It was the last of the night watch.  The depths of the primeval forest were alive with sound, those sounds which are calculated to set the human pulse athrob.  Steve Allenwood crouched over the fire.  He was still, silent, and he squatted with his hands locked about his knees.

The fitful firelight only served to emphasize the intensity of surrounding darkness.  It yielded little more than a point of attraction for the prowling, unseen creatures haunting the wild.  The snow outside was falling silently, heavily, for it was late in the year, and October was near its close!  Here there was shelter under the wide canopy which the centuries had grown.

As yet the falling temperature was still above zero.  Later it would be different.  The cap on the man’s head was pressed low over his ears, and his summer buckskin shirt had been replaced by the furs which would stand between him and the fierce breath of winter during the long months to come.  His eyes were wide.  Every sense was alert.  For all he was gazing into the fire, he was listening, always listening to those sounds which he dared not ignore for one single moment.

The sounds were many.  And each had a meaning which he read with a sureness that was almost instinctive.  The deep unease of the myriads of bare tree-trunks about him, supporting their snow-laden canopy, told him of the burden which the pitiless northern heavens were thrusting upon them.  It also told him of the strength of the breeze which was driving the banking snow outside.  The not infrequent booming crash of a falling tree spoke of a burden already too great to bear.  So with the splitting of an age-rotted limb torn from the parent trunk.

Of deeper significance, and more deadly, is the sound which never dies out completely.  It is a sound as of falling leaves, pattering softly upon the underlay of rotting cones and dead pine needles.  Its insistence is peculiar.  There are moments when it is distant.  And moments, again, when it is near, desperately near.

It is at times such as the latter that the man at the fire unlocks his hands.  With a swift movement, he reaches down to the fire and seizes a blazing brand.  For a moment a trail of fire arcs against the black depths of the forest and falls to the ground.  Then, with a hasty scuttling, the sounds die away in the distance, and a fierce snarling challenge is flung from the safer depths.

The challenge is without effect.  The man rises swiftly to his feet, and, a moment later, the smouldering firebrand is gathered up, and all signs of fire where it has fallen are stamped out.  Again he returns to the comforting warmth to continue his watch, whilst his companions sleep on securely in their arctic, fur-lined bags.

But the threat is real and deadly.  Woe betide the foolish human soul who ignores it, or fails to read it aright.  The eyes of the forest are wide awake.  They are everywhere watching.  They are there, in pairs, merciless, savage eyes, only awaiting opportunity.  It is the primeval forest world where man is no more than those other creatures who seek to support the life that is thrust upon them.

These things were only a few of the voiceless hauntings which never ceased.  Steve and his companions knew them all by heart.  Every sound, every cadence told its tale.  Every danger, with which they were surrounded, was calculated to a fraction and left them undisturbed.

Slowly the power of the firelight lessened.  For all the stirring and replenishing, the flickering blaze yielded before the steadily growing twilight, and presently it sulkily abandoned the unequal contest.  The dawn had come.

It was sufficient.  Steve rose from his seat and stretched himself.  Then, moving over to the wood pile he replenished the fire and set the camp kettle to boil.  After that he passed on to the two figures still sleeping under their furs.

Oolak was the first to reach full wakefulness, and he promptly crawled from his sleeping-bag.  Steve’s instructions were brief and to the point.

“Fix the dogs,” he ordered.  And Oolak grunted his simple acquiescence.

As Julyman broke from his spell of dreaming Steve indicated the camp kettle.

“I’ve set it to boil.  I’ll take a look outside,” he said.

He passed on without waiting for reply and his way followed the track which the sled had left in the rotting underlay, where over night it had been laboriously hauled into the shelter of the woods.

His movements were vigorous.  The bulk of his outer clothing robbed him of much of such height as he possessed, but it added to the natural appearance of muscular sturdiness which was always his.  His mission was important, for on his accurate reading of the elemental conditions depended immediate movements, and safety or disaster for his expedition.

As he neared the break in the forest, through which their course lay, the twilight gave before the light of day, and through the aisles of bare tree-trunks ahead he beheld the white carpet which night had laid.  Nearly a foot of snow had fallen, and everywhere under its burden the foliage drooped dismally in the perfect morning light.

