“And who might our energetic friend be?” he asked, with an ingratiating smile.
The young woman in front of them turned her head ever so slightly to listen.
“Val Collins is his name,” said the major. “Sometimes called ‘Bear-trap Collins.’ He has always lived on the frontier. At least, I met him twelve years ago when he was riding mail between Aravaipa and Mesa. He was a boy then, certainly not over eighteen, but in a desperate fight he had killed two men who tried to hold up the mail. Cow-puncher, stage-driver, miner, trapper, sheriff, rough rider, politician—he’s past master at them all.”
“And why the appellation of ‘Bear-trap,’ may I ask?” The smack of pulpit oratory was not often missing in the edifying discourse of the Reverend Peter Melancthon Brooks.
“Well, sir, that’s a story. He was trapping in the Tetons about five years ago thirty miles from the nearest ranch-house. One day, while he was setting a bear-trap, a slide of snow plunged down from the tree branches above and freed the spring, catching his hand between its jaws. With his feet and his other hand he tried to open that trap for four hours, without the slightest success. There was not one chance in a million of help from outside. In point of fact, Collins had not seen a human being for a month. There was only one thing to do, and he did it.”
“And that was?”
“You probably noticed that he wears a glove over his left hand. The reason, sir, is that he has an artificial hand.”
“You mean—” The Reverend Peter paused to lengthen his delicious thrill of horror.
“Yes, sir. That’s just what I mean. He hacked his hand off at the wrist with his hunting-knife.”
“Why, the man’s a hero!” cried the clergyman, with unction.