o the present moment, undiscovered.
He believed that he knew about where the ambushed man was concealed. In
the edge of a low-hanging mass of balsam was a fallen cedar. From
behind the butt of that cedar he was sure the shots had come.

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,