he mule train ahead of us. Feed is going to be
very scarce, and the next run is fully thirty miles."

I insisted it could not be possible that we should go at once from
the luxuriant pea-vine and bluejoint into a thirty-mile stretch of
country where nothing grew. "There must be breaks in the forest where
we can graze our horses."

It rained all night and in the morning it seemed as if it had settled
into a week's downpour. However, we were quite comfortable with
plenty of fresh salmon, and were not troubled except with the thought
of the mud which would result from this rainstorm. We were falling
steadily behind our schedule each day, but the horses were feeding
and gaining strength--"And when we hit the trail, we will hit it
hard," I said to Burton.

It was Sunday. The day was perfectly quiet and peaceful, like a rainy
Sunday in the States. The old Indian below kept to his house all day,
not visiting us. It is probable that he was a Catholic. The dogs came
about us occasionally; strange, solemn creatures that they are, they
had the persistence of hunger and the silence of burglars.

It was raining when we awoke Monday morning, but we were now restless
to get under way. We could not afford to spend another day waiting in
the rain. It was gloomy business in camp, and at the first sign of
lightening sky we packed up and started promptly at twelve o'clock.

That ride was the sternest we had yet experienced. It was like
swimming in a sea of green water. The branches sloshed us with
blinding raindrops. The mud spurted under our horses' hoofs, the sky
was gray and drizzled moisture, and as we rose we plunged into ever
deepening forests. We left behind us all hazel bushes, alders, wild
roses, and grasses. Moss was on every leaf and stump: the forest
became savage, sinister and silent, not a living thing but ourselves
moved or uttered voice.

This world grew oppressive with its unbroken clear greens, its
dripping branches, its rotting trees; its snake-like roots half
buried in the earth convinced me that our warning was well-born. At
last we came into upper heights where no blade of grass grew, and we
pushed on desperately, on and on, hour after hour. We began to suffer
with the horses, being hungry and cold ourselves. We plunged into
bottomless mudholes, slid down slippery slopes of slate, and leaped
innumerable fallen logs of fir. The sky had no more pity than the
mossy ground and the desolate forest. It was a mocking