Mr. Rufus Sylvester.--The Untiring developes a new sphere of
usefulness.--Mansen.--A last landmark.
On the evening of my arrival at Germansen Mr. Rufus Sylvester appeared
from the south, carrying the mail for the camp. Eleven days earlier
he had started from Quesnelle on the Frazer River; the trail was, he
said, in a very bad state; snow yet lay five feet deep on the Bald, and
Nation River Mountains; the rivers and streams were running bank-high;
he had swum his horses eleven times, and finally left them on the south
side of the Bald Mountains, coming on on foot to his destination. The
distance to Quesnelle was about 330 miles. Such was a summary of his
report.
The prospect was not encouraging; but where movement is desired, if
people wait until prospects become encouraging, they will be likely
to rest stationary a long time. My plan of movement to the south was
this: I would dispense with everything save those articles absolutely
necessary to travel; food and clothing would be brought to the lowest
limits, and then, with our goods on our shoulders, and with Cerf-vola
carrying on his back a load of dry meat sufficient to fill his stomach
during ten days, we would set out on foot to cross the Bald Mountains.
Thirty miles from the mining Camp, at the south side of the mountain
range, Rufus Sylvester had left a horse and a mule; we would recover
them again, and, packing our goods upon them, make our way to Fort
St. James on the wild shores of Stuart’s Lake--midway on our journey
to where, on the bend of the Frazer River, the first vestige of
civilization would greet us at the city called Quesnelle.
It was the 25th of May when, having loaded my goods upon the back of
a Hydah Indian from the coast, and giving Kalder a lighter load to
carry, I set off with Cerf-vola for the south. Idleness during the
past three weeks had produced a considerable change in the person of
the Untiring. He had grown fat and round, and it was no easy matter to
strap his bag of dry meat upon his back so as to prevent it performing
the feat known, in the case of a saddle on a horse’s back, by the term
“turning.” It appeared to be a matter of perfect indifference to the
Untiring whether the meat destined for his stomach was carried beneath
that portion of his body or above his back; he pursued the even tenour
of his way in either case, but a disposition on his part to “squat”
in every pool of water or patch of mud along the trail, perfectly
regardless of the position of his ten days’ rations, had the effect of
quickly changing its nature, when it was underneath him, from dry meat
to very wet meat, and making the bag which held it a kind of water-cart
for the drier portions of the trail.
Twelve miles from Germansen Creek stood the other mining camp of
Mansen. More ditches, more drains, more miners, more drinking; two or
three larger saloons; more sixes and sevens of diamonds and debilitated
looking kings and queens of spades littering the dusty street; the
wrecks of “faro” and “poker” and “seven up” and “three-card monti;”
more Chinamen and Hydah squaws than Germansen could boast of; and
Mansen lay the same miserable-looking place that its older rival
had already appeared to me. Yet every person was kind and obliging.
Mr. Grahame, postmaster, dealer in gold-dust, and general merchant,
cooked with his own hands a most excellent repast, the discussion of
which was followed by further introductions to mining celebrities.
Prominent among many Joes and Davises and Petes and Bills, I recollect
one well-known name; it was the name of Smith. We have all known, I
presume, some person of that name. We have also known innumerable
prefixes to it, such as Sydney, Washington, Buckingham, &c., &c., but
here at Mansen dwelt a completely new Smith. No hero of ancient or
modern times had been called on to supply a prefix or a second name,
but in the person of Mr. Peace River Smith I recognized a new title for
the old and familiar family.
Mr. Stirling’s saloon at Mansen was a very fair representation of
what, in this country, we would call a “public-house,” but in some
respects the saloon and the public differ widely. The American saloon
is eminently patriotic. Western America, and indeed America generally,
takes its “cocktails” in the presence of soul-stirring mementoes; from
above the lemons, the coloured wine-glass, the bunch of mint, and the
many alcoholic mixtures which stand behind the bar--General Washington,
Abraham Lincoln, and President Grant look placidly upon the tippling
miner; but though Mr. Stirling’s saloon could boast its card-tables,
its patriotic pictures, and its many “slings” and “juleps,” in one
important respect it fell far short of the ideal mining paradise. It
was not a hurdy-house; music and dancing were both wanting. It was a
serious drawback, but it was explained to me that Mansen had become
too much “played out” to afford to pay the piper, and hurdies had
never penetrated to the fastnesses of the Peace River mines.
When the last mining hero had departed, I lay down in Mr. Grahame’s
sanctum, to snatch a few hours’ sleep ere the first dawn would call us
to the march. I lay on the postmaster’s bed while that functionary got
together his little bags of gold-dust, his few letters and mail matters
for my companion, Rufus Sylvester the express man. This work occupied
him until shortly before dawn, when he abandoned it to again resume the
duties of cook in preparing my breakfast. Day was just breaking over
the pine-clad hills as we bade adieu to this kind host, and with rapid
strides set out through the sleeping camp. Kalder, the Hydah Indian,
and the Untiring, had preceded us on the previous evening, and I was
alone with the express man, Mr. Rufus Sylvester. He carried on his
back a small, compact, but heavy load, some 600 ounces of gold-dust
being the weightiest item; but, nevertheless, he crossed with rapid
steps over the frozen ground. We carried in our hands snow-shoes for
the mountain range still lying some eight miles away. The trail led
o’er hill and through valley, gradually ascending for the first six
miles, until through breaks in the pines I could discern the snowy
ridges towards which we were tending. Soon the white patches lay around
us in the forest, but the frost was severe, and the surface was hard
under our mocassins. Finding the snow-crust was sufficient to bear our
weight, we _cachéd_ the snow-shoes and held our course up the mountain.
Deeper grew the snow; thinner and smaller became the pines--dwarf
things that hung wisps of blue-grey moss from their shrunken limbs. At
last they ceased to be around us, and the summit-ridges of the Bald
Mountain spread out under the low-hung clouds. The big white ptarmigan
_bleated_ like sheep in the thin frosty air. We crossed the topmost
ridge, where snow ever dwells, and saw beneath a far-stretching valley.
I turned to take a last look to the north; the clouds had lifted, the
sun had risen some time; away over an ocean of peaks lay the lofty
ridge I had named Galty More a fortnight earlier, when emerging from
the Black Cañon. He rose above us then the monarch of the range; now he
lay far behind, one of the last landmarks of the Wild North Land.
We began to descend; again the sparse trees were around us; the snow
gradually lessened; and after five hours of incessant and rapid walking
we reached a patch of dry grass, where Kalder, the English miner, and
the Indians with the horses were awaiting us.