KLAPPAN CROSSING 117

The big mountain stream was swift and strong
and grey. At the crossing-place it curved round the
west bank, leaving the far side shallow and pebbly.
We unpacked the horses and lit a fire under the
jack-pines; as we ate our cheese and bannock we
looked across the river and made our plans.

“Boat’s on the far bank; that means someone’s
eoing ahead of us on the trail; Indians, likely. We'll
have to build a raft and get across to her; five logs’ ll
be enough.”

“Looks like a pretty small boat. She’s got oars,
though. Two crossings will get our packs over,
don’t you think?”

“Yes: don’t want to over-load; current’s pretty
strong.”

The horses went in. The first one looked anxiously
at the water and turned his head away, but as he
did so he saw out of his eye-corner the unpleasant
waving of a stick. He snorted, looked again at the
river and plunged in, heading slightly up-stream.
His ears were cocked; his strong neck stretched for-
ward and upward above the choppy grey ripples.
The others followed him, and the six of them were
swung out into the current. They floundered,
struggled, struck out valiantly and came ashore on
the pebbly beach at the curve of the river. And one
by one, with shining coats, they disappeared among