They were watching a small
sailboat that, half a mile out upon the red flood, was bowling in
before a smart breeze, and trying to make out its single occupant.
Finally some one spoke.
"'Tis Bob Gray from Wolf Bight, for that's sure Bob's punt."
"Yes," said another, "'tis sure Bob."
Their curiosity satisfied, all but two strolled into the kitchen,
where supper had been announced.
Douglas Campbell, the older of the two that remained, was a short,
stockily built man with a heavy, full, silver-white beard, and skin
tanned dark as an Indian's by the winds and storms of more than sixty
years. A pair of kindly blue eyes beneath shaggy white eyebrows gave
his face an appearance at once of strength and gentleness, and an
erect bearing and well-poised head stamped him a leader and a man of
importance.
The other was a tall, wiry, half-breed Indian, with high cheek bones
and small, black, shifting eyes that were set very close together and
imparted to the man a look of craftiness and cunning. He was known as
"Micmac John," but said his real name was John Sharp. He had drifted
to the coast a couple of years before on a fishing schooner from
Newfoundland, whence he had come from Nova Scotia. From the coast he
had made his way the hundred and fifty miles to the head of Eskimo
Bay, and there took up the life of a trapper.
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