He was pointing on ahead through the low-hanging mist and drizzling rain which had marked the last few hours of their last day of steamboat travel.

"What is it?" demanded Jesse, also crowding toward the bow.

"I know. It's the Rockies!" cried John. "Uncle Dick told me that those mountains were the most northerly spur of the Rocky Mountains. It's where they go farthest north. So, fellows, we've been somewhere, haven't we? Uncle Dick was right—this is the greatest trip we've had, as sure as you're born."

"But look yonder on ahead," resumed Jesse. "What river is that we're turning into now?"

The booming whistle of the great steamer had called his attention to the fact that they were now altering their course. The Mackenzie River was entering the narrow mouth of a swift stream against which it took all their power to make any headway at all.

Along the banks of this river the trees seemed to be growing taller and stronger, whether willows or spruces that lined the banks, and the shores themselves were bolder.

"Call Uncle Dick," said Rob. "He's writing in his room. He knows all about this, I expect."

So they called Uncle Dick and asked him about the new river.

"Yes," said he, "this is the Peel River. It comes down out of the Rockies, as you see. You are now pretty near to the upper end of the whole entire Rocky Mountain system. We are going to cross the most northerly part of the Rockies, and the lowest pass—it is only about a thousand feet above sea-level, and only about a hundred miles south of the Arctic Sea itself.

"This river here, the Peel," he continued, "no doubt offered the old traders a better building-site for a post than the big river would have done below the mouth. The Mackenzie wanders on down for a hundred miles through its delta. Of course the natives trap all through this country for a hundred miles or more, but they tell me the site of Fort McPherson is a favorite one with them, and they all know it. Pretty soon we'll be there."

It was about 3.15 of that same day, according to Rob's diary, when at last the steamboat, after gallantly bucking the stiff current of the Peel River for some hours, pulled in at the foot of a high bank at the summit of which there was located the most northerly of all the Hudson's Bay posts, and the one with least competition to-day—old Fort McPherson of venerable history.

On the narrow beach at the foot of the hill lay an encampment of Eskimos, their huts rudely built of hides, pieces of wall tents, and canvas stretched over tepee-like frames. Several of their whale-boats, well rigged and well cared for, lay moored to the bank. All along the beach prowled the gaunt dogs which belonged to the Eskimos, and yet other young dogs were tied to stakes so that they might not escape.

These stalwart savages, twenty or thirty of them, came now and joined the motley throng which crowded down to the boat landing. Here might be seen the grizzled old post trader who had been here for forty years, and near to him the red uniforms of a pair of Mounted Policemen who were waiting for this boat to take them back to civilization. A few others of the mounted force, one or two nondescripts, and a scattered and respectful fringe of Loucheux Indians who held back at the rear went to make up the strange throng who greeted the last and only boat of the year.

It was a great event for these far-northern dwellers when the steamer came. A great event it was, too, for these young adventurers who had gone north with the brigade, who now had seen that brigade dwindle and scatter over more than fifteen hundred miles of unknown country; and who now saw the remnant of the brigade proper, one steamboat and a scow, come to anchor here at the farthest north of the fur trade of this continent!

The boys were quickly on shore, running around with their cameras among the savages. They found the Huskies, as they always were called, a much more imposing tribe than any of the Indians they had seen. The men were taller and more robust, more fearless and self-respecting, even arrogant in their deportment. The women were a strapping lot. Some of them wore the blue line tattoo on the lower lip, showing them to be married women; others, young girls not uncomely to look upon. All were clad in the fur garments of the North, even though it now was summer-time, the date of their arrival being July 8th. Over the fur garments most of them wore a dirty cotton covering, supposedly to keep their fur garments clean. The women usually slipped their arms out of the sleeves of their loose, chemise-like jackets, so that with their double coverings it was sometimes difficult to tell where they kept their hands.

To the surprise of the boys, the Eskimos insisted on receiving money or presents of some kind before they would allow themselves to be photographed. They were willing to trade, but, as their Uncle Dick had warned them, they proved to be most avaricious traders. A "labret" of ivory or even of wood they valued at four or five dollars—or asked so much as that at first. A bone-handled drill, made of a piece of seal rib with a nail for a point to the drill, was priced accordingly. A pair of mukluks, or native seal boots, was difficult to find at all, while as for the furs with which their boats were crowded they professed indifference whether or not any one purchased them.

"Wait awhile," said Uncle Dick. "Be as indifferent as they are. About the time the boat turns around to go back south again you'll see them begin to trade. I might have bought my bluestone pipe if I'd had time."

"I'll tell you," said Jesse. "That big fellow down there—I call him Simon—he's got one of those bluestone pipe bowls that you told about. He says it's old, and he wants ten dollars for it. They understand what a dollar is; they don't trade in skins like these other tribes."

"Well, you see," said Uncle Dick, "these men all have met the whale-boats which come around through Bering Sea. They know more about the white men's ways than the inland tribes. As you see, they are a much superior class of people."

"That's so," said Rob, who was just back from photographing among the Loucheux villages located on top of the hill, timidly remote from the Eskimos. "Those people up on the hill are about starving, and so ragged and dirty I don't see how they live at all."

"They've got religion, just the same," said John. "I've been down making a picture of the mission church. I bought two hymn-books for one 'skin' each of the native preacher. Here they are, all in the native language, don't you see? And I bought a Book of Common Prayer, printed in Loucheux, too."

"Well, I've got three bone fish-hooks and a drill," said Jesse, triumphantly. "I don't know whether I'll have any money left before long. You see, it's hard to wait till the boat starts back, because some one else might get these things before we do."

"Is any one going out?" asked Rob.

"Yes, the inspector of the Mounted Police and one man are going out—the first time in two years," replied Jesse, proud of his information. "Two new men that came with us are going up to Herschel Island. There is a four-man post up here, with the barracks beyond the trader's house. They have to travel a hundred miles or so in the winter-time, and it's more than a hundred miles by boat from here to Herschel Island. The Inspector of Police who is going down there told me he was going to hire one of these Huskies to take him down in his whale-boat."

"They tell me the old trader has not been outside for more than forty years, or at least not more than once," added Rob to the general fund of information. "He came from the Scotch Hebrides here when he was young, and now he's old. He has a native Indian wife and no one knows how many children running around up there."

"I suppose he's going to take care of the district inspector who came down from Fort Simpson with us on the boat," ventured John, who had made good friends with the latter gentleman in the course of the long voyage.

"Well," said Jesse, dubiously, "it looks to me like there was going to be a celebration of some sort. All the white men have gone up to the trader's house, and they don't come out. I could hear some sort of singing and going-on in there when I came by."

Rob smiled, not altogether approvingly. "It's easy to understand," said he. "All these people at the trading-posts wait for the boat to come. It's their big annual jamboree, I suppose. There's many a bottle of alcohol that's gone up the hill since this boat landed, I can promise you that; and it's alcohol they drink up here. Some one gets most of the Scotch whisky before it gets this far north."

"They won't let them trade whisky to the natives, though; that's against the law of Canada," said John. "The first thing this old Simon man down the beach asked for was whisky. As for the Loucheux, I don't suppose they ever see any—and a good thing they don't."

"Did you see the dishpan that old girl with the blue lip had in front of her place?" inquired Jesse, after a time. "She had taken a rock and pounded a hole down in the hard ground. Then she poured water in that. That's their dishpan—and I don't think they have changed the water for a week!"

"I should say not!" said Rob. "I wouldn't want to live in that camp, if I could help it. Did you see how they eat? They don't cook their fish at all, but keep it raw and let it almost spoil. Then you can see them—if you can stand it—sitting around a bowl in a circle, all of them dipping their hands into the mess. Ugh! I couldn't stand to watch them, even.

"There's a good-looking wall tent down the beach, though," continued Rob, "and I don't know whether you've been there or not. There's a white man by the name of Storkenberg there—a Scandinavian sailor that has drifted down here from some of the boats for reasons best known to himself. He tells me he's been among the Eskimos for quite a while. He's married to a sort of half-breed Eskimo woman—she's almost white—and they've got one little baby, a girl. Rather cute she was, too."

"It's funny how people live away up here," mused Jesse. "I didn't know so many queer things could happen this far north. Why, there seems to be a sort of settlement here, after all, doesn't there?"

"They have to live through the winter," smiled John, "if they don't go back on that boat. It will be here for a few days, and when she turns back it's all off for a full year."

