The Wendigo

snow during the night and the air was sharp. Punk had done his duty betimes, for

you fellers. And the snow'll make bully trails! If there's any moose mussing around up thar, they'll not get so much as a tail-end scent of yo

the camp to himself, Cathcart and Hank were far along the trail that led westwards, while the canoe that carried Défago an

through the sparkling spray that the wind lifted; divers shook their dripping heads to the sun and popped smartly out of sight again; and as far as eye could reach rose the leagues o

cheerfully all his companion's questions. Both were gay and light-hearted. On such occasions men lose the superficial, worldly distinctions; they become human beings working together for a common end. Simpson, the employer, and Défago the employed, among these primitive forces, were simply-two men, the "guider" and the "guided." Superior knowledge, of course, assumed control, and the

Switzerland-the huge scale of things somewhat bewildered him. It was one thing, he realized, to hear about primeval forests, but quite another to see them. While to dwell in them and se

nd portage, had carried the process a stage farther. And now that he was about to plunge beyond even the fringe of wilderness where they were camped into the virgin heart of uninhabited regions as vast as Europe its

only be described as merciless and terrible, rose out of these far blue woods swimming upon the horizon, and revealed itself. He understood the silent warning. He realize

to "blaze" the spruce stems for some distance on either side of an almost invisible trail, with the careless remark thrown in, "Say, Simpson,

ment with an utterance that was symbolic of the situation and of his own helplessness as a factor in it. He was alone with Défago in a primitive world: that was all. The c

lf-frozen swamps; skirting numerous lakes that fairly gemmed the forest, their borders fringed with mist; and towards five o'clock found themselves sudden

oin' to dip his bald old head into it!" he added, with unconscious

brisk cooking fire burned with the minimum of smoke. While the young Scotchman cleaned the fish they had caught trolling behind the canoe, Défago "guessed" he would "jest as soon" take a tur

n noted with a kind of admiration how easily the forest absorbed him

uncouth shoulders here and there out of the ground, it might well have been a bit of park in the Old Country. Almost, one might have seen in it the hand of man. A little to the right, however, began the great burnt section, miles in extent, proclaiming its real character-brulé, as it is ca

and terrific outlines among the trees. In front, through doorways pillared by huge straight stems, lay the stretch of Fifty Island Water, a crescent-shaped lake some fifteen miles from tip to tip, and perhaps five miles across where they were camped. A sky of rose and saffron, more clear than any atmosphere Simpson had ever known, still dropped its pale streaming fires

ke flaunting pennons, signaled

n and the fire. Yet, ever at the back of his thoughts, lay that other aspect of the wilderness: the indifference to human life, the merciless spirit of desolation which took no n

ensible alarm. And instinctively the thought stirred in him: "What s

er, they smoked and told stories round the blazing fire, laughing, stretching weary limbs, and discussing plans for the morrow. Défago was in excellent spirits, though disappointed at having no signs of moose to report.

-to feel comfortable in, I mean!... Eh?" He merely gave expression to the mood of the moment; h

face, "and that's the truth, sure. There's no end to 'em-no end at all." Then he added in

men were sometimes stricken with a strange fever of the wilderness, when the seduction of the uninhabited wastes caught them so fiercely that they went forth, half fascinated, half deluded, to their death. And he had a shrewd i

sixty miles again made Simpson realize the prodigious scale of this land where they hunted; sixty miles was a mere step; two hundred little more than a step. Stories of lost hunters rose persistently before his memory. The passion and mystery o

e in one of those plaintive, almost melancholy chanties with which lumbermen and trappers lessen the burden of their labor. There was an appealing and romantic flavor about it, something that recalled the atmosphere of the old pioneer days when Indians and wild

though still singing, was peering about him into the Bush, as though he heard or saw something. His voice grew fainter-dropped to a hush-then ceased altogether. The same instant, with a movement amazingly alert, he started to his feet and stood upright-sniffing the air. Like a dog scenting game, he d

t beside him the same instant, and peering over his shoulde

n with a pair of eyes in his head could see that the Canadian had turned white d

s. "What's up?" he repeated quickly. "D'you smell moose? Or anyt

ld tell, a silence of death. Just behind them a passing puff of wind lifted a single leaf, looked at it, then laid it softly down again without disturbing the r

he livid hue of his face

as only-takin' a look round-so to speak. It's always a mistake to be too previous with yer questions." Then he added suddenly with obvious effort, i

n a tenderfoot could tell that. Défago changed his position in order to hear and smell-all there was to be heard and smelt. And, since he now faced the

own accord. "That song kinder brings back memories that's troublesome to

fing the air. And nothing-no amount of blazing fire, or chatting on ordinary subjects-could make that camp exactly as it had been before. The shadow of an unknown horror, naked if unguessed, that had flashed for an instant in the face and gestures of the guide, had also communicated itself, vaguely and therefore more potently, to his companion. The guide's visible

he truth; or possibly the vigorous air of the wilderness brought its own powers of healing. Whatever the cause, the feeling of immediate horror seemed to have passed away as mysteriously as it had come, for nothing occurred to feed it. Simpson began to feel that he had permitted himself the unreasoning terror of a child. He put it down partly to a certain su

ugh to himself. On getting home to Scotland it would make quite a good story. He did not realize that this laughter was a sign that terror still lurked in the

s face. The two men stood, side by side, kicking the embers about before g

he asked in his ordin

impson, coming back to what really dominated his mind, and startled by the question,

n which neither of

ooking over Simpson's shoulder into the shadows. "There's places in the

uggestion in the guide's man

the life of the world be known or trodden. The thought was not exactly the sort he welcomed. In a loud voice, cheerfully, he suggested that it was time for bed. But the guide lingered, tin

ir, "you don't-smell nothing, do you-nothing pertickler, I mean?" The commonplace question,

firmly, kicking again at the embers. Th

e guide, peering at him through the gloom; "nothing extrord

t all!" he replied aggr

good!" he exclaimed with eviden

sharply, and the same inst

conviction. "It must've been just that song of mine that did it. It's the song they sing in lumber camps and go

revent that sudden shiver of the nerves. He knew that he was close upon the man's terror and

his voice sank very low, was: "It's nuthin'-nuthin' but what those lousy fellers believe when they've bin hittin' the bottle too long-a sort of great animal that lives up

he hand of the guide that clutched his arm. "Come, come, hurry up for God's sake, and get the lan

with the lantern and hung it from a nail in the front pole of the tent. The shadows of a hundred trees shifted their places quickly

as warm and cozy, but outside the world of crowding trees pressed close about them, marshalling their million shad

suddenly upon Défago in the middle of his singing. And Simpson, as he lay there, watching the darkness through the open flap of the tent, ready to plunge into the fragrant abyss of sleep, knew first