These things, however, were without serious concern.  Steve knew that for the next seven months the earth would lie deep buried under its winter pall.  That was the condition under which most of his work was carried on.  It was the sunrise, and the wind, which must tell him the things he desired to know.

Passing beyond the shadowed aisles he moved out over the soft snow, where the crisp breeze swept down through the break.  He was a few hundred yards from the summit of the high ridge over which, for miles, to the north and south, the primeval forest spread its mantle.  It was a barrier set up and shutting off the view of the final stage of his journey; that final stage towards which he had laboured for so many weeks.  He had reached so nearly the heart of Unaga, and beyond, somewhere towards the shores of Hudson’s Bay lay that winter goal where he hoped to find the friendly shelter of the home of the seal-hunting Eskimo who peopled the regions.

He ploughed his way through the snow towards the summit of the ridge.

For all his outward calm Steve Allenwood was deeply stirred.  For all he knew the wide Northland, with its mystery, its harshnesses, the sight that met his gaze from the summit of the ridge was one that left him wondering, and amazed, and not a little overwhelmed.

The immensity of it all!  The harsh, unyielding magnificence!  The bitter breath from the north-east stung his cheeks with its fierce caresses.  He felt like a man who has stolen into the studio of a great artist and finds himself confronted with a canvas upon which is roughly outlined the masterly impression of a creation yet to be completed.  It seemed to him as if he were gazing upon the bold, rough draft of the Almighty Creator’s uncompleted work.

The blazing arc of the rising sun was lifting over the tattered skyline, and its light burnished the snow-crowned glacial beds to an almost blinding whiteness.  As yet it only caught the hill tops within its range.  The hollows, the shadowed woodlands, remained lost beneath the early morning mists.  It gave the impression of gazing down upon one vast steaming lake, out of which was slowly emerging ridges of white-crested land chequered with masses of primeval forest.

In all directions it was the same; a hidden world having laboriously to free itself from the bondage of the mists.

The churning mists rolled on.  They cleared for a moment at a point to let the sunlight shafts illuminate some sweep of glacial ice.  Then they closed down again, swiftly, as though to hide once more those secrets inadvertently revealed.  The sun rose higher.  The movement of the mists became more rapid.  They thinned.  They deepened once more.  And with every change the sense of urgent movement grew.  It was like the panic movement of a beaten force.  The all-powerful light of day was absorbing, draining the moisture-laden shadows, and reducing them to gossamer.

It was with the final passing of the mists that a sharp ejaculation broke from the watching man.  It verily seemed to have been wrung from him.  His gaze was fixed at a point of the broken skyline.  A great cloud lay banked above the rising crest of the snowy barrier.  It was stirring.  It was lifting.  Slowly.  Reluctantly.

The moments passed.  It was like the rising of the curtain upon a wonderful stage picture.  Unlike the mists the cloud did not disperse.  It lifted up, up before the man’s amazed eyes, and settled a dense dark mass to crown that which it had revealed.

“Gee!”

The startled monosyllable was thrilling with every emotion of wonder.

A spire towered over the serrated skyline.  Its height was utterly beyond Steve’s calculation.  Its final peak was lost amidst the heavy cloud.  Sheer up it rose.  Sheer above its monstrous surroundings.  It rose like the spire of some cathedral of Nature’s moulding, and dwarfed the world about it.  It was dark, dark, in contrast to the crystal splendour outspread, and frowned with the unyielding hue of the barren rock.

“Boss look!”

It was the first intimation of Julyman’s presence.  Steve accepted it without question.  He was wholly absorbed in what he beheld.  The Indian was at his side pointing at the monstrous tower.

“Him Unaga Unaga Spire.  Julyman know.  Him Father wise man.  Him tell of Unaga Spire.  Him hot.  Him hot lak hell.  Him all burn up snow ice.  Him burn up all thing.  Come.  It not good.  Him Unaga Spire!”

A wide declining expanse stretched out before them as Steve and Julyman swung along over the snow.  They were following the track of a dog train, leaving behind them the added tracks of their own snow-shoes to mark the way.  Ahead of them lay another short rise whose crest was dotted with timber bluffs.  It was beyond this they hoped to discover the winter shelter they were seeking.  Somewhere behind them the indomitable Oolak, silent, enduring, was shepherding their own dog train over their tracks.

