tail," I replied. "I consider the little camp on
which we are camped one of the head-waters of the Nasse; but we're
not on the Telegraph Trail at all. We're more nearly in line with the
old Dease Lake Trail."

"Why is it, do you suppose, that the road-gang ahead of us haven't
left a single sign, not even a word as to where we are?"

"Maybe they can't write," said my partner.

"Perhaps they don't know where they are at, themselves," said I.

"Well, that's exactly the way it looks to me."

"Are there any outfits ahead of us?"

"Yes, old Bob Borlan's about two days up the slope with his train of
mules, working like a slave to get through. They're all getting short
of grub and losing a good many horses. You'll have to work your way
through with great care, or you'll lose a horse or two in getting
from here to the divide."

"Well, this won't do. So-long, boys," said one of the young fellows,
and they started off with immense vigor, followed by their handsome
dogs, and we lined up once more with stern faces, knowing now that a
terrible trail for at least one hundred miles was before us. There
was no thought of retreat, however. We had set our feet to this
journey, and we determined to go.

After a few hours' travel we came upon the grassy shore of another
little lake, where the bells of several outfits were tinkling
merrily. On the bank of a swift little river setting out of the lake,
a couple of tents stood, and shirts were flapping from the limbs of
near-by willows. The owners were "The Man from Chihuahua," his
partner, the blacksmith, and the two young men from Manchester, New
Hampshire, who had started from Ashcroft as markedly tenderfoot as
any men could be. They had been lambasted and worried into perfect
efficiency as packers and trailers, and were entitled to
respect--even the respect of "The Man from Chihuahua."

They greeted us with jovial outcry.

"Hullo, strangers! Where ye think you're goin'?"

"Goin' crazy," replied Burton.

"You look it," said Bill.

"By God, we was all sure crazy when we started on this damn trail,"
remarked the old man. He was in bad humor on account of his horses,
two of which were suffering from poisoning. When anything touched his
horses, he was "plum irritable."

He came up to me very soberly. "Have you any idee where we're at?"

"Yes--we're on the head-waters of the Nasse."

"Are we on the Telegraph Trail?"

"No; as near as I can make out we're away to the right of