Ben, the Trapper; or The Mountain Demon

CHAPTER II. THE GRIZZLY BEAR.

Ben Miffin strode on in advance of both the others, leading his horse, loaded with camp utensils, by the bridle. This man was known far and wide upon the prairies, as a skillful trapper, a bold hunter, and an Indian fighter of great renown. He had one quality which was his own, in common with many of his class—of boasting of his exploits. Perhaps this trait was a part of his frontier education, learned from the Indians. At any rate Ben exhibited the strange anomaly of a boaster who was at the same time a brave man. The scars upon his body were taken in many a bloody fight along the Yellowstone, by the Platte, on the Washington, and in the Sierras. His step was free and firm in spite of his fifty-five years, and the gray hairs sprinkled in his heavy beard and mustache.

The road lay through a growth of scattered pines, such as grow upon the Black Hills, and among others a few specimens of the nut-pine, known only in the West. Ben stooped to pick up one of the cones, and as he was tearing off the husk to get at the seed he heard a sound which caused him to drop the cone and seize his rifle. The sound was a grunt resembling the grunt of a hog, and looking up, he saw, a few feet from him, an enormous grizzly bear, standing with his head cocked on one side in a knowing manner, regarding the trio in a way which seemed to say that he hesitated to decide which of the three would make the best meal. There is no living mountaineer who does not fear the grizzly bear. Their strength and ferocity can not be fairly stated. Ben knew the danger he had to encounter, and was ready to meet it like a man. The Frenchman aimed his rifle at the animal, but dropped it again at the stern signal of Ben Miffin’s hand, who never removed his keen eyes from those of the fierce animal. Cooper says in “The Pioneers,” “There is something in the front of the image of his Creator that daunts the hearts of the inferior beings of creation.” And the great student of nature was right. No one knew better than Ben Miffin the power of the human eye, and his never quailed.

“Let me shoot,” whispered Jules.

“For your life, don’t!” muttered Ben. “Hold yer charge tell I give ye the word, and then let him hev it.”

“I can shoot him while he stands still,” replied Jules.

“Mind me,” was the reply. “Keep yer eye on the brute all the time. ’Tain’t no use to fire; his hide is like a sheet of iron. Bullets flatten ag’in’ it like paper-balls. Darn my hide ef they don’t. He’s got his eye on my hoss; he kain’t hev it, mind ye.”

All this was said almost in a whisper. The bear had not moved, but was standing in the same place, shifting his head to and fro to get away from the eye of the intrepid man. Ben knew his advantage, but between keeping his young companion from firing, and watching the bear, he had his hands full. At last the bear rose slowly on his hind legs, and opening his jaws, uttered a terrific growl, at the same time showing a set of long, white teeth, at the sight of which poor Jan, who was crouching behind a rock, uttered a yell of terror.

“Keep still, you durned fool,” said Ben, without turning his head. “You’ll bring him on us ef you show the white feather thet thar way.”

Still he kept the eye of the bear. The brute lowered himself upon all fours and suddenly began to retreat. He had not gone ten paces, however, when he turned again and rose upon his hind feet, repeating the menacing growl which he had uttered before.

“Och! Mein Cott!” muttered Jan. “Our vader vich art—goot saints, vat teet’! Dere ish no more as fivifty teet’ in hees jaw. I dinks I ish mooch ’fraid.”

The bear again dropped on all fours and turned his head up the rocks. But Miffin, who had restrained himself well until now, jerked his rifle to his shoulder and fired. The ball had hardly left the barrel when the savage brute, with a broken fore shoulder, came down the slope on three legs, with growls which made the blood of the Dutchman run cold in his veins, and wish himself safely back in fatherland. But he took up the gun he had brought with him from the Rhine, a gun on the pattern of the roer of southern Africa, and with his heart in his throat awaited the onset. Jules Damand fired one ineffectual shot at the savage brute, and then drew his pistols. Ben Miffin saw that he had brought this on the party, and that he was the one to be sacrificed, if any. He drew his knife and was about to close with the bear, when the Frenchman dragged him away.

“Climb a tree,” he said. “Take your gun with you.”

Each darted at a low pine, and scrambled up as soon as possible, just in time to escape the fury of the brute. He reared himself on his hind legs at the foot of the tree occupied by the trapper, and glared at him seated comfortably in the lower branches. The mouth of the bear was open, and the white foam dropping from the red tongue. He lowered his head and licked the blood from his wounded shoulder. The taste of blood made him more savage, and he gnawed at the tree with his white teeth.

“Where are you, Jan?” cried Ben, not seeing the Dutchman anywhere. “Have you got to a tree?”

“Nein!” replied Jan from behind his rock, “dere ish no dree here. I ish kilt! I ish eaten oop mit a pear! Ach mein Cott! vy you don’t shoot ’im? Vire mit de gun at ’im. Dere ish no hope vor boor Jan Schneider, dat ish drue; so help me der saints!”

“Keep yer mouth shet,” replied Ben. “The b’ar may miss ye. But ef he noses ye out, dig fer a tree, that’s all.”

The bear evidently suspected the presence of some one else, though he had only seen the two he had treed. He began to nose about the ground, making toward the horses. But they fled at his approach, and he stopped a little way from the rock where Jan was hidden and began to snuff the air. He then advanced toward the rock.

“Look out thar!” cried Ben; “he noses ye now. Climb up on the rock.”

Jan scrambled to the top of the rock, still clinging to his gun. The grizzly reared his ponderous bulk against the rock and saw his enemy. The growl he uttered caused cold shivers to begin at the top of the Dutchman’s head and chase one another down his back and into his boots. The only hope he had was in the gun. He thrust it forward and was about to fire, when his bearship lifted his paw and gave it a playful tap, which knocked it out of the poor fellow’s hand, and sent it flying down the other side of the rock. But Jan caught it by the stock and pulled it back. The bear began to climb up the rock, but moved with difficulty, for one leg was useless to him, and every movement was accompanied by a growl of pain. Ben Miffin had by this time loaded his rifle, but the body of Jan was directly between him and the bear, and he dared not fire. The gun of the Dutchman was loaded with a handful of buckshot. As the bear came nearer he lifted the wonderful weapon and pulled trigger. A noise like the report of a small cannon followed, and Jan was knocked headlong from his perch, falling on his head and shoulders nearly ten feet away. He was up in an instant, running for a tree, fearing to feel the claws of the bear in his back at every step. He reached the tree, tugged his weight up to the branches and uttered a shout of joy. He was safe for the present.

“How does ye feel?” said Ben from his tree.

“You’s nice man to shtand py a frent!” said Jan, in high dudgeon. “You’s goot feller. I dinks I cooms out here goot many dimes more mit you. Off auver a man is a good fiter, he vas fite den mit der pear. You’s a coward, Penn Miffin.”

“Yer safe in yer tree, or durn me ef I wouldn’t giv’ ye the darndest lickin’ ye ever got in all yer life. I would, by gravy. Does ye think a man like me is gwine to stand thet thar? I reckon not. I ruther calculate ye’ve barked up the wrong tree. Jest wait tell I git down, and I’ll chop ye inter kindlin’ wood. Thet’s as good as ef I swore to it.”

“Where is the bear?” said Jules. “I can’t see him.”

“No? Mebbe the Dutchman knocked him over with that blunderbuss of his’n—the darndest weepon! It’s got a muzzle like thet thar little cannon they’ve got at the Mackinaw. Mountain howt’zer they called it. Look sharp again, Jule; kain’t ye see him now?”

“Yes, Ben; he lies under the rock, with his head on his paws. He keeps very quiet.”

“Mebbe he’s shammin’,” said Ben. “Don’t ye go too nigh the durned critter. It’d be jest like him to git up and go fer ye the minnit yer feet teched the ground. Jan?”

“Vat?”

“Git down outer that tree and go an’ prick him with yer knife. Ef he don’t git up then we may safely conclude he’s a dead b’ar.”

“I ain’t a vool!” said Jan. “I don’t vant nottings more to do mit te pears. You go you’self unt brick him.”

“All right,” said Ben, “I’ll do it; and if he is a dead b’ar, I’ll take his sculp.”

“Dake him all,” said Jan. “I not vants him. Der duyvel! He ish von plack peast. I vash scared mit him.”

Ben got down from the tree and crept cautiously toward the rock, keeping it between himself and the bear. He reached it and drew himself carefully up the side. He found the gun lying on the rock where Jan had dropped it, and then, creeping forward, he looked down upon the grizzly. The first look was enough, and he hailed his companions with a shout.

“Safe?” said Jules.

“Dead as a hammer,” replied Ben.

Jules slid down from his tree and hastened to join his companion. The grizzly lay where he fell, and they could see that the heavy charge of the roer had passed into the ear of the dead brute, and blown a passage completely through his head.

“Vell, vat you dinks?” said Jan, still in his tree. “If youse vool me, unt dat pear ish not deat, I gits mad ash ter tuyvel.”

“Dead enough,” said Ben; “it’s all your durned luck. Come down and see him.”

Jan slowly left his tree, and came toward them in a hesitating manner, not yet satisfied that the savage was sufficiently dead to be safe. But even he was satisfied when he saw the hole the charge had made.

“Dere,” he said, “vat vas I dell you ven you laugh at mine gun. Dat ish goot gun; more ash petter ash goot. It kill dish pear. All right. Vy den you not kill him mit der little gun, eh?”

“Could do it, ef I had a chaince ter put the barrel clost to his head,” said Ben.

“Yaw. Vy you not do it, den?” said Jan. “Nobotty dinks you dare do it. I vash not ’vraid, I vash not clime a dree all pecause off a little pear like dat. I kills him mineself.”

“Ye run fast enough after ye shot yer blunderbuss,” said Ben. “But that ain’t it. Let’s git our hosses back again. I kin git mine easy enough.”

“How?” said Jules.

“This way,” replied Ben, raising his fingers to his lips. A loud, clear whistle rung through the hills. Directly after they heard the swift beat of coming hoofs, and the three horses appeared in view, led by the horse of Miffin. He advanced and seized his property, and the faithful animal laid his head against his master, whinnying his gladness. Ben stood a moment stroking his shining mane and his small, shapely head. The horse was a model of his kind—of the mustang breed so much in use upon the prairies. Of middle size, a pure white, with small head, deep chest and long body, with keen eyes and the light step of the deer. There is no better breed of horses in the world.

