River of Ice

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The three Indians were afraid. The one with the flat face and the pointed head kept sniffing around like an animal trying to catch a death scent.

The big one with the scar under his left ear was rolling his eyes and jumping whenever a twig cracked in the virgin fir forest that surrounded the group.

The third, a man so lined with age that he looked like a nut-brown monkey, yet with all a monkey’s lithe activity in spite of his years, was chattering something to the other two.

Indians don’t show fear. That is the legend, at least. They are stolid, concealing all their emotions. Maybe so. But these Indians weren’t concealing their emotions! They were scared stiff, and they showed it very plainly.

“What do you suppose it is?” said Brent Waller. Brent was a husky fellow in his middle twenties. He had black hair and snapping black eyes, and thick pads of fur on the backs of his fingers and hands. Dressed in high boots, mackinaw and woolen shirt, he looked like a chap who could take care of himself. Yet he found himself being a little uneasy too with Chinooks chattering around like a trio of frightened children.

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