The end of the month had come and their fortunes were at a crisis.  A thousand miles of territory had been covered since the early summer day when Steve had bade farewell to his wife and child.

The effort had been tremendous.  Far more tremendous than these men knew.  And the story of the journey, the endurance, the hardship of it, would have made an epic of man’s silent heroism.  With Steve each hardship, each difficulty encountered had been a matter of course.  Accident was a thing simply to be avoided, and when avoidance was impossible then to be accepted without complaint.  And these things had been so many.

Now the wide Northland had been traversed from west to east and they had crossed the fierce bosom of Unaga’s plateau.  The reality of it was no better and only little worse than had been anticipated.  It had been a journey of hills, everlasting hills, and interminable primordial forests, with dreary breaks of open plains.  Each season had brought its own troubles, with always lying ahead the deadly anticipation of the winter yet to come.

It was the thought of this, and the indications everywhere about them, that had spurred Steve to hunt down the sled track upon which they had miraculously fallen.

They moved on in silence for a long time.  Such was the way of these men.  The great silences had eaten into their bones.  The life and labours of the trail would have been intolerable amidst the chatter of useless talk.

The rolling swing of their gait carried them swiftly to their vantage ground, and hope stirred Steve to give expression to his thoughts.

“It would be queer to find those fancy ‘Sleeper Indians’ of yours,” he said.

Julyman cast a glance over his left shoulder in the direction of the steely north.  Somewhere back there far beyond his view stood the great Spire of Unaga, and the black cloud hovering about its crest.  It had been left far, far behind them, but it still remained a memory.

“No Sleeper Indian man,” he said decidedly.  Then he added with a final shake of his head:  “Oh no.”

Steve laughed.  It was not often these men laughed on the trail.  Just now, however, the excitement of hope had robbed the white man of something of his habit.

“Guess your yarn didn’t just locate them.  Where d’you reckon they are?”

Julyman slackened his gait as they breasted the final rise where the sled track vanished over the brow of the hill.  His dark, questioning eyes were turned enquiringly upon his boss, and he searched the smiling face that looked back at him out of its framing of heavy fur.  He feared to be laughed at.  He pointed at the northern horizon.

“Him Unaga,” was all he said.

Steve followed the direction of the mitted hand pointing northward, and the smile died out of his eyes.  That strange Spire filled his memory still in spite of himself.  Something of the Indian’s awe communicated itself to him.

But he thrust it from him and gazed out ahead again, searching the tracks they were following.

“We’ll find something, anyway,” he said presently.  “This track’s not half a day old.  There’s folks beyond the rise.  Say, maybe we can winter hereabouts, and work along the coast.  The coast line’s warmer.  It never hits zero on the coast till you make inside the Arctic Circle.  We’ll get back to home next winter.  It’ll be good getting back to your squaws on Caribou, eh?”

There was a note in Steve’s voice which did not fail to impress itself on the Indian’s keen understanding.  He knew his boss was thinking of his own white squaw and the pretty blue eyes of the pappoose which made the father forget every trouble and concern when he gazed down into them.  Oh, yes, Julyman understood.  He understood pretty well every mood of his boss.  And who should understand them if he did not?  Men on the trail together learn to read each other like a book.

“Squaws him trash!” exclaimed the Indian.  And he spat to emphasize his cynical opinion.

“Some squaws,” corrected Steve.

Julyman glanced at him from the corners of eyes which had become mere slits before the biting drift of the wind.

“All squaw,” he said doggedly.  Then he went on.  “Squaw him all smile.  Him soft.  Him mak dam fool of Indian man.  Squaw no good only mak pappoose, feed pappoose.  Raise him.  All the time squaw mak pappoose.  Him not think nothin’ more.  Just pappoose.  Indian man think all things.  Him squaw only mak pappoose an’ trouble.”

“Trouble?” Steve’s smile was alight with humour.

The Indian nodded.

“All time,” he said decidedly.  “No man, no pappoose, then squaw him mak trouble all time.  It all same.  Him find man sure.  All man dam fool.  Squaw mak him dam fool.  Julyman stand by teepee.  Him tak rawhide.  Him say, ‘do so!’ Squaw him do.  Julyman mak long trail.  Him not care.  Him come back him find plenty much other squaw.  So!”