"There's an independent trader with a boat-load of furs which he is going to take out over the Rat Portage and into the Yukon, the same way that we are going," volunteered John, also after a little. "I've been down talking with him. He says it will take ten days from here to the summit, the best we can do, and as to when we can start no one can tell. Uncle Dick told me we would have to wait for our supplies until the general annual jamboree cooled down a little bit. Then we will get our canoe off the boat and rig her up."

Jesse stood with his hands in his pockets, looking about the motley scene surrounding them. "I don't care much for the fur trade," said he, slowly, after a time. "It looks all dirty, and it's a cruel thing. I don't like to trap things, anyhow, very much any more since I got older. Besides, it doesn't look nice to me. These people are so poor they can barely live from one year to the next, and the Company could have changed that in a hundred years if it had wanted to."

"Well, there's the mission-work among them even here," commented Rob. "That gives them a little bit more life. They learn how to read a little bit sometimes, and they get to using the needle better than they did before. It helps them make things they can sell—moccasins and bead-work—don't you think?"

"Huh!" said Jesse. "Much money they get out of that. When that boat's gone their market's gone for the full year, isn't it? No, I don't like it. Of course I'm glad we've come up here and seen all this—I wouldn't have missed it for the world. But now I know more about the great fur companies than I ever did before. Old ones or new ones, they all look alike to me, and I don't like them."

"Well," said Rob, "if everything was just the way we left it back home, there wouldn't be any fun in going traveling anywhere in the world. It's the strangeness of this and the wildness that make it interesting, isn't it?

"And we are in a strange, wild country," he continued. "Where else can you go in all the world and find as many new and out-of-the-way places as this? From where we stand here you can go over east into a country that no white man knows about. We have passed beyond the place where Sir John Franklin was lost. If you go southwest you can get to Dawson, maybe—there's the tombstones of the four Mounted Policemen who tried to get across from Dawson and didn't. I've got a photograph of their tombstones; the men just hauled them up the hill with dogs to-day and put them up not more than an hour ago.

"And then," he went on, "north of here runs the Arctic, with who knows what beyond the shore-line. South and west of the place where we will cross the Canadian and American line there's a lot of country no man knows much about. And everywhere you looked as we came through, east and west of the big river, there was country that was mapped, but with really little known of it. The Liard has been mapped, but that's all you can say about it. The only way to travel through this country is on the rivers, and when you are on one of these rivers you don't have much time to see beyond the banks, believe me."

"Well, it's kept me mighty busy with my little old map," said John, "changing directions as much as we have. I wanted to ask you, Rob, whether I've got the distances all right. Why not check up on the jumps in our whole journey from the start to here, where we are at the end of the trail?"

"All right," said Rob, and produced his own memorandum-book from his pocket. "I've got the distances here, the way they were given to me by the government men:

"From Athabasca Landing to Pelican Portage was one hundred and twenty miles; to the Grand Rapids, one hundred and sixty-five miles; to McMurray, two hundred and fifty-two miles; to Chippewyan, four hundred and thirty-seven miles; to Smith's Landing, five hundred and thirty-seven miles; to Fort Smith, below the portage, five hundred and fifty-three miles; to Fort Resolution on Great Slave Lake, seven hundred and forty-five miles; to Hay River, eight hundred and fifteen miles; to Fort Providence, nine hundred and five miles; to Fort Simpson, ten hundred and eighty-five miles; to Fort Wrigley, twelve hundred and sixty-five miles; to Fort Norman, fourteen hundred and thirty-seven miles; to Fort Good Hope, sixteen hundred and nine miles; to Arctic Red River, eighteen hundred and nineteen miles; to Fort McPherson, eighteen hundred and ninety-nine miles. That's the way we figured it out at first, and I guess it's about as accurate as any one can tell," he concluded.

John was setting down these figures and doing a little figuring on the margin of his paper. "We left on May twenty-ninth," said he, "and got here July eighth—forty days into two thousand miles—that makes fifty miles a day we've averaged, including all the stops. You see that fifty miles a day, kept up, gets you into the thousands in time, doesn't it? After we struck the steamboat we began to raise the average."

"Well," said Jesse, looking off to the dull-brown slopes of the tundra-covered mountains which lay to the westward, "if what that trader-man told me is true, we'll slow down considerably before we get to the top of that pass in the Rockies yonder."

They were all sitting on the crest of the bluff of Fort McPherson landing, where a long log slab, polished by many years of use, had been erected as a sort of lookout bench for the people who live the year around at Fort McPherson.

"What time is it, Rob?" asked Jesse, suddenly.

Rob pulled out his watch. "It's eleven-thirty," said he. "Get the cameras, boys! Here's a good place for us, right here at the end of the bench. It's almost midnight. Look over there!"

The three of them looked as he pointed. The Midnight Sun of the Arctic hung low on the horizon, but not lower now than it had been for some time. Its rays, reflected from the surface of the Peel River just beyond, shone with a pale luster such as they had never before known.

With some sort of common feeling which neither of them could have explained, each of the three boys took off his cap and laid it on the bench beside him as he stood looking at that strange spectacle given to so few travelers to see—the unsinking Midnight Sun!



XI

THE MIDNIGHT SUN

It was two o'clock in the morning. There had been no night. The sun had not sunk at all beyond yonder dark, ragged fringe of the spruce-trees marking the horizon. Not even the lower edge of its disk had been broken by the top of the tallest spruce-tree. Yes, for one of the few remaining nights of that year it had been given to our young travelers to see the Midnight Sun at its lowest point.

It was a strange sun, so it seemed to them all. After it had sunk far off to the left of the Peel River it seemed to hang there for a time, and then to go, not in the arc of a circle, but almost in a line parallel with the level of the earth plane, passing with considerable rapidity from left to right in its course. Its reflection upon the water of the Peel River, very noticeable at first, changed until by and by there was no reflection left at all and it had passed off across the spruce forest upon the right bank of the river. There again it seemed to hang, as in its upward course it began to forsake its semi-contact with the level of the earth's sphere. For these few days at this latitude it would make its circle in what Rob called the northwest corner of the heavens, striving to give these poor natives who live in that land some sort of compensation for the terrible sunless nights of the immeasurable Arctic winter.

Our young adventurers, be sure, had lost no time in this fine opportunity for photography—an opportunity given to very few travelers of any age or climate at this particular spot; for since the great Klondike rush had straggled through, broken and failing, twenty years before, few white persons indeed had ever stood upon these shores.

"Run, Jesse, to our tent upon the beach!" called out John. "I'm out of films. Get all we've got. We'll have to try and try again, so as to be sure we're not missing anything."

"That's right," said Rob. "We don't know much about this light. It's soft and faint, but it seems to cut the film, after all, as near as I can tell. I'm going to make all sorts of times—from three seconds and five seconds and ten seconds up to twenty and thirty seconds; and with each of these times that I give it I'm going to use a different stop. Somewhere, some of us will get a picture, I'm sure of that."

"Well," said John, looking at Jesse's hurrying form as he scurried down the steep path to their tent upon the beach, "it would be too bad to come this far and then fail."

It may be added that the boys did not fail, for certainly they brought out from their trip what then were known as the best amateur negatives ever made in that latitude; and of all the trophies of their northern trips they have prized none so much as these pictures of their own, of that strange spectacle of the great, mysterious North.

It was late that night, or early that morning, when at length they closed their labors with the cameras, all fairly content. Uncle Dick had left them to their own devices, feeling that if they got results—as he felt sure they would—they would feel all the more proud for having done so without the advice and aid of one older than themselves. Indeed, he was beginning more and more to trust these young lads to their own devices. Himself occupied with matters of business which kept him very largely about the government office—as might have been called the log barracks of the Northwest Mounted Police which made the only representative of the law in that far-off land—he for some time after the landing of the boat allowed the boys to shift pretty much for themselves, with what results we have seen.

They had pitched their tent farther down the beach than the lowest Eskimo hut, and had in this case put up the great mosquito tent, which stood eight feet high and had windows like a house. Into this, late that night, they now crawled, one after another, through the sleeve of the tent.

"My!" exclaimed Jesse, "I never saw such mosquitoes in my life as these little black fellows! There are simply clouds of them all along the beach here, and they follow you wherever you go."

They all stood up inside the tent before preparing for bed in their blanket rolls.

"Take your socks, fellows," said Rob. "We'll have to kill every one in the tent, or they won't let us sleep to-night. Jesse's right; these little fellows bite worse than anything I've seen yet. I vow, when I came into the tent they almost scared me when they lit on my head and neck!"

"That trader and his wife didn't seem to mind them so much," said John, scratching his own neck rather seriously. "She's a white woman, too—Norwegian, I think some one told me—at least she speaks somewhat broken. She's a nice woman, too, and I don't see how she stands it up in this country."

