Uncle Dave listened thoughtfully. “Wall, boy,” he said cheerily, “many’s the time I’ve had to find a new trail by makin’ it. This idee came to me last night, but I didn’t say anything till I’d slept on it. We might make a good haul by hitchin’ up together. I’m gittin’ a little too stiff to chase around after the traps, but I kin skin beaver and stretch the hides as spry as ever; and I reckon you kin larn the business quick enough if you’ll listen to me. There are some streams up here that are full o’ fur--flat-tails and mink--and otter, too, though they ain’t so plenty. I b’lieve we kin make some money.” Fred’s heart lightened as he saw this clearing through his thicket of troubles. “I’ll do it in a minute,” he said, “if I can find a way to make mother comfortable.” “As to that,” said Uncle Dave, “I think I kin let you hev some money out of my rainy day savin’s. You can pay me when we cash our pelts in the spring.” “That’s mighty good of you,” responded the boy, “but I’m afraid you are too generous.” “Tut, tut, boy! jest write your mother and make it right with her. I’ll do the rest.” So the plan was settled. “If this storm clears to-day, as it ’pears likely to, I’ll take ye up the mountain to help ye git the lay o’ things. We’ll need some more meat anyway.” The mountaineer’s weather instinct proved true. A clear sunset followed by a sharp night brought the morning sky out clear and crisp. Before the sun was very high, the two were well up the wooded slopes. Uncle Dave led the way; Fred, leading old Buck, brought up the rear. Their trail led through a wildly beautiful country. Autumn had flung a riot of colors over the leaves and grasses. Wild life was astir. The pine hens, startled from their morning meal among the seeds and berries, would whir from the ground and perch up in the trees within easy reach of Fred’s shotgun. He bagged half a dozen of the blue fantails, then tied his gun to his horse; for as Uncle Dave suggested, they weren’t “out on a murderin’ expedition, like tom fool dudes.” A climb of about two hours brought them up to the rim of the first range. As they lifted to the top, a panorama of craggy grandeur burst into full view. A wild mountain valley patched with pine and aspen groves lay below them. Its farther side--a mighty saw-tooth range of jagged granite peaks, barren, savage spires and broken domes and buttresses of ragged rock, streaked with ancient snow banks--towered high into the blue. Shaggy canyons, down which foaming streams leaped and shouted, had made great chasms in the face of the range, scarring and carving it into fantastic forms. The valley floor was gentler, a meadowy, flower-tangled stretch of quiet beauty. The streams here, though still playful, had spread in places into delightful little lakes, glimpses of which could be caught shining through the trees. “That’s the doin’s of the flat-tails,” remarked Uncle Dave, as they paused on the summit to breathe a spell.