We cruised clear around the lake that day and could not find another goat. In the afternoon it clouded up and set in to rain heavily again in the cañon, while snow fell on the mountains a few hundred feet above us. The next morning I went up a narrow cañon to the north, and ascending a high peak hunted until nearly noon, when I found two more goats, a female and her kid (nearly full grown), both of which I killed, and taking the skins and one ham of the kid, I returned to camp. It continued to rain at frequent intervals, which robbed camp life and hunting of much of their charm, so I decided to start for home the following morning. In the afternoon I rigged a hook and line, cut an alder pole, and caught five fine trout, the largest seventeen and a half inches long. Seymour speared three more salmon and roasted one of them, so that we had another feast of fish that night. We also roasted a leg of goat for use on our way home, and spent the evening cleaning and drying the three skins as best we could by the camp-fire, to lighten their weight as much as possible.
Meanwhile, I questioned John at considerable length regarding the nature of his language, but could get little information, as he seemed unable to convey his ideas on the subject in our tongue. The language of the Skowlitz tribe, to which he and Seymour belong, is a strange medley of gutturals, aspirates, coughs, sneezes, throat scrapings, and a few words. I said:
"Your language don't seem to have as many words as ours."
"No; English too much. Make awful tired learn him."
"Where did you learn it?"
"O, I work in pack train for Hudson Bay one year, and work on boat one year."
"Where did the boat run?"
"She run nort from Victoria," he said.
"Where to, Alaska?"
"O, I dunno."