The Indian’s watchful eyes had turned again to the tracks ahead.  But he had seen.  The humour had completely vanished out of Steve’s eyes.  So had his smile.  Julyman’s purpose was not quite clear.  He loved and revered his chief.  He had no desire to hurt him.  But Steve knew that the man had been saying what he had said for his benefit.

“You’re a damn scoundrel, Julyman,” he said, and there was less than the usual tolerance in his tone.

The Indian shrugged under his furs.

“Julyman wise man,” he protested.  “All the time white man say, ’one squaw.’  It good!  So!  It fine!  Indian man say one two five ten squaw.  Then him not care little dam!”

Steve made no reply.  The man’s cynicism was sufficiently brutal to make it impossible to reply without heat.  And Steve had no desire to quarrel with his chief lieutenant.  Besides, he was deeply attached to the rascal.  So they swung up the last sharp incline in the voiceless manner in which so much of their work was done.

It was Steve who reached the brow first, and it was his arm, and his voice that indicated the discoveries beyond.

“Right!” he exclaimed.  “Look, Julyman,” he went on pointing.  “A lodge.  A lodge of neches.  And see!  What’s that?” There was excitement in the tone of his question.  “It’s a fort!” he cried, his eyes reflecting the excitement he could no longer restrain.  “A post!  A white man’s trading post!  What in hell!  Come on!”

He moved on impetuously, and in a moment the two men were speeding down the last incline.

The last recollection of the Indian’s deplorable philosophy had passed from Steve’s mind.  His eyes were on the distant encampment.  He had been prepared for some discovery.  But never, in his wildest dreaming, had he anticipated a white man’s trading post.

It was something amazing.  As far as Steve could reckon they were somewhere within a hundred miles of the great inland sea.  It might be thirty miles.  It might be sixty.  He could not tell.  Far as the eye could see there was little change from what they had been travelling over for weeks.  Appalling wastes of snow, and hill, and forest, with every here and there a loftier rise supporting a glacial bed.  There were watercourses.  Oh, yes, rivers abounded in that wide, unknown land.  But they were frozen deeply, and later would, freeze doubtless to their very beds.

But here was a wide shallow valley with a high range of hill country densely forest clad forming its northeastern boundary.  The hither side was formed by the low rising ground over which they had just passed.  The hollow passed away, narrowing more deeply to the southeast, and lost itself in the dark depths of a forest.  To the north-west the valley seemed to wander on amidst a labyrinth of sharp hills, which, in the distance, seemed to grow loftier and more broken as they merged themselves into the range Steve believed supported the mysterious Spire of Unaga.

The point of deepest interest and wonder was that which lay in the heart of the valley less than three miles further on.  Numberless small bluffs chequered the open and suggested the parentage of one which stood out amongst them, wide, and dark, and lofty.  Here there was a long wavering line of low bush reaching out down the heart of the valley indicating the course of a river.  It was on this river bank, snuggled against the fringe of the great pine bluff that a cluster of dome-roofed habitations were plainly visible.

But the wonder of all stood a short distance away to the right where the woods came down towards the river.  It was a wide group of buildings of lateral logs, with log roofs, and surrounded by a stockade of similar material.  The touch of the white man’s hand was unmistakable.  No race of northern Indians or Eskimo could have built such a place.

They sped on over the snow unconscious of the increase of their speed.  And as they approached each man realized the same thought.  There was no sign of life anywhere.  There was not even a prowling dog to be seen searching amongst the refuse of the encampment.

As they drew nearer they failed to discover any addition to the solitary track they were following.  It was curious.  It was almost ominous.  But its significance was lost in the thought that here at least was shelter for themselves against the real winter yet to come.

They reached the banks of the river.  It was a good-sized creek frozen solid, and already deep buried under snow.  Without a pause they crossed to the other side and broke their way through the scrubby snow-laden bush on the opposite bank.

“Hello!”

The two men came to an abrupt halt.  They were confronting a small child of perhaps five or six years.  He was clad in furs from head to foot.  A pretty, robust, white-skinned child, wide-eyed, and smiling his frankly cordial greeting.