conditions of his existence. A hundred and eighty miles farther on
was Fort McMurray, and another two hundred beyond that was
Chipewyan, and still beyond that the Mackenzie and its fifteen-
hundred-mile trail to the northern sea. He was glad there was no
end to this world of his. He was glad there were few people in it.
But these people he loved. That hour ago he had looked out on the
river as two York boats had forged up against the stream, craft
like the long, slim galleys of old, brought over through the
Churchill and Clearwater countries from Hudson's Bay. There were
eight rowers in each boat. They were singing. Their voices rolled
between the walls of the forests. Their naked arms and shoulders
glistened in the sun. They rowed like Vikings, and to him they
were symbols of the freedom of the world. He had watched them
until they were gone up-stream, but it was a long time before the
chanting of their voices had died away. And then he had risen from
beside his tiny fire, and had stretched himself until his muscles
cracked. It was good to feel the blood running red and strong in
one's veins at the age of thirty-seven. For Carrigan felt the
thrill of these days when strong men were coming out of the north
--days when the glory of June hung over the land, when out of the
deep wilderness threaded by the Three Rivers came romance and
courage and red-blooded men and women of an almost forgotten
people to laugh and sing and barter for a time with the outpost
guardians of a younger and more progressive world. It was north of
Fifty-Four, and the waters of a continent flowed toward the Arctic
Sea. Yet soon would the strawberries be crushing red underfoot;
the forest road was in bloom, scarlet fire-flowers reddened the
trail, wild hyacinths and golden-freckled violets played hide-
and-seek with the forget-me-nots in the meadows, and the sky was a
great splash of velvety blue. It was the north triumphant--at the