The river was at its very lowest, but even then it makes one's flesh creep to think of crossing Hamill Creek. Of course the change of weather that night to steady slopping rain made bathing no wetter than walking, and, since the fellow swam like a duck, he might as well land on the north bank. Anybody else would have drowned, but somehow he got across to the sunlit side of the gorge.
The trouble about the north side is that it is streaked with the tracks of snowslides, where avalanche has swept away the giant timber, and in its place grows grass. When a horse falls into that grass one can see by movements of the foliage where his four legs are waving for assistance, but one cannot chop one's way to him, or by any means get down to the rescue. As to the flowers, there is one, the giant hemlock, whose blossom can just be reached up to by a mounted man. Yet, when one comes to think, this jungle of late summer might be quite easily passable in May.
A bull elk was ramping down the gorge rutting, who belled for his mate, very crazy. When he came upon Storm he lowered his antlers, and charged, but the man who had put the fear into a real bear was not to be alarmed by any stag.
"Can't you see I'm not a cow? Get out of my way!" said Storm.
The elk propped with his four legs to a halt, stood for a moment at gaze, and turned off, shattering through the underbrush.
And presently a gray wolf, who was tracking the elk, showed himself to Storm, rather shyly. Indians are comrades, but this one was off color.
"Brother," said the man, "your people and mine are at peace. Good hunting!"
"Not armed!" said the wolf to himself. Then he whimpered softly, for he was hungry, and the man might help him to meat.
"Show me the way," said Storm, "and I'll give you my dry meat. Take me to my wife."
The Indians know that wolves have sometimes not only hunted with people, but also shown them the way, and Storm's power was very strong since his encounter with the grizzly. He followed the wolf up the gigantic hills until at dusk he came to a little level field of old gray snow where gaunt funereal pines like torches stood in the dripping rain, the mournful rain. The snow had been disturbed and there were tracks of unshod horses, who would not come up here unless they were ridden. Here, where the snow had melted through, the sodden ground showed ashes of a camp fire, pitted by big raindrops from the trees. This tree whose branches dripped into the ashes was hung with clothes, torn by the wind to rags, bundles, weapons, ornaments, offerings to the Sun. It was a place of sacrifice, dedicated. And the wolf had fled without his reward of meat: