They paused now at the edge of what seemed a thicket covered with low bushes, which rose above green moss and tufts of grasses. In places the swamp looked as though it would hold up either a man or a horse. None the less, the boys could see where long ago an attempt had been made to corduroy the bog. Some of the poles and logs, broken in the middle, stuck up out of the mud. A black seam, filled with broken bits of poles, trampled moss and bushes, and oozing mud, showed the direction of the trail, as well as proved how deceptive the surface of an unbroken muskeg can be.
“Now, Jesse,” said Uncle Dick, “you and John take your guns and go across on foot on one side of the trail. It will probably hold you if you keep moving and step on the tufts and the bushes. The rest of us will have to do the best we can with the horses.”
“Why can’t the horses go out there, too?” demanded Jesse. “It looks all right.”
“There are times,” said Uncle Dick, “when I wish all horses had been born with webbed feet. The hoof of a horse seems made purposely to cut through a muskeg, and the leg of a horse is just long enough to tangle him up in one. None the less, here is the muskeg, and here we are with our horses, and we must get across. We’ll not go dry into camp this day, nor clean, either.”
The two younger boys were able to get across without any very serious mishaps, and presently they stood, a hundred yards or more away, waiting to see what was going to happen. The horses all stood looking at them as though understanding that they were on the farther side of the troublesome country.
“Get in, Danny,” said Uncle Dick, and slapped his riding-pony on the hip. The plucky little horse walked up to the edge of the soft ground, pawing at it and sniffing and snorting in dislike. Uncle Dick slapped him on the hip once more, and in Danny plunged, wallowing ahead belly-deep in the black slime, slipping and stumbling over the broken bits of poles, and at times obliged to cease, gallant as were his struggles. Of course the saddle was entirely covered with mud. None the less, in some way Danny managed to get across and stood on the farther side, a very much frightened and disgusted horse.
“She’s a bad one, Moise,” said Uncle Dick, thoughtfully. “I don’t know how they’ll make it with the loads, but we’ve got to try. Come on, Rob, let’s drive them in.”
It took a great deal of shouting and whipping to get the poor brutes to take to this treacherous morass, but one after the other they were driven in, until at length the whole dozen of the pack-train were distributed, half-submerged, over the hundred yards of the mucky trail. Uncle Dick, not stopping to think of his clothes, followed Moise in; and Rob, pluckily as either of the others, also took to the mud. Thigh-deep, plunging along as best they could, in the churned up mass, they worked along the animals, exhorting or encouraging them the best they could. It was piteously hard for all concerned, and for a long time it seemed doubtful if they would get the whole train across. Sometimes a horse, exhausted by its struggles, would lie over on its side, and the three of them would have to tug at him to get him started again.
The last horse in the train was the unhappy claybank. Within a few yards of the farther side this horse bagged down, helpless, and fell over on its side, its pack down in the mud, and after plunging viciously for a time lay flat, with its head out, so that Rob had to cut some brush to put under it.
“Broken leg, I’m afraid,” said Uncle Dick. “It’s that rotten corduroy down in the mud there. What shall we do, Moise, cut off the packs and—but I hate to shoot a horse.”