In a cave in White Bay the voyagers traded with a party of friendly natives. Farther north they found indications of copper, and collected a bagful of the mother rock. In late August a sickness prostrated Master Kingswell and Clotworthy, and camp was made on the mainland. For three weeks the sufferers were unable to lift their heads. They lost flesh until they were little more than skin and bone. Ouenwa undertook the dual position of physician and nurse. He had some knowledge of the science of medicine, as practised by the Beothics, and treated the malady with teas of roots and herbs. He also managed to kill a young caribou, and fed his patients with broth made from the meat. But it was close upon the end of September when the Pelican again took up her northward journey.

Kingswell's real reason for this adventurous cruise was the quest of gold. Other explorers had seen gold ore in the possession of the natives, and he had heard stories of a French sailor having been wounded by a gold-barbed arrow. But the precious metal eluded him. Upon gaining the farthest cape of the great island, he wanted to cross the straits and continue his search along the Labrador coast; but the men shook their heads. The boat was too small for the voyage. Their provisions were running low. The northern summer was already far spent. So Kingswell headed the Pelican southward. After a week of fair winds, they were caught in a squall, and the starboard bow of their stout little craft was shattered while they were in the act of winning to a sheltered anchorage. Everything was salvaged; but it took them three days to patch the boat back to a seaworthiness. Even after this unlooked-for delay, the young commander persisted in exploring every likely looking cave and river mouth that had been neglected on the northward trip. The men grumbled sometimes, but it was not in the heart of any sailor to deny the wishes of so charming and brave a gentleman as Master Kingswell. Ouenwa's long conversations in his partially acquired English helped to keep the company in good spirits.

It was November, and nipping weather in that northern bay, when the Pelican threaded the islands of Exploits and opened Wigwam Harbour to the eager gaze of her company. The harbour was empty! They had not sighted a vessel in any of the outer reaches of the bay. The drying-stages and fish stores stood deserted above the green tide.

Kingswell turned a bloodless face toward his men. "They have sailed for home without us," he said, and swallowed hard. Old Tom Bent gazed reflectively about him, and scratched a hoary whisker with a mahogany finger. He had grumbled at the chance of this very disaster, but now that he was face to face with it the thought of grumbling did not occur to him.

"Ay, sir," said he, "the damned rascals has sailed without us—an' we are lucky not to be in such dirty company!"

He spat contemptuously over the gunwale. The colour returned to Kingswell's cheeks, and a flash of the old humour to his eyes. He smiled approvingly on the boatswain. But young Peter Harding, being neither as old nor as wise as Bent, nor as cool-headed as Clotworthy, had something to say on the subject. He ripped out an oath. Then—"By God," he cried, "here's one man who'd rather sail in a ship with what ye calls dirty company, Tom Bent, than starve in a damn skiff with—with you all," he finished, lamely.

Kingswell and Ouenwa looked at the young seaman with mute indignation in their eyes. But Tom Bent laughed softly.

"Ay, Peter, boy," he said, "ye be one o' these fine, lion-hearted English mariners what's the pride o' the king an' the terror o' the seas. The likes o' ye don't sail shipmates with men, but with the duff an' the soup an' the prize-money." His voice shrilled a little. "Ay, if it wasn't that I know ye for a better man than ye sound just now, I'd ax cap'n's leave to twist the snivellin' nose off the fat face o' ye."

"Tom be right," remarked Clotworthy, with a knowing and well-considered wag of his heavy head.

Harding, who had delivered his speech from a commanding position on a thwart, sat down very softly, as if anxious not to attract any further attention.

"We'll have a look at the old arrow-maker, lads," said Kingswell, cheerfully, "and stock up with enough dried venison to carry us south to Trinity, or even to Conception. Ships often lie in those bays till the snow flies. At the worst we can sail the old Pelican right 'round to St. John's, and winter there. I'll wager the governor would be glad enough of a few extra fighting men to scare off the French and the privateers."

Despite Master Kingswell's brave words, there was no store of dried venison to be obtained from the arrow-maker, for both the old philosopher's lodge and Black Feather's were gone—gone utterly, and only the round, level circles on the sward to show where they had stood. What had become of Montaw and his friends could only be surmised. Ouenwa's opinion that the enemies of Soft Hand were responsible for their disappearance was shared by the Englishman. All agreed that immediate flight was safer than a further investigation of the mystery. So the storm-beaten, wave-weary Pelican turned seaward again.

Two days later, toward nightfall, and after having sailed far up an arm of the sea and into the mouth of a great river, in fruitless search of some belated fishing-ship, the adventurers were startled and cheered by the sound of a musket-shot. It came from inland, from up the shadowy river. It was muffled by distance. It clapped dully on their eager ears like the slamming of a wooden door. But every lonely heart of them knew it for the voice of the black powder. They drifted back a little and lay at anchor all night, just off the mouth of the river. With the dark came the cruel frost. But they crawled beneath their freight of furs and slept. They were astir with the first gray lights, and before sunrise were pulling cautiously up the middle of the channel. White frost sparkled on thwart and gunwale. Dark, mist-wrapped forests of spruce and fir and red pine came down to the water on both sides. Here and there a fang of black rock, noisy with roosting gulls, jutted above the dark current. A jay screamed in the woods. A belated snipe skimmed across their bows. An eagle eyed them from the crown of an ancient pine, and swooped down and away.

