He loved the river, had faith in it, but he knew that not
until the deep forests swallowed them, as a vast ocean swallows a ship,
would they be beyond the peril that threatened them from the Landing.

Three or four times between sunrise and noon they saw life ashore and
on the stream; once a scow tied to a tree, then an Indian camp, and
twice trappers' shacks built in the edge of little clearings. With the
beginning of afternoon Kent felt growing within him something that was
not altogether eagerness. It was, at times, a disturbing emotion, a
foreshadowing of evil, a warning for him to be on his guard. He used
the sweep more, to help their progress in the current, and he began to
measure time and distance with painstaking care. He recognized many
landmarks.

By four o'clock, or five at the latest, they would strike the head of
the Chute. Ten minutes of its thrilling passage and he would work the
scow into the concealment he had in mind ashore, and no longer would he
fear the arm of the law that reached out from the Landing. As he
planned, he listened. From noon on he never ceased to listen for that
distant _putt, putt, putt_, that would give them a mile's warning of the
approach of the patrol launch.

He did not keep his plans to himself. Marette sensed his growing
uneasiness, and he made her a partner of his thoughts.

"If we hear the patrol before we reach the Chute, we'll still have time
to run ashore," he assured her. "And they won't catch us. We'll be
harder to find than two needles in a haystack. But it's best to be
prepared."

So he brought out his pack and Marette's smaller bundle, and laid his
rifle and pistol holster across them.

It was three o'clock when the character of the river began to change,
and Kent smiled happily. They were entering upon swifter waters. There
were places where the channel narrowed, and they sped through rapids.
Only where unbroken straight waters stretched out ahead of them did
Kent give his arms a rest at the sweep. And through most of the
straight water he added to the speed of the scow. Marette helped him.
In him the exquisite thrill of watching her slender, glorious body as
it worked with his own never grew old. She laughed at him over the big
oar between them. The wind and sun played riot in her hair. Her parted
lips were rose-red, her cheeks flushed, her eyes like sun-warmed rock
violets. More than once, in the thrill of that afternoon flight, as he
looked at the marvel