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Updated: May 17, 2025
It was no longer pleasant to sleep out in the hay. For the sake of warmth alone they were obliged to hire their night's lodging at cheap hotels. Spring was full in the land they had left: it was just beginning here. The mountains, visible from the village of Saltsville where they left the railroad, were still swept with snow.
And before they were fully unpacked they made out the figure of a middle-aged frontiersman, his back loaded, advancing up the road toward them. Both men knew something of the ways of the frontier and turned in greeting. "Howdy," Ezram began pleasantly. "Howdy," the stranger replied. "How was goin'?" "Oh, good enough." "Come all the way from Saltsville?" "Yes. Goin' to Snowy Gulch."
His old-time woodsman's pleasures were recalled again: shooting waterfowl for their mess in the still dawns, racing the swimming moose when they ran on him in the water. One day, fish hungry, he rigged up the elementary fishing tackle that they had brought from Saltsville and tried for a salmon.
"It's only five miles, up this road," the stranger ventured. "I'm goin' up Saltsville way myself, but I won't have no river to tow me. I've got to do my own paddlin'. Thank the lord I'm only goin' a small part of the way." "You ain't goin' to swim, are you? Where's your boat." "My pard's got an old craft, and he and I are goin' to pack it out next trip." The stranger paused, blinking his eyes.
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