Transcriber’s Note:

The cover image was created by the transcriber and is placed in the public domain.

Tom Preston found.

THE
CAMP IN THE FOOT-HILLS
OR
OSCAR ON HORSEBACK

BY

HARRY CASTLEMON

AUTHOR OF “GUNBOAT SERIES,” “ROCKY MOUNTAIN SERIES,” “WAR SERIES,” ETC., ETC.

PHILADELPHIA

PORTER & COATES

Copyright, 1893,

BY

PORTER & COATES.

CONTENTS.

THE

CAMP IN THE FOOT-HILLS;

OR,

OSCAR ON HORSEBACK.

CHAPTER I.
AT THE COLONEL’S HEAD-QUARTERS.

“I declare, I almost wish I was going with him!”

It was our old friend Oscar Preston who said this. He was standing on the platform in front of the station at Julesburg, gazing after the stage-coach in which Leon Parker, the disgusted and repentant runaway, whose adventures and mishaps have already been described, had taken passage for Atchison.

Oscar, as we know, had stumbled upon Leon by the merest chance, and fortunately he was in a position to render him the assistance of which he stood so much in need.

By advancing him money out of his own pocket he had put it in Leon’s power to return to the home he had so recklessly deserted, and those who have read “Two Ways of Becoming a Hunter” know how glad the runaway was to accept his proffered aid.

Up to this time Oscar had been all enthusiasm. There was no employment in the world that he could think of that so accorded with his taste as the mission on which he had been sent—that of procuring specimens for the museum that was to be added to the other attractions connected with the university at Yarmouth.

His head was full of plans. So anxious was he to make his expedition successful, and to win the approbation of the committee who employed him, that he had been able to think of nothing else; but when he saw the coach moving away from the station he began to have some faint idea of the agony Leon must have suffered when he found himself alone in that wilderness, with no friend to whom he could go for sympathy or advice.

In short Oscar was very homesick. In a few days, if nothing unforeseen happened, Leon would be in Eaton, surrounded by familiar scenes and familiar faces, while Oscar himself would, in a short time, disappear as completely from the gaze of the civilized world as though he had suddenly ceased to exist.

Even with his inexperienced eye he could see that bad weather was close at hand. Perhaps before he reached the foot-hills the winter’s storms would burst forth in all their fury, blocking the trail with drifts, and effectually shutting him off from all communication with those he had left behind.

He had never been so far away from his mother before, and neither had she ever seemed so dear and so necessary to him as she did now.

And then there was Sam—impulsive, good-natured, kind-hearted Sam Hynes—who had so long been his chosen friend and almost constant companion!

Oscar would have given much if he could have looked into his honest face and felt the cordial grasp of his hand once more.

Some such thoughts as these passed through the mind of the young hunter as he stood there on the platform with his hands in his pockets, gazing after the rapidly receding stage-coach, and for a moment he looked and felt very unlike the happy, ambitious boy who had left Eaton but a short time before with such bright anticipations of the future.

Then he dashed away the mist that seemed to be gathering before his eyes, pushed back his hat, which he had drawn low over his forehead, and took himself to task for his weakness.

“A pretty hunter I shall make if this is the way I am to feel!” was his mental exclamation. “I talked very glibly to Sam Hynes about going on a three or four years’ expedition to Africa to collect specimens, and here I am, homesick already, although I have been away from Eaton scarcely two weeks. This will never do. I must get to work at once.”

Just at that moment the stage-coach reached the top of a high ridge over which the road ran, and Leon turned in his seat to wave his farewell to the boy who had befriended him.

Oscar waved his handkerchief in reply, and, having seen the coach disappear over the brow of the hill, he sprang off the platform and bent his steps toward the fort.

As he passed through the gate, the sentry respectfully brought his musket to a “carry.” He had seen Oscar in familiar conversation with all the high officers belonging to the post, and that made him believe that the visitor, young as he was in years, must be a person of some importance.

He was well enough acquainted with the men who commanded him to know that they did not associate on terms of intimacy with everyone who came to the post on business.

Oscar walked straight to the colonel’s head-quarters, and the orderly who was standing in the hall opened the door for him.

The room in which he now found himself was not just such a room as he had expected to see in that wilderness. The open piano, the expensive pictures, the papered walls, and the richly upholstered easy-chairs that were arranged in order about the table made it look almost too civilized.

And yet there were a good many things in it to remind one of the plains. There was no carpet on the floor, but there were rugs in abundance, although they were not such rugs as we have in our houses. They were made of the skins of the wild animals that had fallen to the colonel’s breech loader.

The commandant was not only a brave soldier, a successful Indian fighter, and a daring horseman, but he was also an enthusiastic sportsman and a crack shot with the rifle.

The walls of his room were adorned with numerous trophies of his skill as a hunter and marksman in the shape of antlers, skins, and deer heads (the latter not quite so well mounted as they ought to be, Oscar thought); and the brace of magnificent Scotch greyhounds, which were lying at their ease on an elk skin in front of the blazing logs that were piled in the huge, old-fashioned fireplace, were fair specimens of the pack the colonel had imported for the purpose of coursing the antelope that were so abundant on the prairie.

The weapons the colonel used in war and in the chase were conspicuously displayed, and beside them hung Indian relics of all descriptions.

There was the shield that had once belonged to the hostile chief Yellow Bear, who had given the soldiers and settlers a world of trouble, and who was almost as celebrated in his day as Sitting Bull was a few years ago.

It was ornamented with the scalps the chief had taken during his numerous raids, and exactly in the centre of it was the hole made by a bullet from the colonel’s rifle, which had put an end to one raid and terminated the career of Yellow Bear at the same time.

Hanging on one side the portrait of a distinguished army officer was the strong bow, made of elk horn, and braced with deer sinews, which the colonel used when he went out to hunt coyotes; and on the other was the tomahawk he had wrested from the hands of the warrior who had rushed up to secure his scalp when his (the colonel’s) horse was shot under him.

It was by no means the terrible-looking weapon that Oscar had supposed an Indian tomahawk to be. It was simply a plasterer’s hatchet, which the former owner had purchased of a trader.

The colonel, who was sitting in an easy-chair, reading one of the papers which Oscar had laid on his table the day before, looked up as the boy entered and pointed to a seat on the opposite side of the fireplace.

“Well, you have seen your friend off, I suppose?” said he. “You arrived in the nick of time, didn’t you? The doctor says he honestly believes that Leon would have died of homesickness if you had not come just as you did. He has told me the lad’s story, and I must say that, although I have often read of such things, I never really believed that any living boy could entertain notions so utterly ridiculous. Why, just look at it for a moment! You will begin your life on the plains under the most favorable circumstances. You will have the benefit of the experience of every hunter about the post, both professional and amateur, be provided with all the necessaries that money can buy, be looked after by a competent guide, and yet before the winter is over you will wish a thousand times that you were safe back in Eaton again. Leon could not hope for the aid and comfort that will be so cheerfully extended to you. He intended to go in on his own hook, using as a guide some trashy novel, written by a man who probably knows no more about life on the plains than you do, and the consequence was that his want of experience got him into trouble at the very outset. That was a most fortunate thing for him, for if one of our Western ‘blizzards’ had overtaken him he never would have been heard of again. I hope his experience will be a lesson to him.”

“I hope so, from the bottom of my heart,” said Oscar as he took the chair pointed out to him, and patted the head of one of the greyhounds, which arose from his comfortable couch, and, after lazily stretching himself, came up and laid his black muzzle on the boy’s knee.

CHAPTER II.
OSCAR’S OUTFIT.

“I have had your luggage taken in there,” continued the officer, nodding his head toward an open door, which gave entrance into a cosey bedroom adjoining the sitting-room, “for you are to be my guest as long as you remain at the post. Now I don’t want to hurry you away, for those letters you brought me will insure you a welcome here and good treatment as long as you choose to stay; but my experience as a plains-hunter tells me that if you want to reach a country in which game is abundant before the bad weather sets in you had better start pretty soon.”

“I know it, sir,” replied Oscar. “I shall feel as though I was wasting valuable time as long as I stay here, and I am anxious to get to work without the loss of another day.”

“Oh, you can’t do that!” said the colonel. “The time you spend here will not be wasted, because it is necessary that you should make due preparation before you start. I tell you it is no joke to spend a long, hard winter among the hills, no matter how well housed and provided with supplies you may be. You told me, I believe, that you had purchased a few things in St. Louis. Let me see them. When I know just what you have I can tell you what else you need.”

As the colonel said this he arose from his seat and led the way into the bedroom which had been set apart for Oscar’s use.

Producing a key from his pocket, the boy unlocked the small packing-trunk in which a portion of his outfit was stowed away, and brought to light two pairs of thick army blankets, which he handed over to the colonel.

“They will pass muster,” said the latter, as he laid them upon the bed; “but those things,” he added, as Oscar drew out a pair of heavy boots with high tops, “you had better leave behind. You don’t want to load your pony down with articles that will be of no use to you.”

“My pony! He can’t carry all my luggage. That box must go,” said Oscar, pointing to a large carpenter’s chest, which had once belonged to his father. “If I can’t take them with me I might as well stay at home.”

“What’s in it?” asked the colonel.

“A complete set of taxidermist’s tools, artificial eyes, a lot of annealed wire of different sizes, some strong paper for making funnels, pasteboard boxes and cotton for packing away the smaller specimens, and—oh, there are lots of things in it!”

“I should think so! Are you going to put up your birds and animals as fast as you shoot them?”

“No, sir. I couldn’t do that with the limited facilities I shall have at my command. I simply want to put the skins in such shape that I can mount them when I get home. I brought the eyes with me because it is easier to insert them when the specimen is first killed than it is to put them in after the skin is brought to life again.”

“What do you mean by that? I’d like to see you restore a dead bird to life.”

“I didn’t say I could do that,” answered Oscar, with a laugh. “But I can restore the skin to life.”

“It makes no difference whether the body is in the skin or not, I suppose?”

“None whatever. I don’t care if the body was cooked and eaten a year before the skin came into my hands. You see, it isn’t necessary that we should use any extra pains in caring for the skins of animals. No matter how badly rumpled the hair may become it can be combed straight at any time. When the body has been taken out, and the bones you need are nicely cleaned, and the eyes are inserted, and the skin has been thoroughly cured with arsenic, it is rolled up and packed away until we get ready to use it.”

“I should think that if you left it for any length of time it would become as hard as a brick.”

“So it does, but that doesn’t hurt it in the least. It is packed away in a box of wet sand, and in twenty-four hours it is as soft and pliable as it was when it was first taken from the animal. That is what I meant when I said I could bring a skin back to life.”

“Oh! Ah!” said the colonel.

“Bird skins require very different treatment,” continued Oscar. “The greatest pains must be taken with them. As soon as the specimen is killed the throat must be cleaned out and stopped with cotton, to keep the strong acid of the stomach from destroying the small feathers that grow about the base of the bill. It must then be put into a paper funnel shaped like the cornucopias that are sometimes hung on Christmas trees, and in that way it can be carried to camp without the ruffling of a feather. After the skin is taken off and cured it must be smoothly laid out between layers of cotton. If it becomes wrinkled, or the plumage becomes displaced, it is almost impossible to make a good job of it.”

“Well, I declare!” said the colonel. “Yours is not so easy a business, after all, is it? I had no idea that there was so much in taxidermy. How long does it take to learn it?”

“A lifetime,” answered Oscar.

“Then I don’t think I’ll bother with it; my hair is white already, and the span of life that is left to me is so short that I couldn’t master even the rudiments of the science. Now let’s go back to business. The hunters in this country generally travel on foot, and let the ponies carry their supplies; but you will need a light wagon, and a good, strong mule to draw it. Those boots you will find to be very uncomfortable things to wear in this country in winter. A pair of Indian leggings and moccasins, which you can purchase of the sutler, will keep you much warmer,” he added, as Oscar drew out of the trunk first the stock and then the barrel of a heavy Sharp’s rifle and proceeded to put them together.

The colonel, who admired a fine weapon as much as he admired a fast horse and a good hunting dog, examined the rifle with the greatest interest, now and then bringing it to his shoulder and taking aim at the different objects about the room.

There were but few articles in Oscar’s outfit, and they consisted of two suits of durable clothing, a light rubber coat, a heavy overcoat, which was provided with a hood instead of a cape, a few fish lines, two dozen trout flies, a light axe, a hunting knife with belt and sheath, a frying-pan, some stout sacks in which to stow away his provisions, and lastly a neat little fowling-piece, which, being short in the barrel, and weighing but a trifle over seven pounds, was just the thing for use in thick cover or in the saddle.

Every article passed muster except the frying-pan. That, the colonel said, would do well enough for city hunters, but it would take up just so much room in the wagon; and Oscar, before he had spent a month in the hills, would probably throw it away and broil his meat on the coals.

“Now what else do I need?” asked Oscar, after the colonel had examined all the articles in his outfit and passed judgment upon them. “I shall want some provisions, of course.”

“Certainly. You will need some salt, two or three sacks of hardtack, a little dried fruit, a small supply of tea, coffee, sugar, and corn meal, a pony, mule, and wagon, and a good plainsman to act as guide and cook.”

“I suppose the sutlers can furnish me with everything except the last four articles,” said Oscar. “Where are they to come from?”

“There will be no trouble about them. Orderly, tell Big Thompson I want to see him.”

The orderly, who had entered the room in response to the summons, disappeared as soon as he had received his instructions, and the colonel went on:

“The mule and wagon can be found in the village; there are always plenty of them for sale, especially at this season of the year, and the pony can be procured here at the post. Two weeks ago a party of young braves, who had been out on a stock-stealing expedition, came in, very penitent, of course, and profuse in their promises that they would not do so any more; but I took away their arms and dismounted them, and have orders from the government to sell their ponies. They have been appraised by the quartermaster, and you can get one, ranging in price from twenty to seventy-five dollars.”

“They can’t be good for much,” said Oscar.

“There’s right where you are mistaken,” answered the colonel, with a smile. “They are just suited to the plains, and would live where an American horse would starve to death. And as for speed—well, we have horses in the fort that would probably beat the best of them in a race of three or four miles, but beyond that it would be safe to back the endurance of the pony. This man, Big Thompson, whom I shall try to induce to act as your guide, is my favorite scout. He has been out with me on several campaigns, and I know him to be perfectly reliable. As he says himself, he isn’t much to look at, and, having been born and brought up on the plains, he is of course very ignorant, and has some queer notions. He is as superstitious as any Indian, and equal to the best of them in hunting and trailing.”

“That reminds me of something,” said Oscar suddenly. “My friend Leon said that, just before Eben Webster robbed and deserted him, they were warned by one of the escort of a stage-coach that the Indians were on the war-path. I hope I shall run no risk of being discovered by them.”

“You need not be at all alarmed. The Indians to whom he referred were a party of young braves, mostly boys, who broke away from their reservation and went out to raid a camp of their sworn enemies, the Pawnees. They got neatly whipped for their pains, and, on such occasions, they always try to console themselves by taking the scalps of any small party of whites who may chance to fall in their way. They don’t like to go back to their village empty-handed if they can help it. If they had happened to meet Eben and your friend they might have stolen everything they had, but it isn’t at all likely that they would have attempted any scalping so near the post. Some of my troops have them in charge, and they are probably safe at their agency before this time. Here comes Big Thompson now.”

As the colonel said this, the footsteps of the orderly sounded in the hall, and a moment later the door opened, admitting the man who was to be Oscar’s companion and counsellor as long as he remained on the plains.

CHAPTER III.
BIG THOMPSON.

“How, kurnel!” exclaimed the newcomer.

“How!” replied the officer. “Sit down.”

“The race of giants is not extinct, after all,” thought Oscar, as his eyes rested on the tall, broad-shouldered man, who stepped across the threshold, carrying a soldier’s overcoat on his arm and a slouch hat in his hand. “I don’t wonder that he is called ‘Big’ Thompson.”

He was big—that was a fact. He stood considerably over six feet in his moccasins, and must have weighed at least 250 pounds, although there was not an ounce of superfluous flesh on him.

He moved as if he were set on springs, and his tightly fitting jacket of buckskin showed muscles on his arms and chest the like of which Oscar had never seen before.

He wore no weapon, and in fact the boy did not think he needed any, for he looked strong enough to battle empty-handed with anybody or anything.

Like most big men he was good-natured,—his face testified to that fact,—and it needed but one glance at it to satisfy Oscar that the owner of it was a man who could be trusted under any circumstances.

“Thompson,” continued the colonel, as the scout seated himself in the chair that was pointed out to him, and deposited his hat and coat on the floor, “this young gentleman is Mr. Oscar Preston, who has come out here from the States to spend the winter in hunting. He needs a guide who knows all about the country and the game that is to be found in it, and I have recommended you. Now see if you can strike a bargain with him.”

The scout listened attentively, and when the colonel ceased speaking he turned and gave Oscar a good looking over.

The boy thought he could not have been very much impressed with his appearance, for, after running his eyes over him from head to foot, he nodded his head slightly, said “How!” in rather a gruff tone—that was his way of saying “How do you do?”—and then settled back in his chair and turned his face toward the colonel again.

The latter went on to explain the nature of Oscar’s business, and, as the scout knew no more about taxidermy or a museum than he did of chemistry or geology, the officer was obliged to make use of a good many words, and those of the simplest kind too, in order to make him understand what it was that brought the boy to the plains.

