They had started from civilization
on the tenth day of May and this was the thirtieth of June.
As Langdon looked through his glasses he believed that at last they had
reached the bourne of their desires. For nearly two months they had worked
to get beyond the trails of men, and they had succeeded. There were no
hunters here. There were no prospectors. The valley ahead of them was
filled with golden promise, and as he sought out the first of its mystery
and its wonder his heart was filled with the deep and satisfying joy which
only men like Langdon can fully understand. To his friend and comrade,
Bruce Otto, with whom he had gone five times into the North country, all
mountains and all valleys were very much alike; he was born among them, he
had lived among them all his life, and he would probably die among them.
It was Bruce who gave him a sudden sharp nudge with his elbow.
"I see the heads of three caribou crossing a dip about a mile and a half
up the valley," he said, without taking his eyes from the telescope.
"And I see a Nanny and her kid on the black shale of that first mountain to
the right," replied Langdon. "And, by George, there's a Sky Pilot looking
down on her from a crag a thousand feet above the shale! He's got a beard a
foot long. Bruce, I'll bet we've struck a regular Garden of Eden!"
"Looks it," vouchsafed Bruce, coiling up his long legs to get a better rest
for his telescope.
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