My first object, therefore, was to find a guide to take me into the mountains, and although I found several pretended sportsmen, I could hear of no one who had ever killed a goat, except poor Hughs, and a Mr. Fannin, who had formerly lived there, but had lately moved away, so of course no one knew where I could get a guide. Several business men, of whom I asked information, inquired at once where I was from, and on learning that I was an American, simply said "I don't know," and were, or at least pretended to be, too busy to talk with me. They seemed to have no use for people from this side of the boundary line, and this same ill-feeling toward my Nation (with a big N) was shown me in other places, and on various occasions, while in the province. I found, however, one gracious exception, in New Westminster, in the person of Mr. C. G. Major, a merchant, who, the moment I made known to him my wish, replied:
"Well, sir, the best guide and the best hunter in British Columbia left here not three minutes ago. He is an Indian who lives on Douglass Lake, and I think I can get him for you. If I can, you are fixed for a good and successful hunt."
This news, and the frank, manly, cordial greeting that came with it, were surprising to me, after the treatment I had been receiving. Mr. Major invited me into his private office, gave me a chair by the fire, and sent out a messenger to look for "Douglass Bill," the Indian of whom he had spoken. This important personage soon came in. Mr. Major told him what I wanted, and it took but a few minutes to make a bargain. He was a solid, well-built Indian, had an intelligent face, spoke fair English, and had the reputation of being, as Mr. Major had said, an excellent hunter. Mr. Major further said he considered Bill one of the most honest, truthful Indians he had ever known, and that I could trust him as implicitly as I could any white man in the country.
This arrangement was made on Saturday night, but Bill said he could not start on the hunt until Wednesday morning, as his mother-in-law had just died, and he must go and help to bury her on Tuesday. The funeral was to take place on the Chilukweyuk river, a tributary of the Frazer, about fifty miles above New Westminster, and it was arranged that I should go up on the steamer, and meet him at the mouth of Harrison river, another tributary stream, on Wednesday morning. We were then to go up the Harrison to the hunting grounds. I was delighted at the prospect of a successful hunt, with so good a guide, and cheerfully consented to wait the necessary three days for the red man to perform the last sad rites of his tribe over the remains of the departed kloochman, but I was doomed to disappointment.
A VIEW ON THE FRAZER.
CHAPTER VI.
