verous countenance, never breaking into a smile, was the oddest mask
he had ever seen a human being wear. He believed that if it once broke
into a laugh it would not straighten back again without leaving a
permanent crack. And yet he liked the man, and the days passed swiftly.

It was the middle of May before they started up the Peace, three days
after the fur barges had gone down the Athabasca. David had never seen
anything like Hatchett's big war canoe, roomy as a small ship, and light
as a feather on the water. Four powerful Dog Ribs went with them,
making six paddles in all. When it came to a question of Baree, Hatchett
put down his foot with emphasis. "What! Make a dam' passenger of a dog?
Never. Let him follow ashore--or die."

This would undoubtedly have been Baree's choice if he had had a voice in
the matter. Day after day he followed the canoe, swimming streams and
working his way through swamp and forest. It was no easy matter. In the
deep, slow waters of the Lower Peace the canoe made thirty-five miles a
day; twice it made forty. But Hatchett kept Baree well fed, and each
night the dog slept at David's feet in camp. On the sixth day they
reached Fort Vermilion, and Hatchett announced himself like a king. For
he was on inspection. Company inspection, mind you. Important! A week
later they arrived at Peace River landing, two hundred miles farther
west, and on the twentieth day came to Fort St. John, fifty miles from
Hudson's Hope. From here David saw his first of the mountains. He made
out their snowy peaks clearly, seventy miles away, and with his finger
on a certain spot on Hatchett's map his heart thrilled. He was almost
there! Each day the mountains grew nearer. From Hudson's Hope he fancied
that he could almost see the dark blankets of timber on their sides.
Hatchett grunted. They were still forty miles away. And Mac Veigh, the
factor at Hudson's Hope, looked at David in a curious sort of way when
David told him where he was going.

"You're the first white man to do it," he said--an inflection of doubt
in his voice. "It's not bad going up the Finly as far as the Kwadocha.
But from there...."

He shook his head. He was short and thick, and his jaw hung heavy with
disapproval.

"You're still seventy miles from the Stikine when you end up at the
Kwadocha," he went on, thumbing the map. "Who the devil will you get to
take you on from there? Straight over the backbone of the Rockies. No
trails. Not even a