There were two things, however, that Big Thompson did comprehend, viz., that Oscar intended to spend the winter in some good game country, and that he was able and willing to pay liberally for the services of an experienced plainsman to act in the capacity of guide and cook.

The hunting Oscar intended to do himself. He hastened to explain this fact to the scout, adding that, when he presented his specimens for the inspection of the committee at Yarmouth, he wanted to be able to say that they had all fallen to his own rifle.

“Then we’ll starve fur want of grub, an’ you won’t get none of them things,” remarked Big Thompson.

“What things?” asked Oscar.

“Them what-do-ye-call-’ems.”

“Specimens? Oh, I hope I shall! I have a room full of them at home now.”

“What be they?”

“Birds, principally.”

“Did you ever see a b’ar?”

“Not a wild one.”

“Nor a painter nuther?”

Oscar replied in the negative.

“What do ye reckon ye’d do if ye should see one o’ them varmints?” asked the scout.

“I am sure I don’t know,” was the honest reply.

“Wa-al, I kin tell ye. Ye’d take to yer heels an’ leave me to shoot him. I’ve been huntin’ with a heap of fellows from the States, an’ that’s what they all do.”

“I know one fellow from the States who will not take to his heels at the sight of a bear or a panther,” said Oscar to himself.

He did not speak the words aloud, for, being no boaster, he preferred to be judged by his actions.

Before many weeks had passed over his head he had an opportunity to show what he was made of, and then Big Thompson found that he had been sadly mistaken in the boy.

If Oscar’s courage had not been equal to his skill as a taxidermist the scout never would have seen Julesburg again.

“I reckon ye wouldn’t mind if I should do a little huntin’ an’ trappin’ on my own hook, would ye?” said Big Thompson after a moment’s pause.

“Certainly not. All I ask is that you will let me go with you and see how it is done. It is possible that I may make my living for years to come in that way, and I want to know how to go to work. Now let’s come to business. What wages do you expect, and do you want to be paid every month, or shall I settle with you when we return to the fort in the spring?”

“Wa-al, pilgrim, we’ll settle up when we come back, an’ it’ll be afore spring too,” replied the scout, with a grin. “A kid like yourself, who has lived in the States his hull life, aint a-goin’ to stay all winter in the hills—leastwise not if he can get outen ’em. Ye hear me speakin’ to ye?”

Without stopping to argue this point Oscar again broached the subject of wages, and at the end of a quarter of an hour the matter had been satisfactorily settled and all arrangements completed.

Thompson was to be allowed three days in which to make ready for the journey. He was a married man, and his cabin was located twenty miles from the fort.

He wanted to move his family nearer to the post, so that during his absence his wife could easily procure the supplies she needed from the sutler.

It would not be long, he said, before travelling on the Laramie plains would be next to impossible, and while he was gone he wanted to know that his family was well provided for, and in no danger of being snowed up and starved to death.

He would be at the post bright and early on the following Monday, and would expect to find Oscar all ready for the start.

This much having been arranged, and the rate of the pay agreed upon, the scout put on his coat and hat and walked out, accompanied by the colonel and Oscar.

CHAPTER IV.
PICKING OUT A PONY.

Standing in front of the door of the colonel’s head-quarters was a sleepy-looking sorrel pony, saddled and bridled. He looked very diminutive when contrasted with the heavy cavalry horse from which an orderly had just dismounted, and so light was his body and so slender his legs that it seemed as if an ordinary twelve-year-old boy would prove as heavy a load as he was able to carry.

But to Oscar’s great surprise Big Thompson walked straight up to the pony and vaulted into the saddle, whereupon the little fellow’s head came up, his sleepy eyes opened, and, breaking at once into a gallop, he carried his heavy rider through the gate and down the hill out of sight.

Oscar watched him as long as he remained in view, and then broke out into a cheery laugh, in which the colonel heartily joined.

“That beats me!” exclaimed the boy as soon as he could speak. “I think it would look better if Thompson would get off and carry the horse instead of making the horse carry him. His great weight will break the beast down before he has gone a mile.”

“You don’t know anything about an Indian pony,” replied the colonel. “I once had occasion to send Thompson to Fort Laramie with despatches, and he rode that same horse eighty-five miles in twenty-four hours without the least trouble.”

“I shouldn’t have believed that little animal had so much strength and endurance,” said Oscar, still more astonished. “Thompson doesn’t seem to think much of my skill as a hunter, does he?”

“You can’t wonder at it after the experience he has had with people from the States. He once shot four buffaloes for a gentleman living in New York, who cut off the tails of the game, took them home, and hung them up in his library as trophies of his own prowess.”

“I don’t see how he could do that,” said Oscar almost indignantly. “I will gladly pay Thompson for any specimens I cannot procure myself, but I couldn’t have the face to pass them off as my own. He hasn’t a very high opinion of my courage, either. He thinks I shall be willing to come back to the fort before spring.”

“That’s another thing you can’t wonder at. He knows what is before you, and you don’t. Now you have two days to spend in any manner most agreeable to yourself—this is Thursday, and you are not to start until Monday, you know—and, if you are not too weary with travel, I think I can put it in your power to obtain two or three fine specimens before you start for the hills. Do you ride?”

“Yes, sir. I have broken more than one colt to the saddle.”

“Then that is something you will not have to learn over again. Could you stand a fifteen-mile canter to-night?”

“I should enjoy it,” replied Oscar with great eagerness.

“All right. We’ll make up a little party among the officers, and spend the greatest part of to-morrow in coursing antelope. That is a sport you know nothing about, of course, and I tell you beforehand that your horsemanship, and skill with the revolver and lasso, will be pretty thoroughly tested.”

“Lasso?” repeated Oscar. “I didn’t know that antelope were ever hunted with the lasso.”

“Certainly they are; and it is the most exciting way of capturing them. You can’t imagine what hard riding it takes to enable one to slip a lariat over the head of a youngster about six months old. The little fellows run like the wind, and have a way of dodging and ducking their heads, just as the noose is about to settle down over their necks, that is perfectly exasperating. On Saturday we will pay our respects to the wolves. They are not worth a charge of powder, but we manage to get a little sport out of them by shooting them with the bow and arrow.”

“Then I shall not get any,” said Oscar. “I don’t know how to use a bow.”

“You can’t learn younger. The first thing, however, is to go down to the corral and pick out a pony. The quartermaster knows all about them, and we will ask him to go with us and make the selection. Orderly, tell Major Baker I want to see him.”

The major, who was the acting quartermaster, made his appearance in a few minutes, and the three walked leisurely toward the gate, discussing the merits of the captured ponies as they went.

At a sign from the colonel, accompanied by a pantomime that Oscar could not understand, a man who was sitting on the opposite side of the parade ground, with a blanket over his shoulders, arose to his feet and disappeared through an open doorway.

When he came out again Oscar saw that he was an Indian, and that he had exchanged his blanket for a coil of rope, which he carried in his hand.

He fell in behind the colonel and his two companions, and followed them down the hill toward the corral in which the ponies were confined.

There were twenty-five or thirty of them in the enclosure, and they looked so very small, when compared with the cavalry horses that were picketed on the outside, that Oscar could hardly bring himself to believe that they were full-grown animals.

They looked more like colts, and it did not seem possible that they could carry a rider for weeks at a time, with nothing but grass to eat, or beat a Kentucky thoroughbred in a race of twenty miles.

The officers stopped when they had passed through the gate of the corral, and while the major was running his eyes over the herd in search of the particular pony he wanted to find, Oscar had opportunity to take a good survey of the Indian.

He was one of the Osage scouts attached to the colonel’s command, and though not so large a man as Big Thompson, he was taller than either of the officers, and the battered stovepipe hat he wore on his head made him look taller than he really was.

He wore leggings and moccasins, a gray flannel shirt, a tattered officer’s dress coat, with a captain’s epaulet on one shoulder and a sergeant’s chevron on the other, and the band on his hat was stuck full of feathers.

He did not look like a very formidable person, and yet, as Oscar afterward learned, he had the reputation of being the bravest man in his nation. He stood quietly by, with his lasso on his arm, awaiting the colonel’s further orders.

“There he is! there he is!” exclaimed the major, laying his hand on his commander’s shoulder, and pointing toward the pony of which he was in search. “Come here, Preston, and tell me what you think of him.”

“I don’t see him,” replied Oscar, stepping behind the major, and raising himself on tiptoe, so that he could look along the officer’s outstretched arm. “I can’t tell one from the other. They are all sorrels, and look exactly alike to me.”

“But there is a big difference in them, all the same,” answered the major. “That fellow is a trained hunter, and worth fifty dollars of any man’s money. He will follow a buffalo, antelope, or elk over the roughest ground or through a prairie-dogs’ village without making a single misstep, and without the least guidance from the reins. I know that to be a fact, for I have seen him do it. If you want something a little handsomer and more fancy,” added the major, pointing to a pony that was trotting about on the outskirts of the herd, as if to show off the ribbons and feathers that were braided in his mane and tail, “there he is, and he is worth thirty dollars more.”

“I don’t care for anything fancy,” replied Oscar. “I came out here to work, not to put on style. Those thirty dollars are worth more to me than they are to Uncle Sam.”

“I think the buffalo hunter is the one you want,” remarked the colonel. “You will have two days in which to try him, and if he doesn’t suit you can bring him back and exchange him for another.”

So saying he turned to the Osage, and pointing out the horse in question, told him to secure it.

The Indian at once went in among the ponies, which had retreated to the furthest corner of the corral, and when he came out again, leading the buffalo hunter by his lasso, which he had twisted about the animal’s lower jaw, the rest of the herd turned and followed at his heels.

The presence of the Indian seemed to quiet them at once. They stood in no fear of him; but the moment they caught sight of the white men, who were waiting in front of the gate, they wheeled in their tracks and ran back to the other end of the corral again.

When Oscar came to take a good look at the animal he told himself that he was the homeliest thing in the shape of a pony he had ever seen.

There were a dozen others in the corral, which, if left to himself, he would have selected in preference to this one.

He was not at all pleased with the animal’s actions, either; for when he advanced to lay his hand upon him the pony snorted loudly, threw his ears close to his head, and retreated away from him as far as the length of the lariat would allow. He was vicious as well as homely.

CHAPTER V.
LARAMIE PLAINS.

“That’s the way they all do at first,” said the colonel, smiling at the rueful look on Oscar’s face. “An Indian pony doesn’t like a white man any better than his master does, and, like his master, he must be forced into submission. You are not afraid of him, I suppose?”

“Oh, no, sir. Just let me get on his back, with a good bit in his mouth, and I’ll manage him.”

While on the way back to the fort the colonel, with the major’s assistance, arranged all the details of the hunting expeditions that were to come off during the next two days, and named the officers of the garrison who, being off duty, would be at liberty to take part in them.

It was decided that as soon as dress parade and supper were over the party would leave the fort on horseback, taking with them a light wagon, in which to carry their tents and provisions, and bring back any game that might chance to fall to their rifles.

By midnight they would reach a small stream which ran through a country much frequented by antelope in the early hours of the morning.

There they would camp and sleep until daylight, when they would take to their saddles again and begin the hunt.

Having reached the gate the colonel gave the Indian some instructions concerning Oscar’s pony, after which he and the major walked on to their quarters, while Oscar bent his steps toward the sutler’s store, where he purchased a saddle and bridle, a rawhide lasso and picket pin, and a pair of elk-skin moccasins and leggings.

He hung the saddle, bridle, and lasso upon a peg behind the stall in which the Indian had left his pony, and the other articles were carried into his bedroom and stored away in his trunk.

After that Oscar had nothing to do but to amuse himself in any way he saw fit. His first care was to get ready for the hunt, so that no time would be lost when the hour for the start arrived.

He filled his belt with cartridges for his rifle and revolver, placed these weapons where he could readily lay his hands upon them, took from his trunk one of the thick, coarse suits of clothing he intended to wear while in the hills, and then set out to look about the fort.

He took a good survey of the stables and barracks, peeped into all the warehouses that were open, watched the teamsters, who were busily engaged in hauling the winter’s supply of wood into the fort, and finally, growing tired of passing the time in this way, he went back to the stable to take another look at his pony.

As he walked up and down the floor behind the stall in which the animal was hitched, he incautiously approached a little too near his heels. In an instant the pony’s little ears were thrown back close to his head, and his hind feet flew up into the air with tremendous force, but Oscar was just out of reach.

Fortunately he saw the motion of the pony’s ears, and, suspecting mischief, he jumped aside just in time to avoid the blow, which, had it been fairly planted, would have ended his career as a taxidermist then and there.

“That’s your game, is it!” exclaimed Oscar, picking up the hat that had fallen from his head. “Well, if you want a fight we may as well have it out now as any time.”

So saying, Oscar took his bridle down from its place on the peg and walked into the stall.

The pony must have been astonished at his boldness, and perhaps he was cured by it. At any rate he offered but little resistance as Oscar forced the bit into his mouth and strapped the saddle on his back.

He raised no objections either when the boy, having led him out of the stable, prepared to mount him; but he did not wait for him to be fairly seated in the saddle.

No sooner had Oscar placed his foot in the stirrup and swung himself clear of the ground than the pony broke into a gallop and carried him swiftly out of the gate.

Oscar could ride almost as well as he could shoot. He was quite at home in the saddle, and it seemed like old times to find himself moving over the ground with a speed almost equal to that of a bird on the wing, and to hear the wind whistling about his ears.

The pony was perfectly willing to go and the boy was perfectly willing to let him.

Up one hill and down another he went at an astonishing speed, and when at last his rider thought he had gone far enough he attempted to check him by pulling gently on the reins that were buckled to the snaffle bit and talking to him in English.

But the pony, which had all his life been accustomed to the severest treatment,—an Indian has no more mercy on his favorite horse than he has on the captives that fall into his hands,—was not to be controlled by gentle measures or smooth words uttered in an unknown tongue, so Oscar was obliged to resort to the curb.

That was something the pony could understand, for he was used to it. After he had been thrown almost on his haunches three or four times he slackened his pace and finally settled down into a walk.

Then Oscar straightened up, pushed his hat on the back of his head, and looked about him. He was alone on the prairie.

Even the top of the tall flag-staff which arose from the parade ground in the fort was hidden from view by the last swell over which the pony had carried him.

But there was no danger of getting lost, for the trail was as clearly defined as any country road he had ever travelled.

He followed it to the summit of the next hill, which, being higher than the surrounding ones, brought the flag-staff and a portion of the hamlet of Julesburg again into view, and there he stopped to take a survey of the country.

The ridge on which he stood stretched away behind him as far as his eye could reach, and in front terminated in a steep bluff, perhaps a hundred feet in height, at the base of which flowed the dark waters of the Platte.

To the north and west the long, regular swells gave place to innumerable ravines, which crossed and recrossed one another, and twisted about in the most bewildering fashion.

They were deep and dark, and their precipitous sides were so thickly covered with stunted oaks and pines that the light of the sun rarely penetrated to the bottom of them, even at mid-day.

In the years gone by these same ravines had afforded secure hiding-places for the hostile Sioux, who had so stubbornly resisted the onward march of the white man.

From their cavernous depths they had poured forth in overwhelming numbers to pounce upon some wagon train, and in them they had found refuge when worsted in conflict with the troops, their perfect knowledge of the ground enabling them to effectually baffle pursuit.

Far beyond the ravines, long miles away, and yet rendered so distinct by the clear atmosphere that it seemed to Oscar that but a few hours’ ride would be required to take him to it, was a tract of level prairie, which stretched away through four degrees of longitude to the foot-hills.

This level prairie was known as the Laramie plains, and even so far back as the day Oscar gazed upon it it was historic ground. Little mounds of stone, and the bleaching and crumbling bones of horses and cattle, marked the spot where more than one desperate battle had been fought between the hardy pioneers and their savage foes, and when Oscar, a few days later, was brought face to face with these mementoes, he wondered at his own temerity in so eagerly accepting a commission that took him to a country in which such scenes had been enacted.

He knew that the Laramie plains were still debatable ground; that the outrages that had been perpetrated there might at almost any day be repeated.

It was true that the country was now thickly settled,—at least the old pioneer thought so,—that comfortable ranches and dug-outs were scattered over the prairie, from fifteen to twenty miles apart, and that numerous droves of sheep and cattle cropped the grass which had once afforded pasturage for countless thousands of buffalo; but these evidences of the irresistible progress of civilization did not intimidate the Indian. They rather served to enrage him and to excite his cupidity.

Isolated ranches could be easily plundered, and the flesh of sheep and cattle was fully as palatable as that of the buffalo, which had been driven away.

Of course there was no trouble to be apprehended at that season of the year, it being too near winter for the Sioux to break out into open hostilities.

A plains Indian does not like to move during the snowy season. Indeed it is almost impossible for him to do so, for the reason that his main dependence—his pony (without which, so old hunters say, the Indian is not a foe to be feared)—is utterly unfit for service.

His food being deeply buried under the drifts, he is forced to content himself with the branches of the cottonwood, which the squaws cut for him to browse upon.

He becomes reduced almost to a skeleton, and even staggers, as he walks about to find some sheltered nook into which he can retreat for protection from the keen winds which cut through the thickest clothing like a knife.

His master, whom he has perhaps carried safely through a score of successful hunts and forays, pays not the slightest attention to him.

