For nearly a week, the little party struggled with the most difficult portion of the trail. At Pleasant Camp they had reached an elevation of about five hundred feet above the sea, but the rise had been so gradual through the forty-five miles of river valleys that it had hardly been noticed. From that point, however, it was all mountain work, and they had to ascend three thousand feet more in about fifteen miles, to gain the summit of the Chilkat Pass and the high interior plateau. The trail often led uphill only to lead provokingly down again on the other side, so that the gain was thrown away, and had to be earned all over again. Then, too, the snowdrifts increased the roughness of the path. It was out of the question to move full loads under such conditions, and half-loads were taken forward a few miles and cached one day, and the remainder brought up the next. Some of the slopes were so steep that even the ice-creepers barely gave the sled-pullers a foothold, and often the sheer weight of the loads dragged them back again and again.

A Curious Phenomenon beside the Trail

[89]

Under this terrible strain their feet grew sore, and the frequent dipping of the gee-poles, as the sleds dove into the hollows, gave them cruelly lame backs. To make matters worse, the tugging on the ropes, coupled with the usual dampness of their mittens, caused the skin of their fingers to crack deeply and painfully at the joints. Many times the sleds overturned, or jammed against stumps and roots. Altogether it was a severe and thorough training for the boys in patience, endurance, and perseverance.

"What will become of Mrs. Shirley's party here, I wonder," said Roly, after a hard day's work.

"If they are wise," replied Uncle Will, "they'll stop at Pleasant Camp. The two young men can make a dash in for claims when the lame one has recovered, but those ladies can never stand this kind of work."

David declared that never before had he appreciated the picture in his room at home, of Napoleon's soldiers dragging cannon over the Alps. He was quite sure he would groan with genuine sympathy when he saw it again. In the mean time, in spite of all discomforts, he was daily securing beautiful and interesting views of mountains and valleys, of camps and the sledding, and of all the unique phases of his outdoor life.

At one point, he photographed a curious phenomenon beside the trail. The stump of a tree bore upon its top a great skull-shaped mass of snow, while underneath on[90] every side the flakes had been packed against the bark by the wind, the whole forming a colossal figure of a human head and neck, which appeared as if carved in purest marble.

Now and then they observed traces of the company ahead. Sometimes it was a broken gee-pole, again a deserted camping-ground or fireplace, and frequently bits of rope, empty cracker boxes and tins, or a freshly "blazed" or notched tree to indicate the trail. But the Thirty-six themselves were as elusive as if they all wore seven-league boots, and the Bradfords never caught sight of them during these days, no matter how hard they worked.

In the forest through which they were travelling, spruce gum of fine quality could be picked from many of the trees, and the boys found it useful as a preventive of thirst in a country where open springs were far between. Often, too, they carried beef tablets in their pockets, and these served to alleviate hunger as well as thirst,—for so severe was the work, and so stimulating to the appetite the mountain air, that they were fairly faint between meals.

Once, while on the march, they were startled by a deep rumbling, which seemed to come from the bowels of the earth. Uncle Will said that this was the sound of an avalanche on the high mountains across the Klaheena valley.

[91]

Porcupines were so numerous as to be obtainable as often as needed, but Roly one day discovered a new kind of game. He espied a large dark bird sitting on a low branch of a spruce near the trail, and called Uncle Will's attention to it.

"Ah!" exclaimed the latter, "that's a spruce partridge, and very good eating. Is your revolver loaded, Charles?"

The guns were packed in their cases on the sleds, but Mr. Bradford's revolver was loaded and ready. He took careful aim at the partridge and fired. The bird, not thirty feet away, merely cocked its head to one side, and calmly eyed the discomfited marksman.

"Missed," said Mr. Bradford. "Suppose you try a shot, Roly. I've been out of practice too long."

"Yes," said Roly, "let me try. But why didn't the partridge fly away? They're awfully 'scary' at home."

"This is not the ruffed grouse, or partridge, of New England," explained his father, "but a different species. It is often called the 'fool hen,' because it is so stupid. You might fire a dozen times without inducing it to fly, and you can go up quite close to it if you wish. It's more sportsmanlike, though, to give the bird a chance."

Roly accordingly stood where he was, fired, and missed. Uncle Will then brought down the bird with his revolver, and later, David and Roly plucked and dressed it, with[92] some assistance from Long Peter, and cooked it for their supper.

David awoke, one morning, to find his younger brother observing him with a curious expression in his eyes, the cause of which he was at a loss to discover.

"What in the world is the matter with your face, Dave?" said Roly, as soon as he saw that his tent-mate was awake.

"Matter with my face?" repeated David, sleepily. "Why, nothing. What makes you think so?"

"You don't look a bit natural," said Roly.

"Oh, come!" muttered David. "What are you talking about? I'm all right, I tell you;" and he gazed drowsily up at the canvas above him, through which the morning light filtered.

"Oh! you are, are you?" said Roly. "Well, I advise you to look in a mirror before you go outside, that's all."

But David neglected the warning. His appearance, when he crawled forth from the tent, was the signal for a loud burst of laughter from Long Peter, who was making the fire, and this, more than anything else, convinced the boy that something was really wrong. He retreated into the tent and consulted a small pocket looking-glass, whereby he discovered that his countenance was as black as the ace of spades.

"April Fool!" shouted the irrepressible Roly, with great glee, and dived head-first out of the tent to escape a flying shoe. "My dear brother, permit me to inform you that this is the First of April." This last explanatory speech was delivered with telling effect from a safe distance.

The Camp of the Mysterious Thirty-Six

[93]

David was at first much vexed, but having washed his face, he joined at last in the laugh against himself.

Taking the idea from the blackened faces of the Indian women, Roly had carefully gone over his sleeping brother's face with soot from the bottom of a kettle. The youngster confessed, however, that, owing to anxiety lest David should awaken first, his fun had cost him half his night's sleep. It brought upon him, too, some words of counsel from his father, who reminded him that practical joking often provoked serious ill-feeling, and it was only owing to David's good sense that it had not done so in the present instance.

That day's march was a short one. Early in the afternoon they saw a thin blue column of smoke rising through the trees ahead, and a few minutes later, to their unbounded delight, they entered the camp of the Mysterious Thirty-six, whose tents were scattered through the grove wherever the snow was level, or a tree or bank afforded shelter. Such members of the company as they saw greeted them pleasantly, and congratulated Uncle Will on making so rapid a journey. They could far better afford to be distanced by the small Bradford party than the Bradfords by them, and showed no trace of ill-humor.[94] Uncle Will declared, however, as the Bradfords were pitching their camp in the edge of the timber, that it was too early to crow yet.

"What place is this?" asked Roly, as he fetched a kettleful of water from the one open spot in a brook everywhere else buried deep under the snow.

Uncle Will hung the kettle over the fire and answered, "Rainy Hollow."

"Ah!" exclaimed the boy, with sudden recollection, "this is where you wrote your letter."

"Yes," said his uncle, "and the place was well named. It storms here most of the time, consequently the crossing of the summit is usually difficult and often quite dangerous. We are close to the summit now, and this is the last of the timber."

"And............