On every hand the mountains began to raise their ragged
austere heads like grim giant sentinels placed there to guard the way.
Finally they turned into a pass, which brought them, on the other side
of the ridge it led through, to a comparatively well-wooded valley
down which a wide river wound its way northward. The trees were larger
than any Bob had seen since leaving the Big Hill trail, and this new
valley seemed almost familiar to him.
As they emerged from the pass a wolf cry, long and weird, came from a
distant mountainside and broke the wilderness stillness, which had
become almost insufferable, and to the lad even this wild cry held a
note of companionship that was pleasant to hear after the long and
deathlike quiet that had prevailed.
They took to the river ice and travelled on it for several miles
when, rounding a bend, they suddenly came upon a cluster of half a
dozen deerskin wigwams standing in the spruce trees just above the
river bank. An Indian from one of the lodges discovered their
approach, and gave a shout. Instantly men, women and children sprang
into view and came running out to welcome them. It was a curious,
medley crowd. The men were clad in long, decorated deerskin coats such
as Sishetakushin and Mookoomahn wore, and the women in deerskin skirts
reaching a little way below the knees, and all wearing the fringed
buckskin leggings.
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