleasure; for of all the Kakisa Indians only this
one had acted towards them like a man and a brother.
But the policeman was doomed to disappointment. When they overtook
Etzooah they saw that the red man's open, friendly look had changed. He
turned a hard, wary eye on them, just like all the other Kakisas. Stonor
guessed that he must have visited his people in the interim, and have
been filled up with their nonsensical tales. Affecting to notice no
change, Stonor said:
"We are going to spell here. Will you eat with us?"
No Indian was ever known to refuse a meal. Etzooah landed without a
word, and sat apart waiting for it to be prepared. He made no offer to
help, but merely sat watching them out of his inscrutable, beady eyes.
Stonor, hoping to find him with better dispositions after he had filled
up, let him alone.
Throughout the meal Etzooah said nothing except to answer Stonor's
questions in monosyllables. He denied having been up to Ahcunazie's
village. Stonor was struck by the fact that he made no inquiry
respecting his friend Imbrie. Stonor himself did not like to bring up
the subject of Imbrie in Clare's hearing. Altogether baffled by the
man's changed air, he finally said:
"Mary, translate this just as I give it to you.--When the policeman come
down the river he meet Etzooah. He is glad to see Etzooah. He say, here
is a good man. Etzooah give the policeman good talk. They part friends.
But when the policeman come back up the river Etzooah is changed. He is
not glad to see the policeman. He gives him black looks. Why is that?
Has anyone spoken evil of the policeman to Etzooah? He is ready to
answer. He asks this in friendship."
But it was all wasted on the Indian. He shrugged, and said with bland,
unrelenting gaze: "Etzooah not changed. Etzooah glad to see the
policeman come back."
When they had finished eating, Clare, guessing that Stonor could talk
more freely if she were out of hearing, strolled away to a little
distance and sat down to do some mending.
Stonor said to Etzooah through Mary: "I have bad news for you."
The Indian said: "You not find White Medicine Man?"
"He is dead."
Etzooah's jaw dropped. He stared at Stonor queerly. "What for you tell
me that?" he demanded.
The style of the question nonplussed Stonor for the moment. "Why do I
tell you? You said you were his friend."
Etzooah veiled his eyes. "So--he dead," he said stolidly. "I sorry for
that."
Now it was perfectly clear to Stonor that while the man's first
exclamation had been honest and involuntary, his later words were
calculated. There was no trace of sorrow in his tones. It was all very
puzzling.
"I think he must have been crazy," Stonor went on. "He shoved off in his
canoe, and let the current carry him down. Then he shot himself."
Etzooah still studied Stonor like a man searching for ulterior motives.
Clearly he did not believe what he was being told. "Why you think that?
The falls never tell."
"His body didn't go over the falls. It caught on a log-jam in the
rapids."
"I know that log-jam. How you know his body there?"
"I brought it ashore. Mary helped me."
Etzooah smiled in a superior way.
Stonor, exasperated, turned to Mary. "Make it clear to him that I am
telling the truth if it takes half-an-hour." He turned away and filled
his pipe.
Mary presumably found the means of convincing the doubter. Etzooah lost
his mask. His mouth dropped open; he stared at Stonor with wild eyes; a
yellowish tint crept into the ruddy copper of his skin. This agitation
was wholly disproportionate to what Mary was telling him. Stonor
wondered afresh. Etzooah stammered out a question.
Mary said in her impassive way: "Etzooah say how we know that was the
White Medicine Man's body?"
"Was there any other man there?" said Stonor.
When this was repeated to the Indian he clapped his hands to his head.
"Non! Non!" he muttered.
Stonor indicated Clare. "She said it was Imbrie's body. She was his
wife."
Etzooah stared stupidly at Clare.
Suddenly he started to rise.
Mary said: "He say he got go now."
Stonor laid a heavy hand on the Indian's shoulder. "Sit down! Not until
this matter is explained. Perhaps the man did not kill himself. Perhaps
he was murdered."
Etzooah seemed beside himself with terror.
"Ask him what he's afraid of?"
"He say he sick in his mind because his friend is dead."
"Nonsense! This is not grief, but terror. Tell him I want the truth now.
I asked as a friend at first: now I ask in the name of the law."
Etzooah suddenly rolled away on the ground out of Stonor's reach. Then,
springing to his feet with incredible swiftness, he cut for the water's
edge. But Mary stuck out her leg in his path and he came to earth with a
thud. Stonor secured him. Clare from where she sat looked up with
startled eyes.
