“No; but I wonder whether he—whether he knows anything about the old mare and my knife.”
“Perhaps so; come and see. He just now asked for you.”
“Asked for me?” repeated Nat, stepping back. “What does he want of me?”
“Nothing in particular. I just mentioned your name, and he asked where you were. Come along; I hope you ain’t afraid?”
“Afraid! I should like to see the man I’m afraid of!” exclaimed my companion in an almost inaudible whisper, as he tremblingly followed me across the brook, and to the spot where Biddon, the trapper, was lying.
“My friend, Nathan Todd, Biddon.”
“How are you? Very happy to make your acquaintance,” and Nat nervously extended his hand.
“How’re yer?” grunted Biddon, with a slight jerk of his head, and not noticing the proffered hand.
“Been a most exceedingly beautiful day,” ventured Nat, quickly and nervously.
I saw the trapper was not particularly impressed with him, and I took up the conversation. I made several unimportant inquiries, and learned in the course of them, that our friend, Bill Biddon, was about forty years of age, and had followed trapping and hunting for over twenty years. He was a native of Missouri, and Westport was the depot for his peltries. For the last two or three years he had made all his excursions alone. He was quite a famous trapper, and the fur company which he patronized gave him a fine outfit and paid him well for his skins. He possessed a magnificently-mounted rifle, and his horse, he informed me, had few superiors among the fleetest mustangs of the south. Both of these were presented him by the company mentioned.