“Wall, my name is Bill Swazey. Beaver Bill they call me up in ther Powden river kentry an’ I’m a trapper.”
“If that is so, what are you doing away down here?” asked Frank, in amazement.
“Eh?” exclaimed the trapper, with a start. “Ye don’t seem to onderstand. This is the trapper’s highway along yer. Thar’s fully a hundred of us goes up an’ down over this trail in the seasons. When trapping season is ended we generally all pilgrimate to Arizony or some warmer locality. Then we go back when fur is in season agin. See?”
“I do,” replied Frank, with asperity. “You go to the miserable settlements to spend the money you have earned so hard by trapping.”
“Wall,” rejoined the trapper, in a somewhat resentful tone, “it’s honestly earned, and we kin do as we please.”
“Oh, of course,” said Frank, quickly. “Well, friend, I am glad to have met you.”
“Ther same, pard. But what in tarnation do ye call that ’ere thingem-a-jig out yender on ther perairy?”
“That is the Steam Horse,” replied Frank readily.
“A Steam Hoss!” gasped Old Bill. “Ye don’t mean to say that thing is alive?”
“Oh, no! It goes by steam.”