Here, where Dick would see the far skyline broken by the irregular black mass of a herd of bison, the wheat waves now, mile after mile, about the countless farms and homesteads. These fertile lands, known then to few but the Indian and the hunter, have been claimed by civilisation, and their produce goes to the feeding of the nations. Agriculture has taken the prairies, and their nomad life is surely slipping into the past.
To the Indian, these prairies were dear above all things. But they impressed Dick more with awe than admiration, and he grew to long for the friendly trees left behind them, and to regard the limitless plain and the skies arching from the horizon almost as hostile things, with something menacing in their very splendour. Now also for the first time he began troubling about the future, and once he put his feelings into words.
"Where are you going to spend the winter, Peter?" he asked.
"With some tribe of my people," Peter replied carelessly. Of course, it was the only thing to be done, and in Peter's mind no alternative was to be considered at all. But Dick felt a doubt as to his own endurance and toughness compared with the Indian's. He was no weakling; but he dearly loved his flesh-pots, and, with the prospect becoming one of hardship and discomfort, he began to think a little regretfully of the cosy Collinson homestead, now so far away. And Stephanie! "I wonder what Stephanie's doing, and whether she misses me much," he thought. "I should like to see her again."
The last of the yellow leaves fell from the poplar bushes, and the silver foliage of the aspens fluttered to the ground. At night the stars shone large and frosty, but so intensely dry and bracing was the air, that Dick did not feel the cold, and Peter Many-Names was of course inured to any changes of climate. Game became more scarce, and sometimes they wandered far afield in search of their supplies, occasionally falling back upon their reserve store of dried meat. But it was still very enjoyable, and perhaps Peter, who had been an exile from his native plains for several years, strayed somewhat farther away from the river-courses and the sheltered lands than he had formerly intended. But to him the prairies were home; and who would not feel justified in relaxing caution a little when in his native haunts?
So, for some little time, they wandered about, meeting with few adventures. Once they passed too close to a cluster of tepees, and three young braves chased them for miles. The mud had by now scaled off their ponies, and the curiously shaped white spots were as remarkable as the speed of the little animals who were distinguished by these marks. Peter seemed to think that this incident effectually put a stop to the quest for hospitality in that region, but the difficulty could be easily overcome.
"We will muddly ponies again, go farther north," he said. And a little farther north they went, following the trail of a band of Indians. "Many people go along here two, three days ago," Peter remarked, "we follow them. If enemies, bad. If friends, good. Come on quick." The second day after they had struck this trail, the first snow fell. It was only a couple of inches of delicate, powdery white crystals; and in an hour or so the clouds had cleared off, and the sky was dazzlingly fair and blue. But it gave Dick a curious shock to think that the winter was close upon them. His thoughts turned to the homestead where he and Stephanie had been received as welcome guests in the time of sorrow and almost destitution, to that Christmas day when he had, as he thought, fought and conquered his roving inclinations. How different had been his intentions! Even in the hour of his greatest delight, when freedom and the forests had filled his life, he had not been able to stifle thoughts of Stephanie entirely. And now, when he was a little tired of wandering, a little lonely, a little anxious, these returned upon him with double force. Some of the glamour had perhaps passed from a wild life. And it was a fact, that, however he might love the wilderness, he could never become an unthinking, unquestioning part of it, as was Peter Many-Names.
This knowledge brought with it his first feeling of intense shame and repentance. But he fought against these feelings more stubbornly than he had ever struggled against his longings for the gipsy-life of the trapper and the Indian. Indeed, the very awakening of his conscience and his almost dormant affection for Stephanie made him cling more obstinately to the wilds. He angrily assured himself that he would not go back. He had chosen his present deliberately, and the future must take care of itself. With determination worthy of a better cause, he faced the prairies and the cold sky, and nothing, he told himself impatiently, should drive him to forsake that life which was dearer to him than all. But, now the first dazed rapture and delight were over, was it dearer than all? That was the point.
The difficulty was increased by the fact that the fall of snow had been sufficient to cover the slight trail they were following. And now Peter's caution began to re-appear. A bitter wind had suddenly arisen, blowing with increasing force, and Peter as suddenly and emphatically expressed a wish to return by the way they had come.
Dick, for the first time in all their daring journey, flatly refused to follow the wishes of the Indian. He felt that to turn southward now would seem like a concession to those softer, better feelings which filled his heart, and of which he was so anxious to rid himself. If they turned south now, they might never turn north again. And that one homestead which held Stephanie represented to him the whole of the country they had left behind them. He felt that he could never face the Collinsons, could never endure the humiliation of a return to civilised life, could never endure the thought that his dreams had led him astray. "I will go on by myself if you are afraid," he said in a fury of suddenly aroused stubbornness. "I don't care what happens. I may freeze or starve or anything, but turn back I will not."