John Granger, agent on the Last Chance River in the interests of Garnier, Parwin, and Wrath, independent traders in the territory of Keewatin, sat alone in his store at Murder Point.  He sat upon an upturned box, with an empty pipe between his lips.  In the middle of the room stood an iron stove which blazed red hot; through the single window, toward which he faced, the gold sun shone, made doubly resplendent in its shining by the reflected light cast up by the leagues of all-surrounding snow and ice.

Speaking to himself, as is the habit of men who have lived many months alone in the aboriginal silence of the North, “Well, and what next?” he asked.

He had been reviewing the uses to which he had put his thirty years of life, and was feeling far from satisfied.  That a man of breeding, who had been given the advantages of a classical and university education, and was in addition an English barrister, should at the age of thirty be conducting an independent trader’s store in a distant part of northern Canada did not seem right; Granger was conscious of the incongruity.  During the past two years and a half he had obstinately refused to examine his career, had fought against introspection, and had striven to forget.

In this he had been wise, for Keewatin is not a good place wherein to remember and to balance the ledger of the soul; it is too remote from human habitation, too near to God its vastness has robbed it of all standards, so that small misdemeanours may seem huge and disastrous as the sin of Cain.  Madness lurks in its swampy creeks and wanders along the edges of its woodland seas, so that the border-line between natural and supernatural is very faintly marked.

But to-day Granger had given way before the wave of emotional memories and had permitted his mind to recapitulate all the happiness which he had lost; and with this result, that like a child in a darkened house he feared to advance and stood still trembling, questioning the future, anticipating and dreading that which was next to come.  It was the second week in April; the break-up of the winter had almost begun; the spring was striding up from the south and a cry of travel was in the air, both hopeful and melancholy.  The world would soon be growing young again.  Even in this desperate land the scars of the frost would soon be obliterated; but to his own life, he was painfully aware, the spring had vouchsafed no promise of return.  Was it gone forever? he asked.

At the present moment he was remembering London and St. James’s Park with its banks of daffodils and showers of white may-blossom, its groups of laughing children at play, its parade of black-coated horsemen, with here and there the scarlet flash of a Life-guard as he sped trotting by, and for bass accompaniment to this music of the Joy of Life the continual low thunder which in the Mall the prancing hoofs of countless carriage-horses strummed.

Now it was Piccadilly in which he wandered, returning from the west with his back toward the setting sun; the street-lamps had just been kindled, and ahead of him, massed above the housetops, the blue-grey clouds of evening hung.  He watched the faces of the people as they passed, some eager, some jaded, some pleasure-seeking, some smug, and he strove to conjecture their aim in life.  At the Circus he paused awhile, breathing deep and filling out his lungs with fragrance of violets and narcissi, which flower-girls clamoured for him to purchase.  He bought a bunch and smiled faintly, contrasting the beautiful significance of the name of the vendor’s profession with the slatternly person to whom it was applied.  Then onwards he went to Leicester Square where the dazzling lights of music-halls flared and quickened, and scarlet-lipped Folly smiled out upon him from street corners, and beckoned through the dusk.  In the old days it had always been when he had attained this point in his advance that the pleasure of London had failed, leaving him with a cramped sensation, a frenzied desire for escape, and an overwhelming sense of the inherent rottenness of western civilisation.  It was upon such occasions that he saw, or thought he saw, the inevitable tendency of European cities to emasculate and corrupt the rugged nobilities of mankind.  A revolt against artificiality had followed.  Immediately, there in the heart of the world’s greatest city, there had grown up about him the mirage of the primeval forest, whose boughs are steeped in silence, borne up by tall bare trunks, which lured him on to explore and adventure through untried lands, where quiet grows intense and intenser at each new step, till he should arrive at that ultimate contentment for which he blindly sought.

He laughed at the memory, smiling bitterly at the manner in which that former self had been beguiled.  As if to give emphasis to his jest he arose from his box, lounged over to the window, cleared its panes of mist with his hand, and gazed out upon the landscape of his choice.  It stared back at him with immobile effrontery, with the glazed wide-parted eyes of the prostrate prize-fighter who, in his falling, has been stunned eyes in which hatred is the only sign of life.  He threw back his head and guffawed at the conceit, as though it had been conceived by a brain and given utterance to by a voice other than his own.  Then he paused, drew himself erect, and his face went white; he had heard of solitary men in Keewatin who had commenced by laughing to themselves, and had ended by committing murder or suicide.  Yet, as he stood in thought, he acknowledged the truth of the image; his existence on the Last Chance River was one long and wearisome struggle between himself and the intangible prize-fighter, whoever he might be, Nature, the Elemental Spirit hostile to Creation, Keewatin, the Devil, call him what you like.  Sometimes he had had the better of the combat, in which case days of peace had followed; but for the most part he stood at bay or crouched upon his knees, watching for his opportunity to rise; at his strongest he had only just sufficed to hold his invisible antagonist in check, battling for a victory which had been already awarded.  He had long despaired of winning; the only question which now troubled him was “How long shall I be able to fight?”

