At last, after months that had seemed like so many years, he was _alone_.
North and eastward stretched the unmarked trail which he knew so well, a hundred and fifty miles straight as a bird might fly, almost unmapped, unpeopled, right up to the doors of his range in the slopes of the Endicott Mountains.

A little cry from his own lips gave him a start.

It was as if he had called out aloud to Tautuk and Amuk Toolik, and to Keok and Nawadlook, telling them he was on his way home and would soon be there.

Never had this hidden land which he had found for himself seemed so desirable as it did in this hour.

There was something about it that was all-mothering, all-good, all-sweetly-comforting to that other thing which had become a part of him now.