A short distance from him the Indian who was to take him over to Fond du Lac, on Lake Athabasca, was waiting with his dogs and sledge.  He was a Sarcee, one of the last of an almost extinct tribe, so old that his hair was of a shaggy white, and he was so thin that he looked like a famine-stricken Hindu.  “He has lived so long that no one knows his age,” Father Roland had said, “and he is the best trailer between Hudson’s Bay and the Peace.”  His name was Upso-Gee (the Snow Fox), and the Missioner had bargained with him for a hundred dollars to take David from White Porcupine House to Fond du Lac, three hundred miles farther northwest.  He cracked his long caribou-gut whip to remind David that he was ready.  David had said good-bye to the factor and the clerk at the Company store and there was no longer an excuse to detain him.  They struck out across a small lake.  Five minutes later he looked back.  Father Roland, not much more than a speck on the white plain now, was about to disappear in the forest.  It seemed to David that he had stopped, and again he waved his hand, though human eyes could not have seen the movement over that distance.

Not until that night, when David sat alone beside his campfire, did he begin to realize fully the vastness of this adventure into which he had plunged.  The Snow Fox was dead asleep and it was horribly lonely.  It was a dark night, too, with the shivering wailing of a restless wind in the tree tops; the sort of night that makes loneliness grow until it is like some kind of a monster inside, choking off one’s breath.  And on Upso-Gee’s tepee, with the firelight dancing on it, there was painted in red a grotesque fiend with horns—­a medicine man, or devil chaser; and this devil chaser grinned in a bloodthirsty manner at David as he sat near the fire, as if gloating over some dreadful fate that awaited him.  It was lonely.  Even Baree seemed to sense his master’s oppression, for he had laid his head between David’s feet, and was as still as if asleep.  A long way off David could hear the howling of a wolf and it reminded him shiveringly of the lead-dog’s howl that night before Tavish’s cabin.  It was like the death cry that comes from a dog’s throat; and where the forest gloom mingled with the firelight he saw a phantom shadow—­in the morning he found that it was a spruce bough, broken and hanging down—­that made him think again of Tavish swinging in the moonlight.  His thoughts bore upon him deeply and with foreboding.  And he asked himself questions—­questions which were not new, but which came to him to-night with a new and deeper significance.  He believed that Father Roland would have gasped in amazement and that he would have held up his hands in incredulity had he known the truth of this astonishing adventure of his.  An astonishing adventure—­nothing less.  To find a girl.  A girl he had never seen, who might be in another part of the world, when he had got to the end of his journey—­or married.  And if he found her, what would he say?  What would he do?  Why did he want to find her?  “God alone knows,” he said aloud, borne down under his gloom, and went to bed.