exultation in his return. He looked out on its silvery bars shimmering
in the moonlight, and a flood of memories swept upon him. Thirty years
was not so long ago that he could not remember the beautiful mother who
had told him stories as the sun went down and bedtime drew near. And
vividly there stood out the wonderful tales of Kistachiwun, the river;
how it was born away over in the mystery of the western mountains, away
from the eyes and feet of men; how it came down from the mountains into
the hills, and through the hills into the plains, broadening and
deepening and growing mightier with every mile, until at last it swept
past their door, bearing with it the golden grains of sand that made
men rich. His father had pointed out the deep-beaten trails of buffalo
to him and had told him stories of the Indians and of the land before
white men came, so that between father and mother the river became his
book of fables, his wonderland, the never-ending source of his
treasured tales of childhood. And tonight the river was the one thing
left to him. It was the one friend he could claim again, the one
comrade he could open his arms to without fear of betrayal. And with
the grief for things that once had lived and were now dead, there came
over him a strange sort of happiness, the spirit of the great river
itself giving him consolation.

Stretching out his arms, he cried: "My old river--it's me--Johnny
Keith! I've come back!"

And the river, whispering, seemed to answer him: "It's Johnny Keith!
And he's come back! He's come back!"



IV