“Yes, yes, old boy,” said the trapper; “ye are one thet will always come at my whistle, no matter when I sound it.”

“Where did you get him?” said Jules, coming up, with the bridle of his own horse across his arm.

“From the Crows,” said Ben. “They are my friends yit. I’ll never need one on the prairies. I go back to them onc’t in a while and they always make a feast.”

“The horse is a beauty,” said Jules, glancing at him.

“He hasn’t his ekal on the prairies,” replied Ben. “Look fer him whar ye may, ye won’t find a hoss to go as far and do as much and do it as quick as Diamond. I’ll say thet fer him. I’ve got him to thank fer a life saved from the Blackfeet before now. But them days is done. I’m gettin’ to be an old man now. I feel it in my bones.”

“Old!” replied Jules. “I’d like to find your match now in this section.”

“That’s easy enough to do,” said Ben; “not but thet the time hez been when I was as spry a young chap as ye’d find atween the three Buttes and the Massasipp. I tell ye true, I’ve seen the time I could lick any thing on the prairie. I couldn’t do it now. I’m gittin’ too powerful weak, that’s the reason, and good enough reason, too. I c’u’d lift a buffler onc’t; I kain’t do it now. But I’m no chicken to-day.”

“Say,” said Jan, “vat you do mit my pear?”

“Leave him here now,” said Ben. “To-morrow I reckon we’ll come back and take him into camp.”

“Vat you do mit him?” queried Jan.

“Eat him, of course. Never hed any bear-steak, I guess. I calculate you’ll say it’s mighty refreshing fodder, once you git any of it.”

“Eat a pear! Vy, dat ish worser dan to eat vrog,” said Jan.

“No, not so bad,” said Ben, “only the frogs taste the best. I judge you can’t beat them very easy.”

“All right,” said Jan. “I eats any t’ing now; I eat a pear. I says nottings. Pring him vere Jule cook him, unt py tam, I eat him. Dat’s all.”

“We’ll teach ye something about frontier life by the time we git done with ye,” said Ben. “I ruther guess thet ye will see the time when a baked Injun won’t be a bad dish fer ye.”

“Paked Injun! Vat; you eat dem?”

“I reckon ther’ pooty good fodder too, when you ain’t got nothin’ else to feed on,” replied Ben, coolly.

“I dells you vat,” said Jan, getting angry again, “ven I cooms to dis coontry I dinks it must be goot coontry, but now I dinks it is no more petter ash a Feejee Island. I vill not eat paked Injun. ’Tish no good; dat ish vat I dinks.”

“Ye don’t know any thing about it,” said Ben. “After ye’v’ been on the prairie a while ye will git over thet and not be half so squeamish. Jest lose yer sculp onc’t, and ye’ll be ready to eat an Injun raw.”

“Stop dat. I veel very pad. I dinks dere is no Injun here.”

“Mebbe not. Mebbe the prairie down thar ain’t the’r old stamping-ground, and mebbe it is. Anyhow, I’ve got my opinion, and I’ll bet ye my fust beaver ag’in’ yours thet we see Injuns in less then a week.”

“I not likes Injuns.”

“Nuther do I. I calculate ther’s a good many of jest the same opinion on the prairies. They don’t like the sculpin’ process. I know a man thet hez been sculped and is as lively as a cricket now. More’n thet, he hez put forty notches in his rifle-butt sence the Blackfeet took his sculp.”

“Vat’s dat fer?”

“He makes a notch fer every red nigger he wipes out. But I hear the dam, boys, and there’s our campin’-ground.”

CHAPTER III. THE MOUNTAIN DEVIL.

CHAPTER IV. THE TRAPPING-GROUND.

The stream on which they halted was one of the tributaries of the Missouri, the Cache la Poudre, which flowed through the passes of the Black Hills not more than forty miles from Fort Laramie. From the place where they stood, they could see the peaks of the three brothers, the Buttes, raising their heads on high. Mount Laramie loomed up in the distance and at their feet the river poured on down the mountain-pass. Near the place where they stood, that sagacious animal, the beaver, had dammed the stream and made themselves homes. The round tops of the little huts rose above the water, and knowing heads were peeping out at the strange intruders.

In all probability, no other feet than those of Ben Miffin had ever trod the banks of the stream, if we except the Indian hunters. The entrance was narrow and crooked, and once in, the eternal rocks seemed to rise on every hand, inaccessible to mortal feet. Low growths of pine and the creeping forms of the cactus were the only vegetation. The silence was unbroken by a single sound. Ben looked at his companions in triumph. They had met him in St. Louis, and he had thought proper to reveal to them his discovery and make them partners in his toils. He was not avaricious, and he found them with no wealth except their weapons, eager to try his trapping-ground. He wished to better their condition, and had taken this way to do it. Personally, he knew nothing of them or their antecedents. But they had appealed to his sympathies in their destitution, and no man ever appealed to him in vain. He had a large heart, open always to the cry of the needy. In another sphere he would have been a philanthropist. In his own, he was only a true-hearted, simple man, with only one object, and that to live out his simple life as the Maker whom in his rough way he reverenced, would have him. Jan had told him wonderful tales of the prowess he had shown in hunting in southern Africa, where he had been when a young man. It only required a little of the rough experience of the prairie to show him that he was not the mighty Nimrod he had made himself out to be. But, Ben cared nothing for this, and was pleased with the eccentricities of the Dutchman.

“Thar,” said the trapper; “ain’t thet a sight fur sore eyes? Thar’s peltries enough in this yer stream to make us rich all summer.”

“Vat ish dem?” said Jan, pointing to the beaver-houses; “who live dere?”

“Injuns!” said Ben.

“Vat!” said Jan, leaping from the earth. “Vy den you cooms here? Vy den you no stay at home mit yourself unt not pring me out here vere dey lifs?”

“Ye never seen a beaver hut, I reckon,” said Ben. “Ye wouldn’t believe me when I tell ye thet them houses ar’ the work of beasts.”

“Who puild dem houses, den?”

“Beavers,” said Ben. “S’arch creation through, and I reckon ye won’t find any beast thet ken beat them. They’re carpenters, masons, and engineers; an’ they know the’r trade too.”

“Penn Miffin, you ish no more ash von liar. Vy you dry to fool me? How dem peavers coot down trees, eh?”

“With the’r teeth. A lot of ’em git at a tree thet stands close to the bank, and gnaw away at it till it falls over. Then they work away with sticks an’ stones to make the’r dam, an’ when thet is done they build the’r houses. You’d better believe they ain’t got the’r ekal anywhere in the ’arth. I’ll tell ye lots more about ’em, miss.”

“Thank you,” said Millicent.

“Vell, you cooms here to catch dem? Dey too smart,” said Jan.

“They are pooty smart, thet’s a fact,” said Ben. “But we manage to get the upper hand of ’em somehow. But thet’s neither here nor thar. Let’s make a cabin. The gal must hev a place to live in. Ye ken use an ax, can’t ye?”

“Yaw,” said Jan.

They had hoppled their horses and allowed them to stray at will about the inclosure, after the traps and furniture had been removed. Leaving their new friends together, each of the men attacked a pine about a foot through at the butt, and soon cut enough logs for their hut. Both Ben and Jules were old hands at this kind of work, and Jan, when he understood what was required of him, did good service. The logs were cut down, squared slightly, notched at the ends, and in a few hours they began to lay the first in their places. By the time it was dark they had raised the walls four feet from the ground.

“Knock off fur the night,” said Ben. “Let’s hev something more to eat.”

“Yaw,” said Jan, “dat ish coot. I pees so mooch hungry as nefer.”

“Ye’ve worked well, old man,” said Ben. “I say thet fur ye. Come, Jule, try yer hand at the cookery ag’in. Don’t make too much fire. Git dry wood. These yer pine branches make too much smoke unless the’r dry. Go up thar by the rocks. Thar’s an old pine cut down thar, and it will make a good fire. I cut it down when I were here before, miss.”

“Vy you ’vraid of too mooch vire, Penn?” asked Jan, looking doubtfully around.

“Ye don’t know the Blackfeet as well as I do, or ye wouldn’t ask the question,” said Ben. “Wet wood makes too much of a smoke, and a Blackfoot brave could see a smoke as fur off as ye could see a mountain.”

“Vell, vat ef he does?”

“Then he would come and sculp ye by the light of yer fire, ef he didn’t make up his mind to roast ye a little fust. Ther’ a pizen, sneakin’, murderin’ set, an’ would make no more of takin’ the sculp of a Dutchman, then I would of skinnin’ a beaver. Thet’s all.”

“Dey very near?” said Jan, looking fearful. “Vy you stay here?”

“We didn’t come out yer to play,” said Ben; “an’ the Blackfoot thet gits my sculp will hev to fight fer it. I’ve a likin’ fer my own ha’r. It growd thar, an’ thar it’s got to stay until things git so mixed up thet I kain’t raise a hand to fight fer it. I’m goin’ to make this yer place a fort before long.”

“How you do dat, Penn?”

“Never mind. I’ve no doubt the Blackfeet will nose us out ’fore we quit, an’ when they do, we’ve got to fight. I count you good fer three Injuns. I’m good fer ten, and Jule will wipe out eight. So you see they must bring down twenty-two to hev any left to do the sculpin’.”

“Jule ain’t goot for mooch. I can vip him so easy ash notting ever vas. I kills oct Injuns, unt he kills dree. Dat’s it.”

“I’ll eat the Injun when you kill him,” said Jules. “You’ll run from the first one you see.”

“Me run vrom an Injun. No, py der saints, I kill auvery one I see, same ash I kills de pear. You prave mans, you two. Climb oop trees, unt leave poor Dutchman all alone. Yaw; dat ish no goot.”

“See yer, Dutchy. I want you to go back to the bear and bring him in. I’m afraid the wolves will git at him ef we leave him thar. You wouldn’t have the wolves eat up your bear, would you?”

“I not got time to go pack,” said Jan. “I so hoongry, pesides I’m very tired.”

“Yer skeered. Thet’s what’s the matter with ye, Dutchy. Yer skeered half to death. Ye wouldn’t no more go back to thet b’ar then ye would fly. I ain’t quite so sure he’s dead, anyhow. Isn’t thet him comin’ down the hill yonder?”

