Little Trappers Lake, a small clear green sheet of water. The larger
lake was farther down. It was big, irregular, and bordered by spruce
forests, and shadowed by the lofty gray peaks.

The Camp was on the far side. The air appeared rather warm, and
mosquitoes bothered us. However, they did not stay long. It was after
sunset and I was too tired to have many impressions.

Our cook appeared to be a melancholy man. He had a deep quavering
voice, a long drooping mustache and sad eyes. He was silent most of
the time. The men called him Bill, and yelled when they spoke, for he
was somewhat deaf. It did not take me long to discover that he was a
good cook.

Our tent was pitched down the slope from the cook tent. We were too
tired to sit round a camp-fire and talk. The stars were white and
splendid, and they hung over the flat ridges like great beacon lights.
The lake appeared to be inclosed on three sides by amphitheatric
mountains, black with spruce up to the gray walls of rock. The night
grew cold and very still. The bells on the horses tinkled distantly.
There was a soft murmur of falling water. A lonesome coyote barked,
and that thrilled me. Teague's dogs answered this prowler, and some of
them had voices to make a hunter thrill. One, the bloodhound Cain, had
a roar like a lion's. I had not gotten acquainted with the hounds, and
I was thinking about them when I fell asleep.

Next morning I was up at five-thirty. The air was cold and nipping and
frost shone on grass and sage. A red glow of sunrise gleamed on the
tip of the mountain and slowly grew downward.