Next morning, as I swung into the saddle and started at the head ofmy train, Ladrone threw out his nose with a sharp indrawn squeal ofpain. At first I paid little attention to it, but it came again--andthen I noticed a weakness in his limbs. I dismounted and examined himcarefully. He, too, was poisoned and attacked by spasms. It was asorrowful thing to see my proud gray reduced to this condition. Hiseyes were dilated and glassy and his joints were weak. We could notstop, we could not wait, we must push on to feed and open ground; andso leading him carefully I resumed our slow march.
But at last, just when it seemed as though we could not go anyfarther with our suffering animals, we came out of the poisonousforest upon a broad grassy bottom where a stream was flowing to thenorthwest. We raised a shout of joy, for it seemed this must be abranch of the Nasse. If so, we were surely out of the clutches of theSkeena. This bottom was the first dry and level ground we had seensince leaving the west fork, and the sun shone. "Old man, the worstof our trail is over," I shouted to my partner. "The land looks moreopen to the north. We're coming to that plateau they told us of."
Oh, how sweet, fine, and sunny the short dry grass seemed to us afterour long toilsome stay in the sub-aqueous gloom of the Skeenaforests! We seemed about to return to the birds and the flowers.
Ladrone was very ill, but I fed him some salt mixed with lard, andafter a doze in the sun he began to nibble grass with the others, andat last stretched out on the warm dry sward to let the glorious sunsoak into his blood. It was a joyous thing to us to see the faithfulones revelling in the healing sunlight, their stomachs filled at lastwith sweet rich forage. We were dirty, ragged, and lame, and ourhands were calloused and seamed with dirt, but we were strong andhearty.
We were high in the mountains here. Those little marshy lakes andslow streams showed that we were on a divide, and to our minds couldbe no other than the head-waters of the Nasse, which has a watershedof its own to the sea. We believed the worst of our trip to be over.
THE FAITHFUL BRONCOS
They go to certain death--to freeze, To grope their way through blinding snow, To starve beneath the northern trees-- Their curse on us who made them go! They trust and we betray the trust; They humbly look to us for keep. The rifle crumbles them to dust, And we--have hardly grace to weep As they line up to die.
THE WHISTLING MARMOT
On mountains cold and bold and high, Where only golden eagles fly, He builds his home against the sky.
Above the clouds he sits and whines, The morning sun about him shines; Rivers loop below in shining lines.
No wolf or cat may find him there, That winged corsair of the air, The eagle, is his only care.
He sees the pink snows slide away, He sees his little ones at play, And peace fills out each summer day.
In winter, safe within his nest, He eats his winter store with zest, And takes his young ones to his breast.
CHAPTER XIV
THE GREAT STIKEEN DIVIDE
At about eight o'clock the next morning, as we were about to line upfor our journey, two men came romping down the trail, carrying packson their backs and taking long strides. They were "hitting the highplaces in the scenery," and seemed to be entirely absorbed in thework. I hailed them and they turned out to be two young men fromDuluth, Minnesota. They were without hats, very brown, very hairy,and very much disgusted with the country.
For an hour we discussed the situation. They were the first white menwe had met on the entire journey, almost the only returningfootsteps, and were able to give us a little information of thetrail, but only for a distance of about forty miles; beyond this theyhad not ventured.
"We left our outfits back here on a little lake--maybe you saw ourIndian guide--and struck out ahead to see if we could find thosesplendid prairies they were telling us about, where the caribou andthe moose were so thick you couldn't miss 'em. We've been forty milesup the trail. It's all a climb, and the very worst yet. You'll comefinally to a high snowy divide with nothing but mountains on everyside. There _is_ no prairie; it's all a lie, and we're going back toHazleton to go around by way of Skagway. Have you any idea where weare?"
"Why, certainly; we're in British Columbia."
"But where? On what stream?"
