the
telegraph crossing."

Thereupon we compared maps. "It's mighty little use to look at
maps--they're all drew by guess--an'--by God, anyway," said the old
fellow, as he ran his grimy forefinger over the red line which
represented the trail. "We've been a slantin' hellwards ever since we
crossed the Skeeny--I figure it we're on the old Dease Lake Trail."

To this we all agreed at last, but our course thereafter was by no
means clear.

"If we took the old Dease Lake Trail we're three hundred miles from
Telegraph Creek yit--an' somebody's goin' to be hungry before we get
in," said the old trailer. "I'd like to camp here for a few days and
feed up my horses, but it ain't safe--we got 'o keep movin'. We've
been on this damn trail long enough, and besides grub is gittin'
lighter all the time."

"What do you think of the trail?" asked Burton.

"I've been on the trail all my life," he replied, "an' I never was in
such a pizen, empty no-count country in my life. Wasn't that big
divide hell? Did ye ever see the beat of that fer a barren? No more
grass than a cellar. Might as well camp in a cistern. I wish I could
lay hands on the feller that called this 'The Prairie Route'--they'd
sure be a dog-fight right here."

The old man expressed the feeling of those of us who were too shy and
delicate of speech to do it justice, and we led him on to most
satisfying blasphemy of the land and the road-gang.

"Yes, there's that road-gang sent out to put this trail into
shape--what have they done? You'd think they couldn't read or
write--not a word to help us out."

Partner and I remained in camp all the afternoon and all the next
day, although our travelling companions packed up and moved out the
next morning. We felt the need of a day's freedom from worry, and our
horses needed feed and sunshine.

Oh, the splendor of the sun, the fresh green grass, the rippling
water of the river, the beautiful lake! And what joy it was to see
our horses feed and sleep. They looked distressingly thin and poor
without their saddles. Ladrone was still weak in the ankle joints and
the arch had gone out of his neck, while faithful Bill, who never
murmured or complained, had a glassy stare in his eyes, the lingering
effects of poisoning. The wind rose in the afternoon, bringing to us
a sound of moaning tree-tops, and somehow it seemed to be an augury
of better things--seemed to prophesy a fairer and dryer country to
the north of us. The singing of