The sun of the now shortened day dipped below the far-off western
horizon. A chilly breeze drifted up with the tide. Gradually the
trees along the shore became indistinct. The stars tumbled out one by
one. Silence reigned on water and land. But still the canoe sped
noiselessly onward. Not once had Dane spoken to the Indian; his mind
was too much occupied with other things. The picture of a white head
bowed with grief as he had last seen it at the settlement, rose before
him. What agony of soul was that silent man now undergoing. He
emitted a slight groan, which caused Pete to glance quickly around.

"Dane seek, eh?" he queried.

"Not sick, Pete; only mad. I'm in hell."

"A-ha-ha, me know. Bad, eh?"

Dane's only reply was a more vigorous stroke than ever, which caused
the canoe to quiver as it leaped forward. He was too much excited as
yet to form any definite line of action. He thought only of the Indian
encampments along the river and the various tributaries. Surely at one
of these he would find out something which would guide him in his
search. There was no time to be lost. Winter was not far away, and
the river would soon be frozen from bank to bank. Already the wild
geese had gone South in great wedge-like battalions, and any day the
wild nor'easter might sweep down, and with the blast of its cruel
breath strike rivers, lakes, and babbling brooks into a numbing silence.

For days and nights they continued their search. From camp to camp
they sped with feverish haste, but not a clue could they find. The
Indians had heard nothing of the missing girl, and Dane's heart sank