“Let them camp alongside of me,” he answered Van Brunt’s glance at his party.  “Old Tantlatch will take care of them.  Come on.”

He swung off in a long stride, Van Brunt following at his heels through the village.  In irregular fashion, wherever the ground favored, the lodges of moose hide were pitched.  Van Brunt ran his practised eye over them and calculated.

“Two hundred, not counting the young ones,” he summed up.

The man nodded.  “Pretty close to it.  But here’s where I live, out of the thick of it, you know—­more privacy and all that.  Sit down.  I’ll eat with you when your men get something cooked up.  I’ve forgotten what tea tastes like....  Five years and never a taste or smell....  Any tobacco?...  Ah, thanks, and a pipe?  Good.  Now for a fire-stick and we’ll see if the weed has lost its cunning.”

He scratched the match with the painstaking care of the woodsman, cherished its young flame as though there were never another in all the world, and drew in the first mouthful of smoke.  This he retained meditatively for a time, and blew out through his pursed lips slowly and caressingly.  Then his face seemed to soften as he leaned back, and a soft blur to film his eyes.  He sighed heavily, happily, with immeasurable content, and then said suddenly: 

“God!  But that tastes good!”

Van Brunt nodded sympathetically.  “Five years, you say?”

“Five years.”  The man sighed again.  “And you, I presume, wish to know about it, being naturally curious, and this a sufficiently strange situation, and all that.  But it’s not much.  I came in from Edmonton after musk-ox, and like Pike and the rest of them, had my mischances, only I lost my party and outfit.  Starvation, hardship, the regular tale, you know, sole survivor and all that, till I crawled into Tantlatch’s, here, on hand and knee.”

“Five years,” Van Brunt murmured retrospectively, as though turning things over in his mind.

“Five years on February last.  I crossed the Great Slave early in May—­”

“And you are ...  Fairfax?” Van Brunt interjected.

The man nodded.

“Let me see ...  John, I think it is, John Fairfax.”

“How did you know?” Fairfax queried lazily, half-absorbed in curling smoke-spirals upward in the quiet air.

“The papers were full of it at the time.  Prevanche—­”

“Prevanche!” Fairfax sat up, suddenly alert.  “He was lost in the Smoke Mountains.”

“Yes, but he pulled through and came out.”

Fairfax settled back again and resumed his smoke-spirals.  “I am glad to hear it,” he remarked reflectively.  “Prevanche was a bully fellow if he did have ideas about head-straps, the beggar.  And he pulled through?  Well, I’m glad.”