"It's fine," said John, "to feel that we are right here where the old men used to travel, and that we've got to travel the way they did. I'm glad I came."

"I'm glad, too," said Uncle Dick. "It has been rather hard work, and now I propose to give you a little rest, so the horses can pick up as well as ourselves. There's good grass in the valley on ahead, and we'll go into camp rather early."

They pushed on now, swinging away presently from the great valley of the Athabasca, hemmed in by its mountains, and beginning to climb the steeper ascent of the Miette. At the foot of the narrow valley they could see the racing green flood of the river, broken here and there by white rapids, on its way to the valley of the Athabasca, whose rift in the hills they now lost as they continued their ascent.

Late in that afternoon they found good camping-ground by the side of a brawling little mountain stream. The boys were happy and light-hearted as they went about pitching their camp, for the spot was very lovely, the weather fine, and the going had not been so difficult as to tire them out. They plunged into the camp duties with such enthusiasm as to please Moise very much.

"Those boy, she'll been all right, Monsieur," said that worthy to Uncle Dick. "She'll come through all right, all same trapper man."

"Certainly," said Uncle Dick; "unless we have some bad accident we'll have a very fine journey all the way across."

"And to-morrow she'll caught some feesh?" inquired Moise. "Why not get some sheeps, too? Me, I am tired of those bacon all the time."

"We're still inside the Jasper Park Reservation," replied Uncle Dick, "so we can't shoot game, but to-morrow I'll promise you some fish in camp. We're now getting into the Rockies, and we'll have fish every day now, if you like."



X

RAINBOW LAKE

The boys were up early, excited by the prospect of a day's sport, and before the sun had more than shown above the hills they were out in the dewy grass and ready for breakfast. From their camp they could hear the rushing of the swift Miette below them. All around them lay a wonderful mountain view—Mount Geikie on one side, and off ahead, apparently closing the valley itself, three tall white peaks which were to rise before them for some time yet. The high, dry air of the mountains was most refreshing, and all were full of life and joy when their leader at length told them that they might start for the hidden lake back in the hills.

"How'd you happen to find that lake?" asked John. "It doesn't seem to show anywhere in this valley."

"We found it on the same principle as they found the Yellowhead Pass," said Uncle Dick. "When we struck this little creek we knew it must come from somewhere, and as a matter of fact we were hungry for trout. So we followed the creek until we discovered the lake that we call Rainbow Lake, where we are going to-day. It's bad walking along the creek, however, and we'll find it much easier to go on up the valley a little way, and then cross over the high ridge to the right. It's a climb of about a thousand feet, but the going is good, and it's only a mile or so over to the lake in that way."

Following their leader, they all started up the valley, each with his fishing-rod in hand. Soon they were making their way up the steep slope of the lofty ridge which lay between the valley and the hidden lake. From time to time they stopped to catch their breath, and at such times sat looking with wonder at the great mountain prospect which rose before them as they climbed.

"It certainly seems as though we were the first to be here," said Jesse. "You can't see the track of anybody in here."

"No," said Uncle Dick, "no tin cans just yet, and we might as well call ourselves the first, because we're traveling precisely as the first men did who came through here. But I would like to ask you whether you discovered anything this morning out of the way."

John and Jesse could not think of anything, but Rob hesitated. "I'll tell you what," said he, "it seems to me there must have been more than one trail up this valley. At least, I've seen two this morning."

"Precisely. The main trail ran lower down, below our camp. The other trail which you noticed cut across a low place in this ridge back of us. Now that trail runs right along the side of our little lake over yonder. It passes back above that lake and heads off into the mountains. It's as deep and broad as the other trail, but nobody seems to know anything about it. It seems to strike in for the mountains somewhere north of Yellowhead Pass. But where does it go? No one can tell you. Is there another pass in there, north of Yellowhead? No one can answer that. Perhaps the two trails meet somewhere between here and the Yellowhead; but if so, no one has found where. That's a mystery, isn't it? Some day, if I ever have time, I'm going to follow out that trail and see where it goes.

"But come on," he concluded; "we'll go on over the ridge and see the trail itself by the side of the lake."

They rose now and pushed on up to the top of their steep climb, and soon passed into the dense growth of small pines which covered it. Their leader pushed on ahead, calling to them to follow; and, although the going was very difficult on account of burned timber and tangled undergrowth, they passed on rapidly down the farther slope, until presently they broke from the cover and stood at the edge of the beautiful little mountain lake which lay green and mirrorlike, a mile or so in extent, surrounded closely on all sides by the great mountain walls.

"Well," said John, "it's a beauty, sure enough."

"It certainly is," said Jesse, "and no tin cans of worm fishermen anywhere along here, either. It looks fishy, too."

"It certainly is fishy," smiled Uncle Dick; "or it was last year, when I was in here. The trout don't run so very large, but they strike well and they are mighty good to eat."

"What's this old hump we're on?" inquired Jesse, looking down curiously at his feet. They were standing on a rude pile of poles and sticks which extended well out into the lake.

"Guess," said Uncle Dick.

"I know," said Rob at once—"beaver!"

"Right. It's one of the biggest beaver-houses I ever saw in my life. You'll find beaver sign all around this lake, but I suppose they caught the last one—maybe old Swift could tell who got him, or some of his Indian friends. So all we'll use the old beaver-house for is as a kind of pier to stand on while we fish—the trees come so close to the lake that it is hard to get a back-cast here."

"Well," said Jesse, "over there to the end of the lake is a sort of point that runs out in—where it is rocky, with little trees and grass."

"A splendid place to fish, too," said his uncle. "Now if you and John want to go around there, Rob and I will stay here and try it. But you'll have to be careful in crossing that marsh at the head of the lake. That's a beaver marsh—and just to show you how old our trail is that I was mentioning, you will probably find the marsh was made later than the trail was. But you can follow it along the edge of the lake for quite a ways. It's all full of bogs and beaver-dams farther up the valley, beyond the lake."

"Come on, Jess," said John, "and we'll go over there where we can get out a good long line."

These boys were all of them fearless, from their outdoor training in their Alaskan home, so without hesitation the two younger members of the party started out alone and presently, after some running and splashing across the wet marsh, they reached the rocky point which they had mentioned.

"My, but this is a pretty lake!" said Jesse, standing for a time admiring the beautiful sheet of water that lay before them.

"It certainly is all alone," said John. "I saw a trail back in there which I'll bet was made by caribou. And there's beaver in here yet, I'm sure."

"Yes, and trout," exclaimed Jesse. "Look at that fellow rise! We'll get some sure. What fly are you going to use, John?"

"Let's try the Coachman—I've noticed that in the mountains trout nearly always run at something white, and the white wings look as good as anything to me."

"All right," said Jesse, and soon they were both casting as far as they could from the shore.

"Out there is a sort of reef or rocks," said John; "I'll bet there's fish there. Now if I could—Aha!" he cried. "Got him! No!" he exclaimed, a minute later. "There's two!"

As a matter of fact, John was a good caster for one of his age, and he had laid out thirty or forty feet of line when there came a silvery flash from below, followed by a second one, as two fine trout fastened at his two flies.

"I can hardly hold them, Jess," said he, "but my! don't they look fine down in that clear water? Rainbows, both of them, and about a pound each, I think."

It was some time before John could control his two hard-fighting fish; but after a time, with Jesse assisting, he got them out on the hard gravel beach.

"Now you try out there, Jess," said he. "Cast out there where the bottom looks black—that's where they lie."

"All right," said Jesse; and, to be sure, he had fished but a few moments before a splash and a tug told him that he too had hooked a fine trout.

"This is great, John, isn't it?" exclaimed he. "And how they do fight! We never had any trout up in Alaska that fought this hard. Even the salmon we caught on Kadiak Island didn't pull much harder."

When finally they had landed Jesse's trout they stood at the beach and, holding up their prizes, gave a shout, which was answered by Rob from the other side of the lake. He also held up something in his hand which was white and glistening.

"They're having good luck, too," said he. "Well, now let's settle down and get a mess of trout, for I am like Moise, tired of eating bacon all the time."

They did settle down, and, each finding a good casting-place on the rocky point, they so skilfully plied their rods that in a short time they had a dozen fine trout between them. As their companions seemed to have stopped fishing by this time, they also reeled up their lines and started back across the marsh.

"Pretty good luck, eh?" said Uncle Dick, as they admiringly held up their string of fish. "Well, Rob and I have got about as many here."

"Didn't they fight hard, though?" asked Rob. "I never saw fish of their size make such trouble."

"The water is very cold," said Uncle Dick, "and that makes the fish very firm and active. I don't know just what they eat, but I suppose there must be some little minnows in the lake. Then there are some insects on warm days; and perhaps they get some kind of ground feed once in a while."

"They're all rainbows, aren't they?" said Rob. "As near as I can tell, they look like the rainbows on the Pacific slope. How did they get over here?"

"How did they get into any of the streams in the United States east of the Rocky summit?" asked Uncle Dick. "Nobody can answer that. Of course, all the rainbows in the Eastern states are planted there. But when you get up on the marsh of the Yellowhead Pass, where the water doesn't know which way to run, you will wonder if sometime in the past the Pacific trout didn't swim into Atlantic waters—just as they are said to have done at the Two-Ocean Pass, south of the Yellowstone Park. Nature has her own way of doing things, and, as she has had plenty of time, we don't always know just how she did some things."