Jan leaped up, clasped the trunk of a tree with both hands, and began to climb with might and main, while the others rolled over and over on the ground, bursting with laughter. By the time he reached the first branch he had collected sufficient fortitude to look about him, and could see no such fearful monster as he imagined coming down upon him. The truth dawned upon him that he was the victim of a sell, and he slid down again in great wrath.

“You’s the wust liar, Penn Miffin, in dis coontry. Auvery Yankee can lie goot deal, put you can lie more as dat. Dere vas no pear.”

“Wasn’t ther’? It must hev been the rock I seen and I thought it was a b’ar, sure as shootin’. But ye was skeered that time; ye kain’t say ye wa’n’t.”

“Kin, too! Wasn’t scared a bit, Penn Miffin.”

“Ye wasn’t? What made ye climb the tree, then?” said Ben.

“Pecause I can not see no pear on the ground, unt I climbs oop the tree to look vor him, unt ven I gits dere, I can see no pear. Den I knows dere vas no pear, unt dat you vas no more ash von liar like auvery Yankee.”

Ben laughed heartily and turned his attention to the food which the Frenchman was cooking over the blaze. He had built his fire with all the care of the frontierman. First, the light leaves were ignited, then some small twigs, which would burn without smoke, were added, and when these had kindled into flame, larger sticks were laid on, and the fire was now blazing merrily, though still without much smoke.

“Thet’s the sort of fire to fool a Blackfoot,” said Ben. “Ah, many and many’s the brave fellow hez gone under fer the want of a little care. Now, I don’t know thet ther’s an Injun within twenty mile of us, but I always go to work as ef they were all around, as they may be fer all we know, and most likely ar’.”

“What makes ye think so, Ben?” said Jules.

“’Cause it’s the last of the huntin’ season, an’ the braves are out for buffler. Thet’s my reason. Then, ag’in, ye kain’t depend on a Blackfoot; ther’ a treacherous, hoss-stealin’ set. Mind I tell ye.”

“The Crows are just as bad.”

“No they ain’t. Anyhow, they won’t be to us while I’m hyar. You see they ain’t forgot the’r old chief yet. I calculate I’ve got a wife among ’em som’ers.”

“Don’t you know where she is?”

“Kain’t say thet I do. When I was in the Crow village last, and thet’s three years ago, she were thar. Ther’s a young chief takes care of her on my account, seein’ he ain’t got no father or mother, an’ she sort of adopted him. So I reckon she rubs along right peart. She orter, anyhow. Prehaps I couldn’t appreciate the woman. I didn’t, anyhow.”

“Didn’t you like her?” said Jules.

“No, I didn’t relish her much, thet’s a fact. Ye see she had a tongue of her own, and a mighty sharp tongue it were too—the wust you ever see. She never stopped her clack from mornin’ tell night. I wouldn’t hev minded it so much ef she had only taken a rest onc’t in a while, but she didn’t. It seems to me now, thet the durned critter thought ef she let her tongue rest a minnit, she couldn’t start it ag’in.”

“What did you do?”

“Do! What any man orter do when he kain’t save himself no other way.”

“What was that?”

“Heeled it ez hard ez I c’u’d go. I reckon that was pooty lively too.”

“Vat vas your vrow’s name?” said Jan.

“Does ye want her, Jan? Ef ye do, take her, with my blessin’. The truth is, yer gettin’ too fat, and ef ye hed to stand her jaw only a month ye’d git worked down to yer fitin’-weight pooty sudden, that’s all.”

“I don’t vant her,” said Jan.

“Don’t refuse on account of any feelin’ on my part,” said Ben. “Don’t be bashful nuther. Or, ef it suits ye better, I’ll sell her to ye. I’ll sell her cheap too. Give me thet huntin’-knife of yourn an’ she’s yer own. Thet’s fair, I’m sure.”

“Don’t vant her,” persisted Jan. “S’pose she dead, unt I puy her? Den I lose mine goot knife all vor nottings.”

“Ef she’s dead, may she rest easy in her grave. But I don’t think she would, any way. I’ve got my opinion, an’ I think she’d never rest in any grave. They won’t hev her in the other world nuther. She’d worrit them to death, mind ye.”

“Vy don’t you dells me vat pe her name, Penn?” said Jan.

“Hill-a-leah, the Green Snake. Lovely name, ain’t it?”

“Goot cracious. Dat ain’t a vooman’s name?”

“Ain’t it? Prehaps yer right. I doubt ef she’s a woman myself. Anyhow, I’ve got my opinion and I reckon she’s got a devil in her. I hearn a preacher down to the fort tell of a woman thet hed seven devils in her, an’ thet the good man cast ’em out. Now, ef any one woman hed seven such lively devils in her ez the Green Snake hez, then she must hev been a healthy female, thet’s all. How gits on the grub, Jule?”

“Near done, Ben. In five minutes.”

“All right. Soon as convenient I’ll worry down a piece of thet venison. I’d like to make a trade with Jan fer this wife of mine. She ain’t no use to me, an’ I think she’d be just the woman for Jan.”

“I dells you again, I don’t vant no voomans ash vas hev such names ash Hill-a-baloo,” added Jan. “Schnake—Creen Schnake! Der Himmel, dat ish dreadful! Don’t you talk mit me no more ’pout her. I rather gifs you de knife dan marry a voomans like that.”

“Wal, I’m sorry we kain’t make a trade,” said Ben, regretfully; “raally sorry. I’d like to sell her to some likely man thet would set store by her, an’ not run away from her in less than two months. I wouldn’t risk a cent thet any man could keep his nat’ral senses an’ stay with her longer then that, unless he was sorter seasoned to it, same as I was. I’d ’a’ been a chief among the Crows now, ef it hadn’t been fer thet.”

“Is that the reason you left, eh?” said Jules.

“Ye bet ye! I liked it there fust rate. They never made me go out on the’r war-parties unless I hed a mind to, though I went out offen enough, fer thet matter. Ye see, I’m down on Blackfeet fer more reasons then one; an’ the Crows are the nat’ral inemies of them critters. I’d like to extarminate the hull cussed race of them, durn the’r picters!”

“What makes you hate the Blackfeet so?” said Jules.

“I’ll tell yer. ’Tain’t less’n ten years ago I was trappin’ on the north branch of the Platte with a comrade of mine, a likely chap as you ever see, Jim Johnson was his name, and the best-hearted feller in Oregon. We made a heap of pelts, ye bet, an’ was countin’ on a lively time at the forts the next winter. Jim hed a gal thar, an’ was allus lettin’ on how happy he’d be when he c’u’d see her ag’in. He never did, poor feller. I’d been out to see after my traps, gone nigh on to half a day, mout be, an’ was comin’ home with a load of pelts, fo’ we hed been lucky all through, an’ when I got to the cabin we’d built, thar he lay, with his head split like an egg-shell, an’ sculped. I looked around an’ found Blackfoot signs everywhar, durn the’r hides. I know them, an’ I’ll make them pay fer it some day. I promised him then, as he lay thar, thet I’d avenge him on the Blackfeet. Mout be I’ve done it; mout be I didn’t. Anyhow I’ve got my opinion, an’ I’ll back it thet the Blackfeet are sorry they killed Jim Johnson.”

“Do you know who the men are that killed him?” asked Jules.

“Yes. Thar’s only two of them on the’r feet to-day, an’ they ar’ bound to go under ef ever they meet Ben Miffin, or else he goes under—and he don’t think he will.”

“Who are they?”

“One’s a big Blackfoot brave they call Whirling Breeze, an’ the other a white-livered cuss who claims to be a white man. Precious little civilized blood he’s got in his veins, an’ that he’s got is mighty mean. He’s a renegade, an’ I tell ye a renegade is the worst of all God’s creatures.”

“What’s his name?”

“Will Markman. They call him by some Indian name. The worst of it is, his white blood shows more then the Indian, an’ he is ez handsome a feller ez you ever see. But he’s got a cruel heart in his breast. God pity him if I ever meet him.”

“Is he a chief?”

“Yes; they like to git a white man on the’r side. He lays round yer som’ers, an’ does the dirty work of the Blackfeet. That’s his way, durn him. Why, ye never did see another sech critter in yer born days—the wust ye ever saw, I tell ye. Makes no more of takin’ a sculp then I do of skinnin’ a buffler. What ar’ ye tryin’ to do now, Jan?”

The Teuton was craning his neck, looking anxiously up the hill.

“I dinks I sees a Plackfeet,” replied the other. “He pees on the hillside yonder.”

“Pshaw, Jan; ’tain’t no sech thing—leastways, I kain’t see no sech critter myself. I guess ye didn’t see nobody.”

“Did too, Penn Miffin. Who’s a liar? I sees him over dere py dat bine tree. He vas a pig fellows, bretty near so pig ash a house. I never sees anypody so pig ash he vas. I dinks he pe some shiant.”

“Where was he?” said Ben, anxiously.

“Over yonder, mit der dree. I sees him. I dinks aff ye dakes yer gun unt coes to him unt kills him, mebbe it vould pe goot plans.”

“Hadn’t you better go yourself?” said the Frenchman, maliciously.

“I dinks I hain’t got time,” said Jan, quickly. “How can I go ven I can not dell vether dere pe anybotty dere? Penn coes mit himself.”

“That’s enuff foolin’,” said Ben. “Jan didn’t see no Injun, I hope. But we are tired with a long journey. Jule, let us fix some sort of place for the gal. I don’t like thet she sh’u’d hev to rough it like us men.”

“You are too kind to me,” said Millicent. “How can I ever thank you?”

“Never mind; you ain’t got no call to thank me ez I knows on. I ain’t gone round gittin’ sech things ez thanks this year. Wait till I ask ’em. Jule, you come yer.”

They had a good supply of extra blankets; these were brought in, and by the aid of two of them, they curtained off a recess in one corner of the unfinished building, in which they laid the other blankets, and, apologizing in a homely but heartfelt way for their lack of good accommodations, they allowed Millicent to retire.

It was in the middle of the night when a strange alarm occurred. Jules, who was very tired, had taken upon himself the post of sentry for the first part of the night, and had stationed himself just outside the building, sitting down at the foot of a tree. The hours crept slowly by, and he dropped off into a doze. All at once he awakened to find himself prostrate upon the ground, with some heavy body lying on his breast which pressed him close to the soil. By the ghostly moonlight he made out his assailant to be the creature which they had met that day. It was making no attempt to harm him, but simply lying upon his breast, its long, heavy hands toying with his throat.

