For several hundred miles in any direction we knew of only one other
party of whites. They had journeyed up on the train with us, getting in
at North Bay, and hailing from Boston way. A common goal and object had
served by way of introduction. But the acquaintance had made little
progress. This noisy, aggressive Yankee did not suit our fancy much as a
possible neighbour, and it was only a slight intimacy between his chief
guide, Jake the Swede, and one of our men that kept the thing going at
all. They went into camp on Beaver Creek, fifty miles and more to the
west of us.
But that was six weeks ago, and seemed as many months, for days and
nights pass slowly in these solitudes and the scale of time changes
wonderfully. Our men always seemed to know by instinct pretty well "whar
them other fellows was movin'," but in the interval no one had come
across their trails, or once so much as heard their rifle shots.
Our little camp consisted of the professor, his wife, a splendid shot
and keen woods-woman, and myself. We had a guide apiece, and hunted
daily in pairs from before sunrise till dark.
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