"I wonder," said Jesse, as he looked around him at the great mountains, "if these old mountains ever have a good time off by themselves in here. They're awfully old, aren't they?"

"I'm awfully hungry," said John. "Let's go on back to camp."

Uncle Dick smiled and led the way into the thick underbrush once more. They had a stiff climb before they reached the summit of their ridge where the timber broke away and gave them once more their splendid view out over the Miette valley and the mountains beyond. They ran rapidly down this fair slope and soon were in camp, where Moise greeted them with much joy.

"By gar!" said he, "those boy, she'll get feesh, eh? What I tole you, Monsieur Deek?"

The day was yet young, but at the earnest request of his young companions Uncle Dick consented to rest one day and allow the horses to graze, as he had promised. Therefore the boys had plenty of time that afternoon to prowl around in the neighborhood of the camp: and that night Moise, having also had abundant time to prepare his supper, offered them boiled trout, fried trout, and griddled trout, until even John at least was obliged to cry "Enough."



XI

THE PASS

It seemed to our Young Alaskans that Uncle Dick was nothing if not a hard taskmaster on the trail, for before the sun was up he was calling them out of their tents.

"Come now," he warned them; "get out of those blankets at once! You've had a good day's fishing, and now we'll have to make a good day's travel to pay up for it."

Tired from their tramp of the day before, they all groaned protestingly; but Moise also called out from his fireside, "Hello, young mans! Suppose you'll got up and eat some more trout, eh?"

"I certainly am hungry," said John, and in their laughter at John's unfailing appetite Rob and Jesse found themselves awake.

"Well, get out and get the horses, young men," said Uncle Dick, relentlessly, "and then back to breakfast while I make up the packs. You see those three peaks on ahead? Well, we've got to get on the other side of them just as soon as we can. We can't afford to lose a minute at this time of the year, for the fords will be bad enough even as they are."

When at length their little pack-train began its slow course up the valley of the Miette all the boys turned and looked behind them to say good-by to the great valley of the Athabasca, which had served them as a highway for so long. The excitement of their new adventures, however, kept them keyed up, and certainly the dangers of the trail were not inconsiderable.

The old pass of the traders now swung away from the river, now crossed high ridges, only to drop again into boggy creek-bottoms and side-hill muskeg. Several times they had to ford the Miette, no easy thing, and at other times small streams which came down from the mountains at the right also had to be crossed. The three white peaks ahead still served as landmarks, but it was not until the second day that they reached the flat prairie through which the Miette River now wandered, broken into many little channels. Even here they found the going very soft and difficult, now impeded by down timber, or again by a rushing torrent where the ford had to be selected with the utmost care. John and Jesse were tired by the end of their second day of this hard travel; and even Rob, muddy to his knees from wading bogs, was glad when at last their leader halted.

"It's all right, boys," said Uncle Dick. "I don't want to drive you too hard, but I know perfectly well that every day counts with us now. We've got bad country on ahead as well as bad country behind us, and we must make it through before the spring floods are on. I suppose you've noticed that all the creeks are worse late in the afternoon? But I've waited at some of these little streams four and five days without being able to ford at all."

They pushed on up through the open prairie-like country which now lay on about them, continually a panorama of mountains unfolding before them, all strange to them. An angle of the trail seemed to shut off all the valley of the Miette from them, so that they seemed in a different world.

"When will we get to the summit, Uncle Dick?" inquired Rob, after a time, as they halted at the edge of a wide green valley in whose deep grass for a time no running stream could be seen.

Uncle Dick smiled. "We're at the summit now, you might say," said he. "I knew you couldn't tell when we got there."

"This isn't like the Peace River Pass at all," said Rob; "it doesn't look like a pass at all, but more like a flat prairie country."

"Precisely—they call that the Dominion Prairie over yonder. But a mountain pass is rarely what it is supposed to be. Take the Tennessee Pass, for instance, down in Colorado; you'll see a wide meadow with a dull creek running through it, something like this. The deep gorges and canyons are lower down in the mountains, not on top of them. What you see before you is the old Yellowhead Pass, and we are now almost at the highest point. The grade rises very little from here to the actual summit."

"Well," said John, "I never thought I'd be in a place like this in all my life. It seems a long way off from everywhere."

"It comes near being the wilderness," said his uncle. "Far north of us is the Peace River Pass, which you made last year. Just the other way is the Athabasca Pass. Yonder, south of us, is Mount Geikie, between us and the Athabasca. Over west is Mount Fitzwilliam, and across the lake from him is Yellowhead Mountain; that's the one the early traders through here used to call Mount Bingley. And on every side of us there is all kinds of country where, so far as any one knows, no white man's foot has ever trod. Northwest of the pass and north of here we don't pretend to map the country, and not one mountain in ten has got its name yet. In short, we are in the wilderness here about as much as you're apt to be in many a long day's journey, no matter where you go."

"And yet right out in there it looks like a farm meadow," said Jesse, pointing to the green flats broken with willows and poplar mottes here and there.

"Beaver out there one time, no doubt," said Uncle Dick, "and maybe even now; but sometime there will be farms in here. At least, this is the top of the mountains and the lowest pass in all the Rockies. I'll show you the actual summit when we come to it."

They sat for some time looking about them and allowing their horses to graze. All at once Rob broke the silence. "I'm going to be an engineer sometime," said he. "I believe I'd like to do locating work in wild countries like this."

"As for me," said John, "I believe I'd rather stay in the office and make maps and things."

"And I'm going to be a merchant," said Jesse, "and I'll ship things over your road when you get it built."

"That reminds me," said Uncle Dick, "you young men have not brought up your own map of the country we have crossed over. You are only using the maps that you could make or buy ready-made. Now, John, suppose you be official map-maker for the party and take your notes from day to day."

"Pshaw! What do I know about making a map?" said John.

"Well, you can do as well as an Indian; and let me tell you an Indian can make a pretty good map with nothing but a stick and a smooth place in the sand."

"How could I tell how far it was from one place to another?" inquired the newly elected map-maker.

"We can't tell so very well, as we are now traveling. Of course, when engineers go out in a party they measure every mile by a chain, and know just how far they have come. The old trappers used to allow three or four miles an hour for their pack-horses in a country like this. Sometimes an engineer carries what is called a pedometer in his pocket, which tells him how far he has walked. Maybe you did not know that instrument was invented by Thomas Jefferson over a hundred years ago? Suppose you allow twenty or twenty-five miles a day, at most, for our travel. Now you have your compass, and, though you don't try to put in every little bend in the trail or in the valley, you take the courses of all the long valleys and the general directions from one peak to another. Thus between your compass and your pack-train you will have to do the best you can with your map, because we have no scientific instruments to help us."

"All right," said John. "I'll make my notes the best I can, and every night we'll try to bring up the map. It'll be fine to have when we get back home to show our folks, won't it?"

"Well, I'll help you all I can," said Uncle Dick. "You remember the two big streams that run into the Miette back of us, where we made the fourth ford of the Miette? Well, that is just about eight miles from the Athabasca River. If we had not lost so much time with the horses bogging down we ought to have been in here yesterday instead of to-day, for now we are at Deer Creek, and that is only fourteen miles in a straight line from the Athabasca. This prairie between the forks of Deer Creek is called Dominion Prairie. The valley is soft and marshy for a couple of miles beyond the Dominion Prairie, as you can see from the way the trail runs over the edges of the ridges. The grade is a little bit steeper for three miles west of Dominion Prairie. The width of the marsh or meadow in here is about half a mile to a mile. At the last crossing of the Miette, three miles west of Dominion Prairie, the Miette is just a little stream with many branches. Now note very well the last one of these branches. That points out the true summit of Yellowhead Pass. Perhaps this very summer, if there is high water, some of the drainage water will run west from this marsh into the Fraser River, while some of it will run east into the Miette and the Athabasca."

"Then how far have we come up the Miette all together, Uncle Dick?" inquired John, his pencil in his mouth.

"Only about seventeen miles, but they have been rather hard ones. We have climbed about four hundred feet all together in total elevation, but a great deal more than that if we count all the little ridges we have crossed over. Now do you think you can get your directions from your compass and make your map from these figures?"

"I'll try my best," said John.

"Well, come ahead," said Uncle Dick. "It isn't far from here to the place we call the top of the hill."

Surely enough, after a little more scrambling progress they pulled up beside a little square stump, or post, to which Uncle Dick pointed silently.

"I helped set that," said he, "and, believe me, it meant some work. Well, do you see the figures on it? Three, seven, two, o—that's how high we are above the level of the sea, and this is the lowest of all the mountain passes. It is a little over three thousand five hundred miles between the Atlantic and the Pacific on this railway line, and this is the highest point on the whole line. Believe me, my young friends, you are at rather an interesting place right here—so interesting that if you don't mind we'll forget the short day's travel for the last few days and make our day's camp right here."

Nothing loath, the entire party assisted in hunting out a suitable camping-spot not far from the actual summit where grass and water were to be found and a fairly good place for the tents.

John was much excited with his first attempt at map-making; and all the boys, impressed by the interesting nature of the place in which they were encamped, plied the leader of the party with many questions.

