"Not improbable, my friend. I have landed more than one five-pounder from that same water," said the Major.
"See here, mister, if I'd a-know'd you was goin' to chip in I'd a-made it bigger—the last man hain't no show, that's a fact."
"Honor bright, my friend; I camped here nineteen years ago this summer; five-pound trout were no rarity then."
The Major's tones carried conviction with them, and, mollified, the native admitted he had "heard of bigger ones up the fork."
The ride of twenty-five miles to Glenwood Springs completed our trip by rail. The next business was to look up a man with a team and wagon. We found him lingering over some old circus posters on a bill-board down a side street, which he seemed reluctant to abandon. He had been recommended to us as a good cook, possessed of a complete camp outfit, and to whom the whole country was an open book.
Mr. Miles was a blue-eyed man of forty, perhaps, with a hint of gray hairs about his temples, broad-shouldered and wearing a pleasant smile. He had been to Trapper's Lake times without number, but he "couldn't get a wagon over the trail."
"If you want to go by wagon, the best way is round by Meeker, and up the White River; it's a hundred and thirty miles, mebbe, while it's only about a day's ride by the trail."
"By Meeker," was our route; we had come to look at the White River Valley; we might return to Glenwood by the trail.
"Meeker it is; then four dollars a day and you find the grub and your own saddle-horses, or ride in the waggin."
After assuring us that he would be back in an hour with "everything ready to roll out for Newcastle," where we were to stop the first night, Mr. Miles took his departure, singing in a delightful tenor, "The sweet by-and-by."