"Her husband told me this is their third winter in the North," answered Rob. "They say it takes two or three years to get used to these things, and then you sort of quiet down and get resigned."

"Or else you die!" grumbled John. "We don't know how many people there are that don't get resigned."

"How long is the boat going to be here yet, Rob?" queried Jesse, sitting up on his bed and unlacing his moccasins.

"Until the jamboree is ended and all the fur is bought from the Huskies," replied Rob, seriously. "Maybe two or three days yet—I don't know. There'll be plenty of time for us to look around a bit to-morrow, and even later. Meantime, Uncle Dick has got to get the supplies ready for our canoe. We're a long ways from home yet. We're not going back when the steamer goes, young chaps; you'd better remember that!"

"Huh! Who cares?" said Jesse, contemptuously, pulling his blanket over his head. "I'm not afraid. We'll get through somehow."

As Rob had said, they had ample time the next day to look about them in this strange and interesting environment into which they had now come. The unloading of the boat went on steadily, the slow stream of breeds, stooping under their heavy loads, passing up the steep bluff from the boat landing to the trading-post. The boys had time to prowl along the beach and watch the natives run their nets, and even pursue their native art of hunting; for that morning, hearing shots from the bank, they looked out to see a half-dozen native kayaks hurrying to a point out in the river where a black object bobbing up was seen now and then. It was, in fact, a beaver which had been spied. On the bank a half-breed was shooting at it with a rifle, while the Huskies were crowding around, endeavoring to spear it when it came to sight. At last a lucky shot from the rifleman brought an end to the chase. A Husky drove a spear into the body of the dead beaver, and they came ashore with it, all of them shouting and singing and flinging up their paddles or their spear-shafts as they raced ahead.

"Look at those boats," said Rob, always observant. "In the last five hundred miles we have seen the birch-bark canoe change into a kayak, haven't we?"

"That's right," said John. "First there was the Cree canoe, with the high bow and stern rolling in—much as you could see in Canada anywhere. Then, as the trees got smaller, birch bark scarcer, in the Dog Rib and Rabbit country, the boats got narrower. I wouldn't have liked to get into one. But they didn't waste any bark rolling the ends in; the ends came up sharp, as in the kayak."

"Yes, and at Arctic Red River," said Jesse, remembering, "they had just a little deck—not much of a one. And now here they are made out of skin and decked all over except a little hole in the middle."

"And if you'll look at these Eskimos," said Rob, again, "and then think of how those Chippewyans looked, you'll have to admit that they both have the same look and that they both look Japanese. I saw Chippewyans that looked like Japs to me, and that was 'way south of here. I suppose maybe some writers are correct, and that a good many of the tribes, if not all of them, came across the Bering Sea once upon a time, long ago."

"Uncle Dick is going to get a couple of Indian boys here, Loucheux, to help us up to the divide," said John. "He told me that to-day. He's out of patience with the delay here and crazy to get started, but he couldn't get any supplies. The Hudson's Bay say that they lost a scow somewhere which ought to have come in here and didn't come. The Northwest Mounted Police claim that all their bacon is missing. The Indians say they are starving and have to have something for their children. How we'll get beans enough to carry us across Uncle Dick can't say."

"Well, leave it to Uncle Dick," said Jesse. "I know he'll fix it all right some way, and we'll get through, too."

"That's the talk, Jesse," said Rob, slapping a hand on his shoulder. "You've got more nerve than you had when you started, and you weigh ten pounds more, too. I'll warrant that you'll be the lead dog on the tow-line going up the Rat."

Thus occupied, they passed the time all too rapidly. In the late evening of their second day the boys noticed a strange hurrying among all the population at the crest of the bluff and on the beach below. Some sort of warning seemed to be in the air; an instant later it became audible in the deep, booming whistle of the steamboat which lay moored below.

The Mackenzie River, last unit of the modern fur brigade, was ready to turn back from her farthest north and take up her weary way once more, bucking the tremendous current of the Mackenzie River for more than a thousand miles to the southward.

Again and again the whistle's echoes rang along the steep shore, and here and there whites and natives, all the tribesmen, every unit of the motley population of the place, hurried down to the landing, until the narrow beach was packed. Men shouted and waved to others now gone aboard the boat. The two red-clad police officers now going back home smiled their pleasure at the thought of the long journey that lay ahead of them; whereas the two who took their place stood looking upon them somewhat ruefully, but bravely as they might, facing their own two years of exile, during which they would never again see a white face until they themselves were relieved. A few Huskies now came hurriedly, offering bargains in their coveted white-fox skins, and some of the great Arctic mink which had not yet all been traded even by the shrewd district agent who had come north with the steamer to see after this particular portion of the territory of his Company, always so prolific in good furs.



Men joked and chaffed each other here and there across the narrow strip of water. Dogs howled each time the whistle blast rang out. A few enthusiasts on the top of the bank wasted precious ammunition in a salute. A few cronies drank a parting stirrup cup out of their scant remaining alcoholic stores. Yonder the Eskimos now began to man their whale-boats for their long voyage to the Arctic Sea. The women were packing up their own supplies now, herding the dogs together, pulling the kayaks up on the decks of the sailing-schooners. The great event of the year was coming to its close and camp was breaking. Now the head of the brigade, this unit farthest north, must begin its long and laborious passage southward once more against the current. As it had brought north such store as was possible of bulky goods, now it carried back, tight packed in its hold, the bales of the precious fur, so much less bulky than the goods which had been brought north, and so far more valuable.

The old trader, gray, grizzled, and taciturn, who had done his Company the service of accumulating all this store of fur, stood leaning against the beam of the great fur-press which but now had been busy in baling the precious white-fox fur, the mink and marten, of this great and solitary country of the North. He would not again see a civilized face until that time in the following year, if he still were living then. He made no comment, nor did the swarthy men of his immediate command who stood about him, grim and taciturn, and disdaining to show the emotion of a salute to the passing crew of the Mackenzie River.

But at last the conclusion of all these partings came. All the government men and Company men who were going out went on board ship. The bell jingled under the hand of the captain in his pilot-house above. The strong-armed breeds hauled in the gang-plank, and with a parting shrill salute the steamer began to swing her nose into the current of the Peel.

Majestically she turned about to pick up the current for her brief run down that stream to the great river which she was now to ascend. The boys on the bank plied their cameras as she swung midstream, and worked them yet further as the Eskimo whale-boats fell in her wake.

By and by the last cheering ceased to be heard. A blank silence fell upon all those remaining on the bank. The three young lads looked from one to the other, looked again at the silent face of the tall and sun-bronzed man who was to lead them out of this country now. A sudden melancholy had fallen upon them all. The silence, the mystery of the great North, seemed now to envelop them. They felt strangely alone—indeed, if truth were told, strangely sad and helpless. Home—how very far away it seemed! John poked a swift elbow into Jesse's side, for it seemed to him he had caught just a suspicion of a tear in the corner of that young traveler's eye.

And now, late in what should have been the evening of the Arctic day, there arose, as if expressive of the thought in the minds of all, that strangest and most mournful sound that comes to the ears of man—the united howling of the dogs of the Far North.

There may have been two or three hundred of them in all, perhaps more, in the Loucheux village and the remainder of the Eskimo encampment, but all of them in unison, if not in accord, raised their voices in a tremulous wail which fairly made the blood run cold.

It was the voice of the far-off, mysterious, and unconquered North!



XII

THE RAT PORTAGE

Before our young adventurers now lay the most dangerous part of their entire journey in the northern wilderness—that famous Rat Portage over the Rockies, at which, twenty years earlier, so many parties bound for the Klondike met disaster. Our young friends had no guides to lead them through this unknown country, any more than had the first Klondikers in the gold stampede which came down the Mackenzie and undertook to get across to the Yukon. No map of that region existed, or at least not in the knowledge of any of our party. They were, therefore, as helpless as any explorers ever were in any portion of the world, and were about to venture into a country as wild as any upon the North American continent.

It was no wonder, then, that their leader, himself a wise and cautious man and well versed in all the expedients of outdoor life, hesitated and pondered, as, standing upon the high crest of Fort McPherson boat landing, he looked out to the low, dull slopes of the Rockies, far ahead. He had heard all the stories about this risky undertaking, and had been cautioned repeatedly by the old trader at Fort McPherson against endeavoring to get through with no companions but these young boys. He knew that his supplies would be no more than sufficient, and that there was no place to get further supplies. Above all, he pondered over the dissimilarity of opinions expressed about the distances and difficulties of the proposed route across the Rockies. Some said it was a hundred miles to the summit, others said seventy-five, others a hundred and forty. Some said it would take a week to get to the top, others two weeks, others three, and yet others said it could not be done at all. Some said there was one lake at the portage on the summit, others said there were five. No one could give any clear idea of the country that lay out yonder beyond the dull, brown tundra.

