Johnny had been skeptical. Bronson had demonstrated his power. Johnny had come to believe. He was at once fascinated by this new form of sport. The longbow, the arrow, and wide open spaces took him in hand.
Long weeks they led him over sand dunes, across broad prairies, through silent forests.
When weather became too bleak for out-of-doors sport, he had retreated to the cover of the North Shore Archery. There he had so perfected his form that no small game was safe from his straight speeding arrow.
Then it was that his longing for the North returned. On top of this came the resolve to stake his fortune for the immediate future on his recently acquired skill. He would go into the North with no other weapon than the bow and arrow. With these alone, as the savages had done before him, he would make his way northward through Canada until, fortune attending him, he should reach the headwaters of the mighty Yukon in time to witness that greatest of nature’s panoramas, the Spring breakup on the river.
So here he was. Over many a long mile Fate had been kind to him. Indians and white men alike had treated him well. They had laughed good-naturedly at his weapons, but had admired the strength and skill he exhibited in using them. The Indians of the first trading post had dubbed him “Johnny Longbow.” Johnny Longbow he was after that. He was not ashamed of the nickname, nor the things for which it stood.
Beside him now, there in the midst of the great white wilderness, lay his two bows. One was of yew wood, backed with calfskin thin as parchment; the other an affair of his own making. Carved from the hardest and toughest of wood, osage orange, this bow was the pride of his life. He loved and trusted it as a friend. It had never failed him.
“If only I had arrows for you!” he whispered now. “But we will have that caribou to-morrow.”
With that he closed his eyes and fell asleep.
Johnny Longbow’s breakfast next morning consisted of two cups of black coffee and a handful of sour berries he found clinging to their stems just as a premature winter had found them.
Placing his pack in the crotch of a tree and marking the spot well, he slung his handmade osage bow across his back, thrust his lone arrow sword-like through his belt, then marched forth into the crisp glory of Arctic morning, to seek out the lost trail of that lone caribou.