t in touch with us again. Our business was
to carry that message through, and not to stop and hunt or lose time
over uncalled-for things.

The creek foamed and rushed; its water was amber, as if stained by pine
needles. Sometimes it ran among big bowlders, and sometimes it was
crossed by fallen trees. Thomas Fitzpatrick picked up a beaver cutting.
That was an aspen stick (beavers like aspen and willow bark best) about
as large as your wrist and two feet long. It was green and the ends were
fresh, so there were beavers above us. And it wasn't water-soaked, so
that it could not have been cut and in the water very long. We were
getting close.

We traveled right along, and the country grew rougher. There were many
high bowlders, and we came to a canyon where the creek had cut between
great walls like a crack. There was no use in trying to go through this
canyon; the trail had faded out, and we were about to oblique off up the
hill on our side of the creek, to go around and strike the creek above
the canyon, when Kit Carson saw something caught on a brush-heap half in
the water, at the mouth of the canyon.

It was a chain. He leaned out and took hold of the chain, and drew it in
to shore. On the other end was a trap, and in the trap was a beaver. The
chain was not tied to the brush; it had just caught there, so it must
have been washed down. Then up above somebody was trapping beaver, which
was against the law. The beaver was in pretty bad condition. He must
have been drowned for a week or more. The trap had no brand on it.
Usually traps are branded on the pan, but this wasn't and that went to
show that whoever was trapping knew better. The sight of that beaver,
killed uselessly, made us sick and mad both. But we couldn't do anything
about it, except to dig a hole and bury trap and all, so that the creek
would wash clean, as it ought to be. Then we climbed up the steep hill,
over rocks and flowers, and on top followed a ridge, until ahead we saw
the creek again. It was in a little meadow here, and down we went for
it.

This was a beautiful spot. On one side the pines and spruces covered a
long slope which rose on and on until above timber line it was bare and
reddish gray; and away up were patches of snow; and beyond was the tip
of Pilot Peak. But on our side a forest fire had burned out the timber,
leaving only black stumps sticking up, with the ground covered by a new
growth of bushes. There was quite a difference betw