The first was an intelligent, manly-looking fellow of about twenty-three years. His cap covered a profusion of brown hair, brushed carelessly back from his forehead, a slight mustache covered his upper lip, and half-shaded his firm, frank mouth.
For the past few minutes, he had been intently watching a small moving speck away to the west, and now, turning his fine gray eyes upon his companion, he called his attention to the same.
The man turned about, and drawing his form to its full hight, took a sweeping view of the valley. As he stood thus, he presented a splendid picture of a free trapper.
Medium-sized, with square shoulders, straight as a young pine and as lithe, he was evidently a full match for any one. His fringed frock of untanned buck-skin was belted tightly about his waist, in which stuck a buckhorn-handled knife, and a small, handsomely-finished tomahawk. A powder-horn and a six-shooter hung at his side, and he carried a long rifle, that had evidently seen considerable service.
After a moment’s keen scrutiny, he turned to the young man, with a broad grin illuminating his rough features, and said:
“That’s a small herd of buffler. They’re comin’ this way, an’ we’ll have a few shots at ’em. Not much time tew be lost, either. Let’s tew horse!”
The word spread through camp like wildfire, and long before the stampeded herd came near, the men were mounted and ready for them. Hearing the unusual noise throughout the camp, a couple of girls came hurriedly from the edge of the grove, where they had been strolling around, with faces full of alarm and apprehension.
The tallest one, a pretty, slender maid, with dark eyes and floating black curls, whose name was Marion Verne, ran up to the old trapper before mentioned, and exclaimed:
“What is the matter, Vic? Have the Indians come?”
“Nary an Injun,” replied Vic Potter, springing into his saddle; “only a herd of buffler. We’re goin’ to have a few shots at ’em. Ready, Kent?”