At last we are off, keeping sharp look-out for the lost scow.  Buffalo River, where we pull up for the night, is a recognized camping-place.  The men know where to put their hands on old-time tent-poles, the boys dig out shin-bones of the moose,—­the relics of some former feast,—­which they gnaw as a puppy mumbles an old bone.

Another manifestation of gas is here.  It bubbles up on the shore and through the water at the boat’s bow, and as we strike a match the whole surface flames like the brandy on a Christmas plum-pudding.  On the opposite side of the river are “lobsticks,” a new word to us and a new thing.  To stand as a living totem-pole, the Indians select on a striking promontory a tall spruce and from a section of the trunk lop all the branches except two, which are left as wings.  If the lobstick is to stand a monument to a certain man or party, the names of those to be honored are written in Cree on an attached slab.  We were to notice lobsticks from point to point along the rest of our journey, some of them indicating good hunting-grounds or fishing-places back from the shore, but most of them memorials of happenings on the river.

The Little Buffalo carries to the Athabasca its noisy current between two high escarpments, and on the shelf leading back from the banks of the main stream is a far-reaching plateau of splendidly-fertile land.  In the scow next us the two young Crees who are preparing the food for our evening “meat-su” carry on a religious controversy as they slice the sow-belly.  We gather that one has been taken into the Protestant fold and that the other follows the priests.  Duncan Tremble comes down and cuffs them both soundly, putting an end to the argument with, “It’s all the same as the other, just like the Hudson’s Bay Company and the free trader.  Each one tells you his goods is the best and the other is nee-moy-yuh mee-wah-sin (no good).  It’s that way with the God-goods of the white men.  Each church tells you that his is the best, but they all come down to us in the same scow, both the priest and the missionary.”

Next morning we are all keyed-up for the rapids, and about six miles down we encounter the Brule, the first one, and take it square in mid-channel.  We ship a little water, but pass through it all too soon, for the compelling grandeur of the Brule grips one.  The river here is held between vertical walls of the reddest of red sandstone against which the lush greenery makes a striking contrast.  Twenty miles below is the Boiler Rapid.  It got its name not from its churning water but because the boiler of the steamer Wrigley was lost here and still remains at the bottom of the basin.  The walls of this rapid are as clear-cut as if wrought into smoothness by mallet and chisel.  The tar-soaked sands appear off and on all the way to McMurray.  Next comes the Long Rapid (Kawkinwalk Abowstick), which we run close to its right bank.