"No," said Jack; "that's new to me."
"Well," said Hugh, "I reckon it's a mighty good saying. To go back," he resumed; "now we can go down into the high mountains south of here on the other side of the range and trap, and maybe get a few beaver. Of course beaver ain't worth much now, but they are worth something. If we were out on the prairie down in the lower country it wouldn't be worth while to do it, because beaver fur gets poor early in the summer, but up in the mountains, where I think of going, fur is good all the year round—better in the early spring than it is late in the summer—but it's good enough all the time."
"Well, Hugh," said Jack, "what particular place did you think of going to?"
"I thought of North Park," said Hugh. "There are high mountains there, plenty of game and fish, and it used to be a great country for beaver. It's a good many years since I've been in there. It must be a dozen years or more. Last time I crossed through there I had been camping on Henry's Fork of Green River, along with Ike Edwards, old John Baker, Phil Maas, and Dick Sun. That was a good bunch of men; mighty few like them in the country now. They were all old-timers, and all had skin lodges and lived there with their women in the country near Bridger, and in winter moved into houses which they had on Henry's Fork. I reckon I'll have to tell you something about them some of these days, but now we'll stick to our trip.
"North Park is high up, with mountains on both sides of it, mighty high mountains, too, and if there are any beaver living in that country, we will probably he able to find them. Beaver is about all the fur that's worth bothering with. There are not many marten, and if there were, the fur would not be good now. Of course, you may get a bear or so, and each bear would bring about seven or probably ten dollars, if we kill them before they begin to shed. Beaver is worth three or four dollars a pound. That would make a skin worth about five or six dollars—that is, a good skin. It's a good deal of a trick to skin a beaver and dry his pelt in good shape. It's one of them things, of course, that you have got to learn.
"On the other hand, beaver trapping is mighty hard work, and you had better know it beforehand. You've got to be in the water more than half the time, and have to get your beaver back to camp and skin 'em, and by the time you have been running to your traps, getting your beaver, setting your traps, packing your catch to camp and skinning it, you will think you've done a mighty good day's work. All the same, son, you're pretty husky, and there's no reason why you should not do a full day's work, but I tell you one thing we had better do, because it will add a whole lot to our comfort—we had better get rubber boots for both, before we start out, so that we won't get any wetter than we have to get. I have had a touch of rheumatism in past years, and I don't want to get any more of it."
"That seems bully, Hugh," said Jack. "I'm willing to work harder this year than ever before, and I'm bigger and stronger and better able to do work than I ever was before. I'll try to hold up my end just as well as I can."
"Well," said Hugh, "it ain't like as if we were stone broke, and trying to make a raise to carry us through the winter. We needn't work any harder than we feel like, but when I tackle a job I like to make it a good one, and I reckon you feel that way, too."
"Yes," said Jack, "that's the way I feel about it, for that is the way the people I think most of in the world have always talked to me."