Jules Damand was a cool, hardy fellow, and had been in danger before now. But, there was something so frightful in the load upon his breast, that for a moment his heart failed him. He lay silent, and put out his hand toward a pistol by slow degrees.

The strange thing uttered, now and then, a low, chuckling laugh, horrible to hear. Ben, who lay near the door of the cabin, heard the sound and stirred uneasily in his sleep. Jules, silent as the grave, allowed his hand to slide along the ground toward the pistol-butt. Even the slight motion he made annoyed the savage brute, and he uttered a sort of low snarl. Jules stopped and waited for him to become quiet. He was in an uncomfortable position, flat upon his back, with his right arm lying under the body of the assailant, who grinned and chattered at him, and scratched at his throat with his long nails in a playful manner.

“Sacré!” muttered Jules. “If I could only get my right arm free.”

He found that impossible; the whole weight of the hairy body lay upon it and fixed it like a rock. Jules again began to feel for his pistol, and laid his hand upon it, when the hairy palm of the Mountain Devil suddenly closed upon it. There seemed to be something in the touch of the cold steel which roused his hate, for he darted his long nails into the face of the trapper, and left bleeding furrows from brow to chin. At the same time Jules managed to get the pistol partly free, and made a shot at him in the dark.

The creature had some powers of memory; he knew that the ball which had pierced his arm that morning had been accompanied by a sound like the crack of the pistol, and he sprung away for a little distance, and stood licking the blood from another wound in his arm. The report of the pistol had roused everybody, and they came out in great haste, Ben leading the way with his rifle in his hand. At the sight of him the wild creature bounded away, and hurried up the mountain side. It was plain that he remembered Ben as the man who had injured him in the morning. He snarled and screamed as he disappeared from view, while Jan stood with chattering teeth and shaking limbs, glaring after the form which was disappearing behind the hills.

“Ach, mein Gott! Dere he ish again. Now you mine vat I says. Dat ish ter tuyvel. Don’ you co to say ash it vas not. Dat ish ter tuyvel, unt no mistake. My prains are all hurly-purly. I mos’ deat mit fright.”

“Shet up. Don’t ye see the lady?” said Ben. “Sorry to call ye out of yer sleep, miss, but our friend of this mornin’ hez paid us a visit. See how the black brute has marked Jules.”

“So he has. This is terrible. I can not do any thing to help you, Mr. Damand?”

“No,” said Jules. “I shall do very well. They are only scratches.”

“Very painful ones, I fear.”

“A little. They will soon go away. I shall be satisfied if they do not leave deep scars. You had better retire again. It served me right. I should have kept better watch, when I had such treasures to guard.”

“Can I be of no service?”

“No. Not the least. Thank you.”

She retired again, and Ben found some of the plants which he had used for Bentley’s wounds that morning, and made a salve for Jules’ face. When this was done, he sent the Frenchman into the house, and took his place as guard, half hoping that the brute would come back, and give him a shot. Twice during the night he heard its eldritch screams, far off in the hills, but it did not come back. Ben stood on his guard, however, until the night passed, and the gray light of morning appeared in the sky.

CHAPTER V. TREED BY A BUFFALO.

CHAPTER VI. THE MESSAGE.

Jules and Jan waited for the trapper to speak. They knew by the expression of his face that the arrow meant something more than any ordinary shaft.

“What does it mean?” at length asked Jules.

“Ye don’t understand Injun signs. Look at the color—one half red, the other half white. That’s clear Injun. It says ez plain ez a man could speak, ‘Git out of this an’ we won’t hurt ye. Stay hyar an’ blood must flow.’”

“How do you know that?” said Jan. “I don’t see nottings like that on the arrow.”

“Course ye don’t. Wal, I does. That red half of the arrer means war. The white half sez thet they don’t car’ to kill us, an’ ef we go away quietly it’ll be all right. But ef we stay, they’ll kill us. Whar did ye stand when the arrer fell, Jan?”

“I vas skinning te puffalo.”

“Yes, so ye was. Wal, thet’s all right, I guess. The chap is hid som’ers about yer, an’ I’m gwine to hev him out. Scatter an’ s’arch the woods.”

Jan did not like the idea of going alone through the woods, and he followed close on the heels of Ben.

“Git away,” said Ben. “None of thet. I want ye to git used to takin’ car’ of yerself an’ ye must do it. I said scatter!”

Jan reluctantly went away and began to search. Ben glided from tree to tree, bending forward like a hound on the trail. He found at last a place where a moccasined foot had trod. The footmark was small and delicate.

“A gal or boy, by gracious!” said Ben. “Look sharp; I’ve found him.”

The others rushed to his side. The trapper stood at the root of a tree which in some way had been torn up by the roots, leaving a cavity below. Before this cavity Ben stooped and looked in. A single glance showed him an Indian boy, crouching in the darkest corner.

“Come out hyar,” he said.

The boy did not move, and Ben addressed him in the Indian tongue, telling him to come out and fear nothing. The lad obeyed, and stood before them, in his simple Indian garb, a blanket thrown over his buckskin shirt. His moccasined feet were small as a girl’s. For an Indian, he had a fine, bold face, and his black eyes gleamed with a half-scornful light.

“What do you want here?” said Ben, in the Blackfoot language.

“The sons of the Blackfeet go where they will,” said the boy, calmly, toying with the bow which he held in his hand. “Who dares question them in their own land?”

“The son of a chief stands before me,” said Ben. “I can see that at once. No one questions the son of a chief as to his right. But we are out upon the prairie and in danger. The brave youth can see that.”

“It is true,” said the boy. “My brother is in danger; it is well that he sees it, for when we know that danger is nigh we can avoid it, and pass away. My brother has seen the arrow?”

“Yes.”

“His head is getting gray; he knows the custom of the Blackfeet. They know that he is a just man, though he has killed some of their people. Good—they give him a chance. They let him go in peace when and where he will, so that he trouble the hills no more with his traps and rifle.”

“Listen,” said Ben, unconsciously adopting the language of an Indian while speaking in that tongue. “I have been a chief of the Crows for a long time; my head has grown gray among them; they taught me not to fear what man can do. Why should we fly from the face of the Blackfoot braves?”

“My father is very brave,” said the boy. “But what can he do against so many? What nation is like the Blackfeet? What chiefs are like theirs? They are many, they are strong. Their horses speed like the wind. Their hearts are very strong. There are three white men; they can fight well, but the braves will sweep them from the earth, when they come in anger.”

“We do not fear,” said Ben. “We have come to take beaver and we must do it.”

“The white men are wrong,” said the boy, stamping fiercely. “They think to drive the Indians from the land their fathers left them. I have heard of great tribes in the east, by the big water, who have been driven out and have perished one by one, until they have no longer a name or a place among the people. But it shall not be so with the Blackfeet.”

“They must do as they will,” said Ben. “We will not go.”

“Be warned. If you do not go, look for the blood-red arrow.”

“We shall expect it. Tell the chiefs that the Strong Buffalo said so old a head as yours has no business on the shoulders of a boy. Go. You will be a chief.”

The boy straightened himself up proudly and turned away. But Jules seized him by the arm.

“He must not go,” he said.

“What ye gwine to do about it?” said Ben. “Let go his arm. The fust thing ye know ye’ll git us into some kind of trouble with yer durned nonsense.”

“He must not go, I say,” replied Jules, angrily. “Our lives are in danger.”

“Ye ain’t helpin’ us by techin’ the boy,” said Ben. “Let him go.”

“I will not,” was the reply.

“Ye won’t, eh?” cried Ben, throwing up his rifle. “Then I’ll bet my life I make daylight shine through yer karkidge in about half a minute. Drop yer hold.”

Jules obeyed sullenly, and the boy, turning a grateful look at the trapper, darted across the prairie. Jules turned to the trapper with a lowering brow.

“You have had your way, it seems. We will see what will come of it. But let me tell you one thing: do not point your rifle at me again, or something may happen to you.”

“Don’t git up on yer ear about it. I ain’t goin’ to hev no bloodshed thet kin be helped, I ain’t. S’pose ye’d ’a’ killed this boy—and a brave young feller he is too—what good would ’a’ come of it? ’Twould ’a’ brought them down on us all the sooner, thet’s all. So don’t say nothing to me.”

They finished cutting up the buffalo and returned to camp, walking by their horses’ sides, with the skins containing the choicest portions of the meat slung over their saddles. They found the camp as they had left it, and at once built a fire.

“I don’t reckon it will do much good to be very careful now, sence the Injuns knows whar we ar’. But, ther’s one thing we kin do: we kin make our hut stronger, an’ ef they git our sculps they’ll hev to fight for ’em. We’ve got a strong party, an’ we don’t go back fer no man; no, we don’t.”

“If we were alone we might do well,” said Jules. “But, this ignorant Dutchman—”

“Vat sort of a Doochman?” roared Jan. “You say dat again unt I valls on you unt smash you all mit little bieces so pig ash my thumb.”

“Do be silent, Jan,” said Millicent. “Do I understand that you have a fear of danger, Ben?”

“’Tain’t nothin’ new. It’s allers dangerous on the prairie,” said Ben. “Never you mind, little ’un. We’ll take keer of ye.”

“I am not afraid, but, I should like to know what the danger is.”

“Blackfeet,” said Ben. “We met one while huntin’ buffler.”

“Off you have anyt’ing to say to me, Shule Damant,” said Jan, breaking in on the conversation at this point, “I shall pe glad to have you do it. Put, ton’t sit dere unt look ash if you would like to eat me. I wouldn’t sit goot on your stomach.”

“I do not forget that you insulted me by placing your foot upon my breast this morning. You had better be silent.”

“Am I frait mit you, Shule? No. I ish not, I dells you blain. Off you like to pe frents mit me dat ish goot. Off you ton’t like it, vat do I care? Take your own vay.”

“I’ll give one of you a back-handed wipe in a minnit!” roared Ben. “Shet up, both of you. Jan, we have got to go and skin the bear you shot yesterday.”

“Who kilt ter pear, Penn Miffin?” cried Jan. “Vas it Shule? Vas it you? or vas it a pig Doochman named Jan Schneider, eh? Vell, I coes mit you off you like.”

“I should like to see a bear before he is cut up,” said Millicent.

