All throughout this long trek, swimming rivers, getting through jamb-piles, over muskegs; hail, rain, blow and snow, my old banjo survived. It had, as a matter of fact been a good companion and helped cheer us up and pass many a weary hour, right from the start of the voyage on board ship, and also on the slow going train bound west and even, at times, on the trail.
Bill was a particularly good step dancer and singer, which had, as a rule packed our car on the way across country. Many and evening we passed away singing old popular songs. On the trail the banjo was brought out when we were not too dog tired, after a terrific day’s struggle — times when it needed all one’s powers of self-control to prevent quarreling with anybody, or everybody who came near. There was the amusing side too, such as up in the mountains, when Indians squatted on their haunches all round us. They rarely speak, nor do they ask for food, but it is always the custom to pass them a dish of beans, which, of course, is the staple diet. After we had finished our meal, and put on our pipes, the smoke of the fires slowly blowing across, sometimes, partly for a lark, we would start up the banjo, and Bill his song and dance. It was worth while just to see the looks on those Indians’ faces. Their features always seem carved out of stone, and it is considered the worst form for them to register any surprise, but to hear the sound coming out of that banjo usually beat them, and immediately it was put down, they would gather round and peer into it, to see where the sound came from.
How that old banjo survived beats me. It always seemed to come up smiling even after swimming a river or working through a forest.
One follows the old buffalo trails which almost invariably lead to a ford, also wherever buffalo could go between the trees, so also could a pack horse pass between them. I have, on more than one occasion, seen the banjo athwart two trees, and old Rufus gently putting pressure on it, wondering, I expect, what sort of a fool I was to make up his pack so badly that he couldn’t get through. As a matter of fact, the banjo was always just lightly placed on top of the pack, and was apt to swing across. However, nothing was ever broken, all credit to the old boy.
For day and days we would be plodding on through forests, hardly ever seeing the sun. Then, just like walking out of a door, you walk out from amongst the trees, with nothing but the prairie in front of you, without even a shrub in sight; nothing but limitless snow.
On one occasion, after being several days in the open, we arrived at the edge of one of these forests, and camped for our midday meal before diving in. It was obvious to even the most inexperienced that something very special in the way of storms was brewing. A heavy bank was coming up as black as night, but full of beans (literally and metaphorically) we would be hard cases and allow nothing in the way of weather to stop us. We still had to learn that, above all, discretion is the watchword in that hard country. So, having finished our meal, we once again hit the trail. It was not long before snow, in the powdery, dusty form which it always takes in the interior of Canada, was sweeping through the trees, growing thicker and thicker every minute. It never snows in flakes; always this fine dust, which on the open prairie will suffocate a man in a few minutes. We stuck to the trail for a couple of hours until it completely disappeared. We realised we had lost the trail when one of the horses went over the edge of the cliff and rolled to the bottom. By the time we got him and his pack up again we decided we had had enough, and finding a suitable spot, went into camp. The first thing was to get a fire going, and in this country one always carries a bit of birch bark. This will burn and burn brightly under almost any conditions; very nearly under water. With this, and a few pine branches, it is always possible to start a good blaze, and if one can get hold of willow then you can have all the heat you want, and no smoke. We were glad to get any fire whatever, so just dropped jackpines across it, and as it burned up, so cut down bigger and bigger trees, until we had one gigantic bonfire going, throwing out a tremendous and mighty welcome warmth for some dozen or two yards all round. It was the only way to hope to hold off the snow and get any degree of comfort.
A weird sight, in the middle of this Canadian forest. Sitting around a gigantic fire, the horses’ tails to wind, nothing but an impenetrable canopy of snow all round, but so great was the heat from the fire, and so fine the snow, that it actually melted and evaporated before it could touch the ground. The upper part of the trees, in fact trees twenty yards from us were out of sight in the snow, and yet where we were, within the snow walls, was warm and dry. Soon we had the billy going, and a pan full of pork and beans on a fire. Wet clothes and wet blankets, which had been under the pack saddles, hanging up to dry. Even the crashing of an occasional tree could not keep us awake. We slept and dreamt of the gold we were surely going to find some time soon.
A few days later we did actually make our strike. It came about when we had been choosing our camp for the night. In this choice there are two essential factors, food and water for the horses. It may be a swamp — it frequently was; and in that case you can cut yourself some perfectly good boughs of jackpines and make out as comfortably as you can; but grass there must be. On this occasion, where we were prospecting was on a creek, and next morning while some of the party went off with their rifles, others, of whom I was one, went down to the creek with gold pan and shovel to “wash.”
This washing out, on bars and banks, had just about become a rite by this time. As a matter of course one shouldered gold pan and shovel, and trudged off whenever a river showed up. To a certain extent, it had become perfunctory, although there was always the suspense and the latent thrill as to whether “colours” would show up. You take a shovel of pay dirt, throw it into a pan of water, and commence by giving it a heaving circular motion, which sends the water swirling round, stirring up all solid matter in the pan. The lighter earth, smaller shingle and gravel quickly flow over the edge as dip after dip of water is taken, until, finally, there is nothing left but black sand, and in this resides the float gold, which is separated and collected by introducing about a teaspoonful of mercury to which the gold adheres. Then, squeezing the mercury through chamois leather, you have a little nugget of gold left behind — if you are lucky.
I forget whose pan it was that first got down to the black sand, but there was a yell, “We’ve found.” Everybody dropped everything and dashed over to see what it was. Sure enough, there were the colours shining bright and clear as the pan with the residue of black sand and a little water, was given that final scientific twirl which throws the black sand forward and leaves trailing out behind the glittering specks of gold.
There is only the last test; viz., application of muriatic acid. If it is gold, it only shines the brighter, but if it is false, maybe mica, it will at once turn black, and disappear.
Our next call was for the acid, which could not be found. Evidently it was stowed away in some chap’s pack who, at that moment, was off with his rifle trying to pick up a stew for the pot. Nowhere could we discover the muriatic, but we had some acetic acid, and with this we decided to give it a try-out, until we could make the proper test.