“And that’s where we’re goin’!” exclaimed Frank.
“As I understand it,” answered the captain. “We can reach this region through the Rockies by way of the Crow Nest Pass on a branch of the Canadian Pacific, or we can come up from the States from Rexford in Montana direct to Fernie.”
“Does a mountain goat look like a billy goat?” went on Phil.
“A mountain goat may stand between three and four feet high,” explained the captain, “and its long, snow-white hair hangs straight down like the fringe of a curtain. Its horns, never much more than six inches long, are black as night, straight and pointed like stilettos. They are inclined slightly to the rear and woe unto the man or beast that meets the animal in contest—a lunge forward with lowered head; a brace of its clinging hoofs; a thrust upward to impale its enemy, and then the backward jerk that rends its victim with two long fatal gashes.”
“And the sheep?” continued Phil.
“Almost as large, with great, deep, oxlike eyes; close, short, brownish to black hair; no tail, and heavy sweeping horns that are the envy of every big game hunter. Where you find the sheep you do not find the goat. But we shall find both. As for my own personal hunting experiences you’ll have to excuse me to-day. If we find a dull hour in camp out there in the mountains I may tell a story I heard on the glacier—an Indian tale of a Bighorn sheep—the King of the Glacier. But it is a story for the camp where the snow is in sight and deep chasms echo the sound of buried waterfalls.”
[CHAPTER VIII]
BOARDING THE TETON
The much discussed private car arrived the following evening, too late to be loaded that day. But, as it was sidetracked near the Union Depot, Mr. Mackworth and the two boys were soon on the ground to look it over. When they came in sight of the long, heavy, maroon-tinted car, two colored men were just leaving it.