Comfortably settled in his teepee, hugging a little fire over which a white man would freeze to death, the warrior sits with his buffalo-robe around him, passing the time in smoking and sleeping, but arousing himself at intervals to engage in a game of chance with some of his companions, or to send his squaw to the agency to draw the rations a generous government provides for all the “good” Indians.

But when spring comes, and the snow melts away, and the tender grass begins to spring and grow luxuriantly beneath the genial influence of the sun, a great change takes place in the Indian and his pony.

The latter quietly sheds the long, rough coat he has worn all winter, and with it the burrs and mud with which he was covered; his ribs disappear, his skeleton frame begins to swell out into a well-rounded form, and all his old-time life and spirit come back to him; while his master, having shaken off his lethargy, polishes up his weapons, lays in a new supply of ammunition, and begins to look about for something to do—something that will add new laurels to those already won.

If he can find the least excuse for so doing he is ready at any moment to take the war-path. Oftentimes he has no excuse at all beyond a desire to gratify his incontrollable propensity for stealing and shooting.

Not infrequently a company of boys, who are ambitious to prove themselves expert thieves, and thus render themselves candidates for the “sun-dance,” through which trying ordeal all must pass before they become full-fledged warriors, break away from their agency and raid upon the sheep and cattle herders before spoken of.

Sometimes whole bands and tribes break out in this way, and spend the summer in dodging the troops and sacking defenseless ranches.

While the brave is on the war-path he is a “bad” Indian, and runs the risk of being shot by anybody who meets him; but in spite of this he enjoys himself to the utmost while summer lasts.

It is not until the pleasant weather draws to a close, and all the ranches he can find have been plundered and burned, and all the sheep and cattle in the country have been captured or dispersed, and the fall buffalo-hunt is over, and the cold winds begin to sweep over the plains, that the Indian becomes repentant.

Then he thinks of his warm teepee in that sheltered nook in the ravine, where his family has lived all summer, subsisting upon government rations, and he makes all haste to return to it before the snows of winter come to shut him up in the mountains.

CHAPTER VI.
A RIDE THROUGH THE SAGE-BRUSH.

The moment the repentant and plunder-laden warrior reaches his reservation he becomes one of the “good” Indians, and is entitled to all the privileges the government accords to them.

These privileges consist principally in drawing rations, riding stolen horses, dressing in stolen clothing, carrying stolen weapons, and wearing as an ornament on his shield the scalp of the unfortunate ranchman to whom the aforesaid stolen property once belonged. He does this too right before the face and eyes of the agent, who will not arrest him, and the troops dare not.

“It must be a fine thing to be an Indian,” said Oscar to himself as thoughts something like these passed through his mind—“nothing to do, and plenty to eat and wear. But, on the whole, I think I’d rather be a taxidermist. Now, where shall I go? I would explore one of these gullies if it were not for the associations connected with them. I should expect a band of hostiles to jump down on me at any moment. But I’ll go, anyway. A pretty hunter I shall make if I am afraid to ride into a ravine just because it is dark. It isn’t at all probable that I shall see a living thing.”

With this reflection to comfort him and keep up his courage Oscar urged his pony forward, and rode slowly along a well-beaten path that ran through a thicket of sage-brush and led in the direction he desired to go.

Then, for the first time since leaving the fort, he wished that he had brought his double-barrel with him, for he saw “specimens” on every side. They first appeared in the shape of a flock of sage-hens, which suddenly arose from the brush close in front of him, and sailed away toward the foot of the ridge.

They were a little larger than the ruffed grouse Oscar had so often hunted in the hills about Eaton, and their flight, though strong and rapid, was so even and regular that he would have had no trouble whatever in picking out a brace of the best birds in the flock.

True to his hunter’s instinct, Oscar marked them down very carefully, and while he sat in his saddle, looking first at the fort and then at the place where he had seen the birds settle to the ground, debating with himself whether or not it would be a good plan to go back and get his gun, something that looked like a yellowish-gray streak emerged from the sage brush, and ran with surprising swiftness down the path, which, at this point, happened to be perfectly straight. Just before it reached the first turn it halted suddenly, and gave Oscar a view of the first mule rabbit he had ever seen.

He did not wonder at the name it bore, nor did he any longer doubt the truth of the stories he had often read in regard to the attempts made by old plainsmen to pass the creature off on inexperienced pilgrims as a genuine mule. Its ears looked altogether too long for so small an animal, and Oscar wondered if they did not sometimes get in its way.

He studied the rabbit with a great deal of interest, noting particularly the position of the body and the ears. He knew now how he would set up the first one he brought to bay.

“It’s a lucky thing for you that I left my gun behind, my fine fellow,” said Oscar, as he rode slowly toward the rabbit, which gazed at him as if he were no more to be feared than one of the sage-bushes that lined the path. “You would be booked for Yarmouth, sure. If I only had you out on the open prairie, I’d make you show how fast you could run!”

When the rabbit thought Oscar had come near enough, he began moving away with long, deliberate bounds, and at the same moment the boy gave his pony the rein and started forward in pursuit.

The animal heard the clatter of hoofs behind him, and letting out two or three sections in its hind legs,—that is the way old plainsmen express it, when they want one to understand that a rabbit has made up his mind to exhibit his best speed,—he shot ahead like an arrow from a bow, and was out of sight in a twinkling.

He did not turn into the bushes, but kept straight down the path, completely distancing the pony before the latter had made a dozen jumps.

“Oh, if I only had some dogs like the colonel’s!” said Oscar, after he had succeeded in making his horse comprehend that he was expected to settle down into a walk once more. “With a brace of greyhounds to run antelopes, wolves, and jack rabbits, and a well broken pointer to hunt sage hens, one could see splendid sport right here in the neighborhood of the fort. I am sure those birds would lie well to a dog, and I have not the least doubt——”

The young hunter’s soliloquy was cut short by the sight of an apparition in blue flannel and buckskin which just then came into view.

It proved, on second look, to be a man dressed in the garb of a hunter; but such a man and such a garb Oscar had never seen before. No description could do them justice.

The man belonged on the plains, that was evident. So did Big Thompson, to whom Oscar had that day been introduced; but the two were as different in appearance as darkness and daylight.

The one had gained Oscar’s confidence the moment he looked at him; but the sight of this man aroused a very different feeling in his breast, and caused him to bless his lucky stars that the meeting had taken place so near the fort.

He was a person whom the young hunter would not have cared to meet in any lonely spot.

With a muttered exclamation of anger, the man jerked his horse part way out of the path, and Oscar made haste to ride on and leave him out of sight.

CHAPTER VII.
ANOTHER UNEXPECTED MEETING.

When two or three bends in the path had shut the stranger out from view, Oscar drew a long breath of relief and began a mental description of him.

He was fully as tall as Big Thompson, as thin as a rail, and blessed with a most sneaking, hangdog cast of countenance. He was clad in a blue flannel shirt, a soldier’s overcoat, and a pair of buckskin trousers, all of which had grown dingy with age and hard usage.

On his head he wore a brimless slouch hat, and on his feet a pair of ancient moccasins, and between the moccasins and the tattered bottom of his trousers—which were much too short for him—could be seen an ankle which was the color of sole-leather. His hands and the very small portion of his face that could be seen over a mass of grizzly whiskers, were of the same hue.

This uncouth object sat on his saddle—a piece of sheepskin—with his back rounded almost into a half circle, and his long neck stretching forward over his pony’s ears.

He did not look like a very dangerous character, but still there was something about him which made Oscar believe that he was a man to be feared.

While the young hunter was busy with his mental photograph of the stranger, his pony was walking rapidly down the path which now emerged from the sage-brush and entered the mouth of one of the ravines.

Oscar looked into its gloomy depths and drew in his reins, although he did not draw them tightly enough to check the advance of his pony.

“I don’t know whether I had better go in there or not,” thought Oscar, facing about in his saddle to make sure that the ill-looking fellow who had obstructed his path in the sage-brush was out of sight. “If he followed this road, he must have come out of this ravine, and who knows but there may be more like him hid away among these trees and bushes? But who cares if there are?” he added, slackening the reins again. “If I am going to be a hunter, I may as well begin to face danger one time as another, for it is something I cannot avoid. I’ll never start out by myself again without my rifle or shot-gun.”

The path was quite as plainly defined at this point as it was in the sage-brush, and of course Oscar had no difficulty in following it. Neither did he have any fears of being lost in the labyrinth before him, for all he had to do when he had ridden far enough was to turn about and the path would lead him back to the sage-brush again.

He kept on down the ravine for a mile or more, peering into the dark woods which had so often echoed to the war-cry of the hostile Sioux, wondering all the while who the strange horseman was and where he lived, and finally he began to think of retracing his steps, but just then his ear caught the sound of falling water a short distance in advance of him.

He had heard much of the trout-streams of this wild region, and his desire to see one induced him to keep on, little dreaming that when he found the stream he would find something else to interest him.

When Oscar had ridden a few rods farther he came within sight of the falls, the music of whose waters had attracted his attention, and also in sight of a smouldering camp fire. Seated on a log in front of it, with his elbows on his knees and his chin resting on his hands, was a figure almost as forlorn and dilapidated in appearance as was the horseman he had seen in the sage-brush.

He was gazing steadily into the fire and seemed to be very much engrossed with his own thoughts; but when the sound of the pony’s hoofs fell upon his ear he sprang up and gazed at Oscar as if he were fascinated.

The camp, upon which our hero had so unexpectedly stumbled, was located in the mouth of a ravine that branched off from the one he had followed from the foot of the ridge.

The fire was built upon the opposite bank of the stream, which here ran across the main ravine to mingle its waters a few miles farther on with those of the Platte, and behind it was a clear space a dozen or more feet in diameter that served as the camp.

Various well-known signs, which did not escape his quick eye, told Oscar that the camp had been occupied for several days, and yet nothing in the way of a shelter had been erected, the campers, no doubt, being fully satisfied with the protection afforded them by the overhanging cliff and the thick cluster of evergreens that grew at its base.

And there were other things missing, too, which Oscar had never failed to see in every camp whose inmates had any respect for their health and comfort. The supply of wood was exhausted, and although there was an axe handy the campers had sat musing by the fire until it had almost burned itself out, being too lazy to chop a fresh supply of fuel.

There was nothing in the shape of bed clothes in sight, or any provisions, or any packages that looked as though they might contain provisions; and the only cooking utensil to be seen was a battered and blackened coffee-pot, which lay on the edge of the brook, where it had stopped when its owner angrily kicked it out of his way.

Having noted these evidences of the extreme poverty and utter shiftlessness of the campers, the young hunter turned his attention to the figure before the fire, who still stood and gazed at him as if he were spellbound.

The boy was somewhat surprised at the result of his hurried observations, for he saw at once that the camper was not a born plainsman. Beyond a doubt he had known better times. His clothing, as well as a certain indefinable air and manner which are inseparable from those who have all their lives been accustomed to good society, loudly proclaimed these facts.

He looked like a broken-down gentleman, but still there was something of the backwoods about him, too. A stiff hat that had once been black covered his long uncombed hair, and his clothing was all of the finest broadcloth, and cut in faultless style; but his trousers were worn in a pair of heavy cowhide boots, and a glaring red shirt-collar was turned down over the collar of his coat. He was young in years, but wore a full beard and mustache, the latter having been long and carefully cultivated, while the whiskers were of recent growth.

Oscar took all these little points in at a glance, and was about to turn away with an apology for his intrusion, when something in the carriage of the head and the position assumed by the camper caused him to pause long enough to look him over a second time. He had never seen the face before, that was certain; but there was something about the form that seemed familiar to him.

“It is nothing but a foolish notion of mine, of course,” said Oscar to himself, as he drew in the reins preparatory to turning his pony about.

Then speaking aloud, he said:

“I didn’t mean, sir, to jump over in your camp in this unceremonious way. I wasn’t aware there was anyone here. I wish you good-day!”

To Oscar’s unbounded surprise, the reply that came across the brook was a volley of violent imprecations. They were called forth, not by anger, apparently, but by overwhelming amazement; and the strangest part of the whole proceeding was that they were uttered by a familiar and well-known voice—a voice that Oscar had not heard for many a long month.

The effect of this interchange of compliments was astonishing. The camper came close to the bank of the stream, and leaning forward until his body was bent almost double, shaded his eyes with his hand and gazed fixedly at Oscar, who, having suddenly grown too weak to keep his feet in his stirrups, was obliged to cling to the horn of his saddle with both hands, in order to keep his swaying body from toppling over headlong to the ground.

They stood thus for a few seconds without speaking, and then the camper, after a great effort, recovered the use of his tongue.

“It is Oscar Preston, as sure as I’m a sinner!” he exclaimed, in a hoarse whisper.

“Tom, is that you?” said Oscar, in the same husky voice.

Then there was silence. The two seemed to have been struck dumb again, and to be utterly unable to remove their eyes from each other. But at length the camper slowly, inch by inch, brought himself into an upright position, and, moving with stealthy footsteps, and keeping his gaze fastened upon Oscar, as if he feared that the boy was an apparition that might vanish into thin air if he made the least noise or lost sight of him for an instant, he walked back to his log by the fire, and seating himself upon it, buried his face in his hands.

These actions aroused Oscar, who rode across the brook, and, after tying his pony to a convenient sapling, he went up to the log and seated himself beside the camper.

The latter did not notice him for several minutes; but, at length, as if he began to feel ashamed of the weakness he had exhibited, he straightened himself up and looked defiantly into Oscar’s face.

It was Tom Preston, sure enough (Oscar recognized him now, in spite of his whiskers), but how changed from the dashing, dandified book-keeper he had known at Eaton! He seemed to have grown ten years older since the day his brother last saw him.

CHAPTER VIII.
TOM PRESTON.

“Tom,” said Oscar, as soon as he could speak, “you are the last person on earth I expected to meet in this wilderness.”

“I may say the same in regard to yourself,” answered Tom sullenly. “What brought you here?”

“I came on purpose to hunt.”

“You did?”

Tom was greatly amazed when he heard this. He ran his eye over Oscar from head to foot, critically examining his neat, warm outfit, and noting, with no little bitterness of heart, the air of comfort and contentment which those who are prosperous in the world seem to carry with them wherever they go, and then he looked down at himself.

Oscar, following the direction of his gaze, saw that his suit of broadcloth was very seedy and threadbare, and that in some places it was almost worn through.

What would Tom do when winter fairly set in, and the ravines were piled full of snow, and the keen winds came roaring down from the mountains? If that was the warmest suit he had, he would certainly freeze to death.

“Where is your overcoat?” asked Oscar, looking about the camp.

“Overcoat?” repeated Tom, with a sneering laugh. “Do you imagine that I am able to own such a thing? My uncle’s got it.”

“Your uncle?”

“Yes—Uncle Solomon, who lives in Denver. I had to shove it.”

Oscar looked down at the ground, and turned these words over in his mind. He did not quite understand them, and yet he was almost afraid to ask Tom to explain.

He wanted to know all about his brother’s circumstances and plans for the future, for he was as ready to assist him as he had been to assist Leon Parker; but still he did not like to ask too many questions, for Tom spoke very gruffly, and in a tone of voice which showed that he was in no mood to say much about himself.

Finally, Oscar came to the conclusion that Tom, having become pressed for money, had been obliged to pawn his overcoat, and the latter’s next words proved that this conclusion was the right one.

“The old skinflint took advantage of my necessities, as people of that class always do,” said he. “He gave me only fifteen dollars for it, and it cost me forty. But those fifteen dollars came in very handy, I tell you, for with them I was able to purchase three flannel shirts and these boots, which are a mile too big for me. Now, let me tell you what’s a fact, Oscar. You had better take the advice of one who has been through the mill, and dig out for the States while you have the chance. I was as spruce as you are when I first came out here, and now look at me. Just look at that!” he went on, thrusting out a foot which, up to the time he left home had always been encased in boots made of nothing heavier then French calf-skin or patent leather. “If I had been compelled to wear such stogas while I was in Eaton, I should have thought I was very badly abused, but now I have to wear them, or go without any. I’ll tell you another thing—if you stay here you needn’t look to me for help. It is as much as I can do to take care of myself.”

Here Tom got upon his feet and walked back and forth in front of his brother, shaking his fists in the air and swearing audibly.

“Those three thousand dollars didn’t do you much good, did they?” said Oscar, after a moment’s pause.

“Where did I get three thousand dollars?” demanded Tom, suddenly stopping in his walk and looking down at his brother.

“I am sure I don’t know; but an examination of your accounts showed a deficit to that amount.”

“Ah! That may be; but I didn’t have any such sum when I came out here. I spent a good deal before I left Eaton.”

“What did you do with the money you brought with you?” inquired Oscar, who hardly expected that Tom would reply to the question.

“Oh, I dropped it!”

“Did you lose it?”

Tom nodded his head, and resumed his walk.

“How did it happen?”

“Why, I was fool enough to buck the tiger down in Denver, if you must know,” answered Tom snappishly. “I wanted to increase my capital, and the consequence was I lost it all.”

“You don’t mean to say that you gambled it away?” Oscar almost gasped.

“Well, that’s about the plain English of it,” was the careless reply.

“O Tom!” exclaimed Oscar. “What do you suppose mother would say if she knew it?”

“I don’t intend that she shall know it, and she never will unless you get to swinging that long tongue of yours. It was my intention to shut myself out so completely from the world that nobody in Eaton would ever hear of me again; and I should have succeeded if some evil genius had not sent you prowling through this ravine. What brought you here, anyway? I tell you again that I can’t take care of you, and I won’t, either! By the way, for how much did you get into old Smith?”

