“Going across the river?”
“Yes; going up to Montana. How’s grass and water and game?”
“First rate. Going up the Henry?”
“Well, I don’t know for certain. I thought of following along the foothills of the Teton range, and doing a little prospecting. Do you know the country?”
“Mighty well, some of it. I’ve hunted around here the last five years. My name’s Jim Perkins; folks call me Tracker Jim.”
“Oh, then, I’ve heard of you,” exclaimed Jack. “Wasn’t it you who held a pass some years ago against a band of Blackfeet, somewhere up beyond the Gallatin valley?”
The man nodded.
“Won’t you tell us about it?” asked Percy, turning round to roast the other side of his person.
“Why, there ain’t much to tell. About a dozen young bucks went off on the rampage, and as some of the settlers was in danger I went to warn them. There was five women and half-a-dozen children and only three men, and the Blackfeet caught up with us just as we were coming out at the top end of a narrow cañon, so I stayed behind to stand ’em off while the rest cleared out.”
“Well?” said Percy, inquiringly; for Mr. Tracker Jim seemed disposed to stop there.