with such an angular narrow prow that it could take
the sheerest dip and mount the steepest wave-crest where a rounder boat
would fill and swamp. Dragging this from cover, the two white men pushed
out on the Jefferson Fork, dipping now on this side, now on that, using
the reversible double-bladed paddles which only an amphibious boatman
can manage. The two men shot out in mid-stream, where the mists would
hide them from each shore; a moment later the white fog had enfolded
them, and there was no trace of human presence but the trail of dimpling
ripples in the wake of the canoe.

No talking, no whistling, not a sound to betray them. And there were
good reasons why these men did not wish their presence known. One was
Potts, the other John Colter. Both had been with the Lewis and Clark
exploring party of 1804-'05, when a Blackfoot brave had been slain for
horse-thieving by the first white men to cross the Upper Missouri.
Besides, the year before coming to the Jefferson, Colter had been with
the Missouri Company's fur brigade under Manuel Lisa, and had gone to
the Crows as an emissary from the fur company. While with the Crows, a
battle had taken place against the Blackfeet, in which they suffered
heavy loss owing to Colter's prowess. That made the Blackfeet sworn
enemies to Colter.

Turning off the Jefferson, the trappers headed their canoe up a side
stream, probably one of those marshy reaches where beavers have formed a
swamp by damming up the current of a sluggish stream. Such quiet waters
are favourite resorts for beaver and mink and marten and pekan. Setting
their traps only after nightfall, the two men could not possibly have
put out more than forty or fifty. Thirty traps are a heavy day's work
for one man. Six prizes out of thirty are considered a wonderful run of
luck; but the empty traps must be examined as carefully as the
successful ones. Many that have been mauled, "scented" by a beaver scout
and left, must be replaced. Others must have fresh bait; others, again,
carried to better grounds where there are more game signs.

Either this was a very lucky morning and the men were detained taking
fresh pelts, or it was a very unlucky morning and the men had decided to
trap farther up-stream; for when the mists began to rise, the hunters
were still in their canoe. Leaving the beaver meadow, they continued
paddling up-stream away from the Jefferson. A more hidden water-course
they could hardly have found. The swampy