ed in the warm but strong
breeze. On the ninth day we reached Soda Creek, which is situated on
the Fraser River, at a point where the muddy stream is deep sunk in
the wooded hills.

The town was a single row of ramshackle buildings, not unlike a small
Missouri River town. The citizens, so far as visible, formed a queer
collection of old men addicted to rum. They all came out to admire
Ladrone and to criticise my pack-saddle, and as they stood about
spitting and giving wise instances, they reminded me of the Jurors in
Mark Twain's "Puddin Head Wilson."

One old man tottered up to my side to inquire, "Cap, where you
going?"

"To Teslin Lake," I replied.

"Good Lord, think of it," said he. "Do you ever expect to get there?
It is a terrible trip, my son, a terrible trip."

At this point a large number of the outfits crossed to the opposite
side of the river and took the trail which kept up the west bank of
the river. We, however, kept the stage road which ran on the high
ground of the eastern bank, forming a most beautiful drive. The river
was in full view all the time, with endless vista of blue hills above
and the shimmering water with radiant foliage below.

Aside from the stage road and some few ranches on the river bottom,
we were now in the wilderness. On our right rolled a wide wild sea
of hills and forests, breaking at last on the great gold range. To
the west, a still wilder country reaching to the impassable east
range. On this, our eighth day out, we had our second sight of big
game. In the night I was awakened by Burton, calling in excited
whisper, "There's a bear outside."

It was cold, I was sleepy, my bed was very comfortable, and I did not
wish to be disturbed. I merely growled, "Let him alone."

But Burton, putting his head out of the door of the tent, grew still
more interested. "There is a bear out there eating those mutton
bones. Where's the gun?"

I was nearly sinking off to sleep once more and I muttered, "Don't
bother me; the gun is in the corner of the tent." Burton began
snapping the lever of the gun impatiently and whispering something
about not being able to put the cartridge in. He was accustomed to
the old-fashioned Winchester, but had not tried these.

"Put it right in the top," I wearily said, "put it right in the top."

"I have," he replied; "but I can't get it _in_ or out!"

Meanwhile I had become sufficiently awake to take a mild interest in
the matter. I rose and looked out