up.

"You've hit it right, Simpson, boss," he replied, fixing his searching
brown eyes on his face, "and that's the truth, sure. There's no end to
'em--no end at all." Then he added in a lowered tone as if to himself,
"There's lots found out _that_, and gone plumb to pieces!"

But the man's gravity of manner was not quite to the other's liking; it
was a little too suggestive for this scenery and setting; he was sorry
he had broached the subject. He remembered suddenly how his uncle had
told him that 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 idea that his companion held something in
sympathy with that queer type. He led the conversation on to other
topics, on to Hank and the doctor, for instance, and the natural rivalry
as to who should get the first sight of moose.

"If they went doo west," observed Défago carelessly, "there's sixty
miles between us now--with ole Punk at halfway house eatin' himself full
to bustin' with fish and coffee." They laughed together over the
picture. But the casual mention of those 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 of
homeless and wandering men, seduced by the beauty of great forests,
swept his soul in a way too vivid to be quite pleasant. He wondered
vaguely whether it was the mood of his companion that invited the
unwelcome suggestion with such persistence.