A certain story current in the district, concerning a Hudson Bay factor, flashed through his mind.  At the beginning of the frost his fort had been stricken with smallpox; one by one his six white companions had died and the Indians had fled in terror, leaving him alone in the silence.  In the unpeopled solitude of the long dark winter days and nights which had followed, he had grown strangely curious as to the welfare of his soul, and had petitioned God that it might be disembodied so that he might gaze upon it with his living eyes.  After a week of continuous prayer, he had fastened on his snowshoes, and gone out upon the ice to seek God’s sign.  He had not travelled far before he had come to the mound where his six companions lay buried.  There against the dusky sky-line he had seen a famished wolf standing over a scooped-out grave.  So the factor had had his sign, and had looked upon his disembodied soul with his own eyes.

When the ice broke up and the first canoe of half-breed voyageurs swept up to the fort, they had been met by a man who crawled upon hands and knees, and snarled like a husky or a coyote.

Granger shrugged his shoulders and shuddered.  He thanked his God that the spring was near by.  Upon one thing he was determined, that whatever happened, though he should have to die by his own hand, he would not grovel into Eternity upon his hands and knees as had that factor of the Hudson Bay.

For relief from the turbulence of his thoughts he turned his attention to the frozen quiet of the world without.  Not a feature in the landscape had changed throughout all the past five months.  He had nothing new to learn about it:  he had even committed to memory where each separate shadow would fall at each particular hour of the day.  Straight out of the west the river ran so far as eye could reach, until it came to Murder Point.  At close of day it seemed a molten pathway which led, without a waver, from Granger’s store directly to the heart of the sun.  Having arrived at the Point, the Last Chance River swept round to the northeast, and then to the north, until in many curves it poured its waters into the distant Hudson Bay.  Its banks, in the open season, which lasted from May to October, were low and muddy; the country through which it flowed, known as the barren lands, was for the most part flat and densely wooded with a stunted growth of black spruce, jackpine, tamarack, poplar, willow, and birch.  The river was the only highway:  much of the forest which lay back from its banks was entirely unexplored on account of its swamps and the closeness of its underbrush.  There were places within three miles of Murder Point where a white man had never travelled, and some where not even the Indians could penetrate.  Partly for this reason the district was rich in game:  the caribou, moose, lynx, bear, wolf, beaver, wolverine, and all the smaller fur-bearing animals of the North abounded there.  Seventy miles to the southwestward lay the nearest point of white habitation, where stood the Hudson Bay Company’s Fort of God’s Voice.  Between Murder Point and the coast, for two hundred and fifty miles, there was no white settlement until the river’s mouth was reached, where the Company’s House of the Crooked Creek had been erected on the shores of the Bay.  With his nearest neighbours, seventy miles distant at God’s Voice, Granger had no intercourse, for he was regarded by them as an outcast inasmuch as he was an independent trader.  Once was the time when Prince Rupert’s Company of Adventurers of England trading in the Hudson’s Bay had held the monopoly of the fur trade over all this territory, from the Atlantic seaboard to the Pacific Coast; then to have been caught trapping or trading privately had meant almost certain death to the trespasser.  Now that the powers of the Company had been curtailed, the only manner in which a Hudson Bay factor could show his displeasure toward the interloper was by ignoring his presence a very real penalty in a land of loneliness, where, at the best, men can only hope to meet once or twice a year and by rendering his existence as unbearable and silent as possible in every lawful and private way.  In the art of ostracising, Robert Pilgrim, the factor at God’s Voice, was a past master; during the two and a half years that Granger had been in Keewatin he had had direct communication with no one of the Company’s white employees.  On occasions certain of its Cree Indians and half-breed trappers had come to him stealthily, at dead of night, to see whether he would not offer them better terms for their season’s catch of furs, or to inquire whether he would not give them liquor in exchange, the selling of which to an Indian in Keewatin is a punishable offence.  These were usually loose characters who, being heavily in debt to the Company, were trying to postpone payment by selling to Granger on the sly; yet, even these men, when day had dawned, would pass him on the river without recognition, as if he were a stick or a block of ice.  However, only by dealing with such renegades could he hope to pick up any profit for the proprietors of his store.  His every gain was a loss to the factor, and vice versa; therefore by Robert Pilgrim he was not greatly beloved.

Pilgrim was a man of conservative principles, who looked back with longing to the days when a factor was supreme in his own domain, holding discretionary powers over all his people’s lives, who, after the giving of a third warning to an independent trader found poaching in his district, could dispose of him more or less barbarously according to his choice.  Now that every man, whatever his company, had an equal right to gather furs in the Canadian North, he considered that he and his employers were being robbed; wherefore he made it his business to see that no friendship existed between any of his subordinates and the man at Murder Point.  Hence it happened that in summer when the canoes and York boats, and in winter when the dog-teams and runners from God’s Voice, went up and down river by the free-trading store of Garnier, Parwin and Wrath, no head was turned, and no sign given that anyone was aware that a white man, yearning for a handshake and the sound of spoken words, was regarding them with sorrowful eyes from the wind-swept spit of land.