It was a mysterious land, potent with difficulties and possibly alive with dangers. Uncle Dick loved these young companions of his beyond all price, and he knew his own responsibility in undertaking to lead them through. At times he regretted the whole journey as a mad enterprise which never ought to have been taken on. But at length, like any born leader, he pitted the difficulties against the privileges, made his decision; and, having made it, adhered to it.

"We'll start, boys," said he, "and start to-morrow."

Since, therefore, these young travelers did make this dangerous journey which had proved impossible for so many older voyageurs, it may be well to allow Rob to tell in his own fashion the story of their crossing of the Rockies on the old Rat Portage. Rob kept his notes from day to day during the remainder of their stay at Fort McPherson.

"Sunday, July 13th.—Cloudy and overcast. Lucky we got our pictures of the Midnight Sun—this is about the last chance. We have been living at the Mounted Police barracks. The old trader keeps to his own house. Uncle Dick says he was to get us our supplies. We have mended the canoe we brought down on the steamboat. Not very big for four of us. Uncle Dick says he has got two Loucheux Indian boys, Johnny and Willy, to meet us at the mouth of the Rat River and help us to track up that river to the top. Uncle Dick seems uneasy. We told him not to bother about us. The independent trader with a scow of furs is going to try to get across. We ought to beat them over.

"Wednesday, July 16th.—Such fuss and fooling around nobody ever saw. But we're on our way with at least some supplies. Glad we brought a shot-gun and a fishing-rod. Off at 4.15. At 7.30 reached a creek coming into the Husky River from a chain of lakes. Never saw so many fish in my life as there were of the 'connies.' We caught plenty for a day or so. Mosquitoes bad in camp. Rain.

"Friday, July 18th.—Late start, 10.30. At 1.30 made the mouth of the Rat and picked up the two Indians. This famous stream is a deep, narrow creek. Mosquitoes the worst I ever saw. Ate lunch in headnets. Have to write with gloves on. Current sluggish. We still can paddle up-stream. It is at least seventy-five miles, possibly a hundred, to the top.

"At 11.15 thought we were near Destruction City, the old Klondike camp where so many died. Some women wintered here. Must have been an awful bunch of tenderfeet. We are maybe ten to fifteen miles above the mouth of the Rat. Shores sandy and covered with willows. Cooked a pot of beans. We have a few beans, a little tea, some dried fruit, a little flour, and some side-meat for grease. Not much more. Fish are said to be plenty, also plenty of ptarmigan and rabbits farther up. Pretty tired to-night. Have done maybe twenty miles.

"Saturday, July 19th.—Current stiffer. Passed a creek coming from Black Mountains. Shores began to change in the afternoon. Tundra coming down to banks. Began to see rocks on shore—glad to see them after so much mud and willow flats. At 4 P.M. made Destruction City—probably twenty-five miles above the mouth of the Rat. Going slower than we thought, as we hoped to make this yesterday. Caught some big trout, very fine to eat. They take the fly splendidly. At 5 P.M. we laid aside the paddles and had to begin to track. The Indians are patient now, and very useful. Tracking is beastly hard work. You put a collar around your breast and shoulder. We had to walk in the water. Uncle Dick and the Indians and I took turns. John steered pretty well. All got our feet and legs wet a hundred times. Jesse went along shore most of the way. The canoe rode light, and we made pretty good time.

"Sunday, July 20th.—Mosquitoes still with us. Rain lets up. We have been sleeping pretty wet, but don't mind. Rerigged our tracking-line. Got some pictures. Started at 10.30 and traveled nearly five hours to foot of a bad rapid above a deep pool. Camped on a beach. Made a big fire to dry our clothes. We are wet all the time, all of us. Jesse shot three rabbits. He hunts while we track the boats. We don't let him get out of sight very far. I saw one lynx to-day. Astonishing how little game we have been seeing on this whole trip in this big wild country. Saw an abandoned Klondike camp. They say they are scattered through all these woods here. Sometimes they have found skeletons since. A boy was lost in here and found dead. Traces of the big Klondike migration now getting scarce. Saw some iron on the beach, and ax marks on trees.

"Monday, July 21st.—Heavy going. Hard strain on all of us. Think this would try the best sort of man if he had heavy supplies along in his boat. We have to hurry or we won't have enough to eat. Lunch at 2 P.M. Saw the mountains far ahead. A great sight. They seem not more than twenty-five miles. Indian boys very useful, quiet, and patient. One says he paid twenty-five dollars for his hat at the trading-post. It was worth about two dollars in the States. Saw some blazed trees. This was written on one, 'Colin's rifle in tent here 25th.' Don't know what this meant, but suppose a party had split and some gone ahead, and left word. Gum had grown all over the writing. Saw some more sled irons. Jesse got eight rabbits and two ptarmigan. We make a stew and keep putting more things in it as we travel along.

"Tuesday, July 22d.—We started about 10 o'clock this morning. Take turns on the line, each going as fast and as far as he can, until he gets pretty tired. Saw a coal seam in a cut rock wall on the bank. Mounted a series of heavy rapids all day. At 7 P.M. hit a canyon and had hard work to get up the rapids, for almost a mile. All worn out. Camp 8.30. Jesse plumb fagged out. Everybody wet. We dried our clothes around the fire before we went to bed. Can see how hard this would be for real tenderfeet. Found an old Klondike shack, fallen in, this afternoon, apparently deserted nearly twenty years. Caught some splendid Arctic trout on the fly—the gamest fish we ever saw, and mighty good to eat. They look like sea-trout, although they are a hundred and fifty miles from the sea here. Our camp in a round pocket to-night. The canyon bends sharp to the right. Can see one mountain ahead, but not the big range. John making a map all the time. Stories told us no use this far; things don't check out.

"Wednesday, July 23d.—Off at 10.30. Much to our joy, have fine tracking nearly all day. Rapids less powerful, and bends wider, and better beaches to walk on. At 6.30 passed a small creek and explored it. Nowhere near summit yet. We thought we logged twelve miles to-day. Probably haven't averaged half that the other three days. It looks mighty puzzling on ahead. They told us to look out for a sharp, high peak which marked the portage. We can't figure it out. They told us to look for a river coming from the right. We don't find one. We seem a long way from the summit. Camp 9.30 on rocky flat. Trout and grayling both for supper. Very fine.

"Thursday, July 24th.—Haven't slept very well. Everybody getting sore and tired. Don't think we went over four or five miles all day to-day. Uncle Dick called it 'unmitigated hell.' Water icy cold now and very fast and heavy. A great many round, smooth stones in the river, so we can hardly walk. Our shoes are worn out, and we are only wearing double moccasins, so that our feet can hardly stand it. Uncle Dick fell down once and hurt his leg pretty bad. An accident might happen any time. The Indian boys are tired but game. When we asked them how far to the top they said, 'I dinno,' which is about all the English they have. Current getting worse and worse, and the bad part is that the water is so shallow that in places it is hard to get even our light canoe through. We have to make crossings, and then there is risk of the boat swinging down and pulling us off our feet. I suppose a fellow would drown with the track-line around him. Mighty hard work. At nine o'clock the two Indian boys all in, and had to stop. At ten I went up with Uncle Dick to explore. A river came from the right, so we thought this was the junction of which they told us at McPherson. Went back and got the rest and camped here about midnight. Tundra under the trees. Couldn't drive tent-pegs for ice. A bad camp. Everybody tired.

"Here we found the Summit Tree, not far from the beach. It says: 'Summit Tree. Please register.' Many names under date of 1898. Couldn't read all of them. A grizzly had registered on this tree, too—scraped the bark off high up. Some names we saw were Watt, Goldheim, Marks, Jones, etc. As is the custom, we cut our names in, too, with the date, so that others might see them. We slashed down the brush to the water so that any others coming in now might see this tree easier and so know where they were. If we had not found this tree we would not have been sure we had reached the summit. Well, we are mighty glad, anyhow. Wet and tired, but pretty confident. Not much grub. Some rapids!

"Friday, July 25th.—So tired we slept late. Everybody stiff. Took the left-hand creek that comes in here, and had a hard pull over a little cataract. This should be called Summit Creek. It doesn't seem to have any name. It runs narrow, and fringed with alders. Very crooked. Saw some jack-snipe and a robin to-day, up here on the summit of the Rockies, almost at the Arctic Sea and above the Arctic Circle!

