Capilano himself was without a rival as a spearman.  He knew the moods of the Fraser River, the habits of its thronging tenants, as no other man has ever known them before or since.  He knew every isle and inlet along the coast, every boulder, the sand-bars, the still pools, the temper of the tides.  He knew the spawning-grounds, the secret streams that fed the larger rivers, the outlets of rock-bound lakes, the turns and tricks of swirling rapids.  He knew the haunts of bird and beast and fish and fowl, and was master of the arts and artifice that man must use when matching his brain against the eluding wiles of the untamed creatures of the wilderness.

Once only did his cunning fail him, once only did Nature baffle him with her mysterious fabric of waterways and land-lures.  It was when he was led to the mouth of the unknown river, which has evaded discovery through all the centuries, but which—­so say the Indians—­still sings on its way through some buried channel that leads from the lake to the sea.

He had been sealing along the shores of what is now known as Point Grey.  His canoe had gradually crept inland, skirting up the coast to the mouth of False Creek.  Here he encountered a very king of seals, a colossal creature that gladdened the hunter’s eyes as game worthy of his skill.  For this particular prize he would cast the elk-bone spear.  It had never failed his sire, his grandsire, his great-grandsire.  He knew it would not fail him now.  A long, pliable, cedar-fibre rope lay in his canoe.  Many expert fingers had woven and plaited the rope, had beaten and oiled it until it was soft and flexible as a serpent.  This he attached to the spearhead, and with deft, unerring aim cast it at the king seal.  The weapon struck home.  The gigantic creature shuddered, and, with a cry like a hurt child, it plunged down into the sea.  With the rapidity and strength of a giant fish it scudded inland with the rising tide, while Capilano paid out the rope its entire length, and, as it stretched taut, felt the canoe leap forward, propelled by the mighty strength of the creature which lashed the waters into whirlpools, as though it was possessed with the power and properties of a whale.

Up the stretch of False Creek the man and monster drove their course, where a century hence great city bridges were to over-arch the waters.  They strove and struggled each for the mastery; neither of them weakened, neither of them faltered—­the one dragging, the other driving.  In the end it was to be a matching of brute and human wits, not forces.  As they neared the point where now Main Street bridge flings its shadow across the waters, the brute leaped high into the air, then plunged headlong into the depths.  The impact ripped the rope from Capilano’s hands.  It rattled across the gunwale.  He stood staring at the spot where it had disappeared—­the brute had been victorious.  At low tide the Indian made search.  No trace of his game, of his precious