A little band of three had struggled about two hundred miles up the stream in the face of apparently insurmountable difficulties, having to unload their boat and "portage" the whole of their year's provisions over rocky, precipitous banks, which were often densely wooded, or tow her up rapids, under the fierce Canadian sun, when the strain on the rope must not be relaxed for a single moment lest the bows of the boat should be wrenched round by the current and the towers jerked backwards into the boiling waters.
They camped at last on a part of the bank that was low and grassy and clear of the eternal spruce trees for a short distance. Here they built a rough shack, laid up the boat, and took a spell of prospecting. Into their camp on the second day limped a tattered, woe-begone, helpless-looking individual, a Swede, who explained in broken English, almost on the verge of tears, that he and his friends, seeing the business-like way in which the others had prepared to meet the difficulties of the river, had come to the conclusion that they were old hands, and followed at a safe distance, hoping to be able to keep modestly in the background till those in front had made a find, and then, as the Yankee of the party put it, they were ready to "whirl in and get the pickings of a right soft job." However, they had been forced to come into undue prominence because their boat had become hopelessly jammed between two rocks in a rapid and they could not move her without help. He ended his tale of woe and stood looking from one to the other of the three disgusted men who faced him.
"Well, of all the derndest cheek!" said the Yankee. "To explain so nicely how they planned to jump us, and then expect help so's they can do it!"
"We must sho'ly lend a ha-and," drawled the Southerner.
"Oh, yes," said the Englishman, the youngest of the party. "Of course we must help the poor beggars."
It was arranged at last that Bantling and Fox, the two Americans, should go to the rescue, while Rogers, the Englishman, kept camp.
They had dinner, and then, with the Swede as guide, started off down the river bank to the rapids.
Left alone, Rogers washed up the dinner-things, put up some grub, got his blanket and a rifle, and set off into the scrub. The day before, when getting wood, he had come upon the track of a moose, and was determined to try for a shot at him, picturing to himself the delight of the other two when they returned, to find a store of fresh meat. He followed the trail through a thicket of ground alder and willow, stumbling into muskegs and bursting through tangled undergrowth. It was frightfully hot, for this was the Canadian summer, and when he at last reached a small clearing, through which ran a little stream from a "sienega" or small lake higher up, he thankfully camped there for the night.
The next morning, having had some breakfast, he found the trail of the moose clear and straight before him, and decided to return to the shack for more food before setting out on a hunt that might last days. So, leaving his blanket and rifle behind, he set out. It was much easier going back, as he had forced a fairly clear path and knew the way. He was surprised how quickly he found himself once more at the edge of the clearing round the camp, and was just about to cross the open to the shack, when a curious, exasperated, whining growl made him draw quickly back into the shadow of the trees, wishing, too late, that he had brought his rifle with him. At the foot of one of the slim pines upon which they had built the platform for their "cache" stood an immense "cinnamon" bear, nearly as large as a fair-sized bull, stretching his enormous fore-legs as far as possible above his head in a vain endeavour to reach the dainties he could smell above him. But though he could reach twelve good feet, the "cache" was up fifteen, and the trees that supported it were young and slim, so that, when he tried to get a grip to climb, his fore-paws overlapped; and no bear can climb a tree unless it is bigger than the circle of his arm, so that he can grip it with his claws.
If he had not been in such an awkward predicament, Rogers would have been immensely tickled at the antics of the big brown beast. He stretched himself upon tip-toe in his efforts to reach the platform, giving little jumps, for all the world like a small boy in a jam cupboard. Then he backed slowly away, staring at the unattainable with grunts and whines, shaking his great heavy head from side to side.