ghty. Well, if this is the old
buck, he couldn't go on a better last war-trail, and I wish him a heap
of luck. Now let's get goin'."

Night found them at the foot of the range they had crossed. They were
now in the valley of the Klimminchuck, a fast stream of the proportions
of a river, fed by tributary creeks. Across it rose mountains, range on
range, nameless, cut by valleys, pockets, basins and creeks. Their area
resembled a tumbled sea. It was a mountain wilderness, little known,
unmapped, much as it came from the hands of the Creator.

And yet in this wilderness there were trails. Up tributary creeks
hunters had made them for short distances, but they soon petered out.
Beyond, into the heart of the hills, were other faintly marked routes,
scarcely trails but ways of traverse, by which at various and widely
separated times man had penetrated into these solitudes and even crossed
them entirely.

All the men knew something of this mountain area, but Rennie's knowledge
was the most extensive. His was the restlessness, the desire to see
something of what lay beyond, of the pioneer. He had made long
incursions, alone. Bush leaned on this knowledge. Around the fire that
night, pipes alight, they held council.

"They've turned up river," said Bush. "If they keep on for the head
waters they get into mighty bad country, hey, Dave?"

"Mighty bad," Rennie agreed. "They couldn't get no place."

"And they ain't outfitted to winter. Do they know she's bad up there?"

"Sure they know. Anyhow, Gavin does. My tumtum is they'll ford above
here and try for a clean get-away, maybe up Copper Creek, right across
the mountains."

"Can they make it?"

"They might. Depends on what they know of the country, and what luck
they have."

"With horses?"

"Well, they might."

"How far have you ever gone yourself?"

"I been up to where the Copper heads and over the divide and on a
piece."

"Good travelin'?"

"No, darn mean."

"Trail?"

"Only a liar would call it a trail. Still, you can get along if you're
careful."

"Could they have gone farther?"

"Sure."

"Did you ever hear of anybody gettin' plum' through, say to Cache River,
that way?"

"I've heard of it--yes. Old Pete Jodoin claimed he made her. And one
time I run onto an old Stoney buck and he told me how, long ago, his
people used to come down huntin' onto this here Klimmin, but they don't
do it no more."

"Pete Jodoin was an old liar," said Bush, "and so's a