Latour welcomed us with his grim old face wreathed in unusual smiles.
The pilot had been talking to him, too.

"I've got it, Latour!" he cried out as he entered; "here you are,"
and he broke into the beautiful French-Canadian chanson, "A la Claire
Fontaine," to the old half-breed's almost tearful delight.

"Do you know," he went on, "I heard that first down the Mattawa,"
and away he went into a story of an experience with French-Canadian
raftsmen, mixing up his French and English in so charming a manner that
Latour; who in his younger days long ago had been a shantyman himself,
hardly knew whether he was standing on his head or on his heels.

After tea I proposed a ride out to see the sunset from the nearest
rising ground. Latour, with unexampled generosity, offered his own
cayuse, "Louis."

"I can't ride well," protested The Pilot.

"Ah! dat's good ponee, Louis," urged Latour. "He's quiet lak wan leetle
mouse; he's ride lak--what you call?--wan horse-on-de-rock." Under which
persuasion the pony was accepted.

That evening I saw the Swan Creek country with new eyes--through the
luminous eyes of The Pilot. We rode up the trail by the side of the Swan
till we came to the coulee mouth, dark and full of mystery.

"Come on," I said, "we must get to the top for the sunset."