“Yes, and a good man, too, Leo. He and Moise will show us how to get along without the horses, eh, Moise?”
That good-natured man grinned and showed his white teeth. “Sometam she’ll ron pretty fast, this river on Columbia valley?” said he.
“Well, at any rate, we turn in our horses with Leo here at the Cache and get them the next time we come through—next year or some other year, perhaps. A horse takes his chance of getting a permanent residence in this part of the world. But our train has come through in fine shape—not a sore back in the lot. That speaks well for your care in packing, young men, and for Moise’s skill in making saddles.”
By this time they all had shaken down into the routine of packing the horses in the morning, and not long after they had finished their breakfast all was in readiness for their last march.
“En avant!” said Uncle Dick. “Mush! Moise, we’ll lunch at the Cache to-day.”
They swung on steadily down the broadened valley whose course now changed more to the southwest for five miles or so. The trail was much better, and as they reached the wide eastern end of the valley, which broadens out near the historic Tête Jaune Cache, they made rapid progress, animated by the continually changing scene before them.
For the last five miles they were in a broad, grassy valley where many hoofs had worn a plainly marked trail. On ahead they could see the Fraser swinging in from its southwest bend to meet them. The courses of many other small streams, outlined by green bushes, also could be seen coming in from almost every direction. Farther to the west and south lofty mountains rose, broken by caps which seemed to be of no great altitude. The Selwyns, on the other side of the Fraser, stood behind them, and off on the right gradually rose the high, sweeping hills which climbed to the shoulders of Mount Robson itself. The whole made an extraordinary landscape.
“We’re in the Tête Jaune Valley,” said Uncle Dick, halting at the edge of the grassy expanse which seemed quite flat for five miles or so ahead of them. “We’re coming now to one of the most interesting points in all the Rocky Mountains, and one of the least known. Some day, where we are here, there will be a town, perhaps a good one. Yonder is the original pathway of the Fraser—five hundred feet across here already, and a great river before it gets much farther toward the Pacific. We leave it here, so let’s not give it a worse name than we have to, for, take it all in all, it hasn’t harmed us thus far.
“On across the Fraser, to the south, is the North Thompson,” he continued. “Not very much known by any except a few of our explorers. It’s rather rough-looking in there, isn’t it? The Albreda Pass makes up from the Thompson, over yonder where you see the big mountains rising.”
“Is that where we go to get to the Canoe River?” said John. “It’s over in there somewhere.”