He
had a reliable map, and anyhow he had only to follow the tracks left by
the Selfridge party. He turned his back upon the big river and plunged
into the wilderness.
There came a night when he looked up into the stars of the deep, still
sky and knew that he was hundreds of miles from any other human being.
Never in all his life had he been so much alone. He was not afraid, but
there was something awesome in a world so empty of his kind. Sometimes
he sang, and the sound of his voice at first startled him. It was like
living in a world primeval, this traverse of a land so void of all the
mechanism that man has built about him.
The tracks of the Selfridge party grew fainter after a night of rain.
More rain fell, and they were obliterated altogether.
Gordon fished. He killed fresh game for his needs. Often he came on the
tracks of moose and caribou. Sometimes, startled, they leaped into view
quite close enough for a shot, but he used his rifle only to meet his
wants. A huge grizzly faced him on the trail one afternoon, growled its
menace, and went lumbering into the big rocks with awkward speed.
The way led through valley and morass, across hills and mountains. It
wandered in a sort of haphazard fashion through a sun-bathed universe
washed clean of sordidness and meanness.
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