upon him would also
doubtless have increased, and it was quite likely he might do violence
to himself and so hasten his cruel fate. Even while they talked, indeed,
the end had probably come. On the suggestion of Hank, his old pal,
however, they proposed to wait a little longer and devote the whole of
the following day, from dawn to darkness, to the most systematic search
they could devise. They would divide the territory between them. They
discussed their plan in great detail. All that men could do they would
do. And, meanwhile, they talked about the particular form in which the
singular Panic of the Wilderness had made its attack upon the mind of
the unfortunate guide. Hank, though familiar with the legend in its
general outline, obviously did not welcome the turn the conversation had
taken. He contributed little, though that little was illuminating. For
he admitted that a story ran over all this section of country to the
effect that several Indians had "seen the Wendigo" along the shores of
Fifty Island Water in the "fall" of last year, and that this was the
true reason of Defago's disinclination to hunt there. Hank doubtless
felt that he had in a sense helped his old pal to death by
overpersuading him. "When an Indian goes crazy," he explained, talking
to himself more than to the others, it seemed, "it's always put that
he's 'seen the Wendigo.' An' pore old Defaygo was superstitious down to
he very heels ...!"
And then Simpson, feeling the atmosphere more sympathetic, told over
again the full story of his astonishing tale; he left out no details
this time; he mentioned his own sensations and gripping fears. He only
omitted the strange language used.
"But Defago surely had already told you all these details of the Wendigo
legend, my dear fellow," insisted the doctor. "I mean, he had talked
about it, and thus put into your mind the ideas which your own
excitement afterwards developed?"
Whereupon Simpson again repeated the facts. Defago, he declared, had
barely mentioned the beast. He, Simpson, knew nothing of the story, and,
so far as he remembered, had never even read about it. Even the word was
unfamiliar.
Of course he was telling the truth, and Dr. Cathcart was reluctantly
compelled to admit the singular character of the whole affair. He did
not do this in words so much as in manner, however. He kept his back
against a good, stout tree; he poked the fire into a blaze the moment it
showed signs of dying down
|