"We had to drop the line in the brush here and use paddle and pole. Went for an hour and a half and then could see lake on the right. Small creek coming in. Another lake ahead. Everything was blank. It looked like a big country and we had no map. John set down everything as we found it out for ourselves. We climbed the foot-hills to look about. Of course we wanted to find the headwaters of the Bell River, or rather the Little Bell, which runs into the Big Bell, and then into the Porcupine, which runs into the Yukon, but we did not know which gap held the headwaters of the Bell. On the left we saw a chain of little lakes, four or five of them. Supposed there might be channels, so bore to left toward these lakes. We're now on a flat country high up, with rock walls far away on either side and mountains on ahead. We are on the tundra now. It is broken up into humps. The French call them 'tetes des femmes,' or 'woman heads,' because of the long grass that hangs down from the top. Mighty hard to walk over. There is a land portage from Fort McPherson to the summit. A Catholic priest has made it, and he used snow-shoes on these 'woman heads,' although there was no snow. A man could hardly walk in any other way.

"We left two lakes to the right, followed the creek, and came to an old landing. Camped at 6 P.M. to eat. Instead of two lakes up here there are five! We don't know where we are going, but are hanging to our creek. Signs of a portage other side of the lake, so guess we are on the right trail. This is a blind pass. Some danger, I suppose. We are not scared. We all hang together, because any one left here would be helpless.

"Saturday, July 26th.—Flies not so bad. Tried out our creek farther and came into third small lake. Cut a portage into next lake. The creek is very blind—wanders around through the willows and grass. Jesse and John got away for an hour or two to-day, and were lost; they went to the right where we thought the channel ran, but it didn't go there. Everybody much scared. The last portage is on ahead, six hundred yards from Summit Lake to Loon Lake. Everybody seems to forget these other little lakes, which are confusing. We see signs of old ax-work, so think we must be on the trail. The Hudson's Bay people have used this in the past as well as the Klondike outfits. These latter people must have had an awful time getting over.

"The whole country of the Rat and the country on the summit in this pass may be called altogether new and unknown to any one. We had to find it as much as if no one had ever been there before, except one or two places we saw where men had been. There is no map of it. Now we have made two short portages and one long portage in getting to Loon Lake; and Loon Lake, we are pretty sure, drains into the headwaters of the Bell River.

"This creek is so shallow we have to drag our boat across the tundra. Willy had gone on ahead, and says he has found the Bell River. It is not anywhere near where we thought it was. I thought the pass lay far off to the right. Opposite our camp on Loon Lake there is a 'sharp, high peak,' all right, and this no doubt is the one the traders told us about. The trouble is when you say 'sharp, high peak' you may see any one of fifty which you think is the right one, and it may be wrong.

"Found the new creek, which we think is the Little Bell, down a deep bank. Plenty of water and plenty of current. It looks as if it ran back into the mountains fifteen or twenty miles. No one knows anything about it. No one knows anything about this country at all. We call ourselves explorers as much as anybody. I am pretty sure now that this is the right 'sharp, high peak.' There was a trader by name of Charles Camsell came across here, and he made a sort of map. The government maps only guess at this as far as they try to describe it.

"I think it is risky to depend on loose talk of a new country like this. They told us there were only two portages and two lakes, but I have counted eleven lakes and ponds on the summit of the Rockies here. We really crossed five lakes, counting in Loon Lake, and we made two short creek portages, one long lake-to-lake portage, and one long lake-to-river portage—the five-hundred-yards drag into the Little Bell. I think this is accurate. John has it all down on his map this way. Many ptarmigan. Plenty of rabbits. The Bell River full of grayling. Never saw the like.

"Our Indian boys left us to-day. They are going back home by themselves. They have a rifle and we have given them a few beans and a little flour and a small piece of bacon—all we can spare. Uncle Dick paid them well. They have helped out very much. Without them I don't know whether we boys could have got the boat up the Rat or not. It was mighty rough, mean work, I can say that. John and Jesse helped all they could, and so did we all. Well, here we are at the summit.

"The Midnight Sun is gone now—there was a sunset to-night. We got to bed about 12 o'clock midnight. Sorry to have the Indian boys go back, as they were cheerful, fine chaps. They say we are all right now, and that this river runs to the Porcupine. I would rather trust an Indian than a Klondiker in getting across country.

"We are getting so we don't like rabbits very much. The ptarmigan and grayling still taste good. Our new river is full of grayling, and we have explored it a little bit. It is fine up here in the mountains. John and Jesse and I feel that this is the greatest trip we ever had, or that anybody could have in this country. We feel more alone here than in any place we have ever been in all our lives.

"We now think we can get through."

Rob's journal and John's map later proved most prized possessions of our young explorers, so they were glad they kept them up, although it ever was rather unwelcome work to sit in a cramped-up tent, or out in the air among the mosquitoes, and write or draw for a long time while still tired and wet. Both of them, however, persisted till the end, and later did not regret it.



XIII

DOWN THE PORCUPINE

"I'm awfully tired, Uncle Dick," said Jesse when he sleepily rolled out of his blankets on the following morning. "It was midnight when we went to bed, and I don't feel as though I had slept at all. Besides, it's Sunday."

"Yes," said his uncle, "it's Sunday, July twenty-seventh, according to my notes, and we've been gone from Fort McPherson one week and four days. I think we've made mighty good time this far, for I believe we must be considerably over a hundred miles from Fort McPherson to this place where we stand."

"It's a fine morning for a little rest," suggested Rob. "Maybe it wouldn't be wrong to make a few photographs. I'd like to make a picture of that high peak across from here, which we ought to call Castle Mountain. That's the mountain we've been hunting for the last three or four days."

"Agreed!" said Uncle Dick. "I think it would be an excellent plan to rest here for a time to-day, and then it would be no harm to start on. Will you let me see the notes of your diary, Rob? We've been relying on you to keep a record of our journey across the mountains, because I've been too busy and, to tell the truth, too worried, to have much time for making notes of the trip."

Rob produced his diary, and Uncle Dick read it page by page. "Fine!" said he. "Fine! This doesn't go into many details, but it will cover the story of our trip as well as I could have done it myself. Now, after we get started down the Bell and the Porcupine, I want you to keep up the same thing, so that we will have some sort of a record of our journey in this wild part of the world.

"I'll have to admit to you boys, now that we are alone, that I don't think we ought to waste any time in here. The two Indian boys who have left us have cut down our supplies considerably, but as they can't possibly get back to McPherson in less than four days, it seemed only fair to share with them what little we had, though it means less for us. We'll have to hurry."

"I'm so sick and tired of rabbits by this time," grumbled John, "that I don't ever want to see one again. I don't like to clean them any more, and I don't like to smell them when they are cooking in the kettle."

"You're not the first man in the North to get tired of rabbits," said Uncle Dick. "For a day or two they are all right, but there is really very little strength in the meat. They are, however, the main prop of the fur trade in the North, and the mainstay of the savage population as well. Except for rabbits, all these natives would starve to death in the winter-time. They have almost nothing to eat from one season to the next after the caribou have gone by."

"Where is the caribou migration in here?" asked John.

"It won't pass here at all," replied their leader. "They tell me that the caribou are north of the Porcupine, toward the Arctic, and that they work south along toward the latter part of August. There are a few sheep in here, but mountain-sheep is a hard meat to kill. There is mighty little hope for us to get anything unless we can catch some fish as we go along—and unless we continue to eat rabbits, and maybe some ptarmigan. I shouldn't wonder if the ptarmigan would grow much scantier when we get down out of the mountains farther.

"Jesse," he continued, "there'll be no harm in your taking your gun and going over to see if you can get us some young geese or some young ducks before we start out, over at the edge of Loon Lake. We've got to have all the food-supplies we can possibly get hold of, because we don't know what is ahead. Hurry up, now, for pretty soon we must call ourselves rested and be on our way. Our canoe is waiting for us, already launched, and it won't take long to get the loads aboard."

Jesse complied with his uncle's instructions, and, taking his light shot-gun, disappeared in the fringe of willows which lay between the camp and the marshy borders of the lake out of which they had made their last portage on the Rocky Mountain summit. It was not long before they began to hear the reports of his gun, and so proficient had he by this time become in its use that when he returned in the course of three-quarters of an hour he had a young goose and a half-dozen mallard ducks to add to the larder.

"Fine!" said Uncle Dick. "Throw them in the boat, son, and we'll be getting ready.