“Would you? Then you shall take Jule’s hoss, and ride with us. I’ll take mine, ’cause I like to ride, and Jan may take his because I want it to bring home the meat. You two stay and watch the camp.”

The three rode out of the camp together. When out of sight of the Frenchman, Ben beckoned Jan close to him.

“Why did ye tumble Jules over this morning, Jan?”

“Vell, he keeps sayin’, Doochmans, Doochmans, Doochmans, till I vas tire of hear him. Sh’pose I t’rows him town on his pack, den he knows ash I vill shtand no nonsense mit him no more. I pees not a vool.”

“I’m jubous you’ve made him yer innimy,” said Ben. “I don’t like that. I don’t want no quarrelin’ in my camp. When I take chaps out with me they must be the right kind of men, and not too hash in their ways. Now I don’t reckon it’ll hurt ye much to show him ye ain’t afraid of him.”

“You are speaking of your companion,” said Millicent. “Do you know that I am afraid of him? He has looked at me in a way I do not understand. Did your friend quarrel with him this morning?”

“Yes. Now ther’s one thing more atween Jan and me. It looks as ef we’d got to tramp the prairie together fer a long time. Now any man thet travels alongside of old Trapping Ben, must hev the right sort of pluck. Don’t ye see thar’s always danger in the life of a free trapper?”

“I nefer dinks dere vas so mooch, Penn. Off I dinks so, I would not coom.”

“All right. Hyar ye ar’ an’ hyar ye’ve got ter stay this season. Now I’ve noticed thet when they b’ar ye right down to it ye kin fight ez well ez the best man among ’em. But, ye’r’ apt to shirk danger ef ye hev time to think an’ see it comin’. Now, thet ain’t the way with a free trapper. They don’t like to fight, nuther will they shirk danger, nor go a step out of the way to git cl’ar of it.”

“Yaw. Dat ish vat I dinks. You likes to vite. Now I vould sooner run den fight, if I can.”

Millicent laughed at this naive confession on the part of the Dutchman, whose face was the very picture of truth.

“I’ll cure ye of that before I quit ye, my boy,” ejaculated Ben. “Take my word for it. I ain’t goin’ to hev no cowardly cuss in my camp. Now ef we meet an Injun, what ar’ ye goin’ to do?”

“I dinks I vould run avay so hard ash efer I can,” said Jan, with refreshing candor. “I not likes Plackfeet no more ash hogs.”

Again the merry laughter of Millicent rung through the pass. Old Ben looked at her with a fatherly smile.

“You’d run away, would ye? Now, don’t ye ever go to do it. Fer ef ye do, ez sure ez a gun you git it right through the back. I won’t hev no skulkin’. It’s no wonder the gal laughs at you. But hyar’s our b’ar.”

The leaves had rattled down during the night, and drifted so that the body of the animal was completely covered. Ben brushed them away with his hand and exposed the huge body to view. Millicent had never seen a grizzly bear, and it was something so terrible that she could not repress a cry. The wound which the roer had made was exposed to view. Indeed, the top of the head was completely blown off.

“Dere!” cried Jan, in high good humor. “I kills dat pear mit mine roer.”

“It was a bold thing to do.”

“Vell, I dinks off I vas not kill dat pear, ter pear vould kill me,” said Jan. “So I kills ter pear.”

“That showed great discretion on your part,” laughed Millicent. “But, what is the sound that seems to come from below?”

Ben stopped pulling at the body of the bear and listened. There was a pattering sound, like drops of falling rain, and then the pass below them was filled with a moving mass, and that mass was a pack of prairie-wolves, coming on at

A pack of wolves, mad with hunger. There is nothing more fearful to a trapper. They know too well the vindictive fury with which the black brutes pursue and drag down their prey.

“Togs?” queried Jan.

“Wolves!” shouted Ben. “Heel it, Jan! Git up a tree as lively as you kin. I wouldn’t give a beaver-pelt fer yer life ef ye don’t, and ez fer the b’ar—umph! Run for it. Turn the hosses loose.”

Snatching Millicent from the horse, he put her into the branches of a low pine and ordered her to clamber higher. She obeyed without a word, and he took another tree close at hand. The horses ran toward the camp.

Jan needed no second bidding, but ran away, with a face which betokened his earnest hate of the animal in question. Wolves! He had heard their ominous howl near his house on the borders of the Black Forest many a time. The ferocity of the animal is wonderful. Jan knew that well. He recognized the lolling tongue, the white teeth. He had heard his father tell of peasants taken in the forest, far from home and dragged down, screaming in vain for aid. Next day their friends would find their bones whitening in the sun’s rays.

The pack uttered fierce yells at the sight of the man, and rushed at him. But Jan got to a tree in season, taking his gun with him. Down came the pack, snarling, snapping at each other, and scattering the leaves on either side. In a moment they surrounded the trees in which the trappers had taken shelter, leaping up against them, gnashing their white teeth and clawing at the bark. Millicent uttered a cry of terror.

“I dinks I puilds a ’ouse in a dree,” said Jan, despairingly. “I has peen drove to a dree more ash dree times sence I cooms here. I dinks dat it vas von coonthry vere dey lifs in der drees.”

“Ye oughter be glad ye’ve got a tree so nigh,” said Ben. “The durned animiles would ’a’ tore ye to pieces in half a minnit more. Thar! They’ve found yer b’ar. Don’t holler, gal. They kain’t get at ye.”

A dozen fierce jaws were tearing at the rough hide of the grizzly, and others struggling to get a taste of the coveted flesh. Jan was in a rage. His “pear,” the trophy of his valor, the beast he had killed with his own hand, to be devoured before his eyes by a pack of hungry wolves! He was in a towering passion.

“I dinks dat pymepye I gets down unt kills auvery volf in dat flock. Look! See how dey shpile my pear! I kills dat pear myself.”

“I’m satisfied thet ’tain’t our hide the’r’ a-tearin’,” said Ben. “Thet’s all right. Let ’em eat. Then mebbe they won’t be so hungry for us. I guess we may ez well drop a few of them while we’ve got the light.”

He raised his rifle and was about to fire, but a second thought caused him to lower it. “No, ’twon’t do to make them any madder then they ar’, or the obstinate brutes will stay hyar a week but they’ll hev us. Durn a wolf, anyhow. What do they want to chase us for jest now?”

“Shpose I shoots my cun at dem vunce,” said Jan. “I shoots fiviff or sax mit one dime. Look; I shoots dat vun over dere.”

Jan leaned forward and fired.

The charge flew among the wolves about the body of the bear, wounding several of them more or less. At the same time the branch upon which the Dutchman was sitting broke, and he fell to the ground. The wolves fell back at first, but, seeing only one man, rushed at him on every side.

The German then showed that he was brave enough, if need be. The heavy gun was swung above his head, and the iron-bound butt descended on his foes with mighty force. The first brute fell with a crushed skull. Ben Miffin was not the man to see a comrade in danger and not come to his aid. He sprung down, scattering the cowardly creatures right and left.

The diversion enabled Jan to get back to the tree. Ben made a last rush at the wolves and then climbed to his perch again, leaving a portion of the flap of his hunting-shirt in the jaws of the foremost brute.

“Git a stronger limb this time,” said Ben. “Don’t fall ag’in; ef ye do, durned ef I’ll help ye.”

The pack now recommenced the struggle for the possession of the bear. Here and there an old or weak wolf was being throttled and torn in pieces by his comrades.

“A hungry lot,” muttered Ben. “I wish they’d clear out. I don’t want to stay up hyar all night, an’ I ain’t goin’ to. Come sassies, git done yer meal an’ clear out.”

“Penn,” said Jan in a slightly tremulous voice, “can volfs climb drees?”

“Climb trees, ye durned fool! Of course they kin. If they was in any hurry for ye they’d ’a’ been up thet thar tree half an hour ago. Oh, I reckon yer cat’s-meat now. Say yer prayers, ef ye’ve got any. I think ye’d better, anyhow. It’s the last chaince ye’ll hev.”

“Don’t talk dat vay, Penn,” said Jan. “Vy you likes to scare a poor Doochman all to bieces? I dells you I don’t like volfs. Dey ish got long teeth like nails. I dinks dey pe very hoongry. Vell, shpose I gits to St. Louis once more, I goes pack to Yarmany mit a backet. I not shtays here.”

“I judge ye won’t git back to St. Louis,” said Ben. “Them chaps don’t look much ez ef they meant to let ye, do they? I judge not. Anyway, I’ve got my opinion, and I’ll back it, thet they begin to gnaw ye in just ten minnits by the sun. They make short work of a Dutchman.”

“Don’t I know you, Penn Miffin? Don’t I know you so vell ash never vas? Dey can’t climb no more as a pig. You’s a liar, unt you knows you pe a liar. I never sees a vorse vun.”

“Jest wait a bit, my lad,” said Ben. “I’ll come to you by and by.”

“I’d rather pe licked py a man dan swallowed py a volfs,” whimpered Jan. “I fights dem, anyway. I pees not afraid of dem no more ash you. Coom; vy you no shoots?”

“Shet up!” said Ben. “Somebody is coming. Hark!”

CHAPTER VII. INDIANS!

As he spoke, the wolves scattered right and left, and ran in terror up the gullies at the sides of the pass. The men in the trees remained still as death, one from terror, the other from caution.

There was good reason for the hasty fight of the wolves and the silence of the men hidden in the trees. A band of savages were coming down the mountain pass, admirably mounted, dressed in the gaudy style of the Indian warrior, with flaming feathers and beaded garments. Each poised in his right hand a long buffalo-lance, which they managed to carry gracefully, without appearing to incumber them. Some of them bore a small shield of buffalo-hide, but most of them rather depended upon their own activity than this slight defense. In front of the band rode a tall chief in a rich costume, with a belt of worked wampum thrown over his shoulder and buckled about his waist. He eschewed the lance, and carried instead a beautiful rifle. His figure was commanding, and he had a noble head, a nose cut like Cæsar’s, and a firm mouth. His eye was black and piercing. His hair long and dropping on his shoulders. By his side, armed in every respect like the elder, rode the boy who had been taken prisoner by the trapper on the prairie and threatened by Jules.

The party might have contained a hundred in all, and a single glance convinced the trapper that they were Blackfeet. They pulled up at the skeleton of the bear, uttering cries of surprise, for, of all animals, they think the grizzly bear the fiercest, and most to be feared. They dismounted and examined the body. The head had been untouched by the wolves, and the gaping wound was revealed.

