After crossing, the trapper headed directly up-stream for a short distance, when he turned to the left and descended into a valley. Here he dismounted.
“Take yer fixins’,” said he, “and turn the hosses loose.”
“Won’t they wander away?” I asked.
“Yourn may, but mine won’t; you’ve got to take your chances, though. ’Tain’t likely they’ll be ’sturbed, ’cept by grizzlys and reds.”
The spot selected was a broad bottom of rich grass, inclosed by thick walls of undergrowth upon every side. Here we left our horses, and, taking our saddles and trappings, moved away.
“Have you ever been here before?” I asked of the trapper.
“I stayed yer last season, but didn’t ’spect to come back. Howsumever, I changed my mind, and yer we is. Move keerful and don’t make a big trail.”
We followed nearly a quarter of a mile directly up-stream, when he halted, and looked carefully about him.
“I don’t s’pose thar’s reds ’bout, but thar’s no tellin’ whar they is. I didn’t see none last year, but they mought be ’bout now. Jes’ hold on a minute.”
The banks of the stream were fringed by a deep under-growth upon both sides. Stepping forward to the water’s edge, the trapper parted the branches, and glancing a moment within, motioned for us to approach.