“

Look on the tent, fellows!” exclaimed Jesse, the first thing next morning, just as dawn was beginning to break. “It’s almost solid mosquitoes!”

“About a million,” said John, sitting up in his blankets. “All of them with cold feet, waiting for the sun to come up.”

They were looking at the top of the tent, where in the folds of the netting a great cloud of mosquitoes had gathered in the effort to get through the cheese-cloth.

“Did any bite you in the night, Jesse?” asked Rob, from his bed.

“No, but I could hear them sing a good deal until I went to sleep.”

“Well, come ahead; let’s roll out,” said Rob. “All those mosquitoes will come to life when it gets warm.”

They kicked off the blankets, slipped into their clothing, and soon were out in the cool morning air. The spring night had been a dewy one, and all the shrubs and grasses were very wet.

“Hello there, young mans!” they heard a voice exclaim, and saw Moise’s head thrust out from beneath his shelter. “You’ll got up pretty early, no?”

“Well, we’ve got to be moving early,” said Rob. “Anyway, we beat Uncle Dick up this morning.”

“That’s right,” called out the voice of Uncle Dick, from his tent, “but the quicker we get started the quicker we’ll get over Wolf Creek. Now you boys go over there where you hear the gray mare’s bell and see if you can round up all the pack-train. You’ll learn before long that half the campaign of a pack-train trip is hunting horses in the morning. But they’ll stick close where the pea-vine is thick as it is here.”

Our three young Alaskans were used to wet grass in the morning, and after the first plunge, which wet them to the skin, they did not mind the dew-covered herbage. Soon, shouting and running, they were rounding up the hobbled pack-horses, which, with the usual difficulty, they finally succeeded in driving up close to the camp, where by this time Moise had his fire going. The wilder of the horses they tied to trees near by, but some of the older ones stood unhitched with heads drooping in the chill morning air, as though unhappy, but resigned to their fate. Moise, as usual, rewarded old gray Betsy, the bell-mare, with a lump of sugar as she passed by. The others, with the strange instinct of pack-horses to follow a leader, grouped themselves near to the old white mare. The boys put the blankets over the backs of some of the horses while waiting for Moise to finish his breakfast.

“Grub pile!” sung out Moise, after a while; and soon, in the damp morning air, with white mist hanging over the low land about them, they were eating their morning meal.

“Tea for breakfast,” said Rob, smiling. “Well, I suppose it’s all right up here, but in our country we mostly have coffee.”

“We’d have it here if we could get it good,” said Uncle Dick; “but, you see, we’re a good ways from home, and coffee doesn’t keep as well as tea on the trail, besides being much bulkier.”

“Now,” said Jesse, his mouth full of bacon, “as soon as I get done breakfast I’m going to try that diamond hitch all over again. Moise says the one I did yesterday slipped on him.”

“That’s happened to many a good packer,” said Uncle Dick. “Sometimes a pack gets snagged in the bush, or all sorts of other things may happen to it. They tell me that a mule will look at two trees and not try to go between them if it sees the pack won’t squeeze through, but with some of these northern cayuses I think they try to see how many times they can crowd through between trees and scrape off their packs. But finish your breakfast, young men, and eat plenty, because we’re going to have a long trip to-day.”

After they had finished breakfast Rob led up the big roan Billy, which always went next to the gray lead-mare with the mare, and on which they usually packed their blankets and small tent. Billy stood quite calmly, but with his head and ears depressed, as though feeling very sad.

“Ready with those blanket packs now, boys,” called Uncle Dick; and soon they had them alongside, each bed rolled in its canvas covering.

“Now up with the saddle, Rob.”

Rob threw the sawbuck pack-saddle on top of the padded blanket.

“Cinch tight—that’s half in packing, to have the saddle firm.”

And, following Uncle Dick’s instruction, Rob made the cinch as tight as he could.

“Now get on the off side,” said Uncle Dick; “and Jesse, you watch us, how we work. You can all help if you want to.

“Are your sling-ropes all ready, Rob?” he inquired next. “Of course, you see, the sling-ropes simply act like baskets on each side the pack-saddle. They only support, and don’t make fast.

“Now then, up with your side packs into your sling-ropes—so—that’s all right. Then the top pack on over the saddle, fitting well between the two side packs. Shake them all down so to fit tight together. Now throw the canvas cover over the top, and see that nothing is where it will get busted when you cinch up.

“There, now, that’s all right as far as it goes. Next we come to the one part of packing more important than anything else. It is the hitch which holds everything together. We’re going to throw the diamond hitch now. Without that, folks couldn’t have settled this western country or built railroads over the Rockies, maybe.”

“Who first invented the diamond hitch, Uncle Dick?” queried Rob.

“Nobody knows, but it’s Spanish, that’s sure, and not Canadian. It got up this far north on both sides of the Rockies, brought by miners and packers of all colors and nationalities. Originally it came from Mexico, and it came there from Spain, and perhaps it came to Spain from northern Africa—who knows?—along with the cow-horse itself.”

“But they don’t always throw it the same way.”

“No, there are several different throws of the diamond hitch, all of them good. The one I’ll show you was showed me by an old cargador in California. Now watch carefully how it is done, for it is easier to see it than to tell about it.

“Now, here we have the long rope which makes the hitch. Some packers throw the loose end out over the back of the horse. We’ll just let it point the other way—leave it tied to the horse’s neck if you want.

“At the other end of the rope is our cinch-band, and the cinch-hook at the other end of the band or girth. It’s made out of wood or horn sometimes. Now, Rob, I am going to pass the belly-band under the horse. Catch the hook when it comes through. Are you all right now?”

“Yes, I’ve got it,” answered Rob.