They crowded together about the body, chattering loudly, putting their hands into the wound, and evidently wondering what weapon could have inflicted it. Even the chief descended and looked at the body.

“They have great guns at the big wigwam which make a hole like this,” said he gravely. “This is a white man’s work. It is not a rifle.”

“Can a white man carry a great gun on his back?” said another Indian, in the dress of a chief. “I can not understand. Some medicine-man has taken the life of the big bear of the hills. It is no common gun.”

“Wah-be-o-win says well. All the white men are great medicine. My race pass away before them like trees before their axes. But Whirling Breeze will not live long enough to see the work done. While he is alive, there will be war between his people and the white men.”

“Why should we not make peace?” said a chief who had not spoken before. “Why should we fight against those who are stronger? I have been to the forts and I have been to the towns by the big water. They have talking-houses which make them flour, and guns and powder. They took me into these talking-houses, and showed me what was done. Why not be friends with them, since they be stronger than we?”

“Peace, Red Arm,” said Whirling Breeze, angrily. “The Blackfeet shall never bow the knee to the white men. They will die one by one, but they will never yield to the destroyer.”

“Let us find those who have done this,” said the chief, Wah-be-o-win. “We will take their scalps as a beginning.”

Whirling Breeze gave a signal, and all the braves bounded into the saddle and rode away down the pass.

Ben stretched out his head and watched them anxiously. There were two passes through the hills, and if the Indians would only take the wrong one it would give the whites a chance to run down and apprise their comrades of the danger. A moment of breathless suspense, and the party turned into the pass leading to the hunter’s camp.

“It’s all up,” said Ben. “Poor Jule is done fer, an’ that young chap Bentley. Come down, Jan. We must get out of the way as soon as possible. The durned thieves won’t be long gutting the concern.”

The old trapper helped Millicent from the tree. Jan came down in great haste and followed Ben’s lead. He turned into the second pass before mentioned, and hurried down it half a mile. No concealment of the trail was attempted; but at last they reached a place where there was a break in the rocky sides of the cañon, and up this went the men, with their guns at a “right shoulder shift,” using one hand to assist them in climbing. Ben looked back once at Jan. All traces of fear had left his face, and his compressed lips told of a steadfast determination. Ben nodded, and muttered to himself. Millicent followed them bravely, pale, but evidently not from fear.

“He’ll do; I’ll cure him,” muttered Ben, “an’ the gal is good grit, too.”

The pass grew steeper. They slung the guns over their shoulders by the straps, and used both hands in dragging themselves up the ascent. They had to stop now and then to assist Millicent. Jan was puffing like a grampus. Millicent could hardly see why Ben had taken this course. From the spot where they stood they had a complete view of the valley and its occupants. It was already crowded by the Indian band, who were running about at will, peeping into the cabin, overturning camp-utensils and snapping the springs of some spare traps which had been left in the cabin. Ben looked in vain for the Frenchman. He had hidden somewhere on the first approach of the savages, and a number of them were scattered up and down, searching for him. It was clear they knew all about the camp, and the number of its occupants. Bentley was nowhere in sight, and Millicent began to hope.

“They don’t seem to t’ar things much, as yit,” said Ben. “I expect to see the dry bones rattle pretty soon. They kain’t help but burn us out. It’s in the’r natur’s, the condemned critters. I wisht I hed about a hundred Crows here, I’d make the feathers fly in thet thar company, I would. Durn a Blackfoot!”

“Vare pe Shule gone, Penn?” said Jan. “I not see ’im noveres. Unt vere ish Pentley?”

“No more I don’t know, Dutchy. They’ve got into kiver som’ers. But they’ll nose them out, ye see ef they don’t. A Blackfoot is wuss then a hound on a cold scent. Lordy! they ain’t got no chaince! An’ fer my part, I don’t see whar they kin hev hid themselves. Thar ain’t no hole thet I know on.”

“Vat ish de Injun doin’ mit de hoss?” demanded Jan. “Shpose dey shteal ’im?”

“Steal him! They’d steal the cents off’n a dead Dutchman’s eyes. Ye don’t know Blackfeet. I do. They ain’t wuth a cuss. I wouldn’t take the offer to buy out the hull tribe, ef I c’u’d git ’em for a beaver-skin. Not the hull tribe. The’r’ in a state of gineral cussidness thet is alarmin’. I kain’t go a cent on ’em. An’ ef they take that hoss, I’ll extarminate the hull tribe. Don’t look skeered, miss. I reckon the young man is safe hid.”

“I dinks it would pe petter to keep avay,” said Jan. “I don’t dink it vould pe right to fite mit a dribe. I dinks dey vip us.”

“Don’t ye believe it! I consider myself capable of cleanin’ out the entire tribe. I kin do it every time. I kin do it jest ez easy. What’s a little tribe of Injuns to a white human of my mental and moral caliber. I’m ez good ez a dozen missionaries, I am. A missionary talks to ’em a while, an’ they listen tell they git tired, an’ then take his sculp. They’d take it before, only they kain’t understand a word he sez, an’ it don’t hurt ’em. Now I cum of a strong family, an’ that kind of moral suasion ain’t my best holt. I don’t reason with ’em thet way.”

“How you do it, Penn?”

“I put a ball right through the’r karkidges, an’ then I kin reason with ’em to great advantage. They understand what I mean.”

“Vat ef he pe deat, Penn?”

“That’s the beauty of my style. He kain’t resist the line of argyment I hev adopted. He appreciates its force, I allow. Don’t ye see?”

“Yaw. Kill him unt den talks mit him. Dat ish goot vay! I does him myself, pymepye, ven I kills an Injun.”

“I reckon ye’ll hev a chaince, one of these days. What ar’ they prowlin’ roun’ thet beaver-dam fur? The’r’ after my traps, the sneakin’ varmints. It’ll bother ’em some to git ’em, anyhow; I’m ruther good at hidin’ traps. But I’ll mark every Injun in the party, an’ one of these yer days we’ll hev a settlement. Keep out of sight. Ef they see us, they’ll never rest tell they git us. Lay low!”

“All right, Penn. I dakes care. I no likes to fight mit dem unless I have to; put vat I dinks ish dis: Aff’n’ man ash vas vant to lif so long vat he can, vill not vite vor his life, ven he haf to do it, den he vas vun pig vool. I not like to vite. I pees not a vitin’ character. Put off dey cooms, I kills all of dem vat I can. Dat ish drue vat I dells you.”

“Thet’s the right kind of talk, old man,” said Ben. “I like thet. It sounds like a man. Don’t rush into danger, but don’t dodge it. Thet’s the way to talk it. Thet’s the way to be sensible. Kin ye see any thing of Jule yit?”

“I don’t see him noveres,” replied Jan.

“I kain’t think whar he’s hid, or what them buggers ar’ pokin’ round thet dam fer. He kain’t be thar, kin he? Ain’t one of them Injuns goin’ into the water?”

“More ash vun of ’em,” said Jan. “More ash a tozen, I dinks.”

It was true. A number of the Indians had gone into the shallow stream, and were wading toward the dam, approaching the beaver-hut nearest the shore. One of them approached the opening and climbed up on the dam. Another followed, and they commenced taking off the top of the hut. Beavers do their work well, and it was the work of some moments. At last the top was removed, and they stooped together and dragged something out. Was it a beaver? No; but Jules Damand, who had ensconced himself in the hut as a hiding-place.

They passed on to the next hut, and in like manner dragged out Bentley Morris, who had taken refuge there. It was with the deepest sorrow that the party on the mountain saw their ill-fated companions dragged from their places of refuge, amid the exultant yells of the savages, and conducted to the shore. They made no struggle; indeed, any resistance would have been useless against such a force.

“They are taken. Oh, gracious heaven, they are taken. What will be their fate?” cried Millicent.

“I kain’t tell,” said Ben. “They may kill ’em, but I don’t think it. Jule has got the wust chance, fer he tried to kill the boy.”

“Poor Shule,” said Jan. “I pees sorry I gits mat mit him unt wrastle him town on his pack.”

“The least they kin hope fer is to be pris’ners of the Blackfeet fer years. Poor lads. I’d give anything to set ’em free. But, what kin I do; what kin I do?”

The prisoners were dragged out into the open space and questioned angrily. Whirling Breeze stood in front of them for a while, and then, taking Jules by the shoulder, he led him into the cabin.

“He’s tryin’ to git him to tell whar we ar’ hid,” said Ben, chuckling hugely. “He’ll make a good deal out’n Jule, I reckon. Take keer not to show yerself, gal, it won’t do. Ef they catch sight of a woman, they’ll foller her till doom’sday but they’ll ketch her. But we’ve got things our own way. Ef Jule knew he wouldn’t tell, and as he don’t know whar we ar’, he kain’t tell. So we ar’ safe two ways, don’t ye see?”

Shortly after, Jules and Whirling Breeze came out of the cabin, the Indian excited and gesticulating violently. The sound of his voice even reached the rock on which the watchers stood. But, they could not distinguish his words. At last they bound the prisoners, and placed them on horses. This done, the entire band trooped away.

In a few moments all was still, and nothing remained to show that a visit had been made but the two broken beaver-huts, a few scattered beads, with here and there a broken shaft, a feather, or a worn moccasin. To the surprise of the trapper, his horse, which had run back to the camp when the wolves attacked them, was left at liberty as well as the Dutchman’s. Millicent had sunk down upon her knees, her face buried in her hands. The man who had saved her from deadly peril, who had placed his own life in jeopardy to save hers, who had kept up his courage and hers in starvation and fatigue, and had taken deep wounds in her behalf, was a prisoner in the hands of a bloodthirsty enemy!

She never knew her love till now.

“It’s hard, gal,” said Ben, sadly. “I agree to that. But it happens often out hyar on the plains. I’m sorry. But we couldn’t help it.”

“He was a brave man,” she said, sobbing. “He saved my life twice, and now he is gone.”

“Don’t you give it up. Thar ain’t no use of thet. Pshaw! He may git away. He’s a bright young chap, and he may get cl’ar. Let’s hope so. Blame it, he hez got a good chaince. Let’s go back to camp. Ar’ you goin’ with me, or will you stay hyar, Jan?”

“I coes mit you, Penn.”

