Gods Country--And the Woman | Page 3

that a bear which he was destined never to see had become
the greatest factor in his life. He was philosopher enough to appreciate
the value and importance of little things, but the bear track did not keep
him silent because he regarded it as significant, because he wanted to
kill. He would have welcomed it to dinner, and would have talked to it
were it as affable and good-mannered as the big pop-eyed moose- birds
that were already flirting about near him.
He emptied a half of the contents of the rubber sack out on the sand and
made a selection for dinner, and he chuckled in his big happiness as he
saw how attenuated his list of supplies was becoming. There was still a
quarter of a pound of tea, no sugar, no coffee, half a dozen pounds of
flour, twenty-seven prunes jealously guarded in a piece of narwhal skin,
a little salt and pepper mixed, and fresh caribou meat.
"It's a lovely day, and we'll have a treat for dinner," he informed
himself. "No need of starving. We'll have a real feast. I'll cook SEVEN
prunes instead of five!"
He built a small fire, hung two small pots over it, selected his prunes,
and measured out a tablespoonful of black tea. In the respite he had
while the water heated he dug a small mirror out of the sack and looked
at himself. His long, untrimmed hair was blond, and the inch of stubble
on his face was brick red. There were tiny creases at the corners of his
eyes, caused by the blistering sleet and cold wind of the Arctic coast.
He grimaced as he studied himself. Then his face lighted up with
sudden inspiration.
"I've got it!" he exclaimed. "I need a shave! We'll use the prune water."
From the rubber bag he fished out his razor, a nubbin of soap, and a
towel. For fifteen minutes after that he sat cross-legged on the sand,
with the mirror on a rock, and worked. When he had finished he
inspected himself closely.
"You're not half bad," he concluded, and he spoke seriously now. "Four

years ago when you started up here you were thirty--and you looked
forty. Now you're thirty-four, and if it wasn't for the snow lines in your
eyes I'd say you were a day or two younger. That's pretty good."
He had washed his face and was drying it with the towel when a sound
made him look over beyond the rocks. It was the crackling sound made
by a dead stick stepped upon, or a sapling broken down. Either meant
the bear.
Dropping the towel, he unbuttoned the flap to the holster of his
revolver, took a peep to see how long he could leave the water before it
would boil, and stepped cautiously in the direction of the sound. A
dozen paces beyond the bulwark of rocks he came upon a fairly
well-worn moose trail; surveying its direction from the top of a boulder,
he made up his mind that the bear was dining on mountain-ash berries
where he saw one of the huge crimson splashes of the fruit a hundred
yards away.
He went on quietly. Under the big ash tree there was no sign of a feast,
recent or old. He proceeded, the trail turning almost at right angles
from the ash tree, as if about to bury itself in the deeper forest. His
exploratory instinct led him on for another hundred yards, when the
trail swung once more to the left. He heard the swift trickling run of
water among rocks, and again a sound. But his mind did not associate
the sound which he heard this time with the one made by the bear. It
was not the breaking of a stick or the snapping of brush. It was more a
part of the musical water-sound itself, a strange key struck once to
interrupt the monotone of a rushing stream.
Over a gray hog-back of limestone Philip climbed to look down into a
little valley of smooth-washed boulders and age-crumbled rock through
which the stream picked its way. He descended to the white margin of
sand and turned sharply to the right, where a little pool had formed at
the base of a huge rock. And there he stopped, his heart in his throat,
every fibre in his body charged with a sudden electrical thrill at what he
beheld. For a moment he was powerless to move. He stood--and stared.
At the edge of the pool twenty steps from him was kneeling a woman.

Her back was toward him, and in that moment she was as motionless as
the rock that towered over her. Along with the rippling drone of the
stream, without reason on his part--without time for