"Oh, that is a detail," I replied. "I consider the little camp onwhich we are camped one of the head-waters of the Nasse; but we'renot on the Telegraph Trail at all. We're more nearly in line with theold Dease Lake Trail."
"Why is it, do you suppose, that the road-gang ahead of us haven'tleft a single sign, not even a word as to where we are?"
"Maybe they can't write," said my partner.
"Perhaps they don't know where they are at, themselves," said I.
"Well, that's exactly the way it looks to me."
"Are there any outfits ahead of us?"
"Yes, old Bob Borlan's about two days up the slope with his train ofmules, working like a slave to get through. They're all getting shortof grub and losing a good many horses. You'll have to work your waythrough with great care, or you'll lose a horse or two in gettingfrom here to the divide."
"Well, this won't do. So-long, boys," said one of the young fellows,and they started off with immense vigor, followed by their handsomedogs, and we lined up once more with stern faces, knowing now that aterrible trail for at least one hundred miles was before us. Therewas no thought of retreat, however. We had set our feet to thisjourney, and we determined to go.
After a few hours' travel we came upon the grassy shore of anotherlittle lake, where the bells of several outfits were tinklingmerrily. On the bank of a swift little river setting out of the lake,a couple of tents stood, and shirts were flapping from the limbs ofnear-by willows. The owners were "The Man from Chihuahua," hispartner, the blacksmith, and the two young men from Manchester, NewHampshire, who had started from Ashcroft as markedly tenderfoot asany men could be. They had been lambasted and worried into perfectefficiency as packers and trailers, and were entitled torespect--even the respect of "The Man from Chihuahua."
They greeted us with jovial outcry.
"Hullo, strangers! Where ye think you're goin'?"
"Goin' crazy," replied Burton.
"You look it," said Bill.
"By God, we was all sure crazy when we started on this damn trail,"remarked the old man. He was in bad humor on account of his horses,two of which were suffering from poisoning. When anything touched hishorses, he was "plum irritable."
He came up to me very soberly. "Have you any idee where we're at?"
"Yes--we're on the head-waters of the Nasse."
"Are we on the Telegraph Trail?"
"No; as near as I can make out we're away to the right of thetelegraph crossing."
Thereupon we compared maps. "It's mighty little use to look atmaps--they're all drew by guess--an'--by God, anyway," said the oldfellow, as he ran his grimy forefinger over the red line whichrepresented the trail. "We've been a slantin' hellwards ever since wecrossed the Skeeny--I figure it we're on the old Dease Lake Trail."
To this we all agreed at last, but our course thereafter was by nomeans clear.
"If we took the old Dease Lake Trail we're three hundred miles fromTelegraph Creek yit--an' somebody's goin' to be hungry before we getin," said the old trailer. "I'd like to camp here for a few days andfeed up my horses, but it ain't safe--we got 'o keep movin'. We'vebeen on this damn trail long enough, and besides grub is gittin'lighter all the time."
"What do you think of the trail?" asked Burton.
"I've been on the trail all my life," he replied, "an' I never was insuch a pizen, empty no-count country in my life. Wasn't that bigdivide hell? Did ye ever see the beat of that fer a barren? No moregrass than a cellar. Might as well camp in a cistern. I wish I couldlay hands on the feller that called this 'The Prairie Route'--they'dsure be a dog-fight right here."
The old man expressed the feeling of those of us who were too shy anddelicate of speech to do i
t justice, and we led him on to mostsatisfying blasphemy of the land and the road-gang.
"Yes, there's that road-gang sent out to put this trail intoshape--what have they done? You'd think they couldn't read orwrite--not a word to help us out."
Partner and I remained in camp all the afternoon and all the nextday, although our travelling companions packed up and moved out thenext morning. We felt the need of a day's freedom from worry, and ourhorses needed feed and sunshine.