It was plain enough to be seen that Tom, in his endeavors to account for his brother’s unexpected presence in that country, was shooting wide of the mark. He readily believed that Oscar, like himself, had stolen money from his employers and fled from Eaton in order to escape punishment at the hands of the law.

He could not think of anything else that would be likely to bring Oscar so far away from home.

“There’s just one thing about it,” said Tom to himself, after he had looked at the matter from all points and arrived at what he considered to be a perfectly satisfactory conclusion, “his money will soon be wasted—if it hasn’t been wasted already—and now that he has found me, he will naturally expect me to help him; but I can’t do it, and I won’t, and he might as well know it first as last. How much money did you bring away from Eaton with you?” he asked aloud.

“About eleven hundred dollars,” replied Oscar, who knew that his brother was very far from suspecting the real facts of the case. “And I left five hundred behind me.”

“Good for you!” exclaimed Tom. “You made a bigger haul than I did. You kept that five hundred to fall back on, I suppose. I wish I had been sharp enough to do the same. What did you do with the rest?”

“I saved every cent of it, except what I was obliged to spend.”

This answer almost took Tom’s breath away, and caused him to make a radical change in the programme he had marked out for himself.

Oscar did not fail to see it all, for Tom’s thoughts could be easily interpreted by the expression of his face.

“I don’t gamble, you know, and neither am I given to drink,” continued Oscar.

“Do you mean to say that I am?” demanded Tom, once more pausing in his walk.

“I do, for your face says so. No one ever saw a total abstainer with such eyes and such cheeks as you are carrying about with you to-day. Now, Tom, it may be to your interest to tell me all about yourself. I arrived at the fort no longer ago than yesterday morning, but I have already started one disgusted runaway on the road toward home, and I am able to help you.”

These words removed a heavy load of anxiety from Tom’s mind. His brother was willing to help him.

He was very impatient to know how much help—in other words, how much money—Oscar would be likely to give him; but, for the moment, his curiosity overcame his greediness. He wanted to hear all about that runaway.

CHAPTER IX.
TOM’S STORY.

“What was that runaway’s name?” asked Tom. “Was he from Eaton?”

“He was, and his name was Leon Parker,” replied Oscar. “He wasn’t satisfied with as comfortable a home and as kind a father and mother as any boy ever had, so he ran away and came out here to be a hunter.”

“Well, of all the born idiots I ever heard of, he is the beat!” exclaimed Tom, who could hardly believe his ears.

“That’s my opinion exactly. If he could see you now, or if he could have seen the miserable being I met while I was riding through the sage-brush a little while ago, he would be——”

“While you were riding through the sage-brush!” interrupted Tom. “Did you come that way?”

“Yes; I came directly from the post, and on the road I nearly ran over the meanest specimen of humanity my eyes ever rested upon. I tell you, I wouldn’t like to meet him on a dark night, if I had anything about me that was worth stealing.”

“Oh, he isn’t as bad as he looks,” said Tom.

“How do you know he isn’t?” asked Oscar, who was greatly amazed. “It isn’t possible that you are acquainted with him?”

“Yes, it is possible,” replied Tom, turning away his head so that his brother might not see the hot blush of shame that momentarily overspread his features. “I know him, and, more than that, he is my partner. I am getting ready to start out with him.”

“Worse and worse,” said Oscar, who was utterly confounded. “Why, Tom, what in the world is going to become of you?”

“No preaching now!” was the angry rejoinder. “I had to put up with it from mother while I was at home, but I am not obliged to submit to it now, and I won’t, either! If you want to talk business, go ahead; but if you want to preach, wait until some other time.”

The words he had in his mind were:

“If you want to preach, clear out, and leave me as you found me.”

But he recollected himself in time, and did not utter them.

Oscar had expressed a desire to assist him, and, consequently, it would not be wise to make him angry.

“You told me that you had already helped one runaway, and that you would help me,” continued Tom, seating himself on the log by Oscar’s side, and laying his hand familiarly on his shoulder. “Now, let’s talk about that. How much are you going to give me, and how did you happen to strike it so rich? I mean, how did you manage to secure so large a haul and get away with it?” he added, seeing the inquiring look on his brother’s face.

“Let me hear your story, and then you shall hear mine,” answered Oscar. “Tell nothing but the truth, now. How came you in this fix?”

“Well, to make a long story short, I came out here with about fifteen hundred dollars in my pocket, intending to go to the mines, but—unfortunately for me—I struck Denver on the way, and stayed there until I had squandered all my money. Then I had to go to work. A fellow can’t live in this country without doing something to bring in the stamps, I tell you, for he has to pay two prices for all the necessaries of life.

“The first position I managed to work myself into was that of mule-whacker—teamster, you know; but I didn’t understand the care of stock. I wasn’t strong enough to handle the heavy boxes and bales of freight, and after one of the mules had kicked me over a few times, I became sick of the job, threw it up, and went back to Denver. Everything there was full—more applicants than there were places for them to fill.

“One day while I was wandering about the streets, waiting for something to turn up, I came across a college graduate who was sawing wood for his dinner. After a little talk with him, I made up my mind that I would have to come down to it, too, so I took in every job of that kind I could find, swept out saloons and stores—in fact, did anything that would bring me money enough to pay for a decent meal once a day.”

“Where did you sleep?” asked Oscar.

“In deserted shanties, principally,” was the reply. “When I was hungry or thirsty, and couldn’t find any way to earn money, I pawned some of the clothing I had purchased in St. Louis. At last I had nothing left but my overcoat, and I dared not think what I should do when that, too, was gone. But they say it is always darkest just before daylight, and, as it happened, I struck a lead just in the nick of time—struck it rich, too.

“While I was sweeping out a saloon to pay for my breakfast, this man—who is now my partner—came in for his regular eye-opener. After he had drank it, he fell into conversation with two or three fellows who were sitting around, and then I learned that he was a professional wolfer. He said that he had made thirty-five hundred dollars out of his last season’s catch, and had come to the settlements to sell his plunder and have a good time. Having spent all his money, and winter being close at hand, he was getting ready to start out again. All he lacked was a companion, but he couldn’t find one.

“I don’t know what it was that prompted me to follow him out of the saloon when he left, but I did it, and I tell you it was a most lucky thing for me. I told him that I didn’t know anything about a wolfer’s business, but I must do something to earn my grub and clothes, and offered, if he would take me with him and teach me the tricks of the trade, to give him one-third of my catch. He jumped at my offer, and here I am, but in this condition,” said Tom, arising to his feet and turning his trousers’ pockets inside out, to show that they were empty.

“I don’t see that you have had any good luck yet,” replied Oscar. “You seem to be completely strapped.”

“So I am, but I consider myself very fortunate, all the same, for I am in a fair way to make a splendid living. Thirty-five hundred dollars in one season, and all the summer to rest in! Just think of it! Why, man alive, we’ll be rich in five years! We’ll have a cattle ranch of our own, live on the fat of the land, and fairly roll in money!” cried Tom, trying in vain to infuse some of his bogus enthusiasm into his brother, who was not at all impressed by these visions of ease and wealth.

We said that Tom’s enthusiasm was not genuine, and neither was it. It was assumed for a purpose, and Oscar knew what that purpose was before his brother’s next words revealed it.

“Come to think it all over, I am heartily glad I met you,” continued Tom. “Here we are, brothers, strangers in a strange land, and both in trouble. Our interests are identical. Two can do more than one, and we ought by all means to hang together. You must have seven or eight hundred dollars, haven’t you?”

“Yes, I have that much.”

“Can you get hold of that five hundred you left behind?”

“I suppose I can, but I don’t want it.”

“Oh, we shall need it, sooner or later, and you might as well make arrangements accordingly. That makes twelve or thirteen hundred dollars that we are sure of. Now I’ll tell you what we’ll do. We’ll go halves on that, and I will drop my old partner and take you in his place. What do you say?”

Oscar did not say anything immediately. His brother’s proposition was rather more than he had bargained for. This was the point Tom had been trying to reach ever since he found out that Oscar had money in his possession. The latter had seen it very plainly, and knew that the matter must at some time be thoroughly discussed, and Tom be given to understand that his offer of partnership could not be entertained. He knew, too, that there would be an explosion when the denouement came, and Tom learned how sadly he had been mistaken in regard to some things, and for this reason Oscar was anxious to put the critical moment off as long as he could.

CHAPTER X.
TOM LEARNS SOMETHING.

“What do you think of my plan, anyhow?” asked Tom. “Isn’t it glorious?”

“I would rather know what you think of it when you have heard my story, which I will begin as soon as you have finished yours,” answered Oscar. “You have not yet given me any idea of your business. Where’s your home?”

“Haven’t got any. Don’t need one.”

“How did you come up from Denver?”

“Walked every step of the way, and my partner’s pony carried the plunder.”

“He didn’t have to overtax his strength, did he?” said Oscar, looking at the battered coffee-pot in the brook, which was the only thing in the shape of “plunder” or luggage that he had seen in the camp, if we except the axe which rested on the other end of the log that served them for a seat. “Where is your rifle?”

“Don’t need that, either, although I confess it would be a nice thing to have at hand in case of trouble. My partner has one, and I was going to depend on him to supply our larder and keep us in bait. I suppose you have firearms?”

“Yes; I have a rifle, revolver, and shot-gun.”

“All right. We are well provided for in that line, but strychnine is what we shall depend on, so don’t forget to lay in a good supply of it when you go back to the village. Before you go I will tell you what else we need, and bright and early to-morrow morning we’ll set out. When we reach a country in which wolves are known to be plenty, we’ll make a camp, and go to work at once. The first thing will be to procure bait, which may be anything in the shape of fresh meat that comes in our way. The skin we shall save, of course; but the meat will be cut up into pieces, sprinkled with strychnine, and scattered about over the snow. The next morning we’ll go out and bring in our dead wolves. The skins will be taken off and cured, and the carcasses will serve as bait for other wolves.”

“You will need warmer clothes than those you have on, if you are going to be exposed to the weather,” said Oscar.

“I know it; and I shall depend on you to buy some for me. I shall soon be able to repay you, for there is money in this business. Everybody says so.”

“I am glad of it, and since you seem determined to go into it, I hope you will be successful. If you are, you can return Mr. Smith’s money with legal interest.”

Oscar watched his brother narrowly as he uttered these words, and was not much surprised at the effect they produced upon him.

Tom jumped to his feet, and doubling up his fists, began flourishing them in the air over his head, preparatory to saying something emphatic. Then, suddenly recollecting himself, he dropped his hands by his side, and took his seat on the log again.

“I can do that, can’t I?” said he, with a great show of earnestness, which, like the enthusiasm he had exhibited a few minutes before, was all “put on” for the occasion. “It would restore me to my old standing in society, wouldn’t it?”

“No, it wouldn’t, although it would go a long way toward it. It is, in fact, the very first step you must take if you want to regain the confidence of the folks in Eaton. There is a stain upon your character, and you must live it down. That’s what I had to do.”

“You! My conduct didn’t affect you in any way.”

“I should say it did, and in more ways than one. Mr. Smith discharged me because he was afraid to trust me, and that is what brought me out here. You remember how much sport you used to make of my taxidermy, don’t you? Well, it is now bringing me in a hundred dollars a month, clear of all expenses. I received enough in advance to make mother comfortable a long time, and a thousand dollars besides with which to pay my bills.”

“Why, what do you mean?” exclaimed Tom, who was quite as much astonished as Oscar expected him to be.

“I mean just what I say. I have a life position, if I succeed in satisfying my employers, with the promise of a big increase in my salary. I may go to Africa after I get through here on the plains.”

“Oh, now, leave off chaffing me!” said Tom impatiently. “I am in no humor for nonsense.”

“It is not nonsense. I will tell you all about it, and when you have heard my story, you are at liberty to think what you please.”

Oscar then went on to describe, in as few words as possible, all the incidents which had operated to make so great a change in his circumstances.

He told the story of his discharge from the store, of the vindication of his character by the discovery of the thief who had been systematically robbing the money-drawer (Oscar did not yet know that his friends, Sam Hynes and Miles Jackson, had anything to do with that affair), and of Mr. Smith’s efforts to induce him to return to his old situation at an increased salary.

He told how he and Sam Hynes had rescued Professor Potter when the latter was capsized off the head of Squaw Island, and wound up his narrative by giving the details of his visit to Yarmouth, and his employment by the committee who controlled the immense fund which was to be expended in adding a museum to the university.

Tom listened in genuine amazement; and, by the time the story was finished, he was so angry that he could scarcely breathe.

He would have been glad, indeed, if he could have disbelieved every word his brother uttered, but his story bore the impress of truth upon the face of it.

We know how he had accounted for Oscar’s presence there on the plains, and he had fairly rejoiced in the belief that his brother was a runaway thief like himself.

Misery loves company, you know, and Tom found great satisfaction in the thought that Oscar, whom everybody in Eaton believed to be strictly honest and truthful, had at last yielded to temptation and sunk to a level as low as that which he himself occupied. But, when the real facts of the case were revealed—when Tom learned that his brother had left home in broad daylight, and with his mother’s full and free consent; that he was backed up by a committee worth a hundred thousand dollars, and provided with letters that would place him on terms of intimacy with the highest officers on the plains, both civil and military; that those officers would give him a good “send-off,” and stand ready at all times to assist him by every means in their power—when Tom thought of all these things, his rage got the better of him, and he jumped to his feet with the wildest kind of a warwhoop.

“Have you got the impudence to come here and tell me that you are growing rich every day, while I am freezing and starving?” he demanded, in a voice which was rendered almost indistinct by intense passion.

“I tell you that I have a steady income, and it is the truth,” replied Oscar.

“And you never stole any of old Smith’s money?”

“Of course not. I never handled a dishonest penny in my life.”

“And do you know that while you were comfortably housed at the fort last night, and having a good time with those officers, who wouldn’t look at me any sooner than they would look at a yellow dog—do you know that while you were enjoying yourself in that way, I was sitting shivering over this camp fire, with nothing but hardtack to eat, and nobody but an ignorant, ragged backwoodsman for company? Do you know it?” yelled Tom, who hardly realized what he said in the excess of his fury. “What do you mean by it? and what amends are you going to make for treating me so?”

“I don’t know that I can make you any amends,” said Oscar, who was greatly astonished. “You surely can’t expect me to come out here and shiver over a miserable camp fire, and take a ragged backwoodsman for a companion, just because you choose to do so!”

“You know well enough that I didn’t mean that!” Tom almost shrieked. “Why didn’t you do something for me?”

“I didn’t know you were here.”

“And it would have made no difference if you had known it. But that’s always the way. Those who are lucky don’t care a straw for those that are unlucky. The harder a fellow tries to better his condition in life the worse he is off. There is no one who has planned and schemed more than I have to make money, and now look at me! You, on the contrary, took matters easily, and Fortune has showered favors on you by the bucketful. You will go off to the hills with a guide, provisions, and clothing in abundance, and everything else that will enable you to live in camp as comfortably as you would at home, while I——”

Tom was too angry to say more just then. He walked back and forth in front of his brother, shaking his fists in the air and swearing at the top of his voice.

CHAPTER XI.
TOM BECOMES DESPERATE.

“Look here,” said Tom, suddenly pausing in his walk and looking down at his brother. “The fact that you came honestly by your money will not interfere with our arrangement, will it?”

“I know what you mean, of course,” answered Oscar, “but I can’t consent to it. My instructions are most explicit, and the money I shall spend is not my own.”

“What’s the odds? Who’ll know whether you obey orders or not? How much are you to pay your guide?”

“A dollar and a half a day from the time we leave the fort until we get back.”

“Well, you will save all that by taking me in his place; and that consideration ought to have some weight with you, if you are as careful of the committee’s money as you pretend to be. When you go back to the post, tell him that you don’t want him—that you have made other arrangements—and be ready to meet me in the sage-brush to-morrow at sunrise. I shall want a pony, of course, and while you are about it you might as well bring me a rifle and a supply of ammunition. In the meantime, I will shake my partner, and we’ll set out together. When we find a place that suits us, we’ll go into camp, and while you are securing specimens I will put in the time in catching wolves. What do you say to it?”

“I say that there are many objections to your plan,” replied Oscar. “In the first place, my instructions are to hire a guide, and I have done so. If I should discharge Big Thompson, now that I have engaged him——”

“Big Thompson?” interrupted Tom. “He isn’t your guide, I hope?”

“He is; and he was recommended to me by the colonel commanding the post.”

“I don’t care who recommended him, he’s a rascal.”

“Do you know him?” asked Oscar.

“Not personally; but my partner does, and he doesn’t know any good of him, either. I wouldn’t pass a minute alone in the hills with him for all the money there is in the States.”

Oscar called to mind the kindly face of his guide, and the clear, honest-looking eyes which had gazed straight into his own whenever their owner spoke to him, and contrasted the man to whom that face and those eyes belonged with the sneaking ruffian he had met in the sage-brush; and the conclusion at which he arrived was that there was nothing in the world that would induce him to change companions with Tom.

Before he would do that he would throw up his situation and look about for some other occupation that would support himself and his mother.

Believing that Tom’s “partner” had some good cause for hating Big Thompson, Oscar said no more about him, but went on to state the other objections he had to Tom’s plan.

