We drive south along the lake, rain showers pattering on the roof of the truck now and then. The morning sun finally breaks through the clouds as we pass Wild Horse Island, Big Arm, Chief Cliff . . . and as Flathead Lake ends, Polson. It’s our breakfast stop on this ten-hour journey back to…

Sitting on the porch alone, listening to them fixing supper, he felt again . . . the sense of loss and the aloneness, the utter defenselessness that was each man's lot, sealed up in his bee cell from all the others in the world. But the smelling of boiling vegetables and pork reached him from…