Oh, the splendor of the sun, the fresh green grass, the ripplingwater of the river, the beautiful lake! And what joy it was to seeour horses feed and sleep. They looked distressingly thin and poorwithout their saddles. Ladrone was still weak in the ankle joints andthe arch had gone out of his neck, while faithful Bill, who nevermurmured or complained, had a glassy stare in his eyes, the lingeringeffects of poisoning. The wind rose in the afternoon, bringing to usa sound of moaning tree-tops, and somehow it seemed to be an auguryof better things--seemed to prophesy a fairer and dryer country tothe north of us. The singing of the leaves went to my heart with ahint of home, and I remembered with a start how absolutely windlessthe sullen forest of the Skeena had been.
Near by a dam was built across the river, and a fishing trap made outof willows was set in the current. Piles of caribou hair showed thatthe Indians found game in the autumn. We took time to explore someold fishing huts filled with curious things,--skins, toboggans,dog-collars, cedar ropes, and many other traps of small value toanybody. Most curious of all we found some flint-lock muskets madeexactly on the models of one hundred years ago, but dated 1883! Itseemed impossible that guns of such ancient models should bemanufactured up to the present date; but there they were allcarefully marked "London, 1883."
It was a long day of rest and regeneration. We took a bath in theclear, cold waters of the stream, washed our clothing and hung it upto dry, beat the mud out of our towels, and so made ready for theonward march. We should have stayed longer, but the ebbing away ofour grub pile made us apprehensive. To return was impossible.
THE CLOUDS
Circling the mountains the gray clouds go Heavy with storms as a mother with child, Seeking release from their burden of snow With calm slow motion they cross the wild-- Stately and sombre, they catch and cling To the barren crags of the peaks in the west, Weary with waiting, and mad for rest.
THE GREAT STIKEEN DIVIDE
A land of mountains based in hills of fir, Empty, lone, and cold. A land of streams Whose roaring voices drown the whirr Of aspen leaves, and fill the heart with dreams Of dearth and death. The peaks are stern and white The skies above are grim and gray, And the rivers cleave their sounding way Through endless forests dark as night, Toward the ocean's far-off line of spray.
CHAPTER XV
IN THE COLD GREEN MOUNTAINS
The Nasse River, like the Skeena and the Stikeen, rises in theinterior mountains, and flows in a south-westerly direction, breakingthrough the coast range into the Pacific Ocean, not far from themouth of the Stikeen.
It is a much smaller stream than the Skeena, which is, moreover,immensely larger than the maps show. We believed we were about topass from the watershed of the Nasse to the east fork of the Iskoot,on which those far-shining prairies were said to lie, with theirflowery meadows rippling under the west wind. If we could only reachthat mystical plateau, our horses would be safe from all disease.
We crossed the Cheweax, a branch of the Nasse, and after climbingbriskly to the northeast along the main branch we swung around over ahigh wooded hog-back, and made off up the valley along the north andlesser fork. We climbed all day, both of us walking, leading ourhorses, with all our goods distributed with great care over the sixhorses. It was a beautiful day overhead--that was the onlycompensation. We were sweaty, eaten by flies and mosquitoes, andcovered with mud. All day we sprawled over roots, rocks, and logs,plunging into bogholes and slopping along in the running water, whichin places had turned the trail into an aqueduct. The men from Duluthhad told no lie.
After crawling upward for nearly eight hours we came upon a littlepatch of bluejoint, on the high side of the hill, and there camped inthe gloom of the mossy and poisonous forest. By hard and persistentwork we ticked off nearly fifteen miles, and judging from the stream,which grew ever swifter, we should come to a divide in the course offifteen or twenty miles.
The horses being packed light went along fairly well, although it wasa constant struggle to get them to go through the mud. Old Ladronewalking behind me groaned with dismay every time we came to one ofthose terrible sloughs. He seemed to plead with me, "Oh, my master,don't send me into that dreadful hole!"
