o whose faith the Northwest owes so much of its
development had purchased it, twenty-five years before, for the visit to
this country of Albert, King of the Belgians.

That claret, taken so casually from tin cups near the summit of the
Cascades, had been a part of the store of that great dreamer and most
abstemious of men, James J. Hill, laid in for the use of that other
great dreamer and idealist, Albert, when he was his guest. While we ate,
Weaver said suddenly,--

"Listen!"

His keen ears had caught the sound of a bell. He got up.

"Either Johnny or Buck," he said, "starting back home!"

Then commenced again that heart-breaking task of rounding up the horses.
That is a part of such an expedition. And, even at that, one escaped and
was found the next morning high up the cliffside, in a basin.

It was too late to put up all the tents that night. Mrs. Fred and I
slept in our clothes but under canvas, and the men lay out with their
faces to the sky.

Toward dawn a thunder-storm came up. For we were on the crest of the
Cascades now, where the rain-clouds empty themselves before traveling
to the arid country to the east. Just over the mountain-wall above us
lay the Pacific Slope.

The rain came down, and around the peaks overhead lightning flashed and
flamed. No one moved except Joe, who sat up in his blankets, put his hat
on, said, "Let 'er rain," and lay down to sleep again. Peanuts, the
naturalist's horse, sought human companionship in the storm, and
wandered into camp, where one of the young bear-hunters wakened to find
him stepping across his prostrate and blanketed form.

Then all was still again, except for the solid beat of the rain on
canvas and blanket, horse and man.

It cleared toward morning, and at dawn Dan was up and climbed the wall
on foot. At breakfast, on his return, we held a conference. He reported
that it was possible to reach the top--possible but difficult, and that
what lay on the other side we should have to discover later on.

A night's sleep had made Joe all business again. On the previous day he
had been too busy saving his camera and his life--camera first, of
course--to try for pictures. But now he had a brilliant idea.

"Now see here," he said to me; "I've got a great idea. How's Buddy about
water?"

"He's partial to it," I admitted, "for drinking, or for lying down and
rolling in it, especially when I am on him. Why?"

"Well, it's like this," he observed: "I'm set up on the