“Another reason why I can’t agree to your proposal is that I am working on a salary, and I am in duty bound to do the best I can for those who employ me,” said he. “What could you and I accomplish by roaming about among the hills without an experienced hunter to show us where the game is? You would catch no wolves, and I should find no specimens.”

“Yes, we would, for game of all kinds is so abundant that we couldn’t run amiss of it,” answered Tom.

Without stopping to argue this point, Oscar continued:

“There is still another reason. I am only on probation now, and unless I can show that committee that I am a hunter as well as a taxidermist, I shall have to step aside and give place to somebody else. You can see for yourself that it is to my interest to do the best I can at the start.”

“You seem to be full of excuses, but you needn’t offer any more,” said Tom, with suppressed rage. “If you don’t want to agree to my proposal, say it in so many words.”

“I don’t want to agree to your proposal,” returned Oscar. “I can’t.”

“You were ready enough to help Leon, who is nothing to you, and who did his best to injure you in every possible way while you lived in Eaton!” sneered Tom; “but when your brother asks you for a lift, you refuse to raise a finger. Lend me a hundred dollars to buy an outfit with. Can you do that?”

“No, I can’t. I haven’t got the money.”

“There! What did I tell you?” Tom almost shouted. “A little while ago you said you had a thousand dollars.”

“But it doesn’t belong to me. I have to use it in paying my expenses.”

“And Leon’s too!” exclaimed Tom. “You must have paid his stage and railroad fare out of that fund.”

“I did; but I shall have to replace it out of my own pocket.”

“You couldn’t lend me a hundred dollars, and replace it in the same way, I suppose?”

“No, I could not, for two reasons: In the first place, that mortgage must be paid, so that mother can be sure of a home of her own; and in the next, I don’t know how much money I shall need this winter. I must feed my guide as well as myself, and when we come back to the fort I must pay him cash in hand for his services. Then I have a pony, mule, and wagon to buy, and it will cost a snug sum to transport myself and the specimens I hope to procure to Eaton. Wouldn’t I be in a pretty fix if I should find my money was running short?”

“You could draw on that committee for more, couldn’t you?”

“No, I couldn’t. That wasn’t in the bargain.”

“What’s the odds? Take the risk. Tell them that you were robbed, or that your expenses were a little heavier than you thought they would be.”

“I’ll not tell a lie to please anybody,” said Oscar indignantly.

“Of course not! Of course not!” yelled Tom, who was so nearly beside himself with fury that he could not stand still even for a moment. “You were quite willing to help a boy who has slandered you, and to work yourself to death in order to win the approbation of strangers, but you wouldn’t give your needy brother fifteen cents to save him from starving.”

“I’ll tell you what I will do,” said Oscar, paying no heed to Tom’s remarks. “I will give you a suit of warm clothing and an overcoat, if you will accept them.”

It was right on the point of Tom’s tongue to tell Oscar to bundle up that suit of warm clothing and the overcoat, and take them to Guinea, or some other place under the equator—not because he did not need the clothing, but because he wanted money more, and it made him angry to know that he could not get it.

If Oscar had been able to comply with his demands, every cent would have been squandered, and his brother would have started out in his threadbare suit to face the winter’s storms.

Tom did not utter the words that arose to his lips. He paced back and forth for some minutes, with his eyes fastened on the ground, when suddenly a daring project suggested itself to him.

Without stopping to dwell on it, he strode up and faced his brother. There was a wild look in his eyes, and his fingers worked convulsively.

“How much money have you got in your pocket?” he asked, in as steady a tone as he could command.

“Not a red cent,” was the reply. “I left it all at the fort. I thought it would be safer there.”

“And I wasn’t mistaken, either,” said Oscar, to himself, as he looked up at his brother. “No honest face ever wore an expression like that. I think I would be safer at the fort myself.”

Tom could not meet his brother’s gaze. He turned away his head and resumed his seat on the log.

Oscar had never before come so near being robbed as he had that day. Tom was really in terrible straits, and so very much in need of money that he would not have hesitated to knock his brother senseless, if he had been sure that by so doing he could secure possession of his well-filled pocket-book.

If the latter had not been thoughtful enough to place all his money in his trunk before setting out on his ride, there would have been a desperate battle on the banks of that little stream; and it is possible that before it was ended Tom would have discovered that he had undertaken more than he could accomplish.

He was much larger and heavier than his brother, and plumed himself on being a boxer, but he was weakened and dispirited, by long-continued dissipation, while Oscar, having lived a strictly temperate life, was always in condition to do his best.

“Don’t you think it about time to turn over a new leaf?” asked Oscar, as he arose to his feet and laid his hand on his brother’s shoulder. “One is getting pretty near the end of his rope when he can bring himself to think seriously of committing such a crime as you had in contemplation a few minutes ago.”

Tom did not raise his head or utter a sound. He could not find words with which to deny the accusation.

CHAPTER XII.
OSCAR TALKS TO THE COLONEL.

“What shall I do with the clothes?” continued Oscar. “Shall I bring them to you, or would you rather go up to the sutler’s and pick them out for yourself?”

“I’d rather you would bring them to me,” answered Tom, without looking at his brother. “Bring them to the mouth of the ravine, and I will meet you there—say in a couple of hours. You had better not come in here again, for my partner is an odd sort of a fellow, and doesn’t like to have any strangers about his camp. If I shouldn’t happen to be on hand when you come back, don’t wait for me. Just hide the clothes in the bushes at the foot of a big rock you will see there, and I’ll find them. You will know what rock I mean when you see it, for there is a large oak tree leaning over it. Good-by till I see you again.”

While Oscar was listening to what his brother had to say in regard to the disposal of the clothing, something told him that Tom did not intend to be at the place appointed to receive them.

Impressed with this idea, and believing that it would be a long time before he would meet him again,—if, indeed, he ever met him,—he resolved to extort from him a promise that he would not only withdraw from the companionship of such men as the one he had seen in the sage-brush, but that he would make an honest and persevering effort to refund the money he had stolen, and regain a place among reputable people. But he did not have time to say a word, for Tom’s good-by was an abrupt dismissal.

That he intended it should be taken as such was proved by his actions. As soon as he ceased speaking, he caught up the axe and plunged into the bushes.

“Don’t leave me in that way. I want to say something more to you,” cried Oscar.

He listened intently for a reply, but the only one he received was the echo of his own voice thrown back from the cliffs.

He called again, with no better success, and then, unhitching his pony, he sprang upon his back, and slowly and sadly rode down the ravine.

He turned in his saddle occasionally, to run his eye over the thicket in which Tom had disappeared; but he could see nothing of him, and finally a sudden turn in the road shut the camp out from his view.

The exhilarating gallop Oscar had enjoyed on his new pony had done much to cure his homesickness and banish the gloomy thoughts that had crowded upon him when he saw Leon Parker setting out for the States; but the events of the last half hour had brought them all back again.

He had never dreamed that he would stumble upon his brother in that wilderness, or that he would ever see him in a condition so deplorable.

Tom’s ill-gotten gains, which he had expected would bring him so much happiness, had brought him nothing but misery. He was thinly clad, his pockets were empty, he had often gone hungry, and he was the companion and associate of the lowest characters.

“His case certainly looks desperate,” thought Oscar, glancing at his watch and putting his pony into a gallop, “and I am completely at my wit’s end. I don’t know what to do, and I wish there was someone here to whom I could go for advice. Tom will never be anything better than he is while he remains with such fellows as that ‘partner’ of his, that’s certain; but how shall I get him away from them? That’s the question that troubles me.”

And we may add that it troubled him all the way to the fort; but just as he was riding into the gate a thought passed through his mind, inducing him to turn his pony toward the stable instead of toward the hitching-post in front of the commandant’s head-quarters, as he had at first intended to do. If anybody could help him it was the colonel.

He would not take the officer into his confidence, of course, but he would question him in a roundabout way, and perhaps during the conversation some hint would be dropped that would show him a way out of his difficulty.

Leaving his pony in the stall that had been set apart for his use, Oscar walked across the parade-ground and entered the hall leading to the colonel’s quarters, the orderly, as before, opening the door for him. He was glad to find that the officer was alone. He was engaged in writing, but when Oscar came in he laid down his pen and greeted him with:

“Ah! you have turned up at last, have you? I have had an orderly looking for you, thinking that perhaps you would like to take a short ride to try your new horse.”

“I have just returned from a five-mile gallop,” answered Oscar, who hoped that the colonel would not offer to accompany him when he left the fort to carry the clothes to the ravine. “I am going to start right back, and this time I shall take my gun with me. I saw some grouse and a big jack-rabbit down there in the sage-brush.”

“Oh, you can find them any day if you keep your eyes open,” said the colonel carelessly. “But I suppose you might as well begin to form your collection one time as another. How does your pony suit?”

“Very well so far. He showed a disposition to be ugly at first, but I had no trouble to bring him to his senses. By-the-way, I met a couple of wolfers while I was gone.”

“Well, what did they steal from you?”

“Nothing, sir. The only thing I had with me that was worth stealing was my pony. No doubt you will be surprised when I tell you that one of these wolfers is an old acquaintance of mine.”

“You don’t say so!” exclaimed the colonel, who was indeed surprised. “You beat anybody I ever heard of. How many more acquaintances are you going to find while you are out here? Are you going to ship this fellow off to the States, too?”

“No, sir; because he can’t very well—I mean he doesn’t want to go back where he came from,” stammered Oscar, who was not a little confused when he found that he had let out more than he had intended.

“Ah!” said the colonel in a very significant tone of voice. “It is a wonder you met him at all, for these wolfers generally have good reasons for keeping themselves hidden in the thickest part of the woods they can find. If you have cause to dislike this man—whoever he is—you may have the satisfaction of knowing that he can’t get any lower down in the world—not by land, as some humorist remarks.”

“I have no cause to dislike him,” replied Oscar. “On the contrary, I think a good deal of him; but I do not like the company he keeps. I met his partner while I was riding through the sage-brush, and I must say that he was the worst specimen of humanity that I ever looked at. He was tall and raw-boned, with grizzly hair and whiskers, a pair of wild-looking eyes——”

“And rode a little sorrel pony, with a sheepskin for a saddle,” added the colonel. “That was Lish, the Wolfer. I know him. Where is he now?”

“In the village, probably. I judge so, from the fact that, when I met him, he carried a couple of empty sacks across his pony’s neck. I thought he was going after supplies.”

“Where did you find his companion?”

“In camp, on the banks of the brook that runs through the ravine, about——”

“Orderly, tell Lieutenant Fitch I want to see him!” shouted the colonel.

Oscar was very much surprised at this unceremonious interruption, and he was still more surprised, and not a little alarmed, besides, when the lieutenant—who happened to be close at hand—entered the room in haste, and was thus addressed by his superior:

“Mr. Fitch,” said the colonel, “Lish, the Wolfer, has been in Julesburg. How long ago was it you met him?” he added, turning to Oscar.

“About two hours, I should say.”

“Well, he has had plenty of time to get drunk. Go and find him, Mr. Fitch, and listen to what he has to say. When he is in his cups, he is like an Indian in the war-dance—much given to boasting of his valorous deeds. If he says anything relating to that affair of last summer, take him into custody at once, and then go up and arrest his companion, whom you will find on the banks of that little trout-stream we fished in last summer. If one had a hand in it, the other did, too, and so we must pull them both.”

Having received his instructions, the lieutenant hurried from the room, while Oscar sank helplessly back in his chair, almost overcome with bewilderment and alarm.

“Worse and worse,” he thought, when he had recovered himself so that he could think at all. “Tom has been doing something else that renders him liable to arrest. What will become of him?”

Then, seeing that the colonel’s eyes were fastened upon him with an inquiring look, he called a sickly smile to his face, and asked, in a voice that was strangely calm, considering the circumstances:

“Are the wolfers all bad men?”

“Oh, no. There are exceptions, of course; but take them as a class, they are a desperate lot. I know of several men, two of whom I have in my mind at this moment, who made their start in life as wolfers. One of them is now a prosperous merchant in an Eastern city, and the other is running an extensive cattle ranch in Texas. But they were careful of their money, while the majority of those who follow that business squander every cent they earn. They brave hunger, cold, and all sorts of hardships for several months in the year, and devote the rest of their time to getting rid of their money. They are held in supreme contempt by all honest plainsmen, and this acquaintance of yours had better break off associating with them before he gets himself into trouble, if he hasn’t done so already. If he is going to be a wolfer, he had better hunt alone than in the company of that miserable fellow he seems to have chosen for a companion. No matter how much money he makes, Lish will find means to obtain possession of the whole of it.”

“Do you think he will rob him?” exclaimed the boy.

“He is capable of anything,” was the colonel’s reply.

And it was accompanied by a shrug of the shoulders that spoke volumes and excited a train of serious reflections in Oscar’s mind.

CHAPTER XIII.
OSCAR WRITES A NOTE.

While the colonel was speaking, Oscar had twisted uneasily about on his chair, waiting with the utmost impatience for him to bring his remarks to a close.

At almost any other time he would have plied the officer with questions regarding the class of nomads known as “wolfers,” for he would like to have learned more about them; but he had already found out all he cared to know just then.

Tom was suspected of complicity in some crime that rendered him liable to punishment; and, if he escaped and went to the hills with Lish, he would run the risk of being robbed by him.

Oscar thought it was his duty to warn him of these dangers. He knew that the lieutenant would carry out his instructions with the utmost promptness and decision—these regulars waste no time when acting under orders—and not a moment was to be lost.

The colonel settled back in his chair as though he had nothing more to say just then, and Oscar arose to his feet and went into his bedroom.

After slinging on his powder-flask and shot-pouch, and making sure that the little box in the stock of his fowling-piece was filled with caps, he opened his trunk, and, taking from it a sum of money sufficient to pay for the clothes he had promised to purchase for his brother, he went back into the colonel’s room.

There the officer detained him for a few minutes in order to describe the localities in the immediate vicinity of the fort in which he would be likely to find the most game, and to tell him how to shape his course in order to reach those localities. He thought he was doing the boy a kindness; but instead of that he was putting him on nettles.

Oscar listened as patiently as he could; and, when the colonel ceased speaking, he bade him good-by and left the room.

He bolted through the outer door, and ran at the top of his speed across the parade-ground to the sutler’s store. Fortunately there were no customers present, and so the sutler was at liberty to attend to his wants at once.

Slinging his double-barrel over his shoulder by the broad strap that was attached to it, Oscar quickly selected the articles he thought his brother needed, paid the price demanded for them, and, as soon as they had been tied up in a compact bundle, he hurried to the stable after his horse.

The animal, as before, showed a desire to use his heels, but Oscar, having no time to waste, paid not the slightest attention to him. The curb and the rawhide lasso were both brought into requisition; and, before the vicious little beast was fairly through smarting under the energetic pulls and blows he had received, he had carried his rider through the gate and out of sight of the flag-staff.

The pony accomplished the distance that lay between the fort and the mouth of the gully in much less time than he had accomplished it before; for Oscar made no effort to check him, not even when he was moving with headlong speed down the steep path that led through the sage-brush.

Almost before he knew it, the boy found himself in the mouth of the ravine, and there he drew rein and brought his pony to a stand-still.

He now had another cause for uneasiness. Suppose the lieutenant had found Lish at the village, and that the wolfer had said or done something to warrant his arrest! Suppose, too, having placed Lish safely in the guard-house, the young officer should come after Tom, and find Oscar there in the ravine!

Even if he did not suspect him of something—and it is hard to see how the lieutenant could help it when he caught sight of the big bundle that was tied to the horn of Oscar’s saddle—would he not mention the circumstance to the colonel when he made his report, and wouldn’t the colonel have a word or two to say about it?

“Gracious!” exclaimed Oscar; “I’ll be in trouble myself if I don’t look out. What could I say to the colonel if he should ask me what I was doing here, and what I had in my bundle? Tom!” he added, calling as loudly as he dared. “If you are about here, show yourself without any fooling. I am in a great hurry, and I have news for you.”

Tom was about there, but he would not show himself. He was lying at the foot of a scrub-oak, on the other side of the ravine, keeping a close watch over his brother’s movements; but not even the announcement that Oscar had some news to communicate, could induce him to stir from his place of concealment. He felt so heartily ashamed of himself that he did not want to meet his brother face to face again, if he could help it.

“I can’t waste any words on him. There are his clothes, and when he wants them he can come after them,” said Oscar, pitching the bundle down behind the rock Tom had described to him. “Now then, I don’t know whether or not I shall have time to do it, but I’ll take the risk.”

So saying, Oscar drew from his pocket a diary and lead-pencil, and dashed off a short note to his brother, using the pommel of his saddle for a writing-desk. The pony was as motionless as the rock beside which he stood.

Probably he thought—if he was able to think at all—that Oscar had ridden into the bushes in order to conceal himself from some enemy who was in pursuit of him. At any rate, he showed the training he had received at the hands of his Indian master.

The note ran as follows:

Dear Tom:

Here are the clothes you need. I am sorry I cannot see you again, for I should like to ask you some questions in regard to a certain “affair” that happened last summer; and in which you and Lish, the Wolfer, are supposed to have been engaged. If you had anything to do with it, you will know what I mean, and you had better dig out of here without the loss of a minute’s time. Go off somewhere among white folks; begin all over again, with an earnest resolution to do better, and, as soon as you are able, make amends for what you have done. But first drop Lish, as you would drop a hot potato. You will never amount to a row of pins so long as you have anything to do with him or men like him. I have as good evidence as I want that he will rob you before the season is over, as Frank Fuller and Eben Webster robbed Leon Parker. If you had no hand in that “affair,” whatever it may be, come up to the fort as soon as you have read this note and put on these clothes, and I will do everything in my power to give you a start. In either case drop Lish. It would be better for you to work for nothing and board around, as you did in Denver, than to associate longer with him.

