As they settled themselves in the chairs, Clem looked out at the island lying so close in the twilight. She could almost see the long war canoes beached as Mr. Morgan had described them. It was easy to imagine that the trail up the alder-grown draw was peopled once more with the line of savages bearing aloft the body of the dead chieftain and to Clem, once more the two young men—Bunte and Thomas Morgan—were being urged up the trail to an unknown fate. She squeezed Dave’s hand in a little ecstasy of excitement and waited for Mr. Morgan to resume.
“Finally our way led into a level clearing about one hundred feet wide, broken by a solitary evergreen tree near the center,” said their elderly host, blowing a wreath of smoke aloft from his cigar. “Unless I am mistaken, an old cabin stands in th
