The Young Alaskans in the Rockies - Emerson Hough (best ereader under 100 .TXT) 📗

angling while the others endeavored to keep the raft steady.

“This is as far as we can go,” said Rob after a while. “Fifteen feet of water, and my pole won’t touch any longer.”

“Well, it looks fishy,” said John. “Hold on, fellows, and I’ll begin to cast.”

He did so, standing as best he could on the uncertain footing under which the green water, clear as glass, showed the sandy bottom plainly below them. Ordinarily it would have been impossible to catch trout in water so clear, but the trout of the Yellowhead Lake at that time were hungry and unskilled. Therefore John had hardly cast a dozen times before he saw a great splash and felt a heavy tug at his line. As a matter of fact, a four-pound rainbow had taken the fly.

“My, he’s a whopper!” said John, as he struck, and endeavored to stop the first rush of the big fish.

But he scarcely finished his last words, for as he stepped back in his excitement, his foot slipped on the wet bark of one of the logs, and over he went backward into the deep green water underneath!

It happened so quickly that neither Rob nor Jesse for the moment could understand it. They could see their companion clearly in the water, struggling and twisting as he went down, and surrounded on all sides by a mass of white bubbles, which almost obscured him from view.

“Look out, there!” cried Uncle Dick, from shore, who had seen it all perfectly. At the same time he cast off his coat and was tugging at his shoes, making ready to swim out.

But just at that time the head and face of John appeared above the surface, his face distorted with fright and discomfort. He struck out boldly for the raft just at the instant when Rob held out to him the end of the push-pole.

“Catch hold of this, John,” said he, quietly.

An instant later the puffing swimmer was at the raft.

“Look out now,” said Rob; “don’t swamp us. Just lie there till I get you in.”

“It’s cold!” exclaimed John; and, indeed, his teeth were chattering with the cold of the icy mountain water.

“All right, we’ll be in in a minute,” said Rob; and he began poling the raft toward shore as rapidly as he could. They were not out fifty yards, but it seemed an age before the raft reached shore—or, rather, reached the outstretched hands of Uncle Dick, who stood shoulder-deep in the water waiting for them.

“I was afraid of that raft,” said he, “but it’s lucky it was no worse. Come here, John.”

“It wasn’t the fault of the raft, sir,” chattered John. “I just got foolish and slipped off. I’m all right. Where’s my fish?”

Surely enough, they turned to the other end of the raft; where they saw John’s rod fast between two logs, where the reel held it firmly. All the line was run out, but when Jesse reached out and brought in the rod he felt a surge at the other end which told that the fish was still on.

“Let me have him,” said John. “I’m just going to get even with him if I can, and take him out of the wet, too.”

Much relieved at seeing him so plucky and at finding him now safe, the others roared with laughter as he stood, wet and shivering, at the edge of the beach, fighting his big trout for several minutes before he could get him in. But at last victory rested with the skilful young angler, and Uncle Dick with a piece of coffee-sacking scooped out the big rainbow as he came inshore.

“Well, there,” said he, “is fish enough for supper. Now, John, go and strip and wring your clothes and dry out by the fire. I think maybe that’ll be fish enough for a while. We’re lucky to get the fish, and lucky to get you, too, for it’s no joke to go overboard in water as cold as that.”

“You can just bet it isn’t!” said John, his face now almost blue with cold, although he was beginning to revive in the warm rays of the sun. “Just for that, I am going to eat that fish—or as much of him as I can.”

XIII AFTER THE WHITE GOATS

Moise, although good-natured, none the less was fond enough of good living, and, moreover, disposed to rest very well content when the camping conditions were as good as those in which they now found themselves. He thought that it might be just as well not to be in too big a hurry.

“Suppose we did get caught on those high water, M’sieu Deek,” he said; “if we only wait some time, she’ll run down bime-by. But suppose we’ll don’t got nothing to eat but bacon and flour, and go starve to death. What then?”

“Well, Moise,” said Rob, as they sat at the breakfast-table, where the good voyageur made this remark, “we’ve got a whole lake full of trout there waiting for us to go out and catch them—if we didn’t fall off the raft again.”

“Never mind about that raft any more, young man,” said Uncle Dick. “A raft is all right if you have nothing else, and if you have to use it, but it is not compulsory here. We’ll just leave the raft business and try for some trout down here in the creek.”

“There’ll ain’t no trout on those creek,” objected Moise. “I’ll try him myself, and not get no bite. Besides, M’sieu Deek, feesh is all right for woman and dog, but meat she is more better for strong man.”

“That’s the way I feel about it,” said John, his mouth half full of bacon. “I wouldn’t mind a little fresh meat once in a while. But where are we going to get it?”