Two years and a half ago, on his first arrival, Granger had laughed at the factor’s petty persecution and had pretended not to mind.  Since then, as his isolation had grown on him, his temper had changed, his pride had given way, until, in the January of the present year, he had journeyed down to the Company’s fort, and had implored them to speak to him, if only to curse him, that his reason might be saved.  The gates of the fort had been clanged in his face, and he had been silently threatened with a loaded rifle, till resurrected shame had driven him away.

He had since heard that Pilgrim had said on that occasion, “I knew that he would come and that this would happen sooner or later.  I’ve been waiting for it; but he’s held out longer than the last one.”

This remark explained to Granger how it was that, when he had arrived in Winnipeg, having just returned from the Klondike, and had applied to his acquaintance Wrath for employment, his request had been so readily granted.  He had marvelled at the time that he, who had had next to no experience in Indian trading, should have met with immediate engagement, and have been given sole charge of an outpost.  Now he knew the reason; he had been given his job because his employers could get no one else to take it.  From the first day of his coming to Murder Point strange stories had reached his ears concerning the diverse and sudden ways in which its bygone agents had departed this life:  some by committing murder against themselves; some by committing murder against others; some, having gone mad, by wandering off into the winter wilderness to die; others, who were reckoned sane, by attempting to make the six hundred and eighty mile journey back to civilisation alone across the snow and ice.  These rumours he had not credited at first, supposing them to be fictions invented by Pilgrim for the purpose of shattering his confidence, and thus inducing him to leave at once.  The last remark of the factor, however, inasmuch as it had been reported to him by an honest man, the Jesuit priest Pere Antoine, had proved to him that they were not all lies.  When he had questioned Pere Antoine himself, the kindly old man had shaken his head, refusing to answer, and had departed on his way.  This had happened shortly after the occurrence in January; since then Granger had been less than ever happy in his mind.

Luckily for him, about this time Beorn Ericsen, the Man with the Dead Soul, as he was named, the only white Company trapper in the district, had quarrelled with the factor over the price which had been offered him for a silver fox; in revenge he had betaken himself to Granger, bringing with him his half-breed daughter, Peggy, and his son, Eyelids.  Their chance coming had saved his sanity; moreover it had furnished him with something to think about, besides himself, namely Peggy.  His courtship of her had been short and informal, as is the way of white men when dealing with women of a darker shade:  within a week he had taken her to himself.  But Peggy had had ideas of her own upon the nebulous question of morals, ideas which she had gained in the two years during which she had attended a Catholic school in Winnipeg; she had refused to be regarded as a squaw, since the blood which flowed in her veins was fully half white, and, after staying with him for a fortnight, had taken herself off, joining her father on a hunting trip, giving Granger clearly to understand that she would not live with him again until Pere Antoine should have come that way and united them according to the rites of the Roman Church.

As he stood by the window looking out across the frost-bound land which once, years since, in Leicester Square, he in his ignorance had so much desired, he re-pondered these events and, “Well, and what next?” he asked.

The touch of spring in the air, recalling him to England and the old days, had made him realise among other things what this marriage with a half-breed girl, supposing he consented, must entail.  It would exile him forever.  No matter howsoever well he might prosper, or rich he might become, or whatsoever stroke of good fortune might visit him, he could never return to his English mother and English friends, bringing with him a half-breed wife and children who had Indian blood.  If he married her, he would become what Pilgrim had named him an outcast.  If he did not marry her, she would refuse to live with him, and he would be left lonely as before and would probably become insane.  Since he was never likely to become either prosperous, or rich, or fortunate, would it not be better for him to provide for his immediate happiness, he asked, and let the future take care of itself?  Even while he asked the question another woman intruded her face:  she was slim, and fair, and delicately made, and was disguised in the male attire of a Yukon placer-miner.  She seemed to be asking him to remember her.

He shrugged his shoulders contemptuously, as if defying Fate:  turning away from the window, he reseated himself upon the upturned box by the red-hot stove.

Pooh! he’d been a fool to give way to retrospection.  He was no exception to the general rule; most men mismanaged their careers more or less.  Still, he was bound to confess that he had done so rather more than less.  Oh well, he would settle down to his fate.  As for that other girl in the Yukon miner’s dress, who would keep intruding herself, she also must be forgotten.

But at that point, perversely enough, he began to think about her.  What was she doing at the present time?  Where was she?  Did she still remember him?  Had she made her fortune up there out of their last big strike?  How had she construed his sudden and unexplained departure?  He swore softly to himself, and rising, went over to the window again.  Then he pressed closer as if to make certain of something, gazing up the long glimmering stretch of frozen river to the west.

There was a strange man coming down; strange to those parts, at any rate, though Granger seemed to recognise something familiar in his stride.  He was driving his dogs furiously, lashing them on with frenzied brutality, coming on apace, turning his head ever and again from side to side, peering across his shoulder and looking behind, as if he feared a thing which followed him which was out of sight.