"Rob, go on with your diary; and, John, be sure that you keep up your maps. There isn't a single report of any kind in print or in manuscript, so far as I know, which tells the truth about this summit of the Rockies. We are just as much explorers as if we were the first to cross. The Klondikers left no records.

"And now take one last look around you, for I question if you will ever be in a more remote corner of the world in all your lives. This is the most northerly pass of the Rockies. Yonder above us, at the end of what they call the Black Mountain range, lie the last foot-hills between here and the Arctic. Off in that direction the Little Bell finds its head—no man knows where, so far as I can tell. Westward in general lies our course now, and we've got to make five hundred miles between McPherson and the mouth of the Porcupine River, and make it in jig time too, if we want to catch an up-bound boat on the Yukon this fall."

"Well," said Rob, "I suppose if we had to we could play Robinson Crusoe here at least as well as those poor Klondikers did who came to grief here twenty years ago. But as for me, I want to get home on time—not only because we have to go to school and because our parents are waiting for us, but because we set out to make our round trip within certain dates, and we ought to do so if that is a possible thing."

"That's the talk!" said Uncle Dick. "Come ahead then, boys. Now we are alone—let us see how we can travel."

Rob did as requested and made brief notes of their course throughout the remainder of their trip to the Yukon River, which are given here as he wrote them:

"Sunday, July 27th.—Beautiful weather. Little Bell very deep, with pools on the bends literally full of grayling. They call them 'bluefish' here, and they look purple in the deep, clear water. The Indian boys showed us how to cook them. They split them down the back and skewer them flat, and then hang them up before the fire, flesh side to the fire. They eat them off the skin for a plate. You wouldn't believe how good they are.

"Rabbits and ptarmigan all along the banks. Sometimes we have to get out to ease the canoe down the rocky rapids, for we must not cut her, since she is the only boat we have, and to be without her would ruin us. Water is icy cold, even colder than the head of the Rat, which was bad enough.

"At 6.30 to-day struck the Big Bell, a deep and clear river. We were all cold, so built a fire. Caught some grayling then. Ran till 10 o'clock. Camp on the tundra. Wet and cold, but had plenty of wood near by, so had good fires.

"LaPierre House, an old trading-post, now abandoned, must be not far ahead. That's where the land trail comes in from Fort McPherson, according to the stories. We don't believe anything we hear any more, as all the tales have been unreliable and confusing. Must have made thirty miles to-day before we camped.

"Monday, July 28th.—Steady grind down the Bell, which now is crooked and sluggish. At 2.15 in the afternoon found a cabin, but it was not LaPierre House. Found many names on this cabin. Also statement, 'It is ten miles to LaPierre House.' One man here left statement that he was bound for Fairbanks in Alaska. Another man and his wife passed in an earlier year, 'Eleven days out from McPherson in canoes.' This party had four Indian boys, who expected to take nine days to get back to McPherson. This man must have gone on down the Bell River alone.

"Did five hours before lunch, and six after, and still no LaPierre House. Traveled until 10.15 and stopped to cook. Rigged a light outrigger for our canoe for night travel, which might be dangerous. We've got to travel day and night, and take turns steering. Don't think we got over three and a half to four miles an hour, it may be three miles only, but think we did thirty-five miles to-day. No game and no fish but a few grayling in the morning. We feel a little bit glum. We can't tell where we are. Rigged a short sail, and it helped us a little bit. Mosquitoes not quite so bad. Making slower time than we hoped.

"Tuesday, July 29th.—Tried to sleep in boat, and didn't do very well. I steered part of the night, and Uncle Dick part of the time. At 7 A.M. made LaPierre House. It is eighty miles from the summit at least, and that is fully twice as far as we were told that it was! Some said it was only thirty miles beyond the summit. Saw signs where raft had been built—maybe some Indians coming down-stream for their winter quarters. Heard a man started across McPherson to LaPierre House on the land trail with two dogs. Too much plunder, and he nearly died. Don't know where he is now. Rain and cold all day.

"Ate at midnight. We take turns paddling the best we can, but John and Jesse get pretty tired. We let them sleep more. Weather dismal and cold. It is hard for two to sleep in our canoe and two to run it at night. Have been wet and cold a good deal.

"Wednesday, July 30th.—Breakfast in rain. Built a big fire. We slept a little where we could be warm. Off at 12.50. Found a big river coming in from the left, and knew that it must be the Porcupine. Struck it about 2 o'clock. A big wind coming up-stream. At first we thought the Porcupine was running to the left. Of course it had to run to the right. Found the wind hard to buck with the canoe, so that we stood still sometimes. At 6.30 went ashore, built a log fire, and dried our clothes and beds. Everything very wet. John and Jesse very tired and shivering. Both seem pretty near exhausted. Wind becoming more gusty. Fixed our canoe, which was leaking a little. We don't know just how far it is from here to the Porcupine. Jesse killed a beaver. We boiled the tail and ate it, and it was good. Pushed on a little farther in the dark.

"Thursday, July 31st.—Summer is going awfully fast. Ran in for breakfast on a stony ledge. Think we are only going about two miles an hour. After breakfast tried to sail, and think we ran ten or twelve miles easier. Had to paddle then. The reaches of this river are long and the current is slow. The man who calls the Porcupine and the Bell 'rapid mountain streams' doesn't know what he is talking about, for neither is rapid. Passed the mouth of the Eagle River early in the day. Landed late at the mouth of the Driftwood River, as it is marked on the government map. Found an Indian here with one canoe. He has his wife and two children and seven dogs here. One strange dog has come into his camp. It howls a great deal and is lost. We don't know whose it is or where it came from.

"These Indians are starving, and, little as we have, we have to give them something. They wanted some flour and fat, and we shared almost our last. They have nets set and are waiting for the salmon to run. The Indian has only caught one salmon, and he said if they did not come pretty soon his people would die. They conclude to go on farther down the stream with us. He says he can take everything he has in that little canoe. They are wonders with boats.

"We all hustle now, because starvation threatens every one in our party. Even rabbits are scarce. No ptarmigan, no ducks, no fish. The river is big and the wind affects the down-stream speed.

"The Indian keeps along with us. His canoe has about an inch and a half free-board, and is loaded down with children, dogs, nets, and so forth. Glad to have the Indian with us, because he knows something of the country. He says Fish River, the next stream below, is half-way to Old Crow. This is an old trading-post which gets supplies from the Yukon, and we will feel safe if we can get there.

"Our new Indian is named Andrew. He can talk a little. He says the land portage from Fort McPherson to Fort LaPierre is lined with cast-off stuff that people have tried to carry and couldn't. It is a starving country and a starving march. So is this a starving journey by water. When we went ashore it was in a rousing gale of wind. Uncle Dick baked some bannocks in our old way, leaning the frying-pan against a stick driven down before the fire. We are so tired that when we don't have to work we just fall asleep wherever we are. We always have some one awake to watch things and to tell the others when to wake up. We have been wet a great deal of the time from rain and waves. Dried our bedding this time, once more. Not much excitement and plenty of hard work. I don't know whether any of us would come across here again or not. Probably not.

"After a long wait the wind let up, and we started in the late evening for the run to Old Crow, which we are anxious to see. Head winds. Hard paddling. Kept on into the night, but met an awful storm. Wind was almost a tornado, and for a wonder snow fell in sheets. Our canoe got turned around two or three times in the night, and we wouldn't know which way to go, for the wind came up-stream and every other way. We nearly swamped. Managed to get ashore, drenched to the skin and very cold. It looks like winter. Andrew's children are crying a great deal now. We haven't much to eat. It was about the worst night we ever had. We pushed on down as fast as we could as soon as we got warm enough to work. Reached Old Crow trading-post 8 A.M., after the worst night I ever spent.

"Saturday, August 2d.—What luck! Old Crow post is deserted—no one here at all—not even a native hanging around! Uncle Dick thought it was right to break open a window and go in. There was a stove, so we made a fire. The trader had left his stock here. Of course it was burglary to open the store. If an Indian did it they probably would follow him a thousand miles and punish him. We left a note telling them who we were and what we had taken—another blanket or so, some pairs of mittens, and a little clothing for the Indian children, who were almost frozen. The trader lives at Fort Yukon, and we will pay him there.

"Andrew says the next stop is going to be at Rampart House, sixty miles down the river. We have taken about fourteen hours to make the last thirty-five miles, as near as we can tell. We are all in bad shape. Getting a little weak.

