, round and brilliant, was rising just above the
mountains to the east, as we made our bed and went to sleep with the
singing of the stream in our ears.

While we were cooking our breakfast the next morning the big
Californian sauntered by, looking at our little folding stove, our
tent, our new-fangled pack-saddles, and our luxurious beds, and
remarked:--

"I reckon you fellers are just out on a kind of little hunting trip."

We resented the tone of derision in his voice, and I replied:--

"We are bound for Teslin Lake. We shall be glad to see you any time
during the coming fall."

He never caught up with us again.

We climbed steadily all the next day with the wind roaring over our
heads in the pines. It grew much colder and the snow covered the
near-by hills. The road was full of trampers on their way to the
mines at Quesnelle and Stanley. I will not call them _tramps_, for
every man who goes afoot in this land is entitled to a certain
measure of respect. We camped at night just outside the little
village called Clinton, which was not unlike a town in Vermont, and
was established during the Caribou rush in '66. It lay in a lovely
valley beside a swift, clear stream. The sward was deliciously green
where we set our tent.

Thus far Burton had wrestled rather unsuccessfully with the
crystallized eggs and evaporated potatoes which made up a part of our
outfit. "I don't seem to get just the right twist on 'em," he said.

"You'll have plenty of chance to experiment," I remarked. However,
the bacon was good and so was the graham bread which he turned out
piping hot from the little oven of our folding stove.

Leaving Clinton we entered upon a lonely region, a waste of wooded
ridges breaking illimitably upon the sky. The air sharpened as we
rose, till it seemed like March instead of April, and our overcoats
were grateful.

Somewhere near the middle of the forenoon, as we were jogging along,
I saw a deer standing just at the edge of the road and looking across
it, as if in fear of its blazing publicity. It seemed for a moment as
if he were an optical illusion, so beautiful, so shapely, and so
palpitant was he. I had no desire to shoot him, but, turning to
Burton, called in a low voice, "See that deer."

He replied, "Where is your gun?"

Now under my knee I carried a new rifle with a quantity of smokeless
cartridges, steel-jacketed and soft-nosed, and yet I was disposed to
argue the matter. "See here, Burton, it