Then what are you going to do?" he asked.
"She'll only go up--she won't go down."
Pete, the chief guide, was a German. He was rather uneasy for fear we
intended to cross the Canadian line. But we reassured him. A big blond
in a wide-flapping Stetson, black Angora chaps, and flannel shirt with a
bandana, he led our little procession into the wilderness and sang as he
rode. The Head frequently sang with him. And because the only song the
Head knew very well in German was the "Lorelei," we had it hour after
hour. Being translated to one of the boatmen, he observed: "I have known
girls like that. I guess I'd leave most any boat for them. But I'd leave
this boat for most any girl."
We were approaching the mountains, climbing slowly but steadily. We
passed through Lone Tree Prairie, where one great pine dominated the
country for miles around, and stopped by a small river for luncheon.
Of all the meals that we took in the open, perhaps luncheon was the most
delightful. Condensed milk makes marvelous cocoa. We opened tins of
things, consulted maps, eased the horses' cinches, rested our own tired
bodies for an hour or so.
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