At seven o’clock the train reached Fernie, a soft coal town and a fitting-out post for hunters in this part of Canada. But there was no time for shopping—much to Phil’s regret—for the $20 he had not given “Old Bill” was looked upon as that much saved. A few minutes before eight o’clock the Teton finished its outward journey at the end of the railway in the little village of Michel.
So long as the train was in motion, revealing new vistas of grand and picturesque scenery, the passengers in the Teton would not leave the observation platform for supper. But, as it came to a stop in a narrow and deep valley through which a cool wind was already drifting and where, cast by the sunlit painted ranges, deep shadows were already on the little hamlet, Jake’s dinner at last received its merited attention.
At Fernie the station agent had handed Mr. Mackworth a packet. As the party had now reached the end of the long journey this first meal in the cool, dark snowbound mountain valley was the liveliest of the trip. Formality was put aside and, with the knowledge that the next morning would see the first of their plans under way, all talked at once. In the midst of this Mr. Mackworth produced his packet, opened it and handed each one at the table—except Sam Skinner—a small but formidable looking bit of paper.
“Now be happy, all of you,” he exclaimed. “Here’s a hunting license for each. With it in your possession you may legally kill and take out of the country five mountain goats. Let one of ’em be Neena and may they all be Billies and big ones. You may also slay three mountain sheep one of which, of course, will be Husha the Black Ram. Incidentally you may capture all the grizzlies you see—if you can. Let us hope for one twelve-foot skin at least. Of deer, shoot no more than six each. The law don’t specify it, but we’ll take none but bucks. And remember, don’t shoot a moose till you land a whopper, for one is all you are allowed. As for elk,” concluded Mr. Mackworth, raising his hand in warning, “none at all.”
“Sam,” whispered Frank aside to the hunter, “what are these licenses worth?”
“They ain’t worth much to most hunters,” answered Sam soberly, “but they cost $50 each.”
“That’s $250,” exclaimed Frank taking a new glance at his license, “and you haven’t one. What’ll you do?”
“O, I ain’t lookin’ for hides nor horns,” answered Sam. “If I shoot anything it’ll be food.”
Michel, although a town of but a few hundred inhabitants, was a mile and a quarter long. It stretched along the winding bottom of the valley as a single street, the mountain slopes on each side rising so quickly as to make a second street impossible. And as all the houses were small and nearly all painted dark red, the new arrivals had not seen much of the village in the fast gathering night. But the single street pointed toward the jack-pine valley to the north through which lies the road to the unsettled wilderness beyond—one of the great game preserves of America—the Elk River Valley where as yet the pot hunter is unknown.