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The Sounding of the Call
Theywentacrossdividesinsummerblizzards,shiveredunderthemidnightsunonnakedmountainsbetweenthetimberlineandtheeternalsnows,droppedintosummervalleysamidswarminggnatsandflies,andintheshadowsofglacierspickedstrawberriesandflowersasripeandfairasanytheSouthlandcouldboast. Inthefalloftheyeartheypenetratedaweirdlakecountry,sadandsilent,wherewildfowlhadbeen,butwherethentherewasnolifenorsignoflife—onlytheblowingofchillwinds,theformingoficeinshelteredplaces,andthemelancholyripplingofwavesonlonelybeaches.
Andthroughanotherwintertheywanderedontheobliteratedtrailsofmenwhohadgonebefore. Once,theycameuponapathblazedthroughtheforest,anancientpath,andtheLostCabinseemedverynear. Butthepathbegannowhereandendednowhere,anditremainedmystery,asthemanwhomadeitandthereasonhemadeitremainedmystery. Anothertimetheychanceduponthetime-gravenwreckageofahuntinglodge,andamidtheshredsofrottedblanketsJohnThorntonfoundalong-barrelledflint-lock. HeknewitforaHudsonBayCompanygunoftheyoungdaysintheNorthwest,whensuchagunwasworthitsheightinbeaverskinspackedflat. Andthatwasall—nohintastothemanwhoinanearlydayhadrearedthelodgeandleftthegunamongtheblankets.
