thicket, fired at, and grievously wounded the Hudson Bay officer belonging to the fort, and now close to the same spot a small cross marked that officer’s last resting-place.  Strange fate! he had escaped the Blackfoot’s bullet only to be the first to succumb to the deadly epidemic.  I cannot say that Carlton was at all a lively place of sojourn.  Its natural gloom was considerably deepened by the events of the last few months, and the whole place seemed to have received the stamp of death upon it.  To add to the general depression, provisions were by no means abundant, the few Indians that had come in from the plains brought the same tidings of unsuccessful chase—­for the buffalo were “far out” on the great prairie, and that phrase “far out,” applied to buffalo, means starvation in the North-west.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN.

The Saskatchewan—­Start from Carlton—­Wild Mares—­Lose our Way—­A long Ride-Battle River—­Mistawassis the Cree—­A Dance.

Two things strike the new-comer at Carlton.  First, he sees evidences on every side of a rich and fertile country; and, secondly, he sees by many signs that war is the normal condition of the wild men who have pitched their tents in the land of the Saskatchewan that land from which we have taken the Indian prefix Kis, without much improvement of length or euphony.  It is a name but little known to the ear of the outside world, but destined one day or other to fill its place in the long list of lands whose surface yields back to man, in manifold, the toil of his brain and hand.  Its boundaries are of the simplest description, and it is as well to begin with them.  It has on the north a huge forest, on the west a huge mountain, on the south an immense desert, on the east an immense marsh.  From the forest to the desert there lies a distance varying from 40 to 150 miles, and from the marsh to the mountain, 800 miles of land lie spread in every varying phase of undulating fertility.  This is the Fertile Belt, the land of the Saskatchewan, the winter home of the buffalo, the war country of the Crees and Blackfeet, the future home of millions yet unborn.  Few men have looked on this land-but the thoughts of many in the New World tend towards it, and crave for description and fact which in many instances can only be given to them at second-hand.

Like all things in this world, the Saskatchcwan has its poles of opinion; there are those who paint it a paradise, and those who picture it a hell.  It is unfit for habitation, it is to be the garden-spot of America—­it is too cold, it is too dry—­it is too beautiful; and, in reality, what is it?  I answer in a few words.  It is rich; it is fertile; it is fair to the eye.  Man lives long in it, and the children of his body are cast in manly mould.  The cold of winter is intense, the strongest heat of summer is not excessive.  The autumn days are bright and-beautiful; the snow is seldom deep, the