ON THE STAGE ROAD
On the third day of May, after a whole forenoon of packing and
"fussing," we made our start and passed successfully over some
fourteen miles of the road. It was warm and beautiful, and we felt
greatly relieved to escape from the dry and dusty town with its
conscienceless horse jockeys and its bibulous teamsters.
As we mounted the white-hot road which climbed sharply to the
northeast, we could scarcely restrain a shout of exultation. It was
perfect weather. We rode good horses, we had chosen our companions,
and before us lay a thousand miles of trail, and the mysterious gold
fields of the far-off Yukon. For two hundred and twenty miles the
road ran nearly north toward the town of Quesnelle, which was the
trading camp for the Caribou Mining Company. This highway was filled
with heavy teams, and stage houses were frequent. We might have gone
by the river trail, but as the grass was yet young, many of the
outfits decided to keep to the stage road.
We made our first camp beside the dusty road near the stage barn, in
which we housed our horses. A beautiful stream came down from the
hills near us. A little farther up the road a big and hairy
Californian, with two half-breed assistants, was struggling with
twenty-five wild cayuses. Two or three campfires sparkled near.
There was a vivid charm in the scene. The poplars were in tender
leaf. The moon, 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 will be bloody business if we
kill that deer. We couldn't eat all of it; you wouldn't want to skin
it; I couldn't. You'd get your hands all bloody and the memory of
that beautiful creature would not be pleasant. Therefore I stand for
letting him go."
Burton looked thoughtful. "Well, we might sell it or give it away."
Meanwhile the deer saw us, but seemed not to be apprehensive. Perhaps
it was a thought-reading deer, and knew that we meant it no harm. As
Burton spoke, it turned, silent as a shadow, and running to the crest
of the hill stood for a moment outlined like a figure of bronze
against the sky, then disappeared into the forest. He was so much a
part of nature that the horses gave no sign of having seen him at
all.
At a point a few miles beyond Clinton most of the pack trains turned
sharply to the left to the Fraser River, where the grass was reported
to be much better. We determined to continue on the stage road,
however, and thereafter met but few outfits. The road was by no means
empty, however. We met, from time to time, great blue or red wagons
drawn by four or six horses, moving with pleasant jangle of bells and
the crack of great whips. The drivers looked down at us curiously and
somewhat haughtily from their high seats, as if to say, "We know
where we are going--do you know as much?"
The landscape grew ever wilder, and the foliage each day spring-like.
We were on a high hilly plateau between Hat Creek and the valley of
Lake La Hache. We passed lakes surrounded by ghostly dead trees,
which looked as though the water had poisoned them. There were no
ranches of any extent on these hills. The trail continued to be
filled with tramping miners; several seemed to be without bedding or
food. Some drove little pack animals laden with blankets, and all
walked like fiends, pressing forward doggedly, hour after hour. Many
of them were Italians, and one group which we overtook went along
killing robins for food. They were a merry and dramatic lot, making
the silent forests echo with their chatter.
I headed my train on Ladrone, who led the way with a fine stately
tread, his deep brown eyes alight with intelligence, his sensitive
ears attentive to every word. He had impressed me already by his
learning and gentleness, but when one of my packhorses ran around
him, entangling me in the lead rope, pulling me to the ground, the
final test of his quality came. I expected to be kicked into shreds.
But Ladrone stopped instantly, and looking down at me inquiringly,
waited for me to scramble out from beneath his feet and drag the
saddle up to its place.
With heart filled with gratitude, I patted him on the nose, and said,
"Old boy, if you carry me through to Teslin Lake, I will take care of
you for the rest of your days."
At about noon the next day we came down off the high plateau, with
its cold and snow, and camped in a sunny sward near a splendid ranch
where lambs were at play on the green grass. Blackbirds were calling,
and we heard our first crane bugling high in the sky. From the
loneliness and desolation of the high country, with its sparse road
houses, we were now surrounded by sunny fields mellow with thirty
seasons' ploughing.
