A white man, Ed Chaney, had already squatted on a piece of it, a lonely soul. There were some Indians nearer in.
Naturally, they were keen to know what Sam had come for. The last time they had heard of him he was a freighter. His reticence stimulated their curiosity.
"Come to look over the land before you bring your outfit in, I suppose?" suggested Sollers, the trader.
"No, I'm going to stop," said Sam.
"How are you going to farm with an axe and a gun?"
"I'll build me a shack, and hunt and fish till I have a bit of luck," said Sam.
The two exchanged a look which said either this young man was concealing something or he hadn't good sense.
"Luck doesn't come to a man up here," said the trader. "Nothing ever happens of itself. You've got to turn in and make it."
Declining invitations to stop a night or a few days, or all summer, Sam got the trader to put him across the river in a canoe. There was also a scow to transport heavier loads. Landing, he turned up-stream. Their description of the utter lonesomeness of that neighbourhood had appealed to him.
The sun was growing low when he spied a little tent in the meadow, rising from the river. The faint trail he was following ended at the gate of a corral beside it. There was a cultivated field beyond. These objects made an oddly artificial note in a world of untouched nature. At the door of the tent stood a white man, gazing. A shout reached Sam's ears. He was lucky in his man. Though he and Ed Chaney had had but the briefest of meetings when the latter passed through the settlement, Ed hailed him like a brother. He was a simple soul, overflowing with kindness.