mself he resumed the descent, slipping and sliding
and digging his heels hard to hold himself back.

"They say she sticks like beeswax, Dubois's squaw, never tries to run
off but stays right to home raisin' up a batch of young 'uns. You take
these Nez Perces and they're good Injuns as Injuns go. Smarter'n most,
fair lookers, and tolerable clean. Will you look at that infernal pack
slippin' again, and right here where there's no chance to fix it!

"Say, but I'd like to get my thumb in the eye of the fellow that made
these pack-saddles. Too narrow by four inches for any horse not just off
grass and rollin' fat. Won't fit any horse that packs in _these_ hills.
Doggone it, his back'll be as raw as a piece of beefsteak and if there's
anything in this world that I hate it's to pack a sore-backed horse.

"You can bet I wouldn't a made this trip for money if I wasn't so plumb
anxious to see how Dubois saves that flour gold. You take one of these
here 'canucks' and he's blamed near as good if not a better placer miner
than a Chink; more ingenious and just as savin'. Say, Baldy, will you
keep off my heels? If I have to tell you again about walkin' up my pant
leg I aim to break your head in. It's bad enough to come down a trail so
steep it wears your back hair off t'hout havin' your clothes tore off
you into the bargain."

And so, entertaining himself with his own conversation and scolding
amiably at his saddle and pack horses, the youthful prospector slid for
another hour down the mountain trail, though, as a rock would fall, the
log house of the French Canadian was not more than a thousand yards
below.

It was the middle of May and the deep snows of winter still lay in the
passes and upon the summit, but in the valley the violets made purple
blotches along the stream now foaming with the force of the water
trickling from the melting drifts above. The thorn bushes were white
with blossoms and the service-berry bushes were like fragrant banks of
snow. Accustomed as he was to the beauty of valleys and the grandeur of
peaks, something in the peaceful scene below him stirred the soul of
young Dick Kincaid, and he stopped to look before he made the last drop
into the valley.

"Ain't that a young paradise?" He breathed deep of the odorous air.
"Ain't it, now?"

The faint blue smoke rising straight among the white blossoms reminded
him again of his hunger, so, wiping the perspiration from his
snow-burned face, he started on agai