The following day—I call it day, because my watch indicated eight in the morning—I went to work, determined to lose no time in finishing all I had to do before starting. There was a collar and traces to make for Patch, and a few other things to complete. I stuck to this employment till evening, when it blew hard, snow fell in flurries, and it was again a blizzard. This lasted for two entire days.
Every few minutes during this time my thoughts reverted to that sound which had attracted me up the creek. I could not get rid of the notion that some people might be there. I tried to look the matter squarely in the face, endeavouring to convince myself that even if it were so, it was of no consequence to me.
I was going down stream; I was ready to leave; in a couple more days, if the weather settled, I should be off, and would, I trusted and believed, quickly arrive at where people dwelt. I knew the way. I could not miss the way. How much better for me this was than setting out on an indefinite hunt into a region still farther from the haunts of men.
Thus I reasoned, thus I endeavoured to pacify my thoughts, but again and again there came over my spirit the fancy that there might be some one, not so many miles off, who was as much in need of companionship, who was just as lonely as I was. I cannot explain why I felt thus. I had merely heard, repeated twice, two cracks that sounded like gunshots, that was all, whilst the woods and the ice on which I had stood were full of similar noises.
It was, I suppose, the great desire, the mighty longing that I had for the company of a fellow-being that thus agitated me.
This seemed to me to be the greatest pain I suffered; it was indeed my chief longing to meet a human being—white, black, or red. Just then I believe I should have hailed enthusiastically the poorest specimen of an Indian, the meanest white man in all the country.
Meade had only been gone about eleven weeks, it is true, although it appeared to me that I had been eleven years alone.
On the third evening, which was intensely, indescribably cold, but calm and clear, with brilliant moonlight—stimulated by these thoughts and anxious for action, I started off with my good dog, determined, if possible, to satisfy my longing. I meant, if necessary, to go farther up the creek than I had yet been, up a branch of it which appeared to trend in the direction in which I had been attracted by the peculiar sounds.
I put half a loaf of bread into my bag, some meat, a lump of chocolate, and a pot to boil water in. For a wonder I did this—I rarely took any food with me, but this time it occurred to me as possible that I might have to be out some time—and, as you will learn, it was indeed providential that I did.
Patch and I marched off along the wide avenue which our stream formed through the scrubby firs and Jack pines which grew closely along its margins. We halted first at the place where we had stopped previously, and listened again.