"I was thinking," said Rob, "that the Yellowhead Pass was one of the earliest ones found, but 1826 is not so very early, is it?"

"Not so very," said Uncle Dick. "I told you how this pass came to be discovered. Well, as a matter of fact, none of these routes across the mountains were so useful after the big fur companies had established posts on the Pacific coast. This pass was used more than the Peace River Pass. The traders used to bring a good deal of buckskin through here, and sometimes this was called the Leather Pass.

"Now you boys are going down the Columbia River on the latter part of your journey. You heard Swift say he came up the Columbia. Well, that was part of the old highway between the two oceans. In 1814 a canoe brigade started up the Columbia from the Pacific coast. Gabriel Franchere was along, and he made a journal about the trip. So we know that as early as May 16 in 1814 they had got to the Athabasca River. He mentions the Roche Miette, which we dodged by fording the river, and he himself forded in order to escape climbing it. He speaks of the Rocky Mountain House, but that was the same as Jasper House. You must remember, however, he did not cross here, but went down the Athabasca south of that big mountain you see over yonder, Mt. Geikie.

"Sir George Simpson and a party of traders came up the Columbia in 1826, but they also crossed the Athabasca Pass. They named a little lake in there the Committee's Punch Bowl, and it has that name to this day. They stopped at Henry House, and at Jasper House, lower down at Brule Lake. The first record of which I know of a crossing made here where we are was by George McDougall in 1827. He mentions the Tete Jaune Cache as being 'freshly discovered.' I presume it was found a year before.

"A great many men crossed the Athabasca Pass, but not so many took the Yellowhead route. Even as late as 1839 the traders preferred the Athabasca Pass to this one. Father de Smet took that route in 1846. I shouldn't wonder if the mountain called Pyramid Mountain was the one originally called De Smet Mountain.

"There was an artist by the name of Paul Kane that crossed west by the Athabasca Pass in 1846. In those days the Yellowhead Pass was little used. It came into most prominence after the Cariboo Diggings discoveries of gold. Parties came out going east as early as 1860 from the gold-mines. About that time Sir James Hector was examining all this country, and he named a lot of it, too. More than a hundred and fifty miners went west through this pass in '62 bound for the Cariboo Diggings. They didn't stop to name anything, you may be sure, for they were in a hurry to get to the gold; but in 1863 Viscount Milton and Dr. Cheadle went across here and wrote a book about it which is very useful even yet. They named a lot of mountains. I don't know who named that wonderful peak Mount Robson, but it was named after Premier Robson of British Columbia in 1865.

"Nobody knows much about this country, for the early travelers did not make many maps or journals. But about 1872 they began to explore this country with a view to railway explorations, and from that time on it has been better known and more visited, although really very few persons have ever been right where we are sitting now."

"Well," said Rob, thoughtfully, after a time, "after all, the best way to learn about a country is to go and see it yourself. You can read all about it in books, but still it looks different when you come to see it yourself."

"Wait till I get my map done," said John, "and many a time after this we'll talk it all over, and we can tell on the map right where we were all the time."

"Well, you're at the summit now at this camp," said Uncle Dick. "Yonder to the east is Miette water. Over yonder is the Fraser. It's downhill from here west, and sometimes downhill rather faster than you'll like. We've come a couple of hundred miles on our journey to the summit here, and in a little more than fifty more we'll be at the Tete Jaune Cache. That's on the Fraser—and a wicked old river she is, too."

"How's the trail between here and there, Uncle Dick?" asked Jesse, somewhat anxiously.

"Bad enough, you may depend."

"And don't we get any more fishing?"

Uncle Dick smiled. "Well, I'll tell you," said he; "we'll probably not have a great many chances for trout as good as we'll have to-morrow. It's only two or three miles from here to Yellowhead Lake, and I think we'll find that almost as good a fishing-place as Rainbow Lake was the other day."



XII

THE WILDERNESS

"It's cold up here, just the same," said Jesse, when he rolled out of his blanket early on the following morning, "and the woods and mountains make it dark, too, on ahead there. Somehow the trees don't look just the same to me, Uncle Dick."

"They're not the same," said Uncle Dick, "and I am glad you are so observing. From here on the trees'll get bigger and bigger. They always are, on the Pacific side of the Rocky Mountains. The east side is far more dry and barren. When you get down into the Columbia valley or the Fraser country you'll see Douglas firs bigger than you ever thought a tree could grow."

"Yes, and devil's-club, too," said Rob. "I stepped on one just a little while ago, and it flew up and hit me on the knee."

Uncle Dick laughed. "You'll see devil's-club aplenty before you get done with this trip," said he. "In fact, I will say for all this upper country, it doesn't seem to have been laid out for comfort in traveling. The lower Rockies, in our country, say in Wyoming and Colorado, are the best outdoor countries in the world. It's a little wet and soft up here sometimes, although, fortunately, we've had rather good weather.

"From now on," he continued, "you'll see a change in the vegetation. You can still see the fireweed—it seems a universal plant all the way from the Saskatchewan to the Peace River and west even to this prairie here. That and the Indian paint—that red flower which you all remember—is common over all the north country. Then there is a sort of black birch which grows far up to the north, and we have had our friends the willows and the poplars quite a while. Now we'll go downhill into the land of big trees and devil's-club."

"So that's the last of the Yellowhead Pass for this trip," said Rob, turning back, as within the hour after they had arisen they were in saddle once more for the west-bound trail.

"Yes," said Uncle Dick, "one of the most mysterious of all the passes. I often wonder myself just what time it was that old Jasper Hawse first came through here."

"Was it really named after him, and who was he?" inquired John.

"Some say he was an Iroquois Indian who had red hair—in which case he must have been part white, I should say. Others say he was a Swede. Yet others say that 'Tete Jaune,' or 'Yellowhead,' was an old Indian chief who had gray hair. Now, I've seen a few white-haired Indians—for instance, old White Calf, down in the Blackfoot reservation—and their hair seems rather yellow more than pure white when they are very old. At any rate, whoever the original Tete Jaune was, we are bound now for his old bivouac on the Fraser, fifty miles below, the Tete Jaune Cache.

"Every man who wants to do mountain exploring has heard of the Tete Jaune Cache on the Fraser River. It has been one of the most inaccessible places in the Rockies. But now it will be easy to get there in a year or so, and I am sure on this beautiful Yellowhead Lake just ahead of us somebody will put up a hotel one day or other, and they will make trails around in these mountains and kill all these goats and bear."

"How far is it down to the lake?" inquired Jesse, pushing up his riding-pony alongside the others.

"About half an hour," replied his uncle. "Not too good a trail, and about a hundred feet drop from the summit down."

Surely enough, they had gone but a little distance over the winding and difficult blazed route when they came out into an open spot whence they could see Yellowhead Lake lying before them. It was a lovely sheet of water about four miles long, with bold mountains rising on either side.

"Now, young men," said their leader, as they paused, "we'll not take the liberties with these mountains that some of the earlier travelers did. We'll call that big mountain on the south side of the lake Mount Fitzwilliam. On the north side is old Bingley, but I presume we'd just as well call it Yellowhead Mountain now. Some called it Mount Pelee, but we'll call it Yellowhead, because it seems too bad the pass and mountain should not have the same name from the same man—whoever he was. That's the guardian of the pass from this side, at any rate. It looks as though it shut up the pass, because, you see, it bends around the foot of the mountain. I've climbed that mountain in my time—none too easy a job. In that way you can see the headwaters of the Fraser River, and glaciers twenty miles south of here. From the top of Yellowhead you can see Mount Geikie, although we are past it now."

"When are we going to do our fishing?" inquired John, in his practical fashion.

"Well, I'll tell you," said his uncle; "if you'll be good and travel steadily, we'll make camp at the side of this lake and fish this afternoon."

"Agreed," said John; "go ahead."

They found it not so easy to go ahead as might have been supposed, for the trail passed through some very rough and troublesome country, made the worse by burned timber which had blown down. At last, however, they made their way along the northwest shore and neared the narrows at the lower end of the lake. Here they found a low peninsula jutting out into the lake, where there was a little grass and good clean footing as well as the fine shade of some tall pines.

"Here we are," said the leader of the party; and soon they had off-saddled and the horses were grazing, while the others prepared for the bivouac.

"Now, if we had a boat," said Rob, "I believe we would get some trout in this lake, and good ones, too."

"They're here, all right," said Uncle Dick, "as I can testify, but boats don't grow in the Rocky Mountains this high up. You'll have to try it from the shore."

"But could we not make a raft? I see some pretty good cedar timber lying along here. And I've got some hay-wire in my war-bag—I never travel without it." Rob was eager.

"And a very good thing it is to have in camp, too. Well, try your raft if you like, but be careful."

All three of the young Alaskans, more experienced than most boys of their age in outdoor work, now fell at the task of making themselves a raft or float. Soon they had half a dozen cedar logs lying side by side in the shallow water, their limbs trimmed off closely with the axes. Under Rob's instructions they now lashed two crosspieces on top of the logs, using the wire to bind them fast to each. So in the course of half an hour they had quite a substantial raft ready for use. Securing a couple of long poles to use as push-poles, they set boldly out into the shallow bay that lay before them. They took only one rod along, assigning to John the task of doing the angling while the others endeavored to keep the raft steady.

