It was scarcely six o'clock when Richards and Pete walked into camp
and proudly threw down some venison. Pete had kept his promise. On
the lookout at every step for game, he had espied an old stag, and,
together, he and Richards had stalked it, and it had received bullets
from both their rifles. I shall not say to which hunter belonged the
honor of killing the game. They were both very proud of it.

But best of all, they had found, to a certainty, the trail leading to
one of the chain of little lakes which Easton and I had seen, and
these lakes, they reported, took a course directly toward a larger
lake, which they had glimpsed. I decided that this must be the lake
of which the Indians at Northwest River had told us--Lake Nipishish
(Little Water). This was very gratifying intelligence, as Nipishish
was said to be nearly half way to Seal Lake, from where we had begun
our portage on the Nascaupee.

What a supper we had that night of fresh venison, and new "squaw
bread," hot from the pan!

In the morning we portaged our outfit two miles, and removed our camp
to the second one of the series of lakes which Easton and I had seen
from the hill, and the fourth lake after leaving the Nascaupee River.
The morning was fearfully hot, and we floundered through marshes with
heavy packs, bathed in perspiration, and fairly breathing flies and
mosquitoes. Not a breath of air stirred, and the humidity and heat
were awful. Stanton and Duncan remained to pitch the tent and bring
up some of our stuff that had been left at the second lake, while
Richards, Easton, Pete and I trudged three miles over the hills for
the caribou meat which had been cached at the place where the animal