For prudential reasons, Oscar signed no name to the note; and, indeed, no signature was needed to tell Tom where it came from. He read it over hastily, and bending down from his saddle, he thrust it under the string with which the bundle of clothing was tied up.

“It isn’t as emphatic as I wish it was,” thought he, “but I have no time to re-write it, and I don’t know that I could make any improvements in it if I should try. I would much rather talk to him, and I wish he had——”

Just then the pony’s head came up with a jerk, and his ears were thrown back as if he were listening to some sound behind him.

He did not turn about as most horses would have done, nor did he move one of his feet an inch—not even when the clatter of hoofs on the hard path began to ring out clearly and distinctly, as it did a moment later.

Somebody was coming through the sage-brush toward the ravine—that was evident. Beyond a doubt it was the lieutenant; and here was Oscar, fairly cornered.

A person thinks rapidly when placed in a situation like this, and it did not take the boy an instant to make up his mind that everything depended on his pony.

The rock behind which he had hidden the bundle stood on the hillside, fully twenty feet from the path, and the intervening space was thickly covered with trees and bushes.

If the pony could be kept from revealing his presence, it was possible that the approaching horseman might pass on into the ravine, without suspecting that there was anyone near him.

“It’s rather a slender chance,” Oscar thought, as he swung himself from the saddle and seized his pony by the bit; “but it is the only one I have. Now, old fellow,” he added in a whisper, “just imagine that I am an Indian hiding here to escape from a white man who wants to shoot me!”

If the pony had been able to understand every word his master said to him, he could not have behaved with more circumspection.

He stood perfectly still, and there was nothing but the motion of his ears to indicate that he heard anything.

Oscar kept a close watch of the path through a convenient opening in the bushes, and presently the horseman passed across the range of his vision.

CHAPTER XIV.
LEFT IN THE SAGE-BRUSH.

The opening in the bushes was so small that Oscar was able to obtain but a momentary glimpse of the passing horseman, but that momentary glimpse was enough to satisfy him on two points. It was not the lieutenant, after all, but Lish, the Wolfer, and he had not been to the village for the purpose of getting drunk, as the colonel had intimated, but to lay in some necessary supplies in the way of provisions. The well-filled bags that were slung across his pony’s neck, and the side of bacon which hung from the muzzle of the long rifle he carried over his shoulder testified to this fact.

Oscar drew a long breath of relief when he saw the man ride down the path, and told himself that one thing was certain: If Tom was determined to go with the wolfer he would have something to eat during the journey to his hunting-grounds, and if he went hungry after that, it would be because his partner was too lazy to keep the larder supplied with meat.

As soon as the wolfer had passed out of hearing Oscar mounted his pony and rode down into the path. He made his way around the brow of the hill; and, when he had put a safe distance between himself and the mouth of the ravine, he checked his pony and proceeded to load his gun.

“Tom has got the matter in his own hands,” said he, as he rested the butt of the weapon on the toe of his boot and poured a charge of powder into each barrel. “If he had nothing to do with that ‘affair’ that happened last summer—I wish to goodness I knew what it was—and has any desire to turn over a new leaf and to go to work in earnest, he will come up to the fort as soon as he has read that note. If he does not come I shall have to look upon his absence either as a confession of guilt, or as a declaration that he prefers the companionship of such men as that wolfer to the society of honest folks. In either case I have done all I can, and the business ends right here so far as I am concerned.”

Oscar would have been very much surprised if anyone had told him that he had not seen the end of the business after all; that, in fact, he had seen only the beginning of it.

The note he had written, as well as the clothing he had purchased to keep Tom from freezing, were destined at no distant day to be produced as evidence against him.

Was it a dread of impending evil that prompted him to say, as he placed the caps on his gun and started his pony forward again:

“Mr. Chamberlain was always right, and he shot close to the mark when he told me that I would not find plain sailing before me, simply because I was about to engage in a congenial occupation. I have been at the fort but a few hours, and yet I have wished myself back in Eaton more than a dozen times. Why didn’t I keep away from that ravine? Thoughts of Tom will force themselves upon me continually, and all my pleasure will be knocked in the head. How can I enjoy myself when I know that he is in such a situation? Hold on there! I am ready for you now!”

Although he was deeply engrossed in his meditations, Oscar could still keep an eye out for game; and when that flock of sage-hens arose from the bushes almost at his pony’s feet, they did not catch him napping.

Being accustomed to the noise made by the grouse of his native hills when it suddenly bursts from its cover, the sound of their wings did not startle him as it startles the tyro.

He was so excited that he did not think to stop his pony, but still he was cool enough to make his selections before he fired; and when he saw, through the thick cloud of smoke that poured from each barrel, two little patches of feathers floating in the air, and marking the spot where a brace of the finest members of the flock had been neatly stopped in their rapid flight, he knew that his ammunition had not been expended in vain.

There was another thing Oscar did not think of, and that was whether or not his pony would stand fire. But it was now too late to debate that question, and besides, it had been settled to his entire satisfaction. Almost simultaneously with the quick reports of the fowling-piece there arose other sounds of an entirely different character—a crashing in the bushes, followed by muffled exclamations of astonishment and anger. These sounds were made by Oscar, who had been very neatly unhorsed.

The pony would no doubt stand fire well enough to suit his half-savage, rough-riding Indian master, but he was not steady enough to suit the young taxidermist.

When the double-barrel roared almost between his ears, his head went down, his hind feet came up, and Oscar, being taken off his guard, went whirling through the air as if he had been thrown from a catapult.

He lost no time in scrambling to his feet, but he was too late to catch his pony. All he saw of him was the end of his tail, which was flourishing triumphantly in the breeze as the tricky little beast went out of sight over the brow of the hill.

“Well, go if you want to!” shouted Oscar, holding one hand to his head, and rubbing his shoulder with the other. “You’ll never come that on me again, I tell you. I can hunt just as well on foot. Now, where’s my gun?”

The weapon had been pitched into a thick bush, a short distance in advance of the one in which Oscar had brought up, and fortunately it had sustained no injury beyond a few deep scratches in the stock, which Oscar tried to rub out with the sleeve of his coat.

The boy’s first care was to put fresh loads into each barrel, and his second to hunt up his specimens, which he found to be perfect in every way.

After examining them to his satisfaction, he placed them in a couple of paper cones which he had taken the precaution to put into his game-bag before leaving the fort, and then set out in search of the jack-rabbit he had seen a few hours before.

He did not waste any time in looking for his pony, for he knew that all efforts to recapture him would be unavailing. The animal would no doubt make the best of his way back to the corral from which he had been taken in the morning, and Oscar would find him there when he returned to the fort.

If he ever got on his back again, he would teach him that he was expected to halt the instant he saw his rider raise a gun to his face, and give him to understand, besides, that any and every attempt to throw that rider would be sure to bring a certain and speedy punishment.

The young hunter walked up and down the ridge several times, carefully beating the cover on each side of the path, but he could not make the jack-rabbit, or any member of his family, show himself.

Probably there were plenty of his species running about in the brush, within easy range, or hiding away in secure retreats, listening to the sound of his footsteps; but he had no dog to drive them out into the open so that he could get a shot at them. How Bugle would have enjoyed an hour’s run in that thicket!

Becoming weary of the hunt at last, Oscar looked at his watch, felt of his head—which must have been pretty severely bumped, judging by the way it ached—and drew a bee-line for the post.

Tom had been allowed ample time to read the note and put on the clothes that had been provided for him; and, if he thought it best to come up to the fort, Oscar wanted to be on hand to meet him. It was near the hour of dress-parade, too.

As soon as that was over, and supper had been served, the officers who were to compose the hunting expedition were to be ready for the start.

Oscar knew that the hunt had been planned solely for his own benefit, and since the colonel had shown him so much courtesy, it would not do for him to be a minute behind time.

There was a vast difference, Oscar found, in traveling over two miles and a half of prairie on a swift and willing horse, and walking the same distance when one has an aching head on his shoulders and a fowling-piece to carry, even though it does weigh but little over seven pounds.

It seemed a long way from the sage-brush to the fort, but he reached his journey’s end at last, and just in time to see the companies fall in for dress-parade.

From the top of the hill on which the fort was located, Oscar witnessed, for the first time, this imposing ceremony, which took place on a level plain a short distance away.

It consisted principally of a short exercise in the manual of arms, the reception of the reports of the first sergeants, and the publication of the latest orders.

There were eight companies in line, and every one of them was composed entirely of well-dressed veterans. There was not a man in the ranks who had not heard the warwhoop, and joined in headlong charges against the hostile Sioux.

They presented a fine appearance as they sat there in their saddles, the rays of the declining sun glancing from their bright weapons and burnished accoutrements, every man’s arm and body moving as one, in obedience to the sharp words of command. As Oscar looked at them his heart thrilled, and he wished that he was a soldier himself.

This wish he communicated to a young second lieutenant, Joel Warwick by name, who was to be one of the hunting party, and who joined him as soon as the parade was dismissed.

The officer stared at Oscar a moment, as if to assure himself that he was really in earnest, and then astonished him by saying:

“I would change places with you to-day, if I could, and give you boot into the bargain. You see us now in our Sunday clothes, and you think we look nice. So we do; for there’s not a finer sight to be seen in this world than a battalion of cavalry drawn up in line, unless it be that same battalion making a charge. But you ought to see us and our clothes after a hard scout!”

“Well, you don’t go on scout every day,” said Oscar. “Besides, you have a life position; you get good pay for what you do, and there are your chances for promotion. You’ll be a colonel yourself some day.”

“Not much. We go by the seniority rule in peace times, and there are a good many on the list above me, I tell you. Nothing but a war that will kill off some of my seniors will advance me.”

CHAPTER XV.
THE HUNTING PARTY.

Joel Warwick was a dashing young officer, proud of his chosen profession, and anxious for an opportunity to distinguish himself in it. Although he was fresh from West Point—he had been on the plains but little more than a year—he had shown himself to be possessed of a good many qualities that go to make up a first-class soldier.

“I have been thinking of you ever since we were introduced,” continued the lieutenant, “and wondering if you really knew the worth of the attentions that have been shown you. You came out here a perfect stranger, and yet you were received at once on terms of intimacy by the colonel, who can’t do too much for you; while we little fellows, who have risked our lives in obedience to his orders, must keep our distance. The gulf between line and field officers in the regular army is a wide one, and no subordinate must attempt to cross it. Before my commander will be as free with me as he is with you, I must wear an eagle on my shoulders.”

“And yet he thinks a great deal of you,” said Oscar. “He told me that you would some day make a fine officer.”

“Did he say that?” exclaimed the lieutenant, his eyes sparkling with pleasure. “Well, I knew that he was satisfied with me. If he wasn’t, he never would have invited me to go on this hunt.”

“What did you do to please him?”

“I rode my horse to death while carrying despatches for him. While we were out on our last scout, it became necessary for him to communicate with the commandant at Fort Wallace; so he started me off with Big Thompson for a guide. I rode a splendid animal, which my father had presented to me when I was first ordered out here, and which I believe to be equal, if not superior, to anything that ever stood on four feet; but, before we had gone half the distance, he was completely done up, and Thompson had to shoot him. That was in accordance with orders, you know. If a horse gives out, he is killed, to keep him from falling into the hands of the hostiles who may use him against us. My guide then ran ahead, on foot, and I rode his horse. And would you believe it?—that miserable little pony of his was none the worse for the journey, and neither was Thompson, while I was so completely played out that I wasn’t worth a cent for a whole week. By the way, I thought I saw you leave the post on horseback?”

“So I did; but out there in the sage-brush he threw me, and made off before I could catch him. I hope to find him somewhere about the corral.”

“I hope you will, but I am afraid you won’t. I think you will find that he has struck a straight course for the camp where his old master hangs out. Let’s go and see if we can find him, and then we’ll come back and take a look at that mule and wagon the quartermaster sent up from the village. The man who owns them has been waiting for you over an hour.”

“Have you heard anybody else inquiring for me?” asked Oscar, thinking of his brother. “Well, I have done all I can,” he added to himself, upon receiving a reply in the negative. “Tom has made his own bed, and he must occupy it.”

What the lieutenant said about the pony made Oscar a little uneasy. If it was true that the animal had gone off to hunt up his former owner, he might make up his mind that he had seen the last of him; for the Indian would take particular pains to see that he did not fall into the hands of the soldiers again very soon.

If he did not send him off to some secure hiding-place among the ravines, he would turn him loose with a lot of other ponies, and the most experienced horseman at the post could not have picked him out from among them.

If by any chance he was discovered and taken possession of by the soldiers, some “good” Indian would lay claim to him, and the agent—who is always more in sympathy with his Indians than he is with the troops whose presence protects him—would order him to be given up.

The lieutenant explained all this to Oscar as the two walked toward the corral. When they arrived there they could see nothing of the missing steed.

The guards were questioned, but the invariable reply was that no pony wearing a saddle and bridle had passed through the lines that afternoon.

He was not to be found in his stall either: and, after spending half an hour in fruitless search, Oscar gave him up for lost, and followed the lieutenant across the parade-ground to the colonel’s quarters, in front of which stood the wagon and mule the quartermaster had sent up for the boy’s inspection.

“Be you the college-sharp that’s needin’ a mu-el?” asked a roughly dressed man, who arose from the warehouse steps and sauntered up to them while they were critically examining the wagon and the long-eared animal that was hitched to it.

Oscar looked at the man, and then he turned and looked at the lieutenant, who said in a low tone:

“Every expert is called a ‘sharp’ out here. If he is a good poker-player he is called a card-sharp; if he is an eloquent preacher he is called a gospel-sharp—and no disrespect is intended either. It is simply a plainsman way of talking. He has heard somewhere that you are backed up by a university, and that’s the reason he calls you a college-sharp. It’s a pretty fair looking rig, isn’t it? I don’t know that you can do better, for you may rest assured that the quartermaster wouldn’t pick out anything inferior for you. You can easily find sale for it when you come back; and, if your horse is lost, and you don’t feel like buying another, you can ride the mule when you want to go hunting. Now, then, what are you laughing at?”

“I am laughing at the idea of making a hunting horse out of a mule,” replied Oscar.

“Now, I’ll tell you what’s a fact—they make good ones,” exclaimed the lieutenant. “One of our favorite scouts rides a mule on all his hunting excursions, and that same mule can make an elk break his trot quicker than any thoroughbred in the regiment.”

The officer might almost as well have talked Greek, for Oscar did not know what he meant when he spoke of an elk being made to break his trot; but, before he could ask an explanation, the lieutenant continued:

“You look him over, and I’ll go and find the major. It isn’t always safe to invest in horse- or mule-flesh in this country until you know how many owners it has. You don’t want to pay for it more than once.”

The young officer hurried off as he said this, and Oscar was left to complete his examination alone.

It was easy enough to see that the mule was a superior animal. Although he was not very large or heavy, he was well put together, and looked strong enough to draw a much weightier vehicle than the one to which he was hitched—a light “three-spring,” built something like an ambulance, and provided with a canvas top to protect its cargo from the weather.

Oscar had already made up his mind to purchase, and a few words from the major—who presently came up—confirmed him in his decision.

The money—a good round sum—was paid over to the owner, who departed satisfied; the mule and wagon were given into the charge of one of the teamsters, and Oscar and the lieutenant hurried to their rooms to get ready for supper.

During the meal the loss of Oscar’s pony was discussed, and the conclusion at which all the officers arrived was that the young taxidermist was just fifty dollars out of pocket, besides the amount he had paid for the lasso, saddle, and bridle, which the animal had carried away with him.

“No doubt those articles will be very acceptable to the Indian, who will be delighted to get his horse back again,” said the major. “But I can mount you for this hunt. I’ll give you Gipsy. She is a beautiful rider, and as gentle as a kitten. She is pretty fast, too, but when you are in the chase you’ll have to look out for her. She is not as sure-footed as your last pony, and if you should happen to get into a prairie-dog’s nest she might break her legs, and your neck into the bargain. While you are gone I’ll make every effort to recover your horse, but you mustn’t be disappointed if I fail.”

Supper over, Oscar went into his room to get ready for the start. When he came out again he carried his heavy Sharpe’s rifle on his shoulder, a pair of saddle-bags, containing a few necessary articles, over his arm, and a belt filled with cartridges was buckled about his waist.

The other members of the party were waiting for him on the parade-ground. There were six of them in all, not counting the soldier who was to drive the wagon in which the tents and other camp equipage was stowed away, and the Osage guide, who sat on his pony near the gate, waiting for the party to start.

The hunters were all in their saddles, and the colonel’s hounds were frisking about in front of the wagon, with every demonstration of joy.

The quartermaster stood holding by the bridle a beautiful little nag, which was affectionately rubbing her head against his shoulder.

This was the major’s holiday horse—the one he rode on dress-parades, and other extra occasions. The one he rode on his scouts and campaigns was a tall, raw-boned roan, which he called his war-horse.

