The poison of speculation was stirring, but it had not yet destroyed.

Athabasca Landing was still the door that opened and closed on the great North.
Its buildings were scattered and few, and built of logs and rough lumber.

Even now he could hear the drowsy hum of the distant sawmill that was lazily turning out its grist.

Not far away the wind-worn flag of the British Empire was floating over a Hudson Bay Company's post that had bartered in the trades of the North for more than a hundred years.

Through that hundred years Athabasca Landing had pulsed with the heart-beats of strong men bred to the wilderness.