Here
probably a score of men lived and worked. But they were not men he
knew. They were not men who would care to know him,--not after a
clear sight of his face.
Hollister did not say that to himself in so many words. He was only
subconsciously aware of this conclusion. Nevertheless it guided his
actions. Through long, bitter months he had rebelled against spiritual
isolation. The silent woods, the gray river, the cloud-wrapped hills
seemed friendly by comparison with mankind,--mankind which had marred
him and now shrank from its handiwork.
So he passed by this community in the wilderness, not because he
wished to but because he must.
Within half a mile he struck fast water, long straight reaches up
which he gained ground against the current by steady strokes of the
paddle, shallows where he must wade and lead his craft by hand. So he
came at last to the Big Bend of the Toba River, a great S curve where
the stream doubled upon itself in a mile-wide flat that had been
stripped of its timber and lay now an unlovely vista of stumps, each
with a white cap of snow.
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