“Just back on the trail a way,” replied the older member of the party. “Stuck in the mud. Considerable muskeg in here, believe me.”
Presently they could hear the voice of Moise, the remaining member of their party, who was to go along as cook and assistant with the pack-train. He was singing in a high voice some odd Indian tune, whose words may have been French; for Moise Richard, as all our readers will remember who followed the fortunes of our young adventurers in their trip along the Peace River, was a French half-breed, and a man good either with boats or horses.
“Hello, Moise!” cried the three companions, as he came into view, driving ahead of him the remainder of the pack-train. They pronounced his name as he did, “Mo-èes”.
“Hello, young mans,” exclaimed Moise, smiling as usual as he slipped out of his saddle. “How was you all, hein? I’ll bet you was glad to see old Moise. You got hongree, what?”
“Certainly we are,” replied John for all three. “We always are.”
“That’s the truth,” laughed Uncle Dick. “Lucky we’ve got a couple of pack-horses apiece, and lucky the engineers have got some supplies cached over there in the Rockies.”
“Well, some of those new horse, she was fool horse,” said Moise. “She’ll want to go back on his home, or run off on the bush. She’s like any fool pack-horse, and don’t want to do what he knows is right worth a cent, him.”
“Well, never mind,” said Uncle Dick, carelessly. “I imagine our train will be like all pack-trains, better when they get settled down to work. It’s always a lot of trouble until they get straightened around and shaken down to the work.”
“I’ll goin’ to put some bell on those old gray mare Betsy,” said Moise. “Maybe those fool horse will follow him, Betsy. All the time six height hour, I’ve chase those fool horse where she’ll break out and eat grass. They make more trouble for Moise than all his eleven, ten children up on Peace River.”