"This is as far as we can go," said Rob after a while. "Fifteen feet of water, and my pole won't touch any longer."

"Well, it looks fishy," said John. "Hold on, fellows, and I'll begin to cast."

He did so, standing as best he could on the uncertain footing under which the green water, clear as glass, showed the sandy bottom plainly below them. Ordinarily it would have been impossible to catch trout in water so clear, but the trout of the Yellowhead Lake at that time were hungry and unskilled. Therefore John had hardly cast a dozen times before he saw a great splash and felt a heavy tug at his line. As a matter of fact, a four-pound rainbow had taken the fly.

"My, he's a whopper!" said John, as he struck, and endeavored to stop the first rush of the big fish.

But he scarcely finished his last words, for as he stepped back in his excitement, his foot slipped on the wet bark of one of the logs, and over he went backward into the deep green water underneath!

It happened so quickly that neither Rob nor Jesse for the moment could understand it. They could see their companion clearly in the water, struggling and twisting as he went down, and surrounded on all sides by a mass of white bubbles, which almost obscured him from view.

"Look out, there!" cried Uncle Dick, from shore, who had seen it all perfectly. At the same time he cast off his coat and was tugging at his shoes, making ready to swim out.

But just at that time the head and face of John appeared above the surface, his face distorted with fright and discomfort. He struck out boldly for the raft just at the instant when Rob held out to him the end of the push-pole.

"Catch hold of this, John," said he, quietly.

An instant later the puffing swimmer was at the raft.

"Look out now," said Rob; "don't swamp us. Just lie there till I get you in."

"It's cold!" exclaimed John; and, indeed, his teeth were chattering with the cold of the icy mountain water.

"All right, we'll be in in a minute," said Rob; and he began poling the raft toward shore as rapidly as he could. They were not out fifty yards, but it seemed an age before the raft reached shore—or, rather, reached the outstretched hands of Uncle Dick, who stood shoulder-deep in the water waiting for them.

"I was afraid of that raft," said he, "but it's lucky it was no worse. Come here, John."

"It wasn't the fault of the raft, sir," chattered John. "I just got foolish and slipped off. I'm all right. Where's my fish?"

Surely enough, they turned to the other end of the raft; where they saw John's rod fast between two logs, where the reel held it firmly. All the line was run out, but when Jesse reached out and brought in the rod he felt a surge at the other end which told that the fish was still on.

"Let me have him," said John. "I'm just going to get even with him if I can, and take him out of the wet, too."

Much relieved at seeing him so plucky and at finding him now safe, the others roared with laughter as he stood, wet and shivering, at the edge of the beach, fighting his big trout for several minutes before he could get him in. But at last victory rested with the skilful young angler, and Uncle Dick with a piece of coffee-sacking scooped out the big rainbow as he came inshore.

"Well, there," said he, "is fish enough for supper. Now, John, go and strip and wring your clothes and dry out by the fire. I think maybe that'll be fish enough for a while. We're lucky to get the fish, and lucky to get you, too, for it's no joke to go overboard in water as cold as that."

"You can just bet it isn't!" said John, his face now almost blue with cold, although he was beginning to revive in the warm rays of the sun. "Just for that, I am going to eat that fish—or as much of him as I can."



XIII

AFTER THE WHITE GOATS

Moise, although good-natured, none the less was fond enough of good living, and, moreover, disposed to rest very well content when the camping conditions were as good as those in which they now found themselves. He thought that it might be just as well not to be in too big a hurry.

"Suppose we did get caught on those high water, M'sieu Deek," he said; "if we only wait some time, she'll run down bime-by. But suppose we'll don't got nothing to eat but bacon and flour, and go starve to death. What then?"

"Well, Moise," said Rob, as they sat at the breakfast-table, where the good voyageur made this remark, "we've got a whole lake full of trout there waiting for us to go out and catch them—if we didn't fall off the raft again."

"Never mind about that raft any more, young man," said Uncle Dick. "A raft is all right if you have nothing else, and if you have to use it, but it is not compulsory here. We'll just leave the raft business and try for some trout down here in the creek."

"There'll ain't no trout on those creek," objected Moise. "I'll try him myself, and not get no bite. Besides, M'sieu Deek, feesh is all right for woman and dog, but meat she is more better for strong man."

"That's the way I feel about it," said John, his mouth half full of bacon. "I wouldn't mind a little fresh meat once in a while. But where are we going to get it?"

"No moose up in here," volunteered Jesse, "and I don't suppose any caribou either. As for sheep, I suppose there are none this side of the high peaks east of here, are there, Uncle Dick?"

"Probably not. But we'll find caribou farther west. Besides, there are any number of white goats in these mountains all around us here. I suppose you know what they are, although I'm not sure you ever saw them in Alaska."

"I know them," said Rob. "They're the greatest climbers in the world—'On top' is their motto always."

"That's why the head of a white goat is always considered a good trophy among sportsmen; it means that the hunter has had to climb high for it. They're a sporting proposition, all right, those goats; but when it comes to eating, that's something different. I boiled goat meat two days straight once, and it was still like shoe leather." Uncle Dick shook his head.

"Oh, you'll got old goat—old Guillaume goat," said Moise. "He's too tough for eat. But s'pose you'll got some small leetle goat; she's good for eat like anything."

"So I've heard," said Uncle Dick, "but I'm willing to take my chances with flour and bacon."

"Well, now," said Rob, "if there are goats in here I'd like awfully well to try to photograph one, at least. They tell me they're so dull and stupid you can go right up on them."

"I'm not so sure about their being stupid," replied Uncle Dick. "I think it's more likely that they just are not afraid of anything. A big billy will kill any dog in the world, and some hunters declare that they will even fight a grizzly bear. Their little black horns are sharp as needles, and they can hit a hard blow with that neck of theirs, backed by a couple of hundred pounds of bone and muscle.

"Whatever a goat may be as to wisdom, he won't run away, and you can never hurry him. A bighorn will run for miles if he smells or sees you, but if a goat sees you he'll take his own time, stop and look at you, and then go off as slowly as he likes. If you get too close to him, he may stop and stamp his feet, and work his lips at you, and show he's angry. But he'll never show he is scared. That's why they are so easy to kill, once you climb up where they are. That ought to make them easy to photograph, too, Rob. I should say there were ten chances to get a goat photograph to one of the bighorn."

"Do you suppose there are any around here?" inquired Jesse.

"Plenty of them on old Yellowhead Mountain, right here above us."

"Well, why not have a hunt, then?"

Uncle Dick threw up his hands. "Now, there you go again, always wanting to stop to fish or hunt! I've told you that we ought to hurry on through."

"Well, just one day!" argued John.

Uncle Dick sighed. "Well," said he, "we ought to be glad you're not drowned, John. And I suppose you think we ought to make some sacrifice on that account? Well, all right. If you promise to be contented with one day's hunt, and to start out to-morrow morning and keep on the trail until we strike the Tete Jaune Cache, I'll agree to go with you to-day. The fact is, I wouldn't mind stretching my own legs a little bit, for I'm cramped with saddle work. But I warn you it's a stiff pull up that mountain there."

"Shall we just go to photograph?" asked Rob, "or shall we take the rifle?"

"As you like, for this is British Columbia here, and I've a license for each of you to shoot game as needed. But we only want one goat, so we don't need to take more than one rifle. And it really is hard climbing."

"Let me take my camera," said Rob, "and you carry the rifle, Uncle Dick. The others won't need to take anything at all."

"Then we wouldn't have anything to do but just climb," protested John.

His uncle smiled at him. "Come now," said he; "I'll let you do the shooting if you see a good, fat young goat. For my part, I'd as soon shoot a poor, sick calf in a barnyard. You and Jesse decide which is to shoot, and I'll carry the gun until the time comes."

"That's all right," said Moise, who overheard their conversation. "Those boys was both fine shot, both of him. You let him shoot one small, leetle goat for Moise, and I'll show you he's good for eat."

"Agreed," said Uncle Dick, "but, mind you, you've only got to-night to cook him—I fear we might get caught in the high waters if we stopped here until you boiled it tender!"

They made ready now for their climb, each with a light pair of nailed boots and heavy stockings. Under their leader's advice they stripped down to their flannel shirts, but each carried along a canvas jacket, ready to put on when they reached the upper heights where the wind was sure to be very cold. Uncle Dick carried John's rifle, and Rob took his favorite camera, provided with a curtain shutter, and an eye-piece on top where he could look in and see the game on the ground glass and thus focus it properly. The weather was very fine, and they started out in the best of spirits.

They walked steadily up through the heavy pine forest which covered the foot of the mountain; and then, striking the steeper grade along a bare ridge, they climbed steadily until, turning about and looking down, they could see the glorious prospect which lay below them. The surface of the lake, deep green in color, barely wrinkled now by a light morning breeze, was visible from end to end, three miles or more. On the other side of it showed the bold peaks of Fitzwilliam mountain, back of that yet other peaks were disclosed as they climbed. In that direction there lay an undiscovered country, and they might well reflect that few even had looked out across it as they themselves now were doing from their lofty perch. They knew well enough that the old traders who passed through here rarely left the trail except for necessary hunting, but passed on through as rapidly as they might, this being merely their highway, and not their hunting-grounds.

