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It was of the wilderness, the big woods, bigger and older than any recorded document:-of white man fatuous enough to believe he had bought any fragment of it, of Indian ruthless enough to pretend that any fragment of it had been his to convey bigger than Major de Spain and the scrap he pretended to, knowing better older than old ness in the ancient and unremitting contest according to the ancient and immitigable rules which voided all regrets and brooked no quarter -the best game of all, the best of all breathing and forever the best of all listening, the voices quiet and weighty and deliberate for retrospection and recollection and exactitude among the concrete trophies-the racked guns and the heads and skins-in the libraries of town houses or the offices of plantation houses or (and best of all) in the camps themselves where the intact and still-warm meat yet hung, the men who had slain it sitting before the burning logs on hearths when there were houses and hearths or about the smoky blazing of piled wood in front of stretched tarpaulins when there were not. For six years now he had heard the best of all talking.

For six years now he had been a man’s hunter.