I wash my hands of him at the start.  I cannot father his tales, nor will I be responsible for them.  I make these preliminary reservations, observe, as a guard upon my own integrity.  I possess a certain definite position in a small way, also a wife; and for the good name of the community that honours my existence with its approval, and for the sake of her posterity¹ and mine, I cannot take the chances I once did, nor foster probabilities with the careless improvidence² of youth.  So, I repeat, I wash my hands of him, this Nimrod, this mighty³ hunter, this homely⁴, blue-eyed, freckle-faced Thomas Stevens.
 
Having been honest to myself, and to whatever prospective⁵ olive branches my wife may be pleased to tender me, I can now afford to be generous.  I shall not criticize the tales told me by Thomas Stevens, and, further, I shall withhold⁶ my judgment⁷.  If it be asked why, I can only add that judgment I have none.  Long have I pondered, weighed, and balanced, but never have my conclusions been twice the same—forsooth! because Thomas Stevens is a greater man than I.  If he have told truths, well and good; if untruths, still well and good.  For who can prove? or who disprove?  I eliminate myself from the proposition, while those of little faith may do as I have done—go find the same Thomas Stevens, and discuss to his face the various matters which, if fortune serve, I shall relate.  As to where he may be found?  The directions are simple: anywhere between 53 north latitude⁸ and the Pole, on the one hand; and, on the other, the likeliest hunting grounds that lie between the east coast of Siberia and farthermost Labrador.  That he is there, somewhere, within that clearly defined territory, I pledge the word of an honourable⁹ man whose expectations entail¹⁰ straight speaking and right living.
 
Thomas Stevens may have toyed prodigiously¹¹ with truth, but when we first met (it were well to mark this point), he wandered into my camp when I thought myself a thousand miles beyond the outermost¹² post of civilization.  At the sight of his human face, the first in weary months, I could have sprung forward and folded him in my arms (and I am not by any means a demonstrative man); but to him his visit seemed the most casual thing under the sun.  He just strolled into the light of my camp, passed the time of day after the custom of men on beaten trails, threw my snowshoes the one way and a couple of dogs the other, and so made room for himself by the fire.  Said he’d just dropped in to borrow a pinch of soda¹³ and to see if I had any decent tobacco.  He plucked forth¹⁴ an ancient pipe, loaded it with painstaking¹⁵ care, and, without as much as by your leave, whacked¹⁶ half the tobacco of my pouch¹⁷ into his.  Yes, the stuff was fairly good.  He sighed with the contentment of the just, and literally¹⁸ absorbed the smoke from the crisping yellow flakes¹⁹, and it did my smoker’s heart good to behold²⁰ him.
 
Hunter?  Trapper?  Prospector²¹?  He shrugged²² his shoulders No; just sort of knocking round a bit.  Had come up from the Great Slave some time since, and was thinking of trapsing over into the Yukon country.  The factor of Koshim had spoken about the discoveries on the Klondike, and he was of a mind to run over for a peep.  I noticed that he spoke²³ of the Klondike in the archaic²⁴ vernacular²⁵, calling it the Reindeer²⁶ River—a conceited²⁷ custom that the Old Timers employ against the che-chaquas and all tenderfeet in general.  But he did it so naively²⁸ and as such a matter of course, that there was no sting, and I forgave him.  He also had it in view, he said, before he crossed the divide into the Yukon, to make a little run up Fort o’ Good Hope way.
 
Now Fort o’ Good Hope is a far journey to the north, over and beyond the Circle, in a place where the feet of few men have trod; and when a nondescript ragamuffin comes in out of the night, from nowhere in particular, to sit by one’s fire and discourse²⁹ on such in terms of “trapsing” and “a little run,” it is fair time to rouse up and shake off the dream.  Wherefore I looked about me; saw the fly and, underneath³⁰, the pine boughs³¹ spread for the sleeping furs; saw the grub sacks, the camera, the frosty breaths of the dogs circling on the edge of the light; and, above, a great streamer of the aurora³², bridging the zenith from south-east to north-west.  I shivered.  There is a magic in the Northland night, that steals in on one like fevers from malarial³³ marshes³⁴.  You are clutched and downed before you are aware.  Then I looked to the snowshoes, lying prone³⁵ and crossed where he had flung them.  Also I had an eye to my tobacco pouch.  Half, at least, of its goodly store had vamosed.  That settled it.  Fancy had not tricked me after all.
 
Crazed with suffering, I thought, looking steadfastly³⁶ at the man—one of those wild stampeders, strayed far from his bearings and wandering like a lost soul through great vastnesses and unknown deeps.  Oh, well, let his moods slip on, until, mayhap, he gathers his tangled³⁷ wits together.  Who knows?—the mere³⁸ sound of a fellow-creature’s voice may bring all straight again.
 
