they work south along toward the latter part of August. There are a
few sheep in here, but mountain-sheep is a hard meat to kill. There is
mighty little hope for us to get anything unless we can catch some
fish as we go along--and unless we continue to eat rabbits, and maybe
some ptarmigan. I shouldn't wonder if the ptarmigan would grow much
scantier when we get down out of the mountains farther.

"Jesse," he continued, "there'll be no harm in your taking your gun
and going over to see if you can get us some young geese or some young
ducks before we start out, over at the edge of Loon Lake. We've got to
have all the food-supplies we can possibly get hold of, because we
don't know what is ahead. Hurry up, now, for pretty soon we must call
ourselves rested and be on our way. Our canoe is waiting for us,
already launched, and it won't take long to get the loads aboard."

Jesse complied with his uncle's instructions, and, taking his light
shot-gun, disappeared in the fringe of willows which lay between the
camp and the marshy borders of the lake out of which they had made
their last portage on the Rocky Mountain summit. It was not long
before they began to hear the reports of his gun, and so proficient
had he by this time become in its use that when he returned in the
course of three-quarters of an hour he had a young goose and a
half-dozen mallard ducks to add to the larder.

"Fine!" said Uncle Dick. "Throw them in the boat, son, and we'll be
getting ready.

"Rob, go on with your diary; and, John, be sure that you keep up your
maps. There isn't a single report of any kind in print or in
manuscript, so far as I know, which tells the truth about this summit
of the Rockies. We are just as much explorers as if we were the first
to cross. The Klondikers left no records.

"And now take one last look around you, for I question if you will
ever be in a more remote corner of the world in all your lives. This
is the most northerly pass of the Rockies. Yonder above us, at the end
of what they call the Black Mountain range, lie the last foot-hills
between here and the Arctic. Off in that direction the Little Bell
finds its head--no man knows where, so far as I can tell. Westward in
general lies our course now, and we've got to make five hundred miles
between McPherson and the mouth of the Porcupine River, and make it in
jig time too, if we want to catch an up-bound boat on the Yukon this
fall."

"Well," said Rob, "I suppose if