Gale looked out through the open door, past the sun-lit river which came from a land of mystery and vanished into a valley of forgetfulness, past the forest and the hills, in his deep-set eyes the light of a wondrous love that had lived with him these many weary years, and said:
"Nobody else CAN understand but me—I know how it is. I had even a harder thing to bear, for you'll know she's happy at least, while I—" His voice trembled, but, after a pause, he continued: "They neither of them understand what you've done for them, for it was you that brought her back; but some time they'll learn how great their debt is and thank you. It'll take them years and years, however, and when they do they'll tell their babes of you, Poleon, so that your name will never die. I loved her mother, but I don't think I could have done what you did."
"She's purty hard t'ing, for sure, but I ain' t'ink 'bout Poleon Doret none w'en I'm doin' it. No, I'm t'ink 'bout her all de tarn'. She's li'l' gal, an' I'm beeg, strong feller w'at don' matter much an' w'at ain' know much—'cept singin', an' lovin' her. I'm see for sure now dat I ain' fit for her—I'm beeg, rough, fightin' feller w'at can't read, an' she's de beam of sunlight w'at blin' my eyes."
"If I was a fool I'd say you'd forget in time, but I've lived my life in the open, and I know you won't. I didn't."
"I don' want to forget," the brown man cried, hurriedly. "Le bon Dieu would not let me forget—it's all I've got to keep wit' me w'en I'm lookin' for my 'New Countree.'"
"You're not goin' to look for that 'New Country' any more," Gale replied.
"To-day," said the other, quietly.
"No."
"To-day! Dis affernoon! De blood in me is callin' for travel, John. I'm livin' here on dis place five year dis fall, an' dat's long tarn' for voyageur. I'm hongry for hear de axe in de woods an' de moose blow at sundown. I want for see the camp-fire t'rough de brush w'en I come from trap de fox an' dem little wild fellers. I want to smell smoke in de dusk. My work she's finish here, so I'm paddle away to-day, an' I'll fin' dat place dis tam', for sure—she's over dere." He raised his long arm and pointed to the dim mountains that hid the valley of the Koyukuk, the valley that called good men and strong, year after year, and took them to itself, while in his face the trader saw the hunger of his race, the unslaked longing for the wilderness, the driving desire that led them ever North and West, and, seeing it, he knew the man would go.
"Have you heard the news from the creeks?"