"For the last time I ask you what you know about this matter," said
Stonor sternly. "If you refuse to answer, I'll carry you outside and put
you in the white man's jail."
Etzooah answered sullenly.
"He say he know not'ing," said Mary.
"Get the tracking-line, and help me tie his hands and feet."
When Etzooah saw that Stonor really meant to do what he said, he
collapsed.
"He say he tell now," said Mary.
Etzooah spoke rapidly and tremblingly to Mary. Little doubt now that he
was telling the truth, thought Stonor, watching him. The effect of his
communication on the stolid Mary was startling in the extreme. She
started back, and the same look of panic terror appeared in her eyes.
She was unable to speak.
"For God's sake, what's the matter with you all?" cried Stonor.
Mary moistened her dry lips. She faltered: "He say--he say he so scare
when you say you find Imbrie's body five sleeps ago because--because two
sleeps ago Imbrie spell wit' him beside the river."
It was the turn of Stonor's jaw to drop, and his eyes to stare.
"But--but this is nonsense!" he cried.
Clare could no longer contain her curiosity. "What is the matter,
Martin?" she asked.
"Some red-skin mumbo-jumbo," he answered angrily. "I'll soon get to the
bottom of it."
Lowering his voice, he said to Mary: "Have him tell me exactly what
happened two sleeps ago."
Mary translated as Etzooah spoke. "Two sleeps ago. The sun was half-way
to the middle of the sky. I spell down river near the rapids on the
point where the tepee-poles are. I see White Medicine Man come paddling
up. I moch surprise see him all alone because I know you gone down to
see him. I call to him. He come on shore to me."
"What kind of a canoe?" asked Stonor.
"Kakisa canoe. Got willow-branches in it, for cause Eembrie sit on his
knees and paddle, not like Kakisa."
This was a convincing detail. Little beads of perspiration sprang out on
Stonor's brow.
Etzooah went on: "We talk----"
"Could he speak Kakisa?"
"No. We talk by signs. He know some Kakisa words. I teach him that. I
say to him Red-coat and White girl gone down river to see you. You not
see them? How is that? Eembrie laugh: say: 'I see them, but they not see
me. Red-coat want to get me I guess, so I run away.' Eembrie say: 'Don'
you tell Red-coat you see me.' That is why I not want tell. I mean no
harm. Eembrie is my friend. I not want police to get him."
Stonor scarcely heard the last words. His world was tumbling around his
ears. But Etzooah's and Mary's sly, scared glances in his face brought
him to himself. "Anything more?" he asked harshly.
Etzooah hastened on: "Eembrie moch in a hurry. Not want spell. Say he
come away so quick got no grub but duck him shoot. I got not'ing but
little rabbit, but I say, come to my camp, got plenty dry meat, dry
fish. So we paddle up river till the sun is near gone under. Eembrie not
talk much. Eembrie not want come to my camp. Not want my wife, my
brot'er, my children see him. My camp little way from river. Eembrie
wait beside the river. I go bring him dry meat, dry fish, matches and a
hatchet. Eembrie go up river. That is all."
The story had a convincing ring. So far as it went Stonor could scarcely
doubt it, though there was much else that needed to be explained. It
pricked the bubble of his brief happiness. How was he going to tell
Clare? He had much ado to keep his face under the Indians' curious
glances. They naturally were ascribing their terrors to him. This idea
caused him to smile grimly.
"What kind of a gun did Imbrie have?" he asked.
Etzooah replied through Mary that he had not seen Imbrie's gun, that it
was probably covered by his blankets.
Stonor seemed to be pondering deeply on what he had heard. As a matter
of fact, conscious only of the hurt he had received, he was incapable of
consecutive thought. The damnable question reiterated itself. "How am I
going to tell Clare?" Even now she was waiting with her eyes upon him
for some word. He dared not look at her.
He was roused by hearing Etzooah and Mary talking together in scared
voices.
"What does Etzooah say?" he demanded.
Mary faltered: "He say Eembrie got ver' strong medicine. Him not stay
dead."
"That is nonsense. You saw the body. Could a man without a face come to
life?"
She asked Etzooah timidly if Imbrie's face was all right.
"Well, what does he say?" Stonor demanded with a scornful smile.
"He say Eembrie's face smooth lak a baby's," Mary replied with downcast
eyes.
"If Etzooah's story is true it was another man's body that we buried,"
said Stonor dejectedly.
He saw by the dogged expression on both red faces that they would not
have this. They insisted on the supernatural explanation. In a way they
loved the mystery that scared them half out of their wits.