"What is this, Uncle Dick?" called Rob, after a time, as, turning from their study of the noble landscape, they resumed their work of ascending the steep mountainside. Rob pointed to the broken surface of the ground at his feet.

"What do you mean, Rob?" asked the older hunter.

"It looks as if horses had been here," said Rob, "yesterday, late."

"Yes," said Uncle Dick, smiling, "but not horses, I should say."

"Maybe not," said Rob, doubtfully. "But I thought maybe prospectors had been in here."

"Only the original prospectors—the ones with white coats and long whiskers and sharp horns," said Uncle Dick.

"But it looks like a regular trail!"

"It is a regular trail, but if you will look closer you'll see the hoof marks. Horses do not have split toes, my boy. In fact, I have no doubt this is the regular stairway of the goat family that lives on this mountain. Like enough they've been down in here to get some different sort of grass or water. They've evidently been using this path quite a while."

"How high do you suppose they are now?" inquired John.

"Who can tell? A mile or two, or three, or five, for all I know. It will take us two or three hours to get up to the rim-rock, at least, and I've usually noticed that goats don't stop much short of the rim-rock when they start to go up a hill. The sign is fresh, however, made late last night or very early this morning; I think with you, Rob, that it was yesterday."

"How many are there?" inquired Jesse, bending over the broad trail.

"Hard to tell, for they've used this trail more than once. A dozen or more, I should say. Well, all we can do is to follow after them and thank them for showing us a good path."

They climbed on up all the more eagerly now, and when they reached more open country where the sun shone fairly on them they soon were dripping with perspiration. But, young as were these hunters from Alaska, they were not inexperienced in mountain-climbing. They knew that the way to get up a mountain is to keep on slowly and steadily, not hurrying, and never resting very long at a time. Thus they advanced for three-quarters of an hour, until they could see still farther out over the country below them. Now they could see that the game had sometimes wandered about feeding, and the trail itself divided and grew fainter.

Uncle Dick pointed out all these things quietly and suggested that they would better be on the lookout. They advanced now more carefully, and whenever they came to the edge of an open reach or topped some shoulder of the slope they paused and examined the country ahead very carefully. At last, when they had reached an altitude where the trees were much smaller and more scattering, Uncle Dick stopped and took his field-glasses from the case. He lay for some time, resting the glasses on a big rock, sweeping all the country ahead of him with the glasses. At last they saw him stop and gaze steadily at one spot for quite a while.

"See anything?" asked Jesse, eagerly.

Uncle Dick did not reply at once, but after a time handed Jesse the glasses. "Look over there," said he, "about half a mile, right at the foot of that rock wall. You'll see something that looks like a flock of snowballs, rather large ones."

Jesse tried the glasses for a time, and at last caught the spot pointed out to him. "I see," said he, in a whisper. "Goats! Lots of them." They showed so plainly in the glasses, in fact, that he spoke carefully, as though he feared to frighten them.

"Oh, look at them!" said he, after a while. "The young ones are playing like little sheep, jumping and butting around and having a regular frolic."

"Any big ones?" asked Rob, quickly.

"I should say so; five or six, all sizes. And they look white as big pillows. There's one that looks as though he had on white pants, and his long white beard makes him look like an old man. He's looking right down the mountain. You can see them plain against that black rock."

"Just like a goat," said Uncle Dick. "They never try to hide themselves. And even when there's snow on the mountains they'll leave it and go lie on a black rock where everybody can see them. Well, come on, and we'll see what sort of a stalk we can make on them."

They went on much more cautiously now, under Dick's guidance, keeping under cover in the low trees and working to one side and upward in the general direction of their game. It was hard work, and all the boys were panting when at last their leader called a halt.

"We'll wait here," said he, in a low tone of voice. He now unslung the rifle from his back and handed it to John. "You and Rob go on now," said he. "Don't shoot until Rob is done with his picture-making. And when you do shoot, don't kill an old billy, for we couldn't keep the head. Kill one of the young goats—I think there are two or three yearlings there. I wouldn't shoot either of those two pairs of kids. They're too little even for Moise, I think."

"Where are you going, Uncle Dick?" asked Rob.

"Jesse and I are going to stop right here under cover, and Jesse shall have the sport of watching your hunt through the field-glasses—almost as good fun as going along himself. Go on now, and don't lose any time."

The two older boys now advanced carefully up the slope, using the cover of the trees as far as they could. They appeared in the open for a little time, only to disappear beyond a series of rocks which projected from the slope above them.

"I don't see where they've gone," said Jesse, who was steadily watching through the glasses.

"Give them time," said Uncle Dick. "You must remember that Rob has to get pretty close in order to make the photograph. I'm sure they're within rifle-range now."

"Oh, there they are!" whispered Jesse, a little later. "I see them now. They're up above the goats, and crawling right down toward them. Now there's old Rob, he's trying to get to the edge of the rocks; I can see he's got his camera all ready. He'll be on top of them, almost, if he gets there."

"Good boy, Rob!" said Uncle Dick, approvingly. "He has made a good stalk of it."

Jesse, still gazing through the glasses, now saw his two friends slowly advancing, clinging like flies to the steep rock's face, but all the time getting closer to their game. The goats seemed not to suspect an enemy, but lay or stood about in perfect unconcern. They did not have any sentinel posted, as the mountain sheep often will, but seemed to feel perfectly secure from all intrusion.



At last Jesse saw Rob stand up straight and walk forward rapidly with his camera in front of him. The goats now heard or scented him, for at once they all stood up and turned toward him, facing him silent and motionless.

"They don't know what he is!" exclaimed Jesse. "They're just looking at him. No, there goes a big one right up toward him."

"In that case," said Uncle Dick, "Rob will get his picture, sure." An easy prophecy, for, as a matter of fact, Rob secured several very good pictures of the old goat and the others, as he stood rapidly working his camera, almost in the face of the fearless old billy which advanced toward him so pugnaciously.

But now Jesse saw the band of goats apparently take alarm at something. They turned and began to disperse, some of them climbing slowly up the apparently perpendicular rock face.

"They'll run right into John!" exclaimed Jesse. "There he is—there, he's shot! Got him, too!"

They heard the faint sound of the report of the rifle come down from above, and could see the fall of the goat as he slipped and rolled among the rocks.

"Well done," said Uncle Dick. "They've both done their work well, Jesse, and I am pretty sure we'll have both goat pictures and goat steaks, all we want. I'm glad John did not get crazy and shoot a lot of those poor creatures."

"Come on," said Jesse, "let's run up to where they are."

In due time they climbed up to where Rob and Jesse were sitting by the side of the dead goat. The boys waved their hats to one another as Jesse approached, smiling and panting.

"I saw it all," said Jesse, "right in the field-glasses, close up. That's fine, isn't it?"

Rob and John both began to talk at once, while Uncle Dick stood smilingly looking down at the dead goat.

"I could have killed two or three big ones," said John. "What heads they had, too!"

"What could we have done with them?" asked his uncle. "No, you did quite right in killing this yearling—it's all we want. And I think Rob had the hardest task of any of us; it's easier to shoot a goat with a rifle than with a camera."

"Well," said Rob, "it was just the way you said—they didn't seem afraid at all. I've got one picture, square front end, of that old fellow, and I don't think he was twenty feet away from me. He seemed to think the camera was something that was going to hurt him, and he showed fight."

"Now," said Uncle Dick, "the next thing is to get our meat down the mountain."

Rolling up his sleeves, he now prepared to skin out such meat as he wanted from the dead goat. He cut off the head and neck, and cut off the legs at the knee-joints. Then he skinned back only the fore quarters, leaving the hide still attached to the hind quarters and the saddle. Using his belt, he folded the skin over the saddle, and then, tying the sleeves of his coat so that it covered his shoulders, he hoisted the saddle astride of his neck.

"I don't fancy this smell very much," said he, "but I guess it will be the easiest way to get our meat down the mountain. Come on now, boys, every fellow for himself, and be careful not to get a fall."

It was hard and sometimes rather slow work scrambling down the steep face of the mountain, especially high up where the rocks were bare. But after a time they came to the small green trees, and then to the tall pines under whose shade the ground was softer and gave them a better footing. It did not take them so long to come down as it had to ascend, but they were all tired when late that afternoon they arrived at their camp on the little promontory.

Moise was overjoyed at their success, and was all for cooking some of the meat at once; but Uncle Dick checked him.

"No," said he, "it's too fresh yet. Skin it out, Moise, and hang it up overnight, at least. You may set a little of it to stew all night at the fire, if you like. Soak some more of it overnight in salt and water—and then I think you'd better throw away all the kettles that you've used with this goat meat. It may be all right, but I'm afraid it's going to be a long time before I learn to like goat. If this were a mountain sheep, now, I could eat all that saddle myself."

Moise asked who killed the goat, and when told that it was John he complimented him very much. For Rob's work with the camera he had less praise.

"I s'pose she's all right to make picture of goat," said he, "but s'pose a man he's hongree, he couldn't eat picture, could he?"

Rob only laughed at him. "You wait, Moise," said he. "When I get my pictures made maybe you'd rather have one of them than another piece of goat meat."

