The wet dogs look pitiful. They lay their chins flat on the ground, their ears pressed down, their tails between their legs. They are whining like cats, but I’m not about to laugh it off and they know it. My gestures are brusque, my silence hard. When everything is ready I cry, “Allez, La Coureuse! Let’s go home!”

The word home has a magical effect. Their collars dig into their shoulders, the straps strain and tremble. The dogs lower their heads and pull.

“Allez! Let’s go!”

I pull, too, to lighten the load, and slowly we get going.

We arrive at the cabin exhausted. The washtub stops in front of the porch, which is now missing its steps.

Pinamen is standing there stunned. I arrive limping and soaked.

She takes two steps and looks down.

“Nipishish, look at Charlotte’s washtub!” she moans.

The tub is completely bashed and half flooded with water.

I shrug contritely. I don’t know what to say.

“I was just bringing you water for your washing up,” I say.

We burst out laughing.

“Are you hurt?”

“No, no… I’m okay.”

I rub my thighs. Every bone and muscle in my body hurts, but nothing is broken.

I won’t forget this ride. My dogs have taught me a good lesson. I hurry to unhitch them. Pinamen helps me and when our eyes meet, we start laughing again.

• • •

I move forward step by step, very quietly, bent over. My eyes sweep over the ground.

I’m inspecting the path down to the water at the other end of the lake. I take in everything — a clump of trampled grass, a broken branch, an old rope…

Suddenly I stop. I can see the light traces of footprints imprinted in the damp earth. They are boot tracks. I follow them like a hunting dog that has spotted a beaver under the ice. The tracks leave the path and head for the swamp. You can see the trail in the moss. The stems of the blueberry and yew bushes are broken and bent over.

He stopped here. He probably crouched down to see under the spruce branches that border the lake. There are four cigarette butts trampled into the moss. They are from store-bought cigarettes. A white man’s cigarettes.

Four butts in all. He was here awhile.

I crouch down in the same spot and look around. From here I can see out over the lake — the shore, the fish floats and, right at the end of the bay, our tiny camp.

I was right. Yesterday in the fog while I was raising my net, I suddenly felt cold on my back. I felt as though someone was watching me. Someone had their eyes on me, and it wasn’t an animal. I kept on working, but from time to time I threw a glance in the direction of the dock. Everything was too quiet. All the birds had fled, and even the squirrels were silent. Only the big gull stood still on its rock by the shore, its round eyes fixed on the water. But I could feel it was ready to fly off at any moment.