Produced by Al Haines [Frontispiece: Stealing from the Fort by Night.] Pathfinders of the West BEING THE THRILLING STORY OF THE ADVENTURES OF THE MEN WHO DISCOVERED THE GREAT NORTHWEST RADISSON, LA VERENDRYE, LEWIS AND CLARK BY A. C. LAUT AUTHOR OF "LORDS OF THE NORTH," "HERALDS OF EMPIRE," "STORY OF THE TRAPPER" ILLUSTRATIONS BY REMINGTON, GOODWIN, MARCHAND AND OTHERS NEW YORK GROSSET & DUNLAP PUBLISHERS COPYRIGHT, 1904, By THE MACMILLAN COMPANY. Set up and electrotyped. Published November, 1904. Reprinted February, 1906. WILDWOOD PLACE, WASSAIC, N.Y. August 15, 1904. DEAR MR. SULTE: A few years ago, when I was a resident of the Far West and tried to trace the paths of early explorers, I found that all authorities--first, second, and third rate--alike referred to one source of information for their facts. The name in the tell-tale footnote was invariably your own. While I assume _all_ responsibility for upsetting the apple cart of established opinions by this book, will you permit me to dedicate it to you as a slight token of esteem to the greatest living French-Canadian historian, from whom we have all borrowed and to whom few of us have rendered the tribute due? Faithfully, AGNES C. LAUT. MR. BENJAMIN SULTE, PRESIDENT ROYAL SOCIETY, OTTAWA, CANADA. THE GREAT NORTHWEST I love thee, O thou great, wild, rugged land Of fenceless field and snowy mountain height, Uprearing crests all starry-diademed Above the silver clouds! A sea of light Swims o'er thy prairies, shimmering to the sight A rolling world of glossy yellow wheat That runs before the wind in billows bright As waves beneath the beat of unseen feet, And ripples far as eye can see--as far and fleet! Here's chances for every man! The hands that work Become the hands that rule! Thy harvests yield Only to him who toils; and hands that shirk Must empty go! And here the hands that wield The sceptre work! O glorious golden field! O bounteous, plenteous land of poet's dream! O'er thy broad plain the cloudless sun ne'er wheeled But some dull heart was brightened by its gleam To seize on hope and realize life's highest dream! Thy roaring tempests sweep from out the north-- Ten thousand cohorts on the wind's wild mane-- No hand can check thy frost-steeds bursting forth To gambol madly on the storm-swept plain! Thy hissing snow-drifts wreathe their serpent train, With stormy laughter shrieks the joy of might-- Or lifts, or falls, or wails upon the wane-- Thy tempests sweep their stormy trail of white Across the deepening drifts--and man must die, or fight!