The White Goat and his Country 



inchoate hotel. The rest may be seen upon 

 blue-print maps, where you would suppose 

 Bridgeport was a teeming metropolis. At 

 Port Columbia, which we reached by a land- 

 slide sort of road that slanted the stage over 

 and put the twin Jew drummers in mortal 

 fear, we slept in one of the two buildings 

 which indicate that town. It is another im- 

 portant center, in blue print, but invisible 

 to the naked eye. In the morning, a rope 

 ferry floated the new stage and us travelers 

 across the river. The Okanagon flows south 

 from lakes and waters above the British line, 

 and joins the Columbia here. We entered 

 its valley at once, crossed it soon by another 

 rope ferry, and keeping northward, with the 

 river to the east between us and the Colville 

 Reservation, had one good meal at noon, and 

 entering a smaller valley, reached Ruby that 

 evening. Here the stage left me to continue 

 its way to Conconally, six miles further on. 

 With the friends who had come to meet me, I 

 ascended out of Ruby the next day over the 

 abrupt hill westward, and passing one night 

 out in my blankets near a hospitable but 

 limited cabin (its flowing-haired host fed us, 



31 