The ride was very beautiful. Just the sort of thing we had been
hoping for. All day we skirted fine lakes with grassy shores. Cranes,
ducks, and geese filled every pond, the voice of spring in their
brazen throats.
Once a large flight of crane went sweeping by high in the sky, a
royal, swift scythe reaping the clouds. I called to them in their own
tongue, and they answered. I called again and again, and they began
to waver and talk among themselves; and at last, having decided that
this voice from below should be heeded, they broke rank and commenced
sweeping round and round in great circles, seeking the lost one whose
cry rose from afar. Baffled and angered, they rearranged themselves
at last in long regular lines, and swept on into the north.
We camped on this, the sixth day, beside a fine stream which came
from a lake, and here we encountered our first mosquitoes. Big, black
fellows they were, with a lazy, droning sound quite different from
any I had ever heard. However, they froze up early and did not bother
us very much.
At the one hundred and fifty-nine mile house, which was a stage
tavern, we began to hear other bogie stories of the trail. We were
assured that horses were often poisoned by eating a certain plant,
and that the mud and streams were terrible. Flies were a never ending
torment. All these I regarded as the croakings of men who had never
had courage to go over the trail, and who exaggerated the accounts
they had heard from others.
We were jogging along now some fifteen or twenty miles a day,
thoroughly enjoying the trip. The sky was radiant, the aspens were
putting forth transparent yellow leaves. On the grassy slopes some
splendid yellow flowers quite new to me waved 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. As I saw a long, black, lean
creature muzzling at something on the ground, I began to get excited
myself.
"I guess we better let him go, hadn't we?" said Burton.
"Well, yes, as the cartridge is stuck in the gun; and so long as he
lets us alone I think we had better let him alone, especially as his
hide is worth nothing at this season of the year, and he is too thin
to make steak."
The situation was getting comic, but probably it is well that the
cartridge failed to go in. Burton stuck his head out of the tent,
gave a sharp yell, and the huge creature vanished in the dark of the
forest. The whole adventure came about naturally. The smell of our
frying meat had gone far up over the hills to our right and off into
the great wilderness, alluring this lean hungry beast out of his den.
Doubtless if Burton had been able to fire a shot into his woolly
hide, we should have had a rare "mix up" of bear, tent, men,
mattresses, and blankets.
Mosquitoes increased, and, strange to say, they seemed to like the
shade. They were all of the big, black, lazy variety. We came upon
flights of humming-birds. I was rather tired of the saddle, and of
the slow jog, jog, jog. But at last there came an hour which made the
trouble worth while. When our camp was set, our fire lighted, our
supper eaten, and we could stretch out and watch the sun go down over
the hills beyond the river, then the day seemed well spent. At such
an hour we grew reminiscent of old days, and out of our talk an
occasional verse naturally rose.
MOMENTOUS HOUR
A coyote wailing in the yellow dawn,
A mountain land that stretches on and on,
And ceases not till in the skies
Vast peaks of rosy snow arise,
Like walls of plainsman's paradise.
I cannot tell why this is so;
I cannot say, I do not know
Why wind and wolf and yellow sky,
And grassy mesa, square and high,
Possess such power to satisfy.
But so it is. Deep in the grass
I lie and hear the winds' feet pass;
And all forgot is maid and man,
And hope and set ambitious plan
Are lost as though they ne'er began.
A WISH
All day and many days I rode,
My horse's head set toward the sea;
And as I rode a longing came to me
That I might keep the sunset road,
Riding my horse right on and on,
O'ertake the day still lagging at the west,
And so reach boyhood from the dawn,
And be with all the days at rest.
For then the odor of the growing wheat,
The flare of sumach on the hills,
The touch of grasses to my feet
Would cure my brain of all its ills,--
Would fill my heart so full of joy
That no stern lines could fret my face.
There would I be forever boy,
Lit by the sky's unfailing grace.