“That’s right. Stick by me. You scratch my back an’ I’ll scratch your back. I know what they’ll do with Jule. He will hev a four-ounce ring in his nose, and be painted red, yaller and green. I wouldn’t mind thet ef they won’t kill him. I’ve wore the chief’s paint myself, and it ain’t so bad to be chief in a tribe, and I judge he’ll be a chief ef he don’t make ’em too mad at him.”

They began to descend into the camp from the spot where they stood. It was difficult, more so than on the other side, and needed a quick eye and hand to accomplish the descent without the greatest danger. A fall would have been certain death. They took Millicent between them, and aided her down the perilous path, the strength and skill of Ben standing them both in good stead in a hundred ways before they accomplished the distance. The loose slate slipped under their feet, and it was with a feeling of heartfelt satisfaction that he saw his two companions safe on the solid earth below.

“Well done, miss; well done, old boy; I knew ye hed the right sort of stuff in ye. This climbin’ about among the rocks is my best holt, an’ ye kept even with me. Thar ain’t many could do it, an’ I may safely say no woman’s foot ever trod what yours did to-day, miss. It’s somethin’ to be proud of, an’ I’m raally proud of comin’ down thar. Now then, put yer best foot foremost, an’ let’s see what damage the brutes hev done in the camp.”

“You objected to my calling you sir the other day,” said Millicent. “I must quarrel with you now, father Ben. My name is Milly.”

“Psho, now!” responded Ben, with a delighted look. “Ye don’t mean to call the old man by that name, do ye?”

“Yes; all my hope is in you now; you must call me Milly.”

“Yer a sweet gal, Milly; the man thet couldn’t fight fer ye don’t desarve the name of man nohow. Now look yer: I’m goin’ ter save yer young man—you see ef I don’t! I’ll save him or lay my bones by the Powder river; thet’s ez good ez swore to.”

“If you could save him, father Ben, I should love you always, dearly.”

“You would? And ye called me father Ben? All right. We’ll see ef thar ain’t suthin’ yit in old Ben Miffin.”

They hurried to the hut and entered; every thing was in confusion, and it was some time before they could collect the scattered articles sufficiently to see that not one had been removed. Every thing remained intact, to the utter surprise of Ben, who knew that Blackfeet are born thieves. In all his experience, he had never known them to enter a camp and leave any thing which could possibly be taken away; and there were many little articles, such as traps, blankets, knives, hatchets, and the like, much coveted by the Indians, lying about in every direction, untouched. Ben looked about him in amazement.

“I’ve seen a good many things in my time, strange things too, but this beats all natur’,” he said.

“Vat beats?” said Jan.

“They ain’t stole a thing; they’ve even left our hosses.”

“I dinks dese pe coot Injuns,” said Jan, with a grin.

“Good! Git out! Don’t be pokin’ fun at a chap in yer old age. The world is comin’ to an end; don’t say it ain’t; I know better. I went down to Selkirk last summer, an’ thar was a chap thar preachin’ thet the accounts of the world would be brung to a close jest about this time; an’ the durned critter was right—a Millerite, they called him.”

“I know vat dey pe; dey sits on a stone in der mill, mit dere little chisels, unt go chip, chip, chip on der stones; dat ish vat a Mill’rite pe.”

“Ye git out! ’tain’t no sech thing; this hyar critter was a preacher. He was a long-haired, lanky chap, with jaws ez long ez my knife. I didn’t believe him then; I do now. Blame me ef I ever hern tell of sech a thing. Come hyar, Diamond.”

The white horse, which had been straying at will about the cañon, came at his call, and rubbed his beautiful head against the trapper’s shoulder. The old man returned the caress by gently stroking the silken mane and putting it back from the ears of the noble animal.

“I kin forgive ’em a good deal, seein’ they left ye to me,” said Ben. “Ef they’d taken ye away, old hoss, I’d ’a’ gone for ’em in a way thet would hev set ’em back sev’ral files, the durned critters.”

“Penn,” said Jan, “somepoty’s a-coomin’.”

“Whar?” said Ben.

“Listen, unt you hear ’em. A horse is valking dis vay.”

“Git to kiver then. Into the hut; it’s the only place. Blame my cats ef they ain’t comin’ back.”

They plunged hastily into the cabin and barred the door. This done, they went to the side looking toward the entrance to the cañon and watched. They could hear the hoofs of the coming horse, and make out that he was advancing slowly. At last the head of the horse appeared in view, then the rider, and they saw who it was. Jules Damand! His hands and feet were tied, and he could urge his horse forward only very slowly. Both the men started out eagerly to meet him, followed by Millicent. They cut his bonds and assisted him to alight.

“Ve t’ought you vas teat,” said Jan.

“I thought you war gobbled,” said Ben.

“So I was,” said Jules, coolly, with a sidelong look at the face of Millicent. “But you see I have escaped.”

His manner was constrained, and he tried to avoid the eyes of his companions. To their questioning he made answer that the Indians had ridden out upon the prairie, and soon after entered a defile in the hills—a dark and narrow pass. In this pass he managed to make his escape, leaving Bentley in the hands of the enemy.

“Couldn’t you ’a’ managed to cut his bonds loose, or least ways to give him a wink somehow?”

“No, I couldn’t,” said he, rather sulkily. “You don’t seem over glad I got away.”

“And glad we ar’ to see ye, though ye didn’t bring the young man with ye. It does my heart good to see ye. I gave ye up fer a goner. Lordy! when Whirling Breeze gits his claw on a white man, he ain’t got much chaince, unless the Injuns take a shine to him ez the Crows did to me. Did ye hear why they didn’t take our traps?”

“Something which the boy said; he is a son of Whirling Breeze.”

“I thought so; they ar’ alike ez picters. I’m glad I did the boy a good turn. I kain’t git it through me how Whirling Breeze ever let them traps alone. And the hosses! Who ever hern tell of an Injun leavin’ a hoss he could steal jest ez well ez not?”

“Never mind the boy; I will remember him to his cost,” said Jules.

“Where did you leave them?”

“About five miles to the east.”

“Then the pass they went into lies south of the big hills, don’t it?”

“Yes.”

“Then I know whar they mean to camp,” said Ben, “and thar’s goin’ to be the only place whar I stand a chaince of gettin’ that boy out’n the hands of the durned Blackfeet. It’s got to be did, if old Ben Miffin kin cipher it down. I don’t know thet I’d do it fer his sake, but fer the gal.”

“You seem to take a great deal of interest in her, don’t you?” said Jules, with a half-sneer which Ben did not at all like.

“To be sure; don’t you?”

Jules Damand laughed in a strange way, which by no means pleased Ben. Indeed, there was something in his conduct lately different from the frank and open manner which had won the sympathy of the old trapper, in St. Louis. Even the stolid German observed the change.

Millicent drew the Frenchman aside as soon as she could do so.

“Was Bentley down-hearted? Did he despair?” she asked.

“Who? Do you call him by his first name? What is he that you should take so much interest in him?”

“He is my very dear friend. You do not answer my question.” She spoke in rather a haughty tone.

“He was down-hearted indeed, and with good reason. He is either going to a hopeless captivity or certain death, and he lacks the spirit to escape, as I did.”

“Sir!”

“Well, what now?”

“No man dare say to me that Bentley Morris fears to attempt any thing a man may do. You shall not traduce him. I believe that you hate him, though I can not imagine the cause.”

Damand slowly left her, with a savage gleam in his eyes.

CHAPTER VIII. SHOWING HIS COLORS.

CHAPTER IX. MIFFIN’S LEAP.

The trapper had not been long in finding the Indians. They were merely a hunting party who had come out upon the plains for buffalo, and who had turned aside for the purpose of rooting out the men who had dared to invade their hunting-grounds. The arrow had been sent, the warning given, and there was nothing for them to do but to destroy the insolent intruders.

The trapper approached the Indian camp warily. It was pitched upon the wooded prairie, not far from one of those growths of timber which rise like oases in the desert, in the prairie country. Ben tied his horse in a thick clump a quarter of a mile away from the camp, and crept cautiously forward, like a born scout as he was. Silent as death, not even stirring a leaf, his moccasined feet passed on, until the woods hid him from view. But for the fact that a high peak intervened between the hill on which Millicent took her station to watch, and the ground upon which the camp stood, she might have seen the entire transaction.

The moment he had entered the woods he felt safer. Pressing forward to the extreme verge of the thicket, he climbed a tree, from which he had a view of the encampment. It was about noon, and the Indians were in great commotion. Nearly every warrior was gathered about Whirling Breeze, who was haranguing them in a loud voice. Some portions of the speech Ben could comprehend.

“Be not impatient, warriors of the Blackfeet. Have faith in the chief. These white men shall be given into our hands. There is a maiden among them fairer than snow; she shall dwell in the lodges of my people. Warriors and chiefs, it is well that some of the white men should come among us. They have many arts, of which we know nothing, by the power of which the Indians are fading away, as the snow melts when the sun is high. He shall teach us these things. When we know them, we can meet the white men with their own weapons, and sweep them away. Let us wait the good time.” Who the “he” here referred to, Ben could not for his life comprehend.

He looked about him for Bentley Morris. He was standing near the center of the camp, bound to a small tree. Ben began to despair. How was it possible, alone and unaided, to free him from the hands of the enemy?

Some time he sat in the tree. Indians passed and repassed. Several of them stood for a few minutes beneath the tree, and conversed in low tones. Ben was in doubt. Was it possible that Jules Damand had turned traitor? His heart sunk at the thought that he had left Millicent under such a guard. No, impossible that Jules could play false. He had no motive for treachery—he could gain nothing, but would lose every thing, by desertion. So the honest old hunter disposed of that suspicion.

There were several young squaws in the camp, as is generally the case with a hunting-party. Their not unmusical voices could be heard calling to each other and singing snatches of Indian songs.

A greater tumult arose. Looking to the east, Ben was conscious that a dark mass was beginning to show itself upon the prairie, miles away. This dark mass was no strange sight to Ben Miffin. He had seen it a hundred times before on these limitless prairies. A herd of buffalo, driven forward by the scouts of the Indian band, who had been beating the prairie for game.

