It wafted the smoke from Bland's stovepipe gently down on the
river's shining face.
Doris sniffed.
"I smell wood smoke," she said. "Is there a fire on the flat?"
"Yes, in a cook's stove," Hollister replied. "There is a shack here."
She questioned him and he told her of the Blands,--all that he had
been told, which was little enough. Doris displayed a deep interest in
the fact that a woman, a young woman, was a near neighbor, as
nearness goes on the British Columbia coast.
From somewhere about the house Myra Bland appeared now. To avoid the
heavy current, Hollister hugged the right-hand shore so that he passed
within a few feet of the bank, within speaking distance of this woman
with honey-colored hair standing bareheaded in the sunshine. She took
a step or two forward. For an instant Hollister thought she was about
to exercise the immemorial privilege of the wild places and hail a
passing stranger. But she did not call or make any sign. She stood
gazing at them, and presently her husband joined her and together they
watched.
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