"In the midst of a rapid one does not count the cost
of the line."
At night we camped in a glorious red sunset, just above the Boiler
Rapid. On the shore was a pile of flour in sacks, inscribed in
Cree, "Gordon his flour."
Here it was, the most prized foreign product in the country, lying
unprotected by the highway, and no man seemed to think the owner
foolish. Whatever else, these Indians are, they are absolutely
honest.
The heavenly weather of the Indian Summer was now upon us. We
had left all storms and frost behind, and the next day, our final
trouble, the lack of food, was ended. A great steamer hove in
sight - at least it looked like a steamer - but, steadily coming on,
it proved a scow with an awning and a stove on it. The boys soon
recognised the man at the bow as William Gordon, trader at Fort
McMurray. We hailed him to stop when he was a quarter of a mile
ahead, and he responded with his six sturdy oarsmen; but such was
the force of the stream that he did not reach the shore till a
quarter-mile below us.
"Hello, boys, what's up?" He shouted in the brotherly way that
all white men seem to get when meeting another of their race in a
savage land.