In spite of Uncle Dick's disgust, Moise that evening broiled himself a piece of the fresh goat meat at the fire, and ate it with such relish that the boys asked for a morsel or so of it themselves. To their surprise, they found the tenderloin not so bad to eat. Thus, with one excuse or another, they sat around the fire, happy and contented, until the leader of the party at last drove them all off to bed.

"I like this place," said John, "even if I did come pretty nearly getting drowned out there in the lake."

And indeed the spot had proved so pleasant in every way that it was only with a feeling of regret that they broke camp on Yellowhead Lake and proceeded on their westward journey.



XIV

DOWN THE FRASER

Up to this time on their journey the weather had continued most favorable, there having been little rain to disturb them either on the trail or in camp. Now, however, they were on the western slope of the Rockies and in the moister climate of the Pacific region. When they left camp on Yellowhead Lake it was in a steady downpour which left them drenched thoroughly before they had gone a mile.

The trail, moreover, now proved not only uncomfortable, but dangerous, the rain making the footing so soft that in many cases on steep slopes they were obliged to dismount and lead their horses up or down. Indeed, the trail scarcely could be called a trail at all, all trace of the original traders' paths now being lost. Many persons, mostly engineers or prospecting adventurers, had passed here, each taking his own way, and the sum of their selections served only to make bad very much worse. In the level places the trail was a quagmire, on some of the steeper slopes simply a zigzag of scrambling hoof tracks.

They kept on, in spite of their discomforts, throughout the forenoon without pause. It was their purpose to get on the farther side of as many of these mountain streams as possible. They were now in a bold mountain country, where numerous small tributaries came down to the great Fraser which roared and plunged along beside their trail. "The Bad River," old Sir Alexander Mackenzie called one of the headwaters of the Fraser, and bad enough it is from its source on down.

They were now near the forks of the two main tributaries of the Fraser, one roaring torrent coming down from the south. The trail held to the north bank of the Fraser, following down from the lake along the rapid but harmless little river which made its outlet. To ford the Fraser was, of course, impossible. Time and again the young adventurers paused to look down at the raging torrent, broken into high, foaming waves by the numerous reefs of rock which ran across it. Continually the roar of the angry waters came up to them through the trees. More than ever they realized that they now were on the shores of one of the wickedest rivers in all the Rockies, as their Uncle Dick had told them of the Fraser.

They now observed that the trees of the forest through which they traveled were much larger than they had been. But, splendid as this forest growth had been, they found that in a large area fire had gone through it in some previous year, and this burned country—or brule, as Moise called it—made one of the worst obstacles any traveler could encounter. This hardship was to remain with them almost all the way down the Fraser to the Tete Jaune Cache, and it added immeasurably to the trials of pack-train travel.

At last they pulled up alongside of a broad and brawling stream, turbulent but shallow, a little threatening to one not skilled in mountain travel, but not dangerous to a party led as was this one, by a man acquainted with the region.



"Here we are at Grant Creek," said Uncle Dick, as they paused on the hither side of the stream. "This is one of the many swift tributaries on the north side of the Fraser, but I am glad we've got to ford it, and not the Fraser itself. You see, we have to keep on the north bank all the way down now."

Uncle Dick carefully located his landmarks and examined some stones and stumps to get some idea of the stage of the water.

"It's all right," said he. "Come on across. Follow me closely now."

Soon they were belly-deep in the tawny flood of the stream, which came down noisily all about them. The sturdy horses, however, seemed not to be in the least alarmed, but followed old Danny, Uncle Dick's pony, as he slowly plodded on across, angling down the stream and never once losing his footing in the rolling stones of the bottom. The stream was not over a hundred and twenty feet wide at this point, and the ford was made with no difficulty at all.

"This is easy," said Uncle Dick, as they emerged on the western side. "But three miles ahead we come to the Moose River, and that's apt to be a different proposition. You can't tell anything about any of these rivers until you try them. One thing is sure, we can't get any wetter than we are."

"I've noticed all these streams are highest in the afternoon," said Rob—"a lot higher, too. We've often mentioned that."

"Yes; that's because the snow melts in the morning and starts the water down the high slopes. It takes some time for it to get down to the lower levels. Morning is the best time to ford any of these mountain rivers, as I have told you."

The trail was none too good on to the Moose River, and they were none too cheerful as they paused to look over the situation at the bank of this stream.

"When I crossed here the last time I marked a stump with an ax," said Uncle Dick. "That was barely below swimming-line. Ah, there it is, I see—we've got six inches to the good, and that means we can get across, I think. It's lucky it isn't worse. There are some falls up this river a little way, and perhaps we could get across the narrows there, but in any case we would have to get the horses across down here, and we had better all make it together. Anyhow, I'll go ahead on Danny and see how it works. Moise, you'll bring up the rear; Rob, you go next ahead of Moise, and you, John and Jesse, follow just behind me a little way back. If Danny loses his footing, all of you stop at once and wait for further orders. Well, here goes."

He spurred his plucky little horse into the roily, turbulent flood, closely followed by the others as he had instructed. Fortunately, the pack-train, by this time well broken into the work of the trail, made no disturbance, but followed along stolidly in the rear of the leader. Thus, little by little, they edged on across and at last crossed the dangerous middle part of the river. Here Uncle Dick angled a little down, following the shallow water indicated by the light ripples. As the boys saw Danny begin to show more and more above the surface of the water, until he was walking no deeper than his knees, they swung their hats and shouted exultantly, for now they were safely to cross one of the most dangerous rivers on the whole trail.

"Well," said Uncle Dick, as at last they pulled up on the farther side, "that's done, at any rate. From here it's only a couple of miles or so to the head of Moose Lake. The trail is fierce along there, but once beyond that lake we can safely call the worst of our whole journey past and done with. We can make it in a few hours' steady work if we have luck."

They pushed on, and after a time paused at a point near the head of Moose Lake, from which they could see it lying before them, seven miles or so of slaty gray water, now wrinkled under the downpouring rain. It was a prospect not in the least cheerful, to be sure.

"The Fraser River runs straight through this lake," said Uncle Dick, "and, as you see, it is getting more water every mile out of these hills. This is the only quiet place on the whole Fraser River that I know of. But we can't get across it, couldn't even if we had boats, for here are the horses.

"But if we could cross the lake here, and if we could cross the Selwyn Mountains over there on the other side of it, we would find a little creek up there which heads up just opposite Price Creek. You see, Price Creek runs down into the Canoe River, which is the stream we're going to follow below Tete Jaune Cache. They say the Indians used to take horses up this little creek and down Price Creek on the other side. If so, they must have had horses born on the other side of the Fraser, for I'll warrant they couldn't get them across from the north side where we are."

"Did any white man ever go over that way?" asked Rob, curiously.

"Not that I know of. I don't know when the Indians went there, but there's a story that some of them took horses across the Selwyns over yonder. As for us, we've got to keep on down this valley. We are twenty miles west from the Yellowhead Pass, and have thirty miles more to go yet to the Tete Jaune Cache."

"What are these big mountains over on the right?" inquired Rob.

"That's the Rainbow range. We make our way right along their feet. On beyond the lake for some distance the river is a little more quiet, then she drops; that's all. There's a strip of water in here twenty miles or so that no boat could live in at all. There were two rattle-headed engineers who did try to take a boat down a part of the Fraser in here, and in some miraculous way they ran maybe ten or twelve miles of it, part in and part out of the water. Then their boat smashed on a rock, and they both were drowned. One body was found, the other was never heard of."

"Well," said John, "we're complaining a good deal about going along on horses, but I believe I like that better than taking a boat on that river."

"When we'll make camp to-day, M'sieu Deek?" asked Moise, pushing up alongside the leader's horse. They all sat in the rain, dripping like so many drowned rats.

"Well," said Uncle Dick, "this is pretty bad, isn't it? It seems to me that we had better use all the daylight we can to-day, for we're wet as we can get anyway. There are no bad streams now, but the trail is awful of itself—side-hills and brule, and in and out of the water all along the lake side. But we've got to pass it some time. Suppose we make the best of a bad bargain, and see if we can get to the lower end of the lake to-day?"

The boys all agreed to this, and so the party pushed on, but they found later that the prediction of their leader was quite true, for none of them had ever seen so fearful a trail as that along the north shore of Moose Lake. But even as it grew darker in the deep valley at last they broke through the farther edge of the heaviest timber, picked their way through a wide strip of brule, crossed the last dangerous face of rock side, and emerged into an open area where some sort of camp at last was possible. Here they dismounted, all ready to agree that this was the worst day any of them had ever seen on the trail.

"Well," said Uncle Dick, chuckling, "I pushed pretty hard to-day, but I had to make up for that lost day we spent hunting goats. To tell the truth, I didn't think we could get this far on to-day, and so I just count we're even on the goat-hunt. Besides, we are now past the worst part of our troubles. To-morrow I promise you something worth all the hard work we've undergone."

"What's that?" demanded Jesse. "Some more hunting?"

"Certainly not. You've another guess, Jesse. Something better than that."

"You don't mean sheep or grizzly?"

"Something bigger than grizzly, even."

"That," said Rob, "must be a mountain."

