The Greatest Works of Emerson Hough – 19 Books in One Volume (Illustrated Edition). Emerson Hough
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at that time. By the time he was struggling up the opposite bank the last of the train, followed by the young trailers, was making its way down the first slope. One by one, the horses splashed methodically across the little stream and began the long and slow ascent up the farther side, a climb of more than a hundred and fifty feet, which Uncle Dick made easier by two or three zigzags, turning at points where little trees made it possible. So at last they all found themselves on the farther side of the steep Wolf Creek valley.
“Hurrah!” said John, pulling off his cap and waving it about his head as he rode up. “That was fine, wasn’t it? I was a good deal scared about it, but we got through all right.”
“And I call it mighty well done for you young men,” said Uncle Dick, approvingly. “We’ve got every pack with us, and now we’ll see if any of them need tightening up. We’ll not have many crossings worse than this, I’m thinking. For two or three days we’ll be among these steep valleys, where the rivers have cut regular troughs, mostly north and south. But I don’t think there will be any worse muskeg than we’ve had already.”
“Well,” said Rob, “this wasn’t nearly as bad as the Pembina crossing back yonder.”
“No, that was three hundred feet down and a hundred yards of water. Lucky the water was low, or we’d be there yet. And, you may believe me, the engineers will have a considerable bridge to build before they get over that river and a lot of these others. If we were two months later we’d have to swim a lot of these streams, and that’s something I don’t want with a pack-train.”
“Well,” said John, “when are we going to eat lunch?”
They all laughed at John, who was always anxious about times and places for eating.
“We don’t eat lunch, young man, until we get our breakfast settled, anyhow,” said Uncle Dick.
“And where is the next bad crossing?” inquired Jesse.
“Ten or twelve miles ahead, I suppose,” said Uncle Dick. “That’s the McLeod River, and I confess I’ll be happy when we get beyond it. The railway survey runs on this side, but the old trail crosses it and runs on the north side, and we have to follow the trail.”
“Suppose we get to Moose Creek in two or three hour,” said Moise. “Then in about one or two hour we come on the McLeod where we’ll ford it. Then seven or height mile good trail, we’ll come on those Big Eddy. Those was good place for camp to-night, s’pose we’ll all get there and not any of us drowned.”
“I don’t think any of us’ll drown, Moise,” said Uncle Dick, quietly; “we’re not going to take any chances unless we have to. Well, if you’re all ready we might push on.”
Uncle Dick now once more led the way, followed close by old Betsy, Billy following her close and next in order. The young claybank horse, which made Moise so much trouble, now undertook to usurp a place just back of Betsy instead of falling to the rear of the train where he belonged. But as he approached meek-looking old Billy, the latter laid back his ears and kicked violently at the claybank, hitting him in the shoulder a resounding thwack.
“Aha! you fool horse,” said Moise to the offending claybank, “that’s what you’ll get for not know your place on the train. S’pose you got back now where you belong, eh?”
By this time the horses for the most part, however, were learning their places on the trail, and in a very few days later each horse had his own place, of which he was very jealous, resenting any attempt to take it away from him by vicious bites or kicks. How or why pack-horses regulate their own affairs in this way no one can tell, but our young friends had occasion to see it proved in their own travel.
Their trail now led through rather sharply rolling country, covered with poplar or jack-pine groves, with now and then a bit of soft bog at the foot of little valleys. At times from little heights of land they could get a glimpse of the wide flat country extending on either side, for the most part covered with dark forest growth. Not meeting any serious trouble with muskegs, they were all pretty well used to the trail by the time they had crossed Moose Creek.
“We won’t stop here,” said Uncle Dick. “Get up, Danny,” and he urged his saddle-horse forward. “I want to see about that McLeod crossing.”
It was afternoon, and in truth every one was a little tired when at length they came to the deep valley of the McLeod River, the next stream to run north into the Athabasca. They found the banks steep, more than one hundred feet to the narrow valley below; but, thanks to the earliness of the season, the river itself was not very deep, and the point of the ford was so well chosen by the old trail-makers that they got across the river without having to swim and scarcely wetting the packs. Uncle Dick was exceedingly glad of this, for he knew the sudden rises which come in all of these streams. “Now,” he said, “we’re all right, and it’s good going to the Big Eddy — not more than eight miles, I think.”
They found the trail easier here for a time, passing over grassy glades, where the horses very much wanted to stop to eat, but after a long and a rather hard day’s drive they finally pulled up in the early evening at the double bend of the McLeod River, known as the Big Eddy.
“Now then, John,” said Uncle Dick, as he swung off his saddle at the camping-place, “you hustle out your fishing-rod and go down there to the eddy and see if you can get us a trout for supper. The rest of us will take care of the camp.”
“Yes,” said Moise, “those bull-trout, she’ll got big in that eddy, him — sometimes we’ll caught him seven, height, eleven pound long.”
“Well, that’ll suit me,” said John, “I don’t care how big they come.” So saying, he picked up his rod from the saddle of his riding-pony and, feeling for the reel in his pocket, began to joint and string the rod as he passed down the bank.
The others had not been working very long at fixing the camp before they heard a shout from John, far below them. Uncle Dick chuckled. “Shouldn’t wonder if he’d got hold of one of them,” said he. “Better go and see, Rob — you and Jesse.” The other boys ran out of cover into an open place from which they could see John at the side of the deep eddy where he had begun fishing. Rob gave a big shout. “He’s got one, sure!” He could see John’s rod bending strongly, while John himself was walking up and down, making excited motions, looking back over his shoulder. The two ran down to him as fast as they could. “What’s the matter, John?” demanded Rob, laughing, as he saw his friend’s excited actions.
“Well, by Jiminy! I’ve got a whale, near’s I can make out,” answered John, excitedly. “I just threw in over in that slack water — baited with a piece of grouse, you know, not having anything else — and pretty soon he nailed it. I’ve been walking him around in there for quite a while, and can’t do anything with him. He seems as big as a salmon up in Alaska.”
“It’s partly the current makes him pull so hard,” said Rob. “Work him over here toward this bank in the quiet water, if you can.”
“He don’t cut up much,” said Jesse.
“No,” said John, “he just goes down and chugs with his head, like he wanted to break something. But I’ve got on a big hook, and we’ll pretty near get this fellow before we’re done. I wish I hadn’t forgot my landing-net. But I didn’t know there’d be any as big as this one.”
“Well, lead him in, John,” said Rob, bending down at the water’s edge and waiting for the fish to approach.
John tried several times to comply, but whenever the big fish saw his captors he would rush off again for deep water. They could see his big olive-green back, broad as a hand, as the fish broke water close to them sometimes. At length, after a long and hard fight, John succeeded in leading the fish close to the shore, where Rob lay waiting. It did not seem to mind the touch of Rob’s fingers as he ran his hand under it. At length, with a quick clutch, he caught it by the gills and flung it out on the bank.
“Bull-trout,” said he; “they used to call him Salmo malma, I think, down in the