Oscar threw his rifle over his shoulder—it was provided with a sling similar to the one that was attached to the fowling-piece—placed his saddle-bags in the wagon, and mounted his horse, whereupon the guide put his pony in motion and rode out of the gate, the cavalcade following close at his heels.

The sun was just setting as they started out; and, before they had proceeded many miles on their way, night settled down over the prairie.

As the sky was cloudy, and no stars were to be seen, the darkness soon became intense. All Oscar could see in advance of him was the white blanket worn by the Indian guide, who kept steadily on his way, as sure of his course as he would have been in broad daylight.

But the darkness did not affect the spirits of the hunters, who acted like a lot of boys just turned loose from school. Even the colonel had thrown aside his dignity, and seemed delighted to have the opportunity to let out a little of the jovial spirit and good feeling which had so long been restrained by the requirements of official etiquette.

He shouted and sang songs until he was hoarse, and even yelled back at the wolves, which now and then serenaded the party.

Shortly after midnight they arrived at the place which had been selected for their camping-ground—a little grove of timber situated on one of the branches of the Platte.

Here the wagon was brought to a halt, and almost before Oscar had had time to gain any idea of his surroundings, the horses had been staked out, the tents pitched, and a fire started in the edge of the timber.

Oscar had often made camp in the woods after dark, but he found that the officers were better at such business than he was.

CHAPTER XVI.
A CHASE AND A CAPTIVE.

Having picketed his horse and placed his saddle and bridle under the wagon with the others, Oscar joined the group about the fire, who were preparing to dispose of a second supper before going to bed—their long ride in the keen air having given them a most ravenous appetite.

Oscar was as hungry as the rest, and never did he partake of homely fare with more relish than he did that night. The black coffee sweetened with brown sugar, and served up without milk, was equal to any his mother had ever made; the fat bacon was better than most beef, and the hardtack was to be preferred to pastry.

He ate his full share of the viands, and then rolled himself up in his blankets, and, with his saddle for a pillow, slept the sleep of the weary, until he was aroused by the voices of the teamsters, who, with the help of the Indian, had kept watch of the horses during the night.

A dash of cold water in his face, and a hasty breakfast, prepared him for the hunt, the details of which were arranged while the horses were being brought up.

“Now, Oscar,” said the colonel, as he sprang into the saddle and led the way toward a plateau that lay about two miles distant from the camp, “stay as close to me as you can, and if we don’t secure a specimen of something before another meal is served up to us, it will not be our fault. What do you intend to do with that rifle, I’d like to know?”

“Why, I am going to shoot a prong-horn with it if I get the chance,” answered Oscar.

“Take it back to camp, and tell the teamsters to take care of it until you return,” said the colonel. “It will only be in your way. Your revolver and lasso are what you must depend on this morning.”

Oscar hastened to obey, and, when he reached the camp, he found that the colonel had not brought his hounds along. As soon as he came up with the officer again he asked why he had not done so.

“We want to see some sport while our horses are fresh,” was the reply, “and the best way to get it is to run the game down ourselves. A dash of three or four miles will take all the breath out of them, and then we’ll give the hounds a chance. This afternoon we will try still-hunting, which has gone almost out of style, except among the Indians and a few white pot-hunters, and then you can use your rifle.”

During the ride to the plateau the colonel improved the opportunity to give Oscar some instructions in regard to the manner in which antelope were hunted, and the course he must pursue to make the hunt successful.

He showed him how to throw the lasso, and, although the boy tried hard to imitate him, he did it simply out of politeness, and not because he believed that he would ever be able to capture anything with that novel weapon.

He could throw the lasso with all ease as far as its length would permit, and sometimes the noose would go, and sometimes it wouldn’t. He was not very expert with the revolver either, and often wished he had held fast to his rifle.

When the hunting party mounted the hills that led to the plateau, Oscar obtained his first view of a prong-horn.

He was disappointed, as almost everybody is who sees for the first time something he has often read or heard about. He knew that the antelope seldom exceeds three feet in height at the shoulders, and that it rarely weighs more than sixty or seventy pounds; but still he did not expect to find it so diminutive a creature.

There were several small herds grazing quietly within range of his vision, and but for their color they might have been taken for so many sheep.

Having carefully marked the position of the different herds, the hunters drew silently back down the ridge, and following in the lead of the colonel made a detour of a mile or more, in order to reach some hillocks on the leeward side of the game, under cover of which they could approach some hundreds of yards nearer to the spot on which they were grazing.

On reaching this place of concealment, they dismounted for a few minutes to tighten their saddle-girths, arrange their lassoes and look to their revolvers; and, when everything was ready for the exciting chase that was to follow, they rode out on the plateau and showed themselves to the antelope.

The actions of the animals, who were thus disturbed at their quiet repast by the sudden appearance of enemies whose presence they had never suspected, astonished Oscar.

Instead of setting off in full flight at once, as he had expected they would, they one and all made a few “buck-jumps”—that is, sprang straight up and down in the air; and then, running together in a group, stood and stared at the intruders.

But when the colonel, with a wild Indian yell and a wave of his hat, dashed toward them at the top of his speed, they scattered like leaves before a storm, and made off at their best pace.

Oscar followed close at the colonel’s heels, the gallant little black on which he was mounted easily keeping pace with the officer’s more bulky horse; and presently he saw a full-grown doe, with a couple of fawns at her side, break away from the others and direct her course across the plateau toward the lower prairie that lay beyond.

“There’s your chance, Preston!” shouted the colonel. “Shoot the doe and lasso the youngsters. You’ll never find finer specimens if you hunt until your hair is as white as mine. Go it, now, and don’t forget that the louder you yell the more fun you’ll have!”

The hubbub that arose behind him made Oscar believe that the other members of the party must be of the same opinion.

The chorus of whoops and howls that rent the air when the game was seen in full flight was almost enough to raise a doubt in his mind as to whether his hunting companions were friendly white men or hostile Indians.

Oscar shoots the Prong-horn.

The colonel kept on after a magnificent buck on which he had set his eye. Oscar turned off in pursuit of the trio which had been pointed out to him as his quarry, and Lieutenant Warwick came dashing after him, uttering hideous yells to urge both horses to renewed exertions.

The prong-horns ran with such surprising swiftness that Oscar, almost from the start, began to despair of overtaking them; but by the time he had gone half a mile, he saw that he was rapidly closing up the gap that lay between himself and the game.

If the antelope’s staying powers were equal to its speed for a short distance, all efforts to run it down on horseback would be unavailing; but it soon begins to show signs of weariness, and then even a moderately fast horse can come up with it.

As soon as he had approached within easy range, Oscar drew his revolver from his belt, and, by a lucky snap shot, threw the doe in her tracks—an achievement which the lieutenant hailed with another chorus of yells.

Well satisfied with his work so far, Oscar returned his revolver to its place, and taking his lasso from the horn of his saddle, kept on after the fawns, which were running wildly about, as if bewildered and terror-stricken by the loss of their guardian.

He hardly expected to capture one of them, for the little fellows, having shown themselves to be very light of foot, now proved that they were equally quick at dodging and doubling; but after he had made a few throws, which were nimbly eluded by the game, he succeeded, to his great surprise and the infinite delight of the lieutenant, who still followed close at his heels, shouting out words of encouragement and advice, in slipping the noose over the head of the nearest fawn and pulling it to the ground.

In an instant the two horses were at a stand-still, and the lieutenant was on the ground beside the struggling captive. With his own lariat he securely tied its feet, and then he threw off the noose that was around its neck.

“Go on and capture the other one,” he shouted, “and you will have a couple of the nicest pets you ever saw! You know how it is done now.”

Setting his horse in motion again, the successful hunter galloped away in pursuit of the captive’s mate, and soon discovered it standing on a little hill a short distance away, looking wistfully around, as if trying to find its lost companion.

It allowed Oscar to come pretty close to it before it took the alarm; but when it was fairly started it made up for lost time. It ran faster than it did before; and it was only after a two-mile chase that Oscar was near enough to it to use his lasso.

He threw until his arm ached, and was on the point of settling the matter with a shot from his revolver, when the fawn, in the most accommodating manner, ran its head directly into the noose and was quickly pulled to the ground.

“There!” exclaimed Oscar, panting loudly after his exertions, “I did it, didn’t I? Now, Gipsy, I am going to see if you are as smart as your master thinks you are. I want you to hold that fellow for me until I see what he looks like.”

Oscar had often heard and read of the wonderful intelligence exhibited by trained horses in assisting their riders to secure animals that had been lassoed in the chase, but he had never put the least faith in it. Now he had an opportunity to test the matter for himself, and the result proved that their skill had not in the least been exaggerated.

Having wrapped his lariat around the horn of his saddle, Oscar dismounted to take a nearer look at his captive.

As he approached, the little creature sprang to its feet, but was almost instantly pulled down again by a quick movement on the part of the horse, which stepped backward, throwing her weight upon the lasso as she did so.

“I declare, you do understand your business, after all, Gipsy!” exclaimed the boy, who watched her movements with great admiration. “Now, how am I going to tie this fellow? I believe I’ll slip that noose under his forelegs, and make him walk to camp. If he doesn’t feel like going peaceably, I can make the mare drag him. Hollo! What’s that?”

Oscar, who had bent over his captive in readiness to carry out the plan he had hit upon, suddenly straightened up, and burying his hands deep in his pockets, looked first toward a distant swell, down which the lieutenant was coming at headlong speed, waving his hat in the air and uttering triumphant yells, and then he looked at the fawn.

He was a born hunter, and whenever he bagged any game of which he had long been in search, and which promised, when mounted, to make an unusually fine specimen, he was a proud and happy boy; but just now he felt anything but pride in his success.

His little captive shed tears so copiously, and looked up at him with so appealing an expression, that Oscar, for the moment, was completely unnerved.

Then, too, its forelegs were lacerated, the skin having been cut away by repeated blows from the sharp points of the hinder hoofs, and Oscar knew that it must be suffering intensely.

Besides this, Gipsy, who was doing her duty faithfully, was leaning back so heavily on the lariat that the iron ring which formed the noose was pressed down upon the little creature’s throat until it seemed on the point of strangling.

“Good gracious!” cried Oscar, who took this all in at a glance, “I can’t stand it, and I won’t, either. There you are! Clear out, and take better care of yourself in future.”

To run to his horse and undo the lariat that was made fast around the horn of his saddle was scarcely the work of a moment.

Holding it in his hand, just tightly enough to prevent the captive from jumping to its feet, he approached it, and with a quick movement opened the noose and threw it off its neck.

The fawn was on its feet in an instant, and in a few seconds more it was making railroad time down the ridge.

CHAPTER XVII.
COURSING AND STILL-HUNTING.

Oscar watched the fawn as long as it remained in sight; and was glad to see that the injuries it had inflicted upon itself did not in the least interfere with its running.

When it disappeared from his view, he mounted his horse and turned about, to find the lieutenant sitting motionless in his saddle and looking at him with every expression of astonishment.

“What did you do that for?” he asked, as Oscar came up. “That wasn’t a very bright trick.”

“I couldn’t help it,” was the reply. “He cried so, and seemed to be in such misery.”

“Well, you beat anybody I ever heard of!” exclaimed the young officer, who could scarcely believe his ears. “You come out here on purpose to hunt game, and when you secure as fine a specimen as one can find in a year’s shooting, you must up and let it go because it cries!”

The lieutenant shouted out the last word at the top of his voice, and clapped his hands, and waved himself back and forth in the saddle, and laughed until Oscar was obliged to laugh too.

“That’s the way they all do,” continued the officer, as soon as he could speak. “You’ll have to get used to it.”

“I can’t, and I’ll not try,” was the emphatic rejoinder. “I’ll never chase another antelope on horseback, unless I am in danger of going hungry. Why, his forelegs were all cut to pieces!”

“That’s another thing they always do when they begin to get tired and are hard pressed. It is because they don’t pick up their forefeet fast enough to keep them out of the way of the hind ones. Well, we have seen all we shall see of this drive, and we’d better go back and find the others. The colonel will want to try the speed of his dogs now. You’ll not mind looking at a pretty race, I suppose?”

“I shall take no part in it,” answered Oscar. “If the colonel wants more antelope, why doesn’t he shoot them and be done with it?”

The lieutenant shrugged his shoulders as if to say that what the colonel did was something he could not answer for, and after that the two rode in silence, the officer now and then turning in his saddle to gaze in the direction in which the fawn had disappeared, and acting altogether as if he had half a mind to turn about and resume the pursuit on his own responsibility.

He believed in making as large a bag as he could when he went hunting, and the loss of the fawn troubled him not a little.

Oscar had almost decided to let the other captive go free also; but, when he reached the place where it had been left, he found that it was but slightly injured, not having been so long and perseveringly pushed as its mate; so he decided to keep it if he could, and take it back to the States with him.

Sam Hynes would go into ecstasies over a gift like that, and, as for his handsome sister, she—that is—well, he would take it home with him, anyhow.

Having made his lasso fast around the fawn’s fore shoulders, Oscar, with the lieutenant’s assistance, untied its legs and allowed it to spring to its feet.

It “bucked” beautifully for a while, and made the most desperate efforts to escape; but at last it became exhausted by its useless struggling and permitted its captor to lead it back to the place where the doe had been brought down by the shot from Oscar’s revolver.

She proved to be a very fine specimen, and the lieutenant, who had been in at the death of more than one antelope during the time he had been on the plains, assured the lucky hunter that he would see but few larger.

While they were examining their prize the colonel and the rest of the party appeared on the plateau; and, after looking at the boys through their field-glasses, one of them separated himself from his companions and began riding his horse in a circle at a full gallop.

“What is he doing that for?” asked Oscar, when he saw the lieutenant laugh and swing his hat about his head.

“I suppose he wants us to go there,” was the reply; “but he is giving the wrong signal. He is riding ‘Danger! get together at once.’ The first time I saw that signal, I tell you it made my hair stand right up on end. I was out on a scout with a small party, when one of our lookouts, who was so far away from us that we could hardly see him with the naked eye, began riding in a circle; and, by the time we were ready for action, we had ten times our number of Indians down with us. We can communicate with one another with our horses and our hands as easily as we could with signal-flags. If two or more columns of troops are marching through the same country out of sight of each other they raise smokes.”

The lieutenant went on to explain the different signals that were in vogue among the soldiers; and, by the time he had succeeded in making Oscar understand them, they reached the plateau where the colonel’s party was engaged in picking up the antelope that had fallen to their revolvers, and putting them into the wagon, which the teamster had brought up in obedience to a signal from his commander.

The officers were loud in their praises of Oscar’s skill, he having been the only one who was fortunate enough to capture any of the fawns alive, and they were both surprised and amused when they learned that one of his captives had been set at liberty “because it cried.”

Leaving the teamster and the Indian to pick up the rest of the game and to care for the captive fawn, the party, accompanied by the hounds, which were now to be allowed to share in the sport, rode away from the plateau from which all the herds had been driven by the noise of the chase, and set out to hunt up a suitable coursing-ground.

After a five-mile gallop they found themselves on a level plain, bounded on all sides by high ridges, on the top of which they saw several small herds of prong-horns feeding in fancied security. They had taken measures to provide for their safety, having posted sentinels on the highest points of the ridges.

From their commanding elevations these lookouts could survey the plain for a long distance on two sides, their view in other directions being obstructed at intervals by thickly wooded ravines, under cover of which a cautious hunter could approach within easy rifle-range.

The colonel, who always acted as chief huntsman, now made a change in his programme.

Three of the party were at once sent off with orders to make a wide detour and find concealment in one of the ravines before spoken of.

When they had approached as close to the game as they could, they were to show themselves suddenly, and drive the herds into the plain, so that the hounds would be given a fair chance to show their speed.

As soon as the selected three had ridden away, the rest of the party, of whom Oscar was one, moved behind a swell out of sight; and, after turning their horses loose, stretched themselves out in the grass to wait until the time for action arrived.

The hounds were with his party, and, well trained as they were, it was a task of no little difficulty to restrain them. They had obtained a fair view of their prospective game, and were eager to be sent in pursuit of it. The colonel frequently consulted his watch; and, at the end of an hour, gave the order to “catch up,” which is a plainsman’s way of saying “get ready for the start.”

He had calculated, almost to a minute, the time which the detachment he had sent off would consume in reaching the cover of the nearest ravine.

As he and Oscar rode to the top of the swell behind which they had been concealed, three mounted figures suddenly appeared in sight and charged upon the game.

The little animals scattered in all directions, some securing their safety by turning squarely off and running the wrong way, while the others, seeing no enemy on the plain below them, darted down the ridges and held a straight course for the colonel’s party.

The impatience of the hounds increased as the distance between them and the approaching antelope was lessened; but their master had them under perfect control, and not one of them moved until the word was given.

When the nearest of the herd had arrived within three hundred yards of the ridge on which their new enemies were crouching in the tall grass, the colonel raised a yell, and the chase began.

It was fully as exciting as Oscar thought it would be, but he did not take as much interest in it as his friends did, for he could not help feeling sorry for the terrified creatures, who had nothing but their speed to depend upon.

Like the rest, he urged his horse forward at her best pace, in order to obtain as good a view of the run as he could; but his sympathies were all with the game, and he could not repress a shout of exultation when he saw one of the antelope suddenly turn at bay and tumble the nearest hound over with a vicious prod from his sharp little horns.

But, before it could repeat the blow, the other hound—the sagacious animals hunted in couples—pulled it down and ended its struggles in a moment.

