.

Some hours, or days, or years before I had been pushing along the
trail to the coast, thinking little where I placed my feet and much
of the eating that lay at Dalton Post House; and of other things
thousands of miles from this bleak waste, where men exist in the
hope of ultimate living, with kaleidoscope death by their side;
other things that had to do with women's faces, bills of fare from
which bacon and beans were rigidly excluded, and comforts of the
flesh that some day I again might enjoy.

Then, as if to mock me, teach me the folly of allowing even my
thoughts to wander from her cold face, the Northland meted swift
punishment. The packed snow of the trail beneath my feet gave way,
there was a sharp click of steel meeting steel, and a shooting pain
that ran from heel to head. For a moment I was sick and giddy from
the shock and sudden pain, then, loosening the pack from my
shoulders, fell to digging the snow with my mittened hands away
from what, even before I uncovered it, I knew to be a bear trap
that had bitten deep into my ankle and held it in vise clutch.
Roundly I cursed at the worse than fool who had set bear trap in
man trail, as I tore and tugged to free myself. As well might I
have tried to wrench apart the jaws of its intended victim.

Weakened at last by my efforts and the excruciating pain I lay back
upon the snow. A short rest, and again I pulled feebly at the steel
teeth, until my hands were bleeding and my brain swirling.

How long I struggled blindly, viciously, like a trapped beaver, I
do not know, though I have an indistinct memory of reaching for my
knife to emulate his sometime method of escape. But with the first
flakes of falling snow came a delicious, contentful langour,
deadening the pain, soothing the weariness of my muscles, calming
the tempest of my thoughts and fears, and lulling me gently to
sleep to the music of an old song crooned by the breeze among the
trees.

When I awoke it was with that queer feeling of foreign surroundings
we sometimes experience, and the snow, the forest, the pain in my
leg, my own being, were as strange as the crackling fire, the warm
blanket that wrapped me, and the Indian who bent over me smiling
into my half opened eyes.

So were our trails joined and made one; Zachook of the Northland,
and I of the Southland, by him later called Kitchakahaech, because
my tongue moved as moved our feet on the trail, unceasingly. And
because of this same love o