272 THE ARCTIC PRAIRIES 



smells, combined with the excitement of letters from 

 home, banished sleep until morning came, and, of 

 course, I got a bad cold, the first I had had all sum- 

 mer. 



Here I said "good-bye" to old Weeso. He grinned 

 a;ffably, and when I asked what he would like for a 

 present said, "Send me an axe like yours." There were 

 three things in my outfit that aroused the cupidity of 

 nearly every Indian, the Winchester rifle, the Peter- 

 boro canoe and the Marble axe, "the axe that swallows 

 its face." Weeso had a rifle, we could not spare or 

 send him a canoe, so I promised to send him the axe. 

 Post is slow, but it reached him six months later and 

 I doubt not is even now doing active service. 



Having missed the last steamer, we must go on by 

 canoe. Canoeing up the river meant "tracking" all 

 the way; that is, the canoe must be hauled up with a 

 line, by a man walking on the banks; hard work need- 

 ing not only a strong, active man, but one who knows 

 the river. Through the kindness of J. McLeneghan, 

 of the Swiggert Trading Company, I was spared the 

 horrors of my previous efforts to secure help at Fort 

 Resolution, and George Sanderson, a strong young 

 half-breed, agreed to take me to Fort Smith for $2.00 

 a day and means of returning. George was a famous 

 hunter and fisher, and a "good man" to travel. I 

 marked his broad shoulders and sinewy, active form 

 with joy, especially in view of his reputation. In one 

 respect he was different from all other half-breeds that 

 I ever knew — he always gave a straight answer. Ask 

 an ordinary half-breed, or western white man, indeed, 