"The trader's goods have been damaged by water. This wet snow fell more than a foot deep over everything, and the roof has leaked. Well, we can't stay here long, and we'll have to travel day and night the best we can. Any accident now would be very bad for everybody.

"John and Jesse paddle all they can. We all get very cold, as it seems almost like winter. Stopped to get warm and eat. Uncle Dick says plenty of tea won't hurt us if we work. We take turns fair as we know how, the ones paddling who can stay awake.

"Well, we are nearer to being safe. By traveling all the time, fifteen and a half hours from Old Crow, we made Rampart House—not bad time if the distance is correct. Weather cold. Snow threatening again.

"Sunday, August 3d.—At Rampart House. One week from the summit. Two weeks from the mouth of the Rat. Rampart House looks mighty good to us all. Here there is a Hudson's Bay post with some goods in stock and a young Englishman running it. Natives almost starving. No fish yet. The men are just starting out for caribou, which are now reported thirty miles north of here. Not much goods left in the trading-post. Our reception here very chilly. No one seems to care whether we live or not, and sometimes we have been so tired we hardly did ourselves.

"The trader tells us it is 240 miles from here to the Yukon, and it seems a long way. At least we can get warm and dry here.

"Next day. We slept eighteen hours out of twenty-four. Weather warming up. Hunters not back, but one Indian caught a king salmon in a net, so the village is more cheerful. Everybody shared the salmon, which was a large one, fifty pounds. These people are Loucheux. Sometimes squaw-men live in here at Rampart House. More dogs here than I ever saw. One ate my moccasins last night—the ones that I had extra soles on. I wish he hadn't done it, because I needed them.

"This is an important post in the North. It is old and well known, and it has special interest because it is directly on the International Boundary-line. There is a monument here which the American surveyors put up not long ago. They were in here quite a while, but their work of marking out the International Boundary between Alaska and the Dominion of Canada is now done.



"All of us boys got gay and went over on the other side of the Boundary and took off our hats and gave three cheers for America. We were glad we were on American soil once more. We feel now as if we were getting out of the fur-trading country. Am not sorry. I don't like the country or the people in it very much. Everything seems so shiftless. Still, they manage to get on. I suppose if I lived up here a hundred years things might look different.

"Monday, August 4th.—Breakfast 10.30. We've got some supplies here. Nothing much to boast of. Fixed up our boat again for the long run for home. We feel pretty safe now. Left Andrew at Old Crow, but saw some people at Rampart who knew about him and other travelers who are back of us on the Porcupine. We hope they will all get out. Winter will come any time now. Left at 4.30 in the afternoon. Ran two hours and had tea. River rising very fast, and current swift, so that we thought we made five or six miles an hour at least. Ran two and a half hours, some of us paddling, and thought we made thirty miles. We are trying to use this rise in the river all we can. Camped on a stony beach. Sand is very wet and cold for a bed, but we cut some willows and did fairly well. Not very cold.

"Tuesday, August 5th.—Struck an Indian camp and traded tea for some fresh moose meat, which we were mighty glad to get. I am like John—I never want to see a rabbit again.

"To-day passed a boat tracking up-stream for Rampart. A man and dog were pulling. They had a sail set to help, and the steersman was poling and paddling the best he could to help. Even so, it was a slow way to get up-stream. We felt sorry for them when we left them. Later in the day met still another boat, two Indians tracking freight up to Rampart House. They say sometimes freight is carried up this river with a powerboat. These Indians say we've come about a hundred miles from Rampart, and that in about twenty miles we will be half-way to the mouth of the river. Wish it were not so far.

"Wednesday, August 6th.—This is hard work. We rested and paddled and slept and paddled. Too much wind, and we had to quit toward evening. When the wind lulled we started again. Much rain and dark weather. Water very fast, probably six to seven miles an hour. We eat at least four times a day, so as to keep strong as possible. Considerable wind now, and fall seems coming. Whenever the sun comes out and we can lie down in the sun, we do, so as to keep warm while we sleep. Don't know how far it is to Yukon, but have been making good time.

"Thursday, August 7th.—Head winds again, but sun bright and warm. Spent considerable time ashore, resting, as we were about played out, and we thought that we might now be safe in a little delay. Got off late in the afternoon, and did well. Uncle Dick says the Yukon can't be more than fifty to seventy-five miles ahead. Camped late in a bunch of spruce, and slept until 2 o'clock in the morning. When we began to run we saw signs of a salmon fishery such as we have in Alaska. There is a man here named Martin, and his squaw and children all camped on the beach. He says it is only thirty-five miles to the Yukon, and that we can do it in six or seven hours. Hurrah!

"Friday, August 8th.—We can still paddle, but are not very strong, any of us. Uncle Dick is cheerful. He never has been out of sorts. We boys have been pretty tired, and sometimes Jesse has felt almost like crying, he was so played out; but we have all done the best we could to keep a stiff upper lip. Hope Uncle Dick will think we have done all right. Just the same, we are glad we are coming out of the worst of this trip. It has been worse than we thought.

"Passed two Indian camps in late evening. Then they said we were within three hours of Yukon. Entered the mouth of a white-stained slough which meant different waters from those of the Porcupine. We feel that we are now in the Yukon country—and that's our country, because the Yukon and Alaska are one!

"Ten P.M. Hurrah! Hurrah! At Fort Yukon! Here is the American flag flying from the Anglican mission-house! We are crazy with joy, all of us boys, and Uncle Dick smiles all the time. We are safe now, because they say there'll be several boats up-stream yet this fall. Uncle Dick says there'll be no more danger, and he now begins to tell us that we have been through worse dangers than maybe we thought of. I suppose it was a pretty rough journey. Certainly we all got awfully tired. We are thin as snakes, all four of us.

"There is an Indian village below here, and a government school for Indian boys, besides the Anglican mission-house and church. It certainly does seem more civilized. This is our own country.

"And this is the Yukon that runs between the banks here—our own old Yukon! I love it better than the Mackenzie. For a while at least we will be under our flag, and not any other. All tired. Next we'd better go to bed. However, made camp near a road-house, almost a mile from the Indian village. Some whites live here who seem tough and noisy. Some liquor here with them, for they seem to be shouting and singing.

"Although we have been on American soil or American water since we left Rampart House on the Porcupine, this seems to us like the first time we have really been in our own country. Good night! Wish we were all home at Valdez with our people."



XIV

AT FORT YUKON

It was a ragged and dirty party of travelers, to be sure, who lay in the litter of the dooryard of the road-house, wrapped in their blankets, and sleeping late in spite of the warm morning sun which shone into their faces. They were exhausted by the long, trying, and hard work of their dangerous journey, and, once they felt safe, had fallen into the half-stupor which follows such fatigue. Therefore they did not at first know of the presence of the dignified and well-dressed man who stood hanging over the gate of the road-house, looking at the sleepers as they lay in the yard, rolled up in their blankets. Uncle Dick, always alert, was first awake, and sat up in his blankets.

"Good morning, sir," said he to the stranger.

"Good morning, sir," replied the other, in turn. "Excuse me, but I've been asked to look for the party of Mr. Richard McIntyre, himself and three young boys, who are reported to be lost somewhere between here and the mouth of the Mackenzie River. The relatives have sent in word by cable, and naturally it has come into my hands."

"I beg your pardon, sir," said Uncle Dick, sitting still, half-clad in his blankets, "but, although you may not suppose it, I am Mr. McIntyre, and these are the young men referred to, no doubt. You have word from outside?"

"From Mrs. Vernon Wilcox, of Valdez, and from Mrs. Henry D. Hardy, of the same city; I have the message here. It came down from Circle City on the last boat."

"And you, sir? I beg your pardon—"

"I am the archdeacon of the Anglican Church in this district," replied the other, "and my name is Hudson. I have come this morning to ask you to our house to live during your stay here. There will be no boat out for some days as yet." Still he looked half-doubtfully at the man whom he addressed, as though possibly he might be some impostor, so strange did he appear, unshaven, with long hair, and in garments which barely clung together.

Uncle Dick laughed at this, and explained that he did not blame any one for suspecting himself and his party of anything in the world. Then he called to his young companions, and the archdeacon himself smiled when he saw the four standing, the fresher for the pails of water which they threw over one another, in the front yard.

"I am a traveler myself," said he, "and have mushed dogs many thousand miles in this northern country. So I know what hard travel is, winter and summer. Come with me, if you please."

So they accompanied him to his home, the only civilized place, as Uncle Dick was disposed to say, in all the settlement thereabouts. Here the boys of the party had the best meal they had known for many a day, with real meat and gravy and actual bread and butter, such as they had been used to at home. Although, of course, they displayed no curiosity in their host's house, they were well pleased enough, as they later saw signs of comfort and good taste all about them.