So I led him on in talk, and soon I marvelled³⁹, for he talked of game and the ways thereof.  He had killed the Siberian wolf of westernmost Alaska, and the chamois in the secret Rockies.  He averred⁴⁰ he knew the haunts where the last buffalo⁴¹ still roamed; that he had hung on the flanks of the caribou⁴² when they ran by the hundred thousand, and slept in the Great Barrens on the musk-ox’s winter trail.
 
And I shifted my judgment accordingly (the first revision, but by no account the last), and deemed him a monumental effigy⁴³ of truth.  Why it was I know not, but the spirit moved me to repeat a tale told to me by a man who had dwelt in the land too long to know better.  It was of the great bear that hugs the steep slopes of St Elias, never descending⁴⁴ to the levels of the gentler inclines.  Now God so constituted this creature for its hillside habitat that the legs of one side are all of a foot longer than those of the other.  This is mighty convenient, as will be reality admitted.  So I hunted this rare beast in my own name, told it in the first person, present tense, painted the requisite⁴⁵ locale, gave it the necessary garnishings and touches of verisimilitude, and looked to see the man stunned⁴⁶ by the recital⁴⁷.
 
Not he.  Had he doubted, I could have forgiven him.  Had he objected, denying the dangers of such a hunt by virtue⁴⁸ of the animal’s inability to turn about and go the other way—had he done this, I say, I could have taken him by the hand for the true sportsman that he was.  Not he.  He sniffed⁴⁹, looked on me, and sniffed again; then gave my tobacco due praise, thrust one foot into my lap, and bade me examine the gear.  It was a mucluc of the Innuit pattern, sewed together with sinew threads, and devoid⁵⁰ of beads⁵¹ or furbelows.  But it was the skin itself that was remarkable⁵².  In that it was all of half an inch thick, it reminded me of walrus⁵³-hide; but there the resemblance ceased, for no walrus ever bore so marvellous a growth of hair.  On the side and ankles this hair was well-nigh worn away, what of friction⁵⁴ with underbrush and snow; but around the top and down the more sheltered back it was coarse, dirty black, and very thick.  I parted it with difficulty and looked beneath for the fine fur that is common with northern animals, but found it in this case to be absent.  This, however, was compensated⁵⁵ for by the length.  Indeed, the tufts that had survived wear and tear measured all of seven or eight inches.
 
I looked up into the man’s face, and he pulled his foot down and asked, “Find hide like that on your St Elias bear?”
 
I shook my head.  “Nor on any other creature of land or sea,” I answered candidly⁵⁶.  The thickness of it, and the length of the hair, puzzled me.
 
“That,” he said, and said without the slightest hint of impressiveness, “that came from a mammoth⁵⁷.”
 
“Nonsense!” I exclaimed, for I could not forbear the protest of my unbelief.  “The mammoth, my dear sir, long ago vanished from the earth.  We know it once existed by the fossil remains⁵⁸ that we have unearthed⁵⁹, and by a frozen carcase that the Siberian sun saw fit to melt from out the bosom⁶⁰ of a glacier⁶¹; but we also know that no living specimen⁶² exists.  Our explorers—”
 
At this word he broke in impatiently.  “Your explorers?  Pish!  A weakly breed.  Let us hear no more of them.  But tell me, O man, what you may know of the mammoth and his ways.”
 
Beyond contradiction, this was leading to a yarn⁶³; so I baited my hook by ransacking⁶⁴ my memory for whatever data I possessed⁶⁵ on the subject in hand.  To begin with, I emphasized that the animal was prehistoric⁶⁶, and marshalled all my facts in support of this.  I mentioned the Siberian sand-bars that abounded⁶⁷ with ancient mammoth bones; spoke of the large quantities of fossil ivory purchased from the Innuits by the Alaska Commercial Company; and acknowledged having myself mined six- and eight-foot tusks⁶⁸ from the pay gravel⁶⁹ of the Klondike creeks⁷¹.  “All fossils,” I concluded, “found in the midst of débris deposited through countless⁷² ages.”
 
“I remember when I was a kid,” Thomas Stevens sniffed (he had a most confounded way of sniffing), “that I saw a petrified⁷³ water-melon.  Hence, though mistaken persons sometimes delude⁷⁴ themselves into thinking that they are really raising or eating them, there are no such things as extant water-melons?”
 
“But the question of food,” I objected, ignoring his point, which was puerile⁷⁵ and without bearing.  “The soil must bring forth vegetable life in lavish⁷⁶ abundance to support so monstrous⁷⁷ creations.  Nowhere in the North is the soil so prolific⁷⁸.  Ergo, the mammoth cannot exist.”
 
“I pardon your ignorance concerning many matters of this Northland, for you are a young man and have travelled little; but, at the same time, I am inclined to agree with you on one thing.  The mammoth no longer exists.  How do I know?  I killed the last one with my own right arm.”
 
Thus spake Nimrod, the mighty Hunter.  I threw a stick of firewood at the dogs and bade them quit their unholy howling, and waited.  Undoubtedly⁷⁹ this liar⁸⁰ of singular felicity would open his mouth and requite⁸¹ me for my St. Elias bear.<............