"Quite right. I'm going to show you the greatest mountain in all the Canadian Rockies, and one of the greatest mountains on this continent. It isn't known very much to-day, but soon Mount Robson will be one of the show-places of this whole country. The Indians have always called it the biggest of all these mountains, time out of mind."

"What time shall we see it?" inquired Rob.

"That depends a great deal. It'll be about fourteen miles down the trail to the Grand Fork Valley. Looking right up that, we'll be staring into the face of old Robson. I only hope the rain will be done by that time, so that the sun will shine and give us a fair view. It's very rarely that one ever sees Mount Robson clear to the top. But sufficient for to-day are the evils, I presume. Let's see if we can make ourselves comfortable in camp to-night."

"One thing," said John, that night, "this horse business isn't going to last forever. I hope the Canoe River isn't as bad as the Fraser, for I'm getting ready to get into a boat once more. I've changed my mind a little."

"I wonder where the Canoe River got its name, Uncle Dick?" queried Rob.

"That I cannot tell you. There are some canoes on the Fraser which came up from the Pacific way, and there are some canoe birches in these woods, this side of the summit. Now, whether some of the old traders one day made a birch-bark canoe and ran that stream I can't tell. But that is the name given to it by the traders, and I suppose they got it from the earlier traders who crossed this country.

"John," he added, "this is a hard place for you to bring up your map. I'll excuse you from your map-making until we have a drier camp than this."



XV

THE GREAT MOUNTAIN

Happily on the next day the weather relented and the sun greeted them when they were ready for their breakfast, although all the trees were dripping wet. Uncle Dick was very much rejoiced.

"We'll see Robson to-day if this sun holds," said he. "Let's hurry on."

"There you go!" grumbled John. "Uncle Dick, you always are finding one reason or other for being in a hurry."

"Well, everything in here is in a hurry," was his uncle's answer. "All the water's in a hurry, and all the engineers are in a hurry. But, speaking of that, you may notice that below the lake here the slopes are not quite so steep. The river is getting wider. By and by it will be so tame that you really can run a boat on it. The Tete Jaune Cache was what you might call the head of water transportation on the west side—as far as the canoes dared attempt the Fraser going east. From the Tete Jaune Cache it is possible to make a canoe journey up and down the river between that point and Fort George, although every time one makes the journey he takes his own chances."

"Is the Canoe River a very bad river, then?" demanded John.

"Well, as to that, she's jammed and drifted and overhung and fast, but not so bad as the Peace River was in many places," replied Uncle Dick. "I don't think we need have much anxiety as to that part of our journey. At least, we'll not worry about it yet, for worrying doesn't get anybody anything. I only hope that Mount Robson will not put on his cap until we get down to the lower end of the Grand Fork Valley."

They found their trail now as it had been described, less dangerous. Indeed, there was but one risky crossing, that of a rock slide which ran down sheer to the river-bank, where a misstep might have been fatal. They kept steadily on until at length they opened up the wide valley of the Grand Fork, a tributary which comes down from the great peaks which surround the noble mountain known as Robson.

When at last the full view up this valley unfolded before them they pulled up and paused, not saying a word. It was a wonderful sight that lay before them, one of the most wonderful in all the great Rockies. On every hand ran frowning slopes crowned with dark forest growth, flanked here and there by the yet darker shadows of the passing clouds. But towering above all, and dwarfing all rivalry, there stood before them one great, noble, white-topped peak, unshaded by any clouds. As the boys gazed at it instinctively they took off their caps.

"That's Robson!" said Uncle Dick, smiling. "Any way you look at it it's big. Here you see a sheer wall of bare rock, thousands of feet. The approach is steep as the roof of a house, as you can see. All over it in every little valley there are glaciers. Any way you approach it it's hard going when you try to climb old Robson—'Yuh-hai-has-kun,' the Indians called it, 'the mountain with the stairs.' But when they tried to climb it they never could quite find the stairs. So far no one has made the ascent.[1]

[Footnote 1: At the time of this journey the Kinney ascension of Mount Robson had not yet been made.—THE AUTHOR.]



"Many a man has heard of this mountain," continued Uncle Dick, "and a good many have tried to climb it. One party spent all the season trying to get behind it and find a way up. But Robson doesn't seem to have any blind side."

"Why can't we try it?" said Rob, enthusiastically.

"Some day, perhaps," smiled Uncle Dick, "but hardly now, as short of grub as we are, and as short of time as well. Mountain climbing is a business of itself, and you need a complete equipment. It would take a year, two years, or three to climb Robson, very likely. So with two or three days at our disposal I'll have to ask to be excused from the attempt; let us take on something easier for an order.

"Now," he added, "about all we can do is to take off our hats to the old peak and say good morning as we pass."

"And thank you very much, Sir Mountain," said Jesse, gravely, his young face serious as he looked toward the peak, "because you let us see clear all up to the top."

"It mightn't happen once in months," said Uncle Dick. "I've passed here several times, and I've never had as fine a view as we have right now. She's thirteen thousand seven hundred feet, our triangulations made it. That's something of a mountain, to be hid back in here all by itself, isn't it?

"Up at the foot of the mountain," he continued, "there's a fine lake, as lovely as Lake Louise down in the lower Rockies. I do wish we had time to go up in there, for the lake is worth seeing. Some day it will be famous, and visited by thousands. At least we can see the edge of it from where we are, and lucky you are to have so early a look, I can assure you.

"Well, we'll be going on," said he, presently, as he gathered up his reins. "We can't take the time now for fifteen miles of the sort of travel that lies between here and the foot of the mountain. At least we've seen Robson, full front and clear all the way to the summit—a most unusual sight. You may always remember now that you saw this mountain before it became common."

They forded the Grand Fork itself without much difficulty, for it was a flat and shallow stream at this point. Passing on to the westward, they finally encamped in a flat from which they still could see up the valley, it being the wish of all to keep in view as long as possible the great white summit of Yuh-hai-has-kun.

"To-morrow we'll say good-by to Robson," said Uncle Dick, "and we'll camp at the Tete Jaune Cache."



XVI

AT THE TETE JAUNE CACHE

"The last day on the trail!" Such was the first word with which the leader of our little party greeted his young friends when they rolled out of their tents in the morning. And soon all hands were busy adjusting the packs ready for the plucky animals which had brought them through so far. Their breakfast was hurried as rapidly as possible.

"Well," said Rob, "I don't know whether or not to be glad. We certainly have had a grand trip with the pack-train, hard as it has been sometimes. At least it's brought us here to the foot of Mount Robson."

"Our horses will be glad enough to be done with it," said Uncle Dick. "Down at the Cache they'll have all the grass they want and nothing to do for all the rest of this summer—unless some of Leo's children take to riding them too hard."

"Leo?" inquired John. "He's the Indian who's going to take us down the Canoe River, isn't he?"

"Yes, and a good man, too, Leo. He and Moise will show us how to get along without the horses, eh, Moise?"

That good-natured man grinned and showed his white teeth. "Sometam she'll ron pretty fast, this river on Columbia valley?" said he.

"Well, at any rate, we turn in our horses with Leo here at the Cache and get them the next time we come through—next year or some other year, perhaps. A horse takes his chance of getting a permanent residence in this part of the world. But our train has come through in fine shape—not a sore back in the lot. That speaks well for your care in packing, young men, and for Moise's skill in making saddles."

By this time they all had shaken down into the routine of packing the horses in the morning, and not long after they had finished their breakfast all was in readiness for their last march.

"En avant!" said Uncle Dick. "Mush! Moise, we'll lunch at the Cache to-day."

They swung on steadily down the broadened valley whose course now changed more to the southwest for five miles or so. The trail was much better, and as they reached the wide eastern end of the valley, which broadens out near the historic Tete Jaune Cache, they made rapid progress, animated by the continually changing scene before them.

For the last five miles they were in a broad, grassy valley where many hoofs had worn a plainly marked trail. On ahead they could see the Fraser swinging in from its southwest bend to meet them. The courses of many other small streams, outlined by green bushes, also could be seen coming in from almost every direction. Farther to the west and south lofty mountains rose, broken by caps which seemed to be of no great altitude. The Selwyns, on the other side of the Fraser, stood behind them, and off on the right gradually rose the high, sweeping hills which climbed to the shoulders of Mount Robson itself. The whole made an extraordinary landscape.

"We're in the Tete Jaune Valley," said Uncle Dick, halting at the edge of the grassy expanse which seemed quite flat for five miles or so ahead of them. "We're coming now to one of the most interesting points in all the Rocky Mountains, and one of the least known. Some day, where we are here, there will be a town, perhaps a good one. Yonder is the original pathway of the Fraser—five hundred feet across here already, and a great river before it gets much farther toward the Pacific. We leave it here, so let's not give it a worse name than we have to, for, take it all in all, it hasn't harmed us thus far.

"On across the Fraser, to the south, is the North Thompson," he continued. "Not very much known by any except a few of our explorers. It's rather rough-looking in there, isn't it? The Albreda Pass makes up from the Thompson, over yonder where you see the big mountains rising."

"Is that where we go to get to the Canoe River?" said John. "It's over in there somewhere."