The greatest excitement immediately ensued in the Indian camp. Half the warriors vaulted upon their horses’ backs without orders; the rest, more orderly, waited the movements of the chief. Whirling Breeze threw himself into the saddle and led the way at a gallop. Not a warrior remained in the camp, with the exception of the pair who guarded the prisoner. Even these ran out of the camp, and followed the herd with their eyes, burning to be among them. The women had gone out after the warriors as fast as they could run, leaving the camp deserted for a moment. This moment was not lost by Ben Miffin. Slipping from his perch, he ran to the tree, cut the bonds upon the arms of the prisoner, and they ran together to the shelter of the trees. If they had gained them unseen, the escape might have been unnoticed for some time. But, an old woman, who had remained in the camp, caught sight of them as they ran, and raised a yell that might have done credit to a good-sized panther. This cry accelerated the fugitives’ speed, and they reached the place where the white horse was tied.

“Git up,” said Ben.

“What will you do?”

Miffin never answered a word, but, throwing his rifle to the “trail,” ran off at a speed which awakened the admiration of the young man. As he hesitated, an arrow whizzed near his head. Looking back, he saw his late guards coming up at a run, while the man who had fired at him was fitting another shaft to the bow. Bentley leaped into the saddle, and followed Ben, who had by this time gained several hundred yards. He laughed as he saw the guards were after them. He had no fear of any thing they could do to him unless others came to their aid.

“Keep your hoss at a trot, boy. Not too fast; keep alongside. You ain’t got no weepons. Hyar’s a pistol. ’Tain’t a bad thing fer clust quarters, but blame ’em when ye hev to fire mor’n ten feet. They don’t work; you take my word fer it, they don’t work. Them Injuns are good runners. The head one’s the best. We’ve got to cross the stream. Kin ye do it?”

“The horse can swim it.”

“Better jump it. Turn his head down-stream and go yer best now. Never mind me. I’m game enough to take keer of myself. You bet on that. Ride hard. ’Bout half-a-dozen rods below thar’s a narrer place. I ain’t got time to turn.”

It was at this moment that Millicent arrived at the crest of the mountain and saw them on the plain. She saw that the only danger was to the brave old man, who had given up his horse to save his young friend. One of the savages had turned off in chase of Bentley. The other followed close on the heels of Ben, whirling his hatchet in the air. Half a mile in the rear, coming up at the utmost speed of their fast horses, the girl saw at least a dozen savages, riding to the aid of the guards.

Ben was running directly for the little stream which meandered through the prairie. Millicent thought him doomed. His rifle was not loaded. Would he turn upon the bank of the stream and meet the Indians? The pace at which they were going was tremendous. The Indians knew him well, and those in the rear redoubled their efforts to come up with him. A wild yell of triumph broke from every throat as they saw him approach the stream. He comprehended his desperate situation now and had made up his mind as to his course. In times like these men do things which in their calmer moments seem impossible. He never slackened his speed as he approached the deep watercourse, and gathering all his powers for the effort, and grasping the rifle which had served him faithfully in many a bloody fray, he bounded into the air, and landed safe and sure upon the other bank! The place where he leaped was in the midst of a growth of prairie-timber, and by the side of a tree. As he turned, rifle in hand, his headmost pursuer, who had not been able to check his headlong speed, appeared upon the other bank, his countenance expressing the utmost surprise, as he gazed upon the wide space over which Ben had leaped. Throwing up his hands in astonishment, he shouted in the best English he could muster:

“Good jump! Big Buffalo make very big jump!”

“Yes, durn yer dirty face. Now git afore I bore a hole in ye! I don’t keer to hurt ye, but ef ye ain’t out’n this afore I load this yer rifle, good-by.”

The Indian saw his danger. The dreaded rifle was not yet loaded, and turning, he plied his heels in a way which did credit to his powers of locomotion. Millicent, from her station on the hill, could hardly refrain from laughing aloud as she saw the Indian run. Jan was in ecstasies. While Ben was on the other side of the stream he kept up a running fire of pitying phrases and encouraging words. When the trapper leaped the stream he performed a war-dance with great spirit upon the mountain top.

“Yoost look at dat, you Vrenchmans. Dat’s mine vrent, Penn. See him shump! Shumps like a vrog, same vat you eats. Ach! Ho, ho, ha! See dat Injun run. Hein? Trouble coom after you soon, Mister Injun. Oh, Shules, how could you pe so pad ash to durn against such a mans ash Penn?”

“Who said I turned against him? It is got up between you and this woman. I’ll ask the old man when he comes in if I am to be insulted by every one and make no return. You old bully, I’ll cut your heart out.”

“You shut oop. I ain’t a vool. Vat you dakes der knife to me vor? Vat vor you dries to make love to der vooman? Vat you vant mit a gun ven I let you co? No, Shules, you pad egg.”

“I’ll let you know, for one, whether I am to be insulted or not. Ben will set it right. He wrongs no man.”

“That is true,” said Millicent. “Be content to let the matter rest. Or stay. They are now coming up the mountain and the Indians will not dare to follow them into the pass. They know that they are desperate men. If I promise to say nothing to them of your conduct, will you promise to refrain from the like in future?”

“The Dutchman would tell.”

“Not if I ask him not,” said Millicent, smiling on the German.

“No, py der saints! I nefer says nottings, put I keep oop a good deal of t’inking all de dimes.”

“Do you promise, Mr. Damand?”

“I must. I can’t afford to have Ben against me.”

“Then it is a bargain. See that you keep your part, Jan,” said Millicent.

“Oh, I keeps my pargains,” said Jan. “Off it’s a pad one, I can nix help it. I makes pad pargains sometimes, ven I can not help him. Let us co down to Penn. I very sorry to keep any t’ing vrom Penn. He goot chap. You no dells der young feller?”

Millicent flushed crimson. The acute German had found out that she loved Bentley Morris.

“Why should I tell him, Jan?”

“Vy? I don’t know. Only ven you pe his vrow, pimepye, pooty soon, den you dells him eferyt’ings. Yaw.”

Jan chuckled hugely at her confusion, and walked behind the rest all the way down the mountain, that he might enjoy a laugh by himself. They came to the level plain just at the point where the pass entered the valley, and there waited for the coming of the others. As they waited, they heard the crack of a rifle in the ravine below, followed by a shout from Ben.

“Run to their aid,” cried Millicent. “Why do you hesitate?”

They hurried on to the assistance of the trapper, and found him standing in the mouth of the pass, rifle in hand, disputing the further advance of the party of Indians, who had by this time crossed the stream, and were parleying with him.

“My brother will let his red friends come. They wish to smoke a pipe with him,” said the leading Indian.

“I am not in a smoking mood to-day,” said Ben. “You clear out. I’ve made a camp hyar, an’ hyar I mean to stay.”

“My brother is welcome to the home of the Blackfeet. But, why has he come among us, and stolen our prisoners?”

“None of your puisiness,” roared Jan, taking a position by the side of Ben so suddenly, that even the iron-nerved trapper started. “Vat you vant here?”

“Ah-ha! Ar’ you thar, old Bologna?” laughed the trapper. “I’m teachin’ ye how to do it, then. Ha, Jule, you here too? Whar is the little ’un? Whar is she?”

“Here,” said Millicent, in her clear, sweet voice, stepping to the front. “I could not keep away, while you were all in danger. And I brought Bentley his rifle. He needs a weapon.”

Something in her manner as she gave the weapon into the owner’s hand, told Jules that this indeed was her lover. He turned pallid as a corpse, and ground his teeth fiercely, but said not a word. That was useless now. He hoped that his day of triumph was not far off.

“Now, sons of the Blackfeet,” said Ben, raising his voice, “ye kin see what kind of a chaince ye’ve got ag’in’ us, with them bows, arrers and spears. I reckon ye mout ez well give it up.”

The Indians drew together and held a conference. This over, they turned their horses’ heads and galloped away to the east. One by one the horses splashed through the river, and they were gone across the broad prairie, toward their camp.

“Penn,” said Jan Schneider, extending his hand, “I’m glad you shumps dat rifer. I pees afrait you gone dere.”

“So was I, Jan, when I see how wide it was. Let’s go an’ measure it. I’m proud of that jump.”

They went back to the stream and measured the distance, and found it to be just twenty-three feet. And the river was nearly as deep.

“Swanzey-dree feet!” roared Jan. “Dere! Some of you peat dat!”

“I can’t,” said Bentley. “What did that Indian say when you jumped? I heard him roar something after you.”

“He said, ‘Good jump; Big Buffalo’—that’s me—‘make very big jump,’” said Ben. “By thunder, he made me laugh so I couldn’t have shot at him. An’ didn’t he light out when I begun to load?”

“’Twas a great jump,” said Bentley. “You ought to be proud of it. What shall we do now?”

“Better git back to camp. I don’t allow no Injun to drive me out until I git ready.”

The party went back over the rocky way, and Damand saw, with silent rage, that it was upon the arm of Bentley the maid leaned, and his words which pleased her most. But he waited his time, satisfied that his turn must come. They set to work and collected the scattered articles, which in the late trouble had got into confusion. The traps were in a bad way, and many of them needed resetting. The four men went the rounds that day and got every thing in order, and brought in a number of fine skins.

“These are valuable skins,” said Bentley. “I have been in the fur trade myself, and I never saw better beaver.”

“They ain’t been thinned out much,” replied Ben. “All the old uns ar’ hyar yit. It makes a big difference.”

“I know it does. What a pity we must be driven away so soon.”

“Ef it wa’n’t for the gal, we’d stay hyar and brass it out. But, while we’ve got weak ’uns like that with us, it makes a man cowardly. So we must git back ez soon ez we kin. Onc’t she is safe to the forts, I’m comin’ back, fer one.”

“I would not, if I were you,” said Jules. “It is dangerous.”

“Who keers for a little danger? Any man kin git into danger ef he wants to. It’s the spice of life, danger is. Go out fer that trap, Jules, I’m a little stiff after my run. I ain’t ez strong ez I used to be.”

“You can run faster than any man in the party now,” said Bentley. “And who among us is able to jump twenty-three feet?”

“The old man ain’t dead yit,” replied Ben, grinning. “He’ll do a power of work afore he goes under. Yes, he will; you bet on it. An’ as for the durned Injuns, they may drive us away now, but we’ll come back. And to-morrer we’ve got to build a raft. ’Twon’t do to be taken unawares. Hurry up!”

CHAPTER X. THE SUCK.

CHAPTER XI. THE QUICKSAND.

CHAPTER XII. THROUGH THE SNARE.