But there was no other way. It must be done, and so Burton's sharpcry would ring out behind and our little train would go in one afterthe other, plunging, splashing, groaning, struggling through.Ladrone, seeing me walk a log by the side of the trail, wouldsometimes follow me as deftly as a cat. He seemed to think his rightto avoid the mud as good as mine. But as there was always danger ofhis slipping off and injuring himself, I forced him to wallow in themud, which was as distressing to me as to him.
The next day we started with the determination to reach the divide."There is no hope of grass so long as we remain in this forest," saidBurton. "We must get above timber where the sun shines to get anyfeed for our horses. It is cruel, but we must push them to-day justas long as they can stand up, or until we reach the grass."
Nothing seemed to appall or disturb my partner; he was always readyto proceed, his voice ringing out with inflexible resolution.
It was one of the most laborious days of all our hard journey. Hourafter hour we climbed steadily up beside the roaring gray-whitelittle stream, up toward the far-shining snowfields, which blazedback the sun like mirrors. The trees grew smaller, the river bedseemed to approach us until we slumped along in the running water. Atlast we burst out into the light above timber line. Around usporcupines galloped, and whistling marmots signalled with shrillvehemence. We were weak with fatigue and wet with icy water to theknees, but we pushed on doggedly until we came to a little mound ofshort, delicious green grass from which the snow had melted. On thiswe stopped to let the horses graze. The view was magnificent, andsomething wild and splendid came on the wind over the snowy peaks andsmooth grassy mounds.
We were now in the region of great snowfields, under which roaredswift streams from still higher altitudes. There were thousands ofmarmots, which seemed to utter the most intense astonishment at theinexplicable coming of these strange creatures. The snow in thegullies had a curious bloody line which I could not account for. Alittle bird high up here uttered a sweet little whistle, so sad, sofull of pleading, it almost brought tears to my eyes. In form itresembled a horned lark, but was smaller and kept very close to theground.
We reached the summit at sunset, there to find only other mountainsand other enormous gulches leading downward into far blue canyons. Itwas the wildest land I have ever seen. A country unmapped,unsurveyed, and unprospected. A region which had known only anoccasional Indian hunter or trapper with his load of furs on his waydown to the river and his canoe. Desolate, without life, green andwhite and flashing illimitably, the gray old peaks aligned themselvesrank on rank until lost in the mists of still wilder regions.
From this high point we could see our friends, the Manchester boys,on the north slope two or three miles below us at timber line. Weakin the knees, cold and wet and hungry as we were, we determined topush down the trail over the snowfields, down to grass and water. Notmuch more than forty minutes later we came out upon a comparativelylevel spot of earth where grass was fairly good, and where thewind-twisted stunted pines grew in clumps large enough to furnishwood for our fires and a pole for our tent. The land was meshed withroaring rills of melting snow, and all around went on the incessantsignalling of the marmots--the only cheerful sound in all the widegreen land.
We had made about twenty-three miles that day, notwithstandingtremendous steeps and endless
mudholes mid-leg deep. It was thegreatest test of endurance of our trip.
We had the good luck to scare up a ptarmigan (a sort of piebaldmountain grouse), and though nearly fainting with hunger, we heldourselves in check until we had that bird roasted to a turn. I shallnever experience greater relief or sweeter relaxation of rest thanthat I felt as I stretched out in my down sleeping bag for twelvehours' slumber.
I considered that we were about one hundred and ninety miles fromHazleton, and that this must certainly be the divide between theSkeena and the Stikeen. The Manchester boys reported finding somevery good pieces of quartz on the hills, and they were all out withspade and pick prospecting, though it seemed to me they showed butvery little enthusiasm in the search.
"I b'lieve there's gold here," said "Chihuahua," "but who's goin' tostay here and look fer it? In the first place, you couldn't work fermor'n 'bout three months in the year, and it 'ud take ye the othernine months fer to git yer grub in. Them hills look to me to bemineralized, but I ain't honin' to camp here."
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