that
which she had learned filled her with a tender, almost motherly
amusement. He was transparent in his simplicity. His singleness of
purpose was almost amazing. But under it all she had become aware of a
strength and latent force that could only be guessed at. Their talks had
been less intimate during the time of their preparations, and she
understood that it was the result of the purpose that preoccupied him.
Now she speculated as to that which was in his mind. What was the boyish
whim that had brought them to the place he had selected as their tryst?
What was it that had made him express such gladness?

"I was thinking of that darn old moose," Marcel explained with eyes
alight and whimsical.

The girl waited and he went on.

"Say, I guess life's a pretty queer thing," he observed profoundly.
"It's a mighty small piece between content and discontent, isn't it?
It's so small you'd think anyone of sense could fix it so we couldn't be
discontented--ever. Yet we either can't or won't fix it. One leads to
good and the other leads to bad--and only time can say how bad. I was
getting mighty near discontent. Why? Because I'd got most everything I
wanted except the things--I wanted." He laughed. "I was crazy for
something, and I didn't quite know what. There was something in me
crying out, hollering help, and I couldn't hand that help. Well, I guess
there isn't a sound like that going on in me now. I'm just crazy with
content."

"Why?"

The girl's question was instant, but, in a moment, she regretted it.

The man's eyes regarded her steadily for a moment, and Keeko hastily
turned away. Promptly the echoes of the canyon were awakened by the
youth's laughter.

"I couldn't just tell you--easy," he cried. "But I'm about as content as
a basking seal. That's all. It's easier telling you how I feel glad
thinking of that old moose. Oh, yes, that's easy. I owe him a debt I
can't repay easy, seeing he's dead. Still, I feel like doing the best I
know to make him feel good about things."

Marcel's mood infected the girl.

"You're--you're not reckoning to start in and--bury him?" she cried.

Marcel shook his head.

"There's only his bones left. The rest of him is chasing around in the
bellies of a pack of timber wolves. No. It's his head and his antlers.
The wolves have cleaned his head sheer to the bone, as I reckoned they
would, and I've toted their leavings right here, and I guess we're going
to set it up a monument. Sa