“Very well—you’re the off-side packer, for it takes two to pack a horse. Now watch closely, all of you, at what comes next. You see Rob has the hook in his hand and I have the rest of the rope in my hand. Now I double the rope and throw it over the top of the pack to Rob, and he hooks the bight of the doubled rope over the cinch-hook. Got that all right now?”

“Yes, sir,” said Rob, “I’ve got it hooked. That’s easy so far.”

“Well, now it isn’t going to be quite so easy. I’ve known lots of intelligent men who never could get this thing straight in their heads at all. Now watch how I pull this doubled rope toward me across the top of the pack. The long end, on the left, is free, and I tighten the right-hand leg of the rope. Now, you see I pass the left-hand leg under the right-hand in another long loop, or bight—this way, see. Now I can enlarge that loop by pulling some of the free end of the rope through, can’t I? I leave it all loose, because we don’t pull things up until we get the whole hitch thrown and set.

“Now I pull my big loose loop out toward the rear of the pack on my side. And I just twist the loop over, side for side, until you see it bind or twist in the middle on top the pack. That’s the important thing. Now I run the right-hand side of my loop on the right-hand lower corner of my side pack. Then I carry it under the bottom of the side pack and around the lower corner in front. I just tighten it up a little, as I do this.

“Now, Rob, it’s your turn. You take hold of the free end of the rope which I have tossed over to you. It runs from the twist on top of the pack to your left-hand lower corner, and under your side pack and up to me around your right-hand lower corner.

“Now you might say that your diamond is laid, and that you are ready to cinch up. The ropes will bind first where they cross on top, and tighten all the way back to the end of the cinch-hook on the off side. When everything is made fast, the last end of the rope—which, by the way, we will have to untie from our horse’s neck—comes over, finishes the diamond hitch, and is made fast at my cinch-ring on the near side. We begin at the cinch-hook and finish at the cinch-ring, on the other side.

“Now then, we begin to cinch. I begin when you call ‘cinch!’ That means that you have put your foot into old Billy and pulled the first leg of the rope up right in the cinch-hook. I gather up your slack and I tighten it all the way around the corners of my pack and back over the top. It is now up to you to cinch again, with your foot in the pack, as I did here just a little. That tightens all the slack clear to your corners. Now when your rope comes back to me for the last tightening I haul it hard as I can and tie off at my cinch-ring. I use a knot which I can jerk loose easily if I want to tighten or loosen the pack on the trail. So, there you are, all set.” And Uncle Dick slapped old Billy on the hip as he stood groaning in great pretense of suffering, at which old Billy walked forward a few steps and stood still, awaiting the next victim in the train.

“That’s tight as a drum,” said Jesse, pushing at the loaded packs.

“Humph, you mean that old Billy’s tight as a drum,” said Uncle Dick. “An old pack-horse will groan as though you were killing him, and will blow up like a horned toad. Then maybe a half-hour later on the trail all his ropes will be as loose as if he had lost a year’s growth. We’ll have to go over all these packs just before we start down that bank, or we may lose some of them. That’s why we fastened the last end of the hitch with a loop easy to pull out.

“A good pack-master,” said Uncle Dick, “is worth as much as a colonel in an army. He never has sore-backed horses, because he makes up his packs well and keeps them tight. A shifting, wabbling pack is bad for the horse. Why, you can pack almost anything on a horse—they even took pianos on slings between four pack-horses in some of the mountain mining-camps in Montana. And what do you suppose was the hardest thing the old pack-train men had to carry in those days?”

“I don’t know,” said Rob, curiously. “What was it?”

“Quicksilver. That made more sore backs than anything else. They carried it in flasks, and the jar or blow of the heavy liquid shifting from side to side was bad on the horses. Finally they used to nest these iron flasks in sideboards, which they could lash tight to the saddles. This kept the sloshing of the quicksilver from hurting the horses so much. Oh, they had all sorts of curious ways of packing curious things. But a good pack-train would carry almost anything, from a cook-stove to a chandelier, and not break either. They used different hitches, but the one I have showed you is about as simple and useful as any. Well, drive up the next horse now, Jess.”

Thus, one after another, they finished loading up their pack-train; and, Moise having put his camp outfit and his personal equipment on the last horse, they stood ready for the trail.

“It’ll be pretty bad getting down here,” said Uncle Dick, “so I’ll go ahead with old Betsy. All you others had better stay behind and drive the loose horses down over the bank. Don’t let them break back on the trail. Are you ready? Just watch how I take it, and don’t be afraid.”

So saying, setting spurs to his saddle-pony and pulling on the lariat of old Betsy, Uncle Dick disappeared over the edge of the steep bank. His hardy little animal clapped its feet close together and almost slid down the long muddy incline. Old Betsy calmly followed, and by the time the first horse was at the bottom of the deep and narrow valley the boys with much shouting and urging had started others of the band down the incline also. Uncle Dick boldly plunged into the stream, which was not very wide or very deep 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 States. He’ll weigh eight pounds, anyhow. Well, John, you certainly got supper enough for us all this time.”

“Well, that’s what they told me to do,” said John, proudly, “and I’m hungry enough to eat him all by himself.”

“We’ll just clean and wash him down here at the water,” said Rob, “so that he’ll be all ready to cook.” And for boys as much acquainted with large fish as these young Alaskans were through their experience with large trout and salmon in their own country, this was a matter of no more than a few minutes’ work; so soon they were climbing up the bank with their fish all ready for the pan.

“Well done, you boy!” said Moise, smiling when he saw their success. “She was good big bull-trout, yes, and she’ll fry good in the pork to-night.”

“Yes, young men,” said Uncle Dick, “I think you’ve done very well to-day. We’ve got over two bad crossings, made over twenty miles of hard trail, and caught fish enough for supper, all between sun and sun. If we do this well every day we’ll go through in great style.”