"Now," said the archdeacon, after they had breakfasted, "I know how you feel about your clothes. Happily, I have some such clothing provided for our own needs here. Although the things will not be in the latest fashion, perhaps we can fix you up better than you now are.

"As for you," he said to Uncle Dick, "you are welcome to a suit of my own clothing if it will serve you. We are not dissimilar in build, I believe. Come with me and let us see what we can do for you."

In half an hour the four emerged from another room in the house, each with a complete new outfit, and to each of them it seemed, in the circumstances, that they were especially well-dressed.

"Well," said Uncle Dick, "you certainly are Good Samaritans in your church here in the North. I shall not offend you by offering pay for what you have done for us, but we have some boats here, with a canoe and a few odds and ends of that sort, which we shall be most happy to leave with you when we go out."

"I thank you very much for that," said the reverend gentleman. "All such things are very useful to us indeed. And I shall be glad to have them, provided that you are quite finished with their use.

"And now will you tell me of your trip?" he resumed. "It was over the old Klondike trail of twenty years ago—a dangerous trip for you to take with just boys like these."

"Well, you see," said Uncle Dick, with a look of pride on his face, "these are not just ordinary boys. They are an Alaskan product, 'young Alaskans,' all three of them, and more used to out of doors than are most young folk of their age. They are good travelers already, better than many a man; they have made the Peace River and the Saskatchewan, have run the Big Rapids of the Columbia, and have killed their Kadiak bear in southwest Alaska. I knew what they were or I never would have taken on this trip in their company. I fancy"—and he smiled—"that they did better than many a tenderfoot who came over the Rat Portage twenty years ago."

"No doubt, no doubt!" replied the archdeacon. "I join you in your pride that you are all Americans, like myself. I, too, am something of an explorer, as I may say modestly. I am just back from the climbing of Denali, and I had a boy with me in that ascent—an Indian boy he was!"

"Denali!" exclaimed Uncle Dick, excitedly. "You mean Mount McKinley—I know the Indian name."

The older man nodded with gravity. "Yes," said he. "We climbed it for the first time—the first scientific time. Of course you know about the false claims that have been made?"

Uncle Dick rose and grasped him by the hand warmly. "Sir," said he, "you are a great man, even had you never lived so long and useful a life here in your work. I am glad that the Church and not the traders put the first flag on top of the highest mountain on this continent. I congratulate you, and I am proud that my young friends can meet you here."

"It was not so difficult," said the reverend gentleman, modestly, once more. "Only, be sure, it actually was done. Be sure also that it was a boy—an Indian boy—who first set foot upon the top of Mount Denali. I held back when we got to the very summit, thinking it appropriate that a native of the people who owned this land before we came should be the first to set foot upon its highest summit."

"Fine!" said Uncle Dick. "That's what I call sportsmanship, and I want you boys to remember it. That's something different from what Admiral Peary did when he found the North Pole. We are well met here, Archdeacon, if you will allow me to say so, and if you will accept us I may say that we all are sportsmen, and sportsmen are always well met."

He motioned to his young companions, and each of them in turn came up and shook hands with this explorer of the Far North, who greeted them with gravity and kindness.

"Well," said he, at length, smiling, "here is our little wretched town, as bad, perhaps, as any white and Indian settlement in Alaska. I have spent many years among these people, and I presume I am disliked as much as any man along the Yukon! As you see, we stand for law and order here, and we churchmen are hated here for that reason. We arrest some of the lawbreakers and take them down to Ruby to the courts, and have them fined or imprisoned. They threaten us—but none the less you see we have not run away.

"You will come to our services to-morrow?" he added. "Yonder is our little log church. Perhaps our services will prove interesting for a special reason. I speak in our tongue, but what I say must be interpreted to my Indian audience."

"Certainly; we'll be glad," said Uncle Dick. "We feel as though we had somewhat lapsed these last few weeks. It is fine to be with you here and in these surroundings."

"I see that your young friends carry books in their pockets, and papers," rejoined the archdeacon, nodding to Rob and John.

"Oh, that's nothing, sir," said Rob. "We just make notes of things as we go along, you see. John here is our map-maker. He always makes maps of the countries which we visit. So you see—"

"And did you make a map of the summit of the Rockies—the old Rat Portage of the traders, young man?"

"Why, yes, sir," said John. "I put it all down here as we went along, and Uncle Dick says it's pretty good. He's an engineer."

He now spread out his map upon the table, as their host suggested.

"I'll tell you why I asked," said the latter. "As I have said, I have been obliged to be an explorer and a traveler myself—my field is very large. It is nothing for me to travel a hundred miles behind a dog-sled in the winter-time to hold services or to make a baptism or a wedding. Sometime I hope to make that very journey that you have made. At Dawson I have seen some maps, or alleged maps, but no two are alike."

"That's what Uncle Dick told us and what we have found out," said Rob. "We couldn't get any idea of that country at all, and had to find it out for ourselves."

"I'll tell you what I'll do, sir," said John. "When I get back home and into Uncle Dick's engineering office I'll make you a tracing of my map, and you can have it for your very own. I shall be very glad to do that."

"And if you will I shall be very much in your debt, my young friend," said the archdeacon. "That will be fine, and I shall value it. I fancy that many a Klondiker who was cast away in the winter-time in that wild country would have been glad to have had such assistance as this. But not even Harper or McQueston or any of the other early explorers on the Peace and the Liard and the Mackenzie and the Peel and the Rat and all these rivers running into the Yukon which have been so famous for their gold—not one of these men, I will say, could ever make an exact map of the country he had crossed. As for the traders—well, you know that yourself. They don't want new-comers, and they don't help them any too much." He sighed, spreading out his hands with but partial resignation.

"It is a hard fight which the Church wages with the fur trade in the North. We are antagonistic, although we live side by side, both Anglican and Catholic missions, almost in the dooryard of the Hudson's Bay Company and Revillons and all the smaller fry of independents which are pushing in now. But we do our best.

"Now, then, young sir," he resumed, turning to Rob, "I have no doubt that your notes are as good as this young man's map. I hope you will keep up your diary just as I have done in much of my exploration work in Alaska and the Northwest Territory. These things are invaluable in later life."

Rob thanked his host very much, and promised to do as he advised. Therefore, what he found of interest at this, the first considerable American settlement they met on the Yukon, should prove worth setting down in his own words.



XV

THE FUR TRADE

The memoranda which the historian of the party set down regarding Fort Yukon had more or less to do with the scenes and incidents connected with the fur trade which had come under his observation. But before coming to these Rob put down a few things regarding the nature of this American settlement on the great river of Alaska:

"Saturday, August 9th.—We had forks and napkins at the archdeacon's house. Went out to see the town. Indian tents scattered over three-fourths of a mile. Three stores, a post-office, a church, and a road-house. Found the owners of the store at Old Crow which we burglarized, and paid them for what we got. They said it was all right. Seems as though there are hundreds of dogs here. Boat expected up the Yukon almost any day—there is no regular time for their landing here.

"Sunday, August 10th.—Went to church in the log church. The archdeacon preached. A full-blood by the name of David interpreted. Another native read the liturgy, but not very well. The sermon was simple and plain. He touched the natives' pride. Told them how they used to get along with bows and arrows and stone axes, how they conquered the wilderness; told them not to forget those virtues and not to give way to the vices of white people. Many strange faces in the audience. Saw one like a Japanese samurai, with bristling beard and stiff black hair. Have seen this type everywhere these last 1,500 miles—people who look like Japs. I don't think much law and order here. White men married to Indian women. There is a government school and a good many Indian children go there. The men get too much whisky here.

"The archdeacon is a great traveler. He told me why people up north like bright-colored clothes. He says that the hind sack on his sled is brilliantly embroidered, and when he is mushing dogs he finds himself looking at this bright piece of color. All the landscape is very monotonous, and the night is hard to endure so long. He says that is why the natives like bright colors.

"This afternoon in the archdeacon's house I found a strange old book. It seems to have been written by some preacher some hundreds of years ago. His name was Bartolomeo de Las Casas. He must have been a Spaniard, for he is writing about the Indians. He says, 'We are killing them, and have done so relentlessly.' Seems to me that was a good deal like the fur trade. He goes on and says some more from Ecclesiastes: 'The Most High is not pleased with the offerings of the wicked. Neither is He pacified for sin by the multitude of sacrifices. Whoso bringeth an offering of the goods of the poor doth as one that killeth the son before the father's eyes.'