But he declined, saying: "I'd like to, awfully; but do you know, I think Latour expects me." This consideration of Latour's feelings almost upset me.
"You come with me," he added, and I went.
Latour welcomed us with his grim old face wreathed in unusual smiles.
The pilot had been talking to him, too.
"I've got it, Latour!" he cried out as he entered; "here you are," and he broke into the beautiful French-Canadian chanson, "A la Claire Fontaine," to the old half-breed's almost tearful delight.
"Do you know," he went on, "I heard that first down the Mattawa," and away he went into a story of an experience with French-Canadian raftsmen, mixing up his French and English in so charming a manner that Latour; who in his younger days long ago had been a shantyman himself, hardly knew whether he was standing on his head or on his heels.
After tea I proposed a ride out to see the sunset from the nearest rising ground.

Latour, with unexampled generosity, offered his own cayuse, "Louis." "I can't ride well," protested The Pilot.
"Ah! dat's good ponee, Louis," urged Latour.

"He's quiet lak wan leetle mouse; he's ride lak--what you call ?--wan horse-on-de-rock." Under which persuasion the pony was accepted.
That evening I saw the Swan Creek country with new eyes--through the luminous eyes of The Pilot.

We rode up the trail by the side of the Swan till we came to the coulee mouth, dark and full of mystery.
"Come on," I said, "we must get to the top for the sunset." He looked lingeringly into the deep shadows and asked: "Anything live down there ?" "Coyotes and wolves and ghosts." "Ghosts ?" he asked, delightedly.

"Do you know, I was sure there were, and I'm quite sure I shall see them." Then we took the Porcupine trail and climbed for about two miles the gentle slope to the top of the first rising ground.