"What man's body was that?" asked Etzooah, challengingly.
And Stonor could not answer. Etzooah insisted that no other man had gone
down the river, certainly no white man. Stonor knew from the condition
of the portage trail that no one had come up from below that season.
There remained the possibility that Imbrie had brought in a companion
with him, but everything in his shack had been designed for a single
occupant; moreover the diary gave the lie to this supposition. Etzooah
said that he had been to Imbrie's shack the previous fall, and there was
no other man there then. There were moments when the bewildered
policeman was almost forced to fall back on the supernatural
explanation.
It would never do for him, though, to betray bewilderment; not only the
two Indians, but Clare, looked to him for guidance. He must not think of
the wreck of his own hopes, but only of what must be done next. He rose
stiffly, and gave Mary the word to pack up. At any rate his duty was
clear. The fleeing Imbrie held the key to the mystery, and he must be
captured--Imbrie, Clare's husband, and now a possible murderer!
"Martin, tell me what's the matter," Clare said again, as he held the
dug-out for her to get in.
"I'll tell you as soon as I get rid of this Indian," he said, with as
easy an air as he could muster.
He ordered Etzooah to take him to his camp, as he wished to search it,
and to question his family. The Indian stolidly prepared to obey.
It was at no great distance up-stream. It consisted of three tepees
hidden from the river, a Kakisa custom dating from the days when they
had warlike enemies. The tepees were occupied by Etzooah's immediate
family, and the households respectively of his brother and his
brother-in-law.
The search and the examination revealed but one significant fact, and
that corroborated Etzooah's story. Two days before he had undoubtedly
come into camp and had taken meat and fish from their slender store.
Exerting the prerogative of the head of the family, he had declined to
tell them what he wanted it for, and the women recited the fact to
Stonor as a grievance. It was a vastly relieved Etzooah that Stonor left
among his relatives. The fear of being carried off among the white men
remained with him until he saw the policeman out of sight. Stonor had
warned him to say nothing of what had happened down-river.
Stonor rejoined Clare and Mary, and they continued up-stream. Stonor had
now to tell Clare what he had learned. She was waiting for it. In her
anxious face there was only solicitude for him, no suspicion that the
affair concerned herself. He had wished to wait until night, but he saw
that he could not travel all day in silence with her. No use beating
about the bush either; she was an intelligent being and worthy of
hearing the truth.
"Clare," he began, avoiding her eyes, "you know I told you how I found
your husband's body in the river, but I did not tell you--I merely
wished to spare you something horrible--that it was much mutilated by
being thrown against the rocks, especially the face."
She paled. "How did you know then--how did we know that it was he?" she
asked, with a catch in her breath.
"You appeared to recognize it. You cried out his name before you
fainted. I thought there must be certain marks known to you."
"Well?"
"It appears we were mistaken. It must have been the body of another man.
According to the story the Indian has just told, Imbrie went up the
river two days ago. The story is undoubtedly true. There were details he
could not have invented."
There was a silence. When he dared look at her, he saw with relief that
she was not so greatly affected as he had feared. She was still thinking
of him, Stonor.
"Martin," she murmured, deprecatingly, "there's no use pretending. I
don't seem to feel it much except through you. You are so distressed.
For myself it all seems--so unreal."
He nodded. "That's natural."
She continued to study his face. "Martin, there's worse behind?" she
said suddenly.
He looked away.
"You suspect that this man ... my husband ... whom I do not know ...
that other man ... murder, perhaps?"
He nodded.
She covered her face with her hands. But only for a moment. When they
came down she could still smile at him.
"Martin, do not look so, or I shall hate myself for having brought all
this on you."
"That's silly," he said gruffly.
She did not misunderstand the gruffness. "Do not torment yourself so.
It's a horrible situation, unspeakably horrible. But it's none of our
making. We can face it. I can, if I am sure you will always--be my
friend--even though we are parted."
He raised his head. After all she was the comforter. "You make me
ashamed," he said. "Of course we can face it!"
"Perhaps I can help you. I must try to remember now. We must work at it
like a problem that does not concern us especially."
"Have you the diary?" he asked suddenly. "That's essential now."
"Did I have it?"
"In the side pocket of your coat."
"It's not there now. It's not among my things. I haven't seen it
since--I came to myself."
He concealed his disappointment. "Oh, well, if it was left in the shack
it will be safe there. I'm sure no Indian would go within fifty miles of
the spot now."
"Have you any idea who the dead man could have been?"
"Not the slightest. It's a black mystery."