They must have ascended the stream a matter of two miles—and hard pulling it was—when Ouenwa's sharp eyes detected the haze of wood smoke beyond a wooded bend.

"Cooking-fire there!" he exclaimed. "Maybe get something to eat? Maybe get killed?"

He spoke cheerfully, as if neither prospect was devoid of charm.

"We'll risk it," remarked Kingswell, quietly. "Put your weight into the stroke, lads—and, Tom, keep your match handy."

At last the bend was rounded, and the rowers turned on the thwarts and peered over their shoulders, and Kingswell uttered a low cry of delight. Close ahead of them the right-hand bank lay level and open, and along its edge were beached three skiffs. About twenty yards back stood a little settlement of log cabins enclosed by palisades. From the chimneys of the cabins plumes of comfortable smoke rose to the clearer azure above. In front of this civilized spot, in mid-stream, a small high-pooped vessel lay moored. Her masts and spars were gone. She swung like a dead body in the brown current.

Tom Bent swore softly and with grave deliberation. "Damn my eyes," he murmured. "Ay, sir, dash my old figger-head, if there don't lay a reggler, complete plantation! Blast my eyes!"

"A tidy, Christian appearin' place," remarked Clotworthy, joyously. "An' real chimleys, too! Well, that do look homely, for certain."

At that moment three men, armed with muskets, ran from the gateway of the enclosure and stood uncertain half-way between the palisade and the river. Kingswell hailed them, standing in the bluff bows of the little Pelican. He stated the nationality, the names, and degrees of himself and the other of the little company, and the manner of their misfortune, even while the boat was covering the short distance to the shore.

The settlers laid aside their weapons, and received Master Kingswell and his men with every show of cordiality and good faith. They were strapping fellows, with weather-tanned faces, broad foreheads, steady eyes, and herculean shoulders. They doffed their skin caps to the gentleman adventurer.

"Ye be our first visitors, sir, since we come ashore here two year and two months ago come to-morrow," said one of the three. "Yes, it be just two year and two months ago, come to-morrow, that we dropped anchor off the mouth of this river," he added, turning to his companions. They agreed silently. Their eyes and attention were fully absorbed by Master Kingswell's imposing, though sadly stained, yellow boots and gold-laced coat. Another settler joined the group, and welcomed the voyagers with sheepish grins. A fifth, arrayed in finery and a sword, approached and halted near by.

"These," said the spokesman, "be Donnellys—father and son." With a casual tip of the thumb, he indicated two rugged members of the company. He turned to a handsome young giant beside him and smote him affectionately on the shoulder. "This here be my boy John—John Trigget," he said, "an' that gentleman be Captain Pierre d'Antons." He bowed, with ungracious deference, to the dark, lean, fashionably dressed individual who stood a few paces away. "An' my name be William Trigget, master mariner," he concluded.

Kingswell bowed low for the second time, and again shook hands with the elder Trigget. Then he stepped over to D'Antons and murmured a few courteous words in so low a voice that his men caught nothing of them. Each gentleman laid his left hand lightly on the hilt of his sword. Each bowed, laced hat in hand, until his long hair fell forward about his face. D'Antons' locks were raven-black, and straight as a horse's mane. Young Kingswell's were bright as pale gold, and soft as a woman's. Both were of goodly proportions and gallant bearing, though the Frenchman was the taller and thinner of the two.

D'Antons slipped his arm within Kingswell's, and, motioning to the others to follow, started toward the stockade. William Trigget immediately strode forward and walked on Master Kingswell's other hand, as if determined to assert his rights as a leader of the mixed company. Ouenwa and the seamen of the Pelican, and the Donnellys and young Trigget, followed close on the heels of their superiors.

"And who may ye be, lad?" inquired John Trigget of Ouenwa, as they crossed the level of frost-seared grass.

"I am Ouenwa," replied the boy, frankly, "and Master Kingswell is my strong friend and protector. My grandsire was Soft Hand, the head chief of this country. His enemies—barking foxes who name themselves wolves—pulled him down in the night-time."

The big settler nodded, and the others uttered ejaculations of pity and interest. The story was not news to them, however.

"Ay," said John Trigget, "Soft Hand were pulled down in the night, sure enough. The Injuns run fair crazy, what with murderin' each other an' burnin' each other's camps. I was huntin', two days to the north, when the trouble began. I come home without stoppin' to make any objections, an' the skipper kep' our gates shut for a whole week. They rebels was for wipin' out everybody; an' they captured two French ships, an' did for the crews. They be moved away inlan' now, thank God. We be safe till spring, I'm thinkin'."

"There be worse folks nor they tormentin' Injuns around these here soundin's, an' ye can take my word for that," growled the elder Donnelly, in guarded tones.

"Belay that," whispered John Trigget. "The devil can cook his stew plenty quick enough. Us won't bear a hand till the pot boils over."

Captain d'Antons glanced back at the talkers. His black eyes gleamed suspiciously.