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Updated: May 15, 2025
"I don't want to do time if they've got me with the goods. And then some darn lawyer might make me give somebody else away by accident. You can't tell. I'll stay out with you. Where are you heading for?" "I was aimin' to hit Bull's Pass, drop over the summit into the valley of the Klimminchuck, and camp somewheres.
It lay below him, ashimmer in the summer sun, a panorama of green, light and dark of shade, with the silver ribbon of the Klimminchuck appearing and disappearing down its length. It was, perhaps, as beautiful a mountain valley scene as eye ever beheld; but Sandy McCrae would not have looked at it twice save for a thin, gray thread which appeared above the treetops some miles away.
They held to the pass, as did the hoofprints, eventually dropping down into the valley of the Klimminchuck, where they camped for the night beside the ford, cooked supper, unrolled their blankets, and lay by the fire, smoking. "This bunch of hosses," the sheriff observed, "seems to have split up here. Two or three of 'em crossed over, but the most went down the valley. What's down there?"
Farther down the Klimminchuck they turned up a nameless tributary creek, following its course with difficulty, for the way was choked with down timber and slides, until they reached a beautiful little basin high up above the valley. There the creek had its source or sources; for the drainings of the basin were collected in a little lake lying beneath bare cliffs.
They camped that night near the summit, and next day dropped down into a valley, narrow, wooded, picturesque, where the Klimminchuck raced southward; and, following its course, camped at the edge of a beaver meadow, feasting on trout fresh caught from a deep pool beneath a short fall. And in the morning, still following the stream, they came to the trappers' cabin, set in a grove of young spruce.
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