Now we follow a narrow trail that was not a trail until we passed. A
careless pack-horse, carrying our blankets, slips from the path and goes
rolling and tumbling down the mountain side. A thousand feet below lies
an arm of the Athabasca. Down, down, and over and over the pack-horse
goes, and finally fetches up on a ledge five hundred feet below the
trail. "By damn," says Jaquis, "dere is won bronco bust, eh?"

Smith and Jaquis go down to cut the cinches and save the pack, and lo,
up jumps our cayuse, and when he is repacked he takes the trail as good
as new. The pack and the low bush save his life.

In any other country, to other men, this would be exciting, but it's all
in the day's work with Smith and Jaquis.

The pack-pony that had been down the mountain is put in the lead
now--that is, in the lead of the pack animals; for he has learned his
lesson, he will be careful. And yet we are to have other experiences
along this same river.

Suddenly, down a side cañon, a mountain stream rushes, plunging into the
Athabasca, joyfully, like a sea-bather into the surf. Jaquis calls this
side-stream "the mill-tail o' hell." Smith the Silent prepares to cross.
It's all very simple. All you need is a stout pole, a steady nerve, and
an utter disregard for the hereafter.

When Smith is safe on the other shore we drive the horses into the
stream. They shudder and shrink from the ice-cold water, but Jaquis and
I urge them, and in they plunge. My, what a struggle! Their wet feet on
the slippery boulders in the bottom of the stream, the swift current