with excitement (this being the first stream that called for
swimming), but they crossed in fine style, Ladrone leading, his neck
curving, his nostrils wide-blown. We were forced to camp in the mud
of the river bank, and the gray clouds flying overhead made the land
exceedingly dismal. The night closed in wet and cheerless.

The two Indians stopped to supper with us and ate heartily. I seized
the opportunity to talk with them, and secured from them the tragic
story of the death of the Blackwater Indians. "Siwash, he die hy-u
(great many). Hy-u die, chilens, klootchmans (women), all die. White
man no help. No send doctor. Siwash all die, white man no care belly
much."

In this simple account of the wiping out of a village of harmless
people by "the white man's disease" (small-pox), unaided by the white
man's wonderful skill, there lies one of the great tragedies of
savage life. Very few were left on the Blackwater or on the Muddy,
though a considerable village had once made the valley cheerful with
its primitive pursuits.

They were profoundly impressed by our tent and gun, and sat on their
haunches clicking their tongues again and again in admiration, saying
of the tent, "All the same lilly (little) house." I tried to tell
them of the great world to the south, and asked them a great many
questions to discover how much they knew of the people or the
mountains. They knew nothing of the plains Indians, but one of them
had heard of Vancouver and Seattle. They had not the dignity and
thinking power of the plains people, but they seemed amiable and
rather jovial.

We passed next day two adventurers tramping their way to Hazleton.
Each man carried a roll of cheap quilts, a skillet, and a cup. We
came upon them as they were taking off their shoes and stockings to
wade through a swift little river, and I realized with a sudden pang
of sympathetic pain, how distressing these streams must be to such as
go afoot, whereas I, on my fine horse, had considered them entirely
from an aesthetic point of view.

We had been on the road from Quesnelle a week, and had made nearly
one hundred miles, jogging along some fifteen miles each day,
camping, eating, sleeping, with nothing to excite us--indeed, the
trail was quiet as a country lane. A dead horse here and there warned
us to be careful how we pushed our own burden-bearers. We were deep
in the forest, with the pale blue sky filled with clouds showing only
in patches overhead. We p