“No moose up in here,” volunteered Jesse, “and I don’t suppose any caribou either. As for sheep, I suppose there are none this side of the high peaks east of here, are there, Uncle Dick?”

“Probably not. But we’ll find caribou farther west. Besides, there are any number of white goats in these mountains all around us here. I suppose you know what they are, although I’m not sure you ever saw them in Alaska.”

“I know them,” said Rob. “They’re the greatest climbers in the world—‘On top’ is their motto always.”

“That’s why the head of a white goat is always considered a good trophy among sportsmen; it means that the hunter has had to climb high for it. They’re a sporting proposition, all right, those goats; but when it comes to eating, that’s something different. I boiled goat meat two days straight once, and it was still like shoe leather.” Uncle Dick shook his head.

“Oh, you’ll got old goat—old Guillaume goat,” said Moise. “He’s too tough for eat. But s’pose you’ll got some small leetle goat; she’s good for eat like anything.”

“So I’ve heard,” said Uncle Dick, “but I’m willing to take my chances with flour and bacon.”

“Well, now,” said Rob, “if there are goats in here I’d like awfully well to try to photograph one, at least. They tell me they’re so dull and stupid you can go right up on them.”

“I’m not so sure about their being stupid,” replied Uncle Dick. “I think it’s more likely that they just are not afraid of anything. A big billy will kill any dog in the world, and some hunters declare that they will even fight a grizzly bear. Their little black horns are sharp as needles, and they can hit a hard blow with that neck of theirs, backed by a couple of hundred pounds of bone and muscle.

“Whatever a goat may be as to wisdom, he won’t run away, and you can never hurry him. A bighorn will run for miles if he smells or sees you, but if a goat sees you he’ll take his own time, stop and look at you, and then go off as slowly as he likes. If you get too close to him, he may stop and stamp his feet, and work his lips at you, and show he’s angry. But he’ll never show he is scared. That’s why they are so easy to kill, once you climb up where they are. That ought to make them easy to photograph, too, Rob. I should say there were ten chances to get a goat photograph to one of the bighorn.”

“Do you suppose there are any around here?” inquired Jesse.

“Plenty of them on old Yellowhead Mountain, right here above us.”

“Well, why not have a hunt, then?”

Uncle Dick threw up his hands. “Now, there you go again, always wanting to stop to fish or hunt! I’ve told you that we ought to hurry on through.”

“Well, just one day!” argued John.

Uncle Dick sighed. “Well,” said he, “we ought to be glad you’re not drowned, John. And I suppose you think we ought to make some sacrifice on that account? Well, all right. If you promise to be contented with one day’s hunt, and to start out to-morrow morning and keep on the trail until we strike the Tête Jaune Cache, I’ll agree to go with you to-day. The fact is, I wouldn’t mind stretching my own legs a little bit, for I’m cramped with saddle work. But I warn you it’s a stiff pull up that mountain there.”

“Shall we just go to photograph?” asked Rob, “or shall we take the rifle?”

“As you like, for this is British Columbia here, and I’ve a license for each of you to shoot game as needed. But we only want one goat, so we don’t need to take more than one rifle. And it really is hard climbing.”

“Let me take my camera,” said Rob, “and you carry the rifle, Uncle Dick. The others won’t need to take anything at all.”

“Then we wouldn’t have anything to do but just climb,” protested John.

His uncle smiled at him. “Come now,” said he; “I’ll let you do the shooting if you see a good, fat young goat. For my part, I’d as soon shoot a poor, sick calf in a barnyard. You and Jesse decide which is to shoot, and I’ll carry the gun until the time comes.”

“That’s all right,” said Moise, who overheard their conversation. “Those boys was both fine shot, both of him. You let him shoot one small, leetle goat for Moise, and I’ll show you he’s good for eat.”

“Agreed,” said Uncle Dick, “but, mind you, you’ve only got to-night to cook him—I fear we might get caught in the high waters if we stopped here until you boiled it tender!”

They made ready now for their climb, each with a light pair of nailed boots and heavy stockings. Under their leader’s advice they stripped down to their flannel shirts, but each carried along a canvas jacket, ready to put on when they reached the upper heights where the wind was sure to be very cold. Uncle Dick carried John’s rifle, and Rob took his favorite camera, provided with a curtain shutter, and an eye-piece on top where he could look in and see the game on the ground glass and thus focus it properly. The weather was very fine, and they started out in the best of spirits.

They walked steadily up through the heavy pine forest which covered the foot of the mountain; and then, striking the steeper grade along a bare ridge, they climbed steadily until, turning about and looking down, they could see the glorious prospect which lay below them. The surface of the lake, deep green in color, barely wrinkled now by a light morning breeze, was visible from end to end, three miles or more. On the other side of it showed the bold peaks of Fitzwilliam mountain, back of that yet