So far there had been no sign of Indians among the mountains; and now the canoe was gliding along calm waters when savages suddenly sprang out of a thicket, brandishing spears.  The crew became panic-stricken; but Mackenzie stepped fearlessly ashore, offered the hostiles presents, shook hands, and made his camp with them.  The savages told him that he was nearing a portage across the Divide.  One of them went with Mackenzie the next day as guide.  The river narrowed to a small tarn—­the source of Peace River; and a short portage over rocky ground brought the canoe to a second tarn emptying into a river that, to Mackenzie’s disappointment, did not flow west, but south.  He had crossed the Divide, the first white man to cross the continent in the North; but how could he know whether to follow this stream?  It might lead east to the Saskatchewan.  As a matter of fact, he was on the sources of the Fraser, that winds for countless leagues south through the mountains before turning westward for the Pacific.

Full of doubt and misgivings, uncertain whether he had crossed the Divide at all, Mackenzie ordered the canoe down this river.  Snowy peaks were on every side.  Glaciers lay along the mountain tarns, icy green from the silt of the glacier grinding over rock; and the river was hemmed in by shadowy canons with roaring cascades that compelled frequent portage.  Mackenzie wanted to walk ahead, in order to lighten the canoe and look out for danger; but fear had got in the marrow of his men.  They thought that he was trying to avoid risks to which he was exposing them; and they compelled him to embark, vowing, if they were to perish, he was to perish with them.

To quiet their fears, Mackenzie embarked with them.  Barely had they pushed out when the canoe was caught by a sucking undercurrent which the paddlers could not stem—­a terrific rip told them that the canoe had struck—­the rapids whirled her sideways and away she went down-stream—­the men jumped out, but the current carried them to such deep water that they were clinging to the gunwales as best they could when, with another rip, the stern was torn clean out of the canoe.  The blow sent her swirling—­another rock battered the bow out—­the keel flattened like a raft held together only by the bars.  Branches hung overhead.  The bowman made a frantic grab at these to stop the rush of the canoe—­he was hoisted clear from his seat and dropped ashore.  Mackenzie jumped out up to his waist in ice-water.  The steersman had yelled for each to save himself; but Mackenzie shouted out a countermand for every man to hold on to the gunwales.  In this fashion they were all dragged several hundred yards till a whirl sent the wreck into a shallow eddy.  The men got their feet on bottom, and the wreckage was hauled ashore.  During the entire crisis the Indians sat on top of the canoe, howling with terror.