"I am Jeanne Marie-Anne Boulain," she said. "My brigade is down
the river, M'sieu Carrigan."
He was amazed at the promptness of her confession, for as one of
the working factors of the long arm of the police he accepted it
as that. He had scarcely expected her to divulge her name after
the cold-blooded way in which she had attempted to kill him. And
she had spoken quite calmly of "my brigade." He had heard of the
Boulain Brigade. It was a name associated with Chipewyan, as he
remembered it--or Fort McMurray. He was not sure just where the
Boulain scows had traded freight with the upper-river craft. Until
this year he was positive they had not come as far south as
Athabasca Landing. Boulain--Boulain--The name repeated itself over
and over in his mind. Bateese shoved off the canoe, and the
woman's paddle dipped in and out of the water beginning to shimmer
in moonlight. But he could not, for a time, get himself beyond the
pounding of that name in his brain. It was not merely that he had
heard the name before. There was something significant about it.
Something that made him grope back in his memory of things.
Boulain! He whispered it to himself, his eyes on the slender
figure of the woman ahead of him, swaying gently to the steady
sweep of the paddle in her hands.
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