"No, the pass to the Canoe River is a wonderful thing in its way for this high country. Look over there to the south twenty miles or so, and you'll see Cranberry Lake. The McLennan River runs out of that to join the Fraser right here, and that lake is just twenty-one feet above the level of this ground where we stand! You could pole a boat up there if you liked. Just over Cranberry Lake it's only a mile to where the Canoe River bends in from the west. That country is just made for a pass from the Fraser to the Columbia, and to my mind it's quite as interesting as any of these great mountain passes. I don't know of any divide as low as this between two waterways as great as those of the Fraser and the Columbia. It's only two thousand five hundred and sixty-three feet above sea-level at the summit, and, as I said, is only twenty-one feet above the Fraser."

"We must have come down quite a way," said Rob, "since we left the pass."

"More than a thousand feet. And in that thousand feet the Fraser has grown from a trickle to a great river—in fifty miles downhill."

"Well, I can see," said Rob, looking about the pleasant valley which lay before them, "that this is a good place for a town."

"Certainly," said the leader of their party. "There'll be more than one railroad come through here across the Yellowhead Pass, very likely, and already they are making surveys down the Fraser and Thompson and the Canoe River. Sometime there will be a railroad down the Big Bend of the Columbia below us, and it will have a branch up here, as sure as we're standing here now. That will open up all this country from the points along the Canadian Pacific. Then all these names—the Thompson, the Fraser, and the Canoe—will be as familiar to the traveling public as the Missouri and the Mississippi. Yet as we stand here and look at that country it is a country as yet unknown and unnamed! I couldn't map it, John, myself, for, although that country south of us is one of the most interesting of the continent, it is one of the least known. In short, that's the game country we've been heading for, and I'll promise you a grizzly when we get south of that flat divide."

"Well," said John, "that'll satisfy me, all right. We've had mighty little shooting this far."

"All in good time, all in good time, John, my boy. Maybe we'll show you as good sport as you're looking for, at least, what with rapids and grizzly bears.

"But now we must go on and find Leo, if we can. I sent word to him last fall for him to meet me here at the Cache this month. We'll see what luck there is in the wilderness despatch."

They passed on rapidly along and across the sunlit valley, exulting in a sense of freedom in getting out of the dark and gloomy mountains into an open country where they could see all about them. Soon they saw smoke rising above the tops of the low trees, and discovered it to come from a number of tepees, tall and conical, built with long poles, precisely like the tepees of the tribes east of the Rockies.

"That's the Shuswap village," said Uncle Dick. "Leo lives there with his people. Some good canoemen and hunters in there, too. First, let's go on down to the end of the trail. I want you to see the actual location of the old Tete Jaune Cache."

When they pulled up at the bank of the Fraser it was on an open flat shut in by low pines and poplars. They could see no building at all; only a few poles and tent-stakes littered the ground.

"This is the Cache," said Uncle Dick.

"It isn't so much of a place as I expected," said John. "Weren't there any houses here?"

"Over there, no doubt, were some log buildings once upon a time," said Uncle Dick. "No doubt the old trappers built their cache well and strong, for plenty of good furs came through here—marten and ermine and beaver and otter—for the ladies of Great Britain to wear nearly a hundred years ago. But, you see, in this climate logs rot rather early, and the fires have run all through here, as well. So when the traders left these old trails Nature soon claimed her own and wiped out all traces of them. The cache has gone the way of Jasper House and Henry House."

"What became of all of those old fellows?" inquired Rob. "We only hear of the ones that wrote books."

"They are gone and forgotten," said Uncle Dick. "No one knows even where old Tete Jaune himself—whether he was Iroquois or Swede or plain Injun—lies buried to-day. There is no record of where he laid his bones to rest. He was a brave man, whoever he was, and he lived in a great age of adventure. Think of what he must have seen, spending all his life in a country like this!

"But each to his own day, I suppose. Here we are at the end of our trail. We'll have to cross the Fraser. I must see Leo, and learn what he has done about the boats—I've told him to build a couple of good big boats—bateaux—to take us down the Canoe River over yonder.

"Here, you see, we leave the trail," he continued. "Yonder is the Fraser trail down to Fort George. Once at Fort George, you know, you can take an automobile down the old Ashcroft trail to the Canadian Pacific."

"Automobile! What do you know about that!" exclaimed Jesse. "I didn't know we were within a thousand miles of one."

"Yes, within two hundred miles. It doesn't look much like it, does it? You see, we're living in rather a wonderful age. This country which looks so wild will not be wild very much longer. That's the only reason I've allowed you to take so dangerous a journey as this, this spring, with me. Before long all these things will be common. People will come out here on the cars by thousands, and complain about the sleepers and the dining-car, when they are crossing the Rocky Mountains, very likely. One day they'll have horseback trails through here, as they do around Banff, and I suppose even old Mount Robson will get more or less common one time or another. But at least we've seen this country before those things happened.

"This is all there is to the old Cache. It's mostly a memory, but history has written it down as one of the important places in the Rockies. John, you must bring your map up to date here, at the Tete Jaune Cache. And here your trail bends to the south, for now we're going to follow the Columbia, and not the Fraser, after this, although my railroad goes on down the Fraser.

"We'll ride over now to the village and see if we can find Leo," he concluded, as he turned his horse back and started off in the direction of the tepees.



XVII

LEO THE GRIZZLY-HUNTER

As our party of adventurers approached the Shuswap village, a little bit removed from the bank of the Fraser, they were greeted with a chorus of barking dogs. A number of children who had been playing in the grass fled in fright into the tepees, from the doors of which, none the less, presently appeared many heads alike of young and old.

As the horsemen pulled up in front of the central tepee there came out to meet them a slight but hardy figure, not very tall, but erect and strong, dressed in ordinary western garb, and a wide hat such as is common in that part of the country. His face was dark, and his hair, worn long, was braided, and fell to his shoulders on his neck. Grave and unsmiling like most of his people, none the less his eyes wrinkled a little bit about the corners as now he recognized the leader of the band of horsemen. Advancing, he extended his hand to Uncle Dick and greeted him very pleasantly.

"How-do," said he.

The party now dismounted, and their leader turned to his young companions. "This," said he, "is Leo Tennes, the man I told you would be our guide down the Canoe River. When I tell you that he has run the Big Bend of the Columbia more than once I have said all there is to say about his fitness."

He now introduced each of his young comrades in turn to Leo, who shook hands with them gravely and with dignity, but looking at them keenly meantime. He was evidently surprised at their youth, and perhaps none too well pleased, although obliged to admit to himself that these boys already had undergone many hardships to get this far on their journey.

Moise himself, usually light-hearted and talkative, now became silent and dignified also as he and Leo stood looking at each other. They shook hands, and each spoke to the other in his own tongue. Then both laughed.

"Me Shuswap!" said Leo.

"Cree!" rejoined Moise—"North Cree, me."

Then, to the surprise and interest of the others, these two, unable to converse in any common tongue except English, which neither seemed to fancy at the time, began to employ the singular sign language of the savage tribes, more or less universally known throughout the American continent. Moise put his two forefingers together parallel to show that he and Leo were friends. He pointed back across the mountains, and, placing his head on his hands and raising his fingers several times, signified that he had come, so many sleeps, to this place. He said they had come horseback—straddling his left forefinger with two fingers on his right hand. Then smilingly he pointed to the boys and to his own heart, and made a motion as though trying to break a stout stick, thus saying to Leo that their hearts were strong.

Leo stood looking at him unsmiling, and when he had finished threw out his right hand in front of him, palm down, by which he said: "That is all right. It is good. I am satisfied."

"Oh, pshaw! Moise," said Uncle Dick, laughing, "you and Leo can both talk English a great deal better than you let on. I'll say, Leo, that our man Moise is as good in a boat as you are yourself, so you need not be uneasy. As for the rest of us, we'll undertake to keep up our end. When will you be ready to start?"

"Maybe-so to-night, maybe-so to-morrow," said Leo.

"And can you take care of our horses for us as I wrote you last fall?"

"Yes. Horse all right here. You get 'um next year all right."

"Very well," said Uncle Dick. "We'll just unpack and turn them over right here."

The boys were very regretful at saying good-by to their faithful animals, especially the saddle-ponies which had carried them safely so far. They stood looking at them rather ruefully.

"Never mind," said Uncle Dick. "Leo has got some hay for them, and they will winter well here. I'll warrant you they'll be very glad to trade the trail for this pleasant valley here, where they can live in idleness and get fat for a year.

"Now, about the boat, Leo," he resumed.

"All right. Got two boats," said Leo. "I make 'um." And he led the way to an open spot in the bushes where there stood two newly completed boats, flat-bottomed and double-ended, with high sides, the material all made of whip-sawed lumber gotten out by Leo and his people.

Uncle Dick walked up to the boats and looked them over carefully. "Pretty heavy, Leo," said he, "but they'll do to run downhill all the way."

"She's good boat," said Leo. "Need 'um strong."

"Yes, about twenty-two feet long each one—that will carry us and our supplies nicely. You and your man will take one boat, and Moise and I the other. I think I'll put the boys in our boat. What man are you going to get to go with you, Leo?"

"My cousin George; he's good man. We make hunt last spring down the Canoe River."

"What were you after?"

"After grizzlum bear."

"Did you get one?"

"No, not get one."

"Not one? And I thought that was a good bear country!"

"Not get one," said Leo. "Get sixteen."