Three antelope were captured during the run; and, as both horses and dogs were pretty well tired out by this time, the hunters dressed their game on the spot, and then set out for camp. Supper was waiting for them, and they were hungry enough to do ample justice to it.

There was still one way of hunting prong-horns that our hero had not tried, and when the colonel had smoked his after-supper cigar he proposed to show Oscar how it was done.

Leaving the rest in camp with the hounds, they rode back to the plateau on which they had first sighted game in the morning, each carrying his rifle slung over his shoulder, and in his hand a long pole, with a red handkerchief attached to it.

The animals they had pursued in the morning, having got over their fright, had returned to their feeding grounds, and the colonel’s first move was to attract the attention of some of them, which he did by riding slowly back and forth on the edge of the plateau.

Then he and Oscar dismounted, and, after hobbling their horses, planted their poles in the ground a few rods apart, and lay down in the grass to await developments.

The prong-horns watched all their motions with the keenest interest, and, as if by a common impulse, began circling around the fluttering handkerchiefs as if trying to learn what they were put there for.

Three of their number, one of them being the finest buck in the herd, very soon found out; for, the instant they came within range, the ready rifles cracked, and both the bullets went straight to the mark.

The colonel got in another effective shot before the herd was out of reach of his breechloader, and these three, added to the number they had shot in the morning and secured with the aid of the hounds, made eleven fine animals they had to show as the result of their day’s work.

Oscar, all inexperienced as he was, had done better than any of his companions. If he had not released that captured fawn, he would have had more to his credit than any other member of the party.

CHAPTER XVIII.
“CLIMB DOWN, PARD!”

It was a merry party that assembled around the camp-fire that night as well as a tired one. Oscar sought his blanket at an early hour, and fell asleep listening to the hunting stories that were told, of which each officer, and especially the colonel, seemed to have an inexhaustible stock; but he was up in the morning with the rest, and fully as eager as they were to engage in the day’s sport, which was to consist in shooting wolves with the bow and arrow, and coursing them with the hounds after the horses became weary.

He had no sympathy for the wolves, and tried as hard as he could to send his arrow into one; but the missiles all went wide of the mark, and, after he had emptied his quiver without bringing one of the animals to bag, he had recourse to his revolver, with which he succeeded in knocking over a specimen.

Oscar had always been of the opinion that nobody but an Indian could use the bow and arrow, and that even he was glad to lay it aside as soon as he had secured possession of a rifle; but in this he was mistaken.

An Indian certainly does long for a rifle above everything else in the way of a weapon, but he never gives up his bow and arrow, not even at this day, when Winchester rifles that shoot sixteen times without reloading can be had with comparatively little exertion.

The bow is more effective at close quarters than a muzzle-loading rifle, because it can be used with much greater rapidity; and ammunition is costly, and must be purchased of the trader, while the bow and arrow are implements the Indian can make for himself.

And as for skill in shooting—that was something that even a white man could acquire by practice.

Oscar was astonished to see what an adept the lieutenant had become during his short experience on the plains. He rarely missed pinning a wolf to the ground while his horse was going at full speed; and, with the colonel’s strong elk-horn bow, he could draw an arrow to the head with the greatest ease, while Oscar found it a task of no little difficulty to string it.

Some of the incidents of the day were amusing as well as exciting; and, although Oscar thoroughly enjoyed himself, and won praise for his perseverance and horsemanship, if not for his skill, he was glad when the late dinner was over, and the order was given to catch up.

He had nothing of which to complain, having secured with his own weapons as many specimens as he could use; but he thought he had lingered long enough in the vicinity of the fort, and was impatient to be off for the hills.

He had found out, through the colonel, that it was a wild and lonely region to which Big Thompson intended to guide him, and that more than one hunter had gone there who had never been heard of afterward; but everybody said that game of all kind was abundant, and that was just what he had been sent out there to find.

The night ride to the fort was accomplished without any incident worthy of note, and at twelve o’clock the hunters were all in their beds, sleeping soundly.

Sunday was emphatically a day of rest with Oscar, and he needed it, for his hard riding had set every bone in his body to aching.

The others did not mind it in the least, for it was no uncommon thing for them to spend whole weeks in the saddle; but with Oscar it was an unusual experience, and it was a long time before he could pass a day on horseback without feeling the effects of it afterward.

On Monday morning he was up long before daylight, and in an hour’s time he was ready for the start.

His luggage and the chest containing his tools were put into the wagon; the skins of the specimens he had already secured were packed in cotton and stowed away in one of the warehouses for safe keeping, and the captive fawn was given into the charge of the lieutenant, who promised to take the best possible care of it.

The pony the quartermaster had selected for him, and which had never been heard of since he threw his rider in the sage-brush, was duly paid for; and the rest of his money was placed in the hands of the colonel, all except a small sum which he kept out to pay for any little articles of luxury—such as milk, butter, and eggs—he might wish to purchase at the ranches along the route.

No one had been inquiring for him at the fort during his absence; and this proved that Tom had either done something which made him afraid, or ashamed, to show himself, or else that he was entirely satisfied with his present companion, and had no desire to better his condition in life.

Such reflections as these, which constantly forced themselves upon Oscar’s mind, did much to mar his pleasure.

By the time Oscar had eaten breakfast Big Thompson and his pony were on hand.

The guide looked dubiously at his employer’s outfit, and then glanced down at the saddle-bags that contained his own, but he had no fault to find.

He waited patiently until the boy had taken leave of all the officers, who wished him every success in his undertaking; and, when he saw Oscar climb to his seat in the wagon, he turned his pony about and led the way from the fort.

Our hero had decided to take the lieutenant’s advice, and make his mule do duty as a hunting-horse. That would be taking a long step backward, Oscar thought; for, judging by the actions of his long-eared friend, there was about as much speed in him as there was in a cow. His gait in the wagon was a lumbering trot, which he was obliged to assume in order to keep pace with the fast-walking little beast on which the guide was mounted.

He scraped his hind feet on the ground as he went along, allowed his ears to bob back and forth in the laziest kind of a way, and if by chance the pony increased his lead by a few yards, the mule, instead of quickening his own pace in order to overtake him, would utter a mournful bray, as if begging him to slacken up a little.

Oscar was not at all pleased with him, but he could not afford to pay fifty dollars for another mustang; and, as the mule would not be required to draw the wagon after the foot-hills were reached, it was nothing more than fair that he should earn his living and pay for himself, by carrying his master in pursuit of game.

He was not satisfied with his guide, either. The latter kept just far enough ahead of the wagon to make conversation impossible, and Oscar was left to the companionship of his own thoughts, which were not of the most agreeable nature.

The officers of the post, having taken a deep interest in him and his business, had tried hard to make his sojourn with them an occasion long to be remembered; and to give up his familiar intercourse with them for the society of this uncongenial man was by no means a pleasant thing to do.

The prospect before him was gloomy enough, Oscar thought; but, fortunately, things did not turn out as badly as he anticipated.

The guide misunderstood him, just as Oscar misunderstood the guide and the mule. They were both better than they seemed to be. It needed trouble to bring out their good qualities; and that came soon enough.

Shortly after noon, by Oscar’s watch, the guide halted on the banks of a small stream; and, after removing the saddle and bridle from his pony, turned the animal loose to graze.

He said nothing to Oscar; and the boy, who now began to feel provoked at his studied neglect, said nothing to him.

“I can hold my tongue as long as he can hold his,” was Oscar’s mental reflection. “If I must depend upon myself for companionship I can do it; but he’ll attend to all the camp-work, I tell you, because that was what he was hired for.”

Stopping the wagon near the place where the guide was starting a fire, Oscar unhitched the mule, turned him loose without removing any part of the harness except the bridle, and throwing himself down between the roots of a convenient tree, watched the motions of his guide, who now began preparations for dinner.

He filled the frying-pan with bacon for Oscar, the slices he intended for himself being impaled upon a stick, which was thrust into the ground in such a way that the meat hung over the flames.

Then he placed the coffee-pot on the coals, and brought from the wagon tin cups and a tin plate, on which he had deposited a few hard crackers.

When the bacon was cooked to his satisfaction he placed the frying-pan on the ground in front of his employer, and set a cup filled with coffee beside it, after which he seized a handful of crackers and sat down on the other side of the fire to eat his bacon, using as a fork the stick on which it had been roasted.

“This is about the worst dinner I ever had set before me,” thought Oscar. “If Thompson can’t do better than this I’ll cook for myself. There are plenty of other things in the wagon, and he might take a little pains to get up something a fellow can relish. I am not used to having my grub shoved at me as one would shove a bone to a hungry dog.”

As soon as the guide bad satisfied his own appetite he began gathering up the dishes, which he packed away in the wagon, after giving them a hasty dip in the stream.

He did not ask Oscar if he were ready to start; and, in fact, he did not seem to care. He hitched the mule to the wagon (that was an act of condescension that Oscar did not look for); and, having saddled his pony, rode off, leaving the boy to do as he pleased about following him.

He acted the same way when they went into camp that night; and, during the whole of the next day, he never spoke a word to Oscar.

He was sociable enough with the stockmen whose ranches they passed along the road, but not a syllable did he utter for his employer’s benefit until he was ready to make another halt for the night. Then he reined up in front of a dug-out, and turned in his saddle to say:

“Pilgrim, if ye’d like to sleep under a white man’s roof onct more afore ye git to the hills, here’s yer chance. I reckon mebbe ye’d best do it, kase why, we leave the trail fur good bright an’ arly to-morrer mornin’.”

Then, without waiting to hear what the boy had to say to his proposition, he raised his voice and called out:

“Halloo, thar, Ike! Have ye went into yer den, like a prairie-dog in winter, an’ pulled the hole in arter ye? If ye aint, come outen that. I’ve brought ye a tenderfoot fur a lodger.”

The dug-out looked like a mound of earth, about thirty feet long and half as wide; but that it was a dwelling was evident, from the fact that a piece of stovepipe projected from the roof, the thick cloud of smoke that rose from it indicating that a fire had just been started in the stove below.

A flight of rude steps, not made of boards, but dug out of the hard earth, led down to the entrance, in which hung an army blanket that did duty as a door. Taken altogether, it was a very forlorn-looking place. There was not another human habitation in sight.

As the guide ceased speaking, an answering whoop, uttered in a stentorian voice, came from the inside; and presently the blanket was raised and the owner of the voice appeared in the doorway.

He was a tall, brawny man, roughly dressed, but still rather neater in appearance than the other dwellers in dug-outs whom Oscar had seen along the trail.

His hair and whiskers looked as though they were combed occasionally, and it was plain that he had sometimes washed his face, for when he came to the door he brought with him a towel, which he was using vigorously.

If he recognized an old acquaintance in the guide, there was nothing in his actions to indicate the fact. Indeed, he did not appear to see him. His gaze was fixed upon Oscar, at whom he stared with every indication of astonishment. He looked very hard at him for a moment; and, uttering an exclamation under his breath, stepped back into his house, dropping the blanket to its place.

Before the boy—who was somewhat surprised at these actions—could look toward his guide for an explanation, the man again appeared at the door, and this time he carried something besides a towel in his hands. It was a double-barrel shot-gun.

Oscar heard the hammers click as they were drawn back, and a moment later the weapon was looking him squarely in the face, while the ranchman’s eye was glancing along the clean brown tubes, and his finger was resting on one of the triggers.

“Climb down, pard,” said he in savage tones. “I have been waiting for you.”

CHAPTER XIX.
THE STOLEN MULE.

To say that Oscar was astonished at the ranchman’s words and actions would but feebly express his feelings.

He was utterly confounded; and, instead of obeying the order to “climb down,” he looked toward his guide, whose blank expression of countenance showed that he understood the matter no better than his employer did.

“You heard me, pard,” continued the ranchman, seeing that Oscar did not move. “You had better be a-tumbling, for I can’t hold on to this barker much longer.”

This implied that the ranchman was about to shoot; and Oscar, now beginning to realize the danger of his situation, sprang out of the wagon with such haste that he missed his footing as he stepped upon the wheel, and fell headlong to the ground.

He scrambled to his feet as quickly as he could, his movement being greatly accelerated by the report of the gun, which, however, was not pointed toward himself.

As quick as Oscar was, the guide was quicker. Without saying a word Big Thompson swung himself from his pony, and, dashing forward, seized the gun; and it was during the short but desperate struggle that ensued that the piece was discharged.

The ranchman fought furiously to retain possession of the weapon, but it was quickly torn from his grasp, and then the two men backed off and looked at each other.

“Now, Ike Barker!” exclaimed the guide, who was the first to speak, “what’s the meanin’ of sich actions as them, an’ what did ye do it fur, I axes ye?”

“I’ll talk to you after a while,” was the ranchman’s reply. “That’s my mule, and I am going to have him!”

“Sho!” exclaimed the guide, whose face relaxed on the instant.

After a little reflection he stepped up and handed back the gun he had taken from the ranchman.

This action satisfied Oscar that Big Thompson began to understand the matter, and considered that there was no longer any cause for apprehension. Indeed, Oscar began to understand the matter himself.

He was suspected of being a thief; but that did not trouble him, for he knew that he could easily prove his innocence. But, if the mule was a stolen animal, he would have to give him up to his lawful owner and purchase another. The very thought was discouraging.

His departure for the foot-hills would be delayed, and it would take two hundred dollars to buy another team. He had already drawn heavily on his reserve fund; and, if there were many more unexpected drafts made upon it, the expedition would have to be abandoned for want of means to make it successful.

“Now, young man,” continued the ranchman, “where did you get that mule?”

“Wal, if that’s what ye wanted to know, why couldn’t ye have axed the question without pintin’ yer we’pon around so loose an’ reckless?” exclaimed Big Thompson.

“I bought him at the fort,” replied the boy. “The major found him at Julesburg, and it was by his advice that I made the purchase. I paid cash for him, and in the presence of two witnesses.”

“What sort of a looking fellow was it who sold him to you?” asked the ranchman, who had walked up and taken the mule by the head, as if to show that he intended to hold fast to his property, now that he had found it again.

“I thought he was a respectable looking man,” replied Oscar. “He wore a red shirt, coarse trousers and boots——”

“I don’t care anything about his trousers and boots,” exclaimed the ranchman impatiently. “How did he look in the face? That’s what I want to know.”

Oscar described the man as well as he could; and, when he had finished, Ike Barker, as he had been called, shook his head, and remarked that, although he was acquainted with almost everybody in that part of the country, he did not know any man who answered Oscar’s description.

“But there is one thing I do know,” said he, turning to the guide—“that mule and that wagon belong to me. They were stolen early last summer by that miserable Lish, the Wolfer—you know him, Thompson—and when I——What’s the matter with you, young man?”

“Nothing,” answered Oscar, with more earnestness than the occasion seemed to require.

“Then what did you say ‘Ah!’ for?” asked the ranchman.

Oscar hesitated. He did not know what reply to make to this question. The truth was the exclamation that attracted the notice of the ranchman had been called forth by a variety of conflicting emotions.

Lish, the Wolfer, was the chosen companion and friend of his brother Tom. He was suspected by the commandant of the fort of having been engaged in something during the previous summer that rendered him liable to arrest; and no doubt the stealing of the mule and wagon was the “affair” to which the colonel referred.

If that was the case, Tom could have had no hand in the matter, for it was only recently that he had fallen in with the Wolfer.

Oscar knew now what Tom was suspected of; and he knew, too, that he was innocent. That was a great relief to him. But he knew, also, that his brother was the willing associate of a thief who was in danger of being apprehended or shot at any minute; and the knowledge of the fact weighed heavily on his mind.

What would his mother say if she knew it?

If he gave a truthful answer to the ranchman’s question, he would be obliged to explain all this, and that was something he would not have done for the world.

However, he knew that he must make some reply, so he gathered his wits as quickly as he could, and said:

“I will answer your question by asking another. If you knew who it was that stole your mule, why were you in such haste to get the drop on me?”

Oscar had picked up this expression since he came on the plains.

“To get the drop” on one, means, in frontier parlance, to get the advantage of him.

“When I first came up here you said you had been looking for me,” continued Oscar. “How did you know that your mule was in my possession?”

“I didn’t know that he was in your possession. I only knew that he was coming, and that he would be here to-night.”

“Who told you?”

“Nobody told me. I found it out in this way.”

As the ranchman said this, he advanced and handed Oscar a piece of soiled paper, on which was written something that almost knocked him over.

He had never dreamed that he could have an enemy in that country, where he was so little known; but here was the plainest evidence to the contrary.

The note ran as follows:

Mr. Barker:

The mule I stole from you last summer will be along this way to-morrow afternoon. He will be driven by a young tenderfoot, who will claim to have purchased him from someone at the post; but don’t you believe him. He stole him, as I did. Be on the watch.

“Now,” continued the ranchman, after Oscar had finished reading the note, and his words found an echo in the heart of the young taxidermist, who backed up against the wagon-wheel and gazed fixedly at the paper he held in his hand, “there’s something that isn’t exactly square about this business. The language made use of in that communication is as correct as any I could use myself, and I have had some schooling; in fact, I spent four years in William and Mary College. I am acquainted with Lish, the Wolfer—that is, I know as much about him as any white man does, for he used to herd for me—and if I had a sheep on my ranch as ignorant as he is I’d make mutton of him at once. Lish never wrote that note. He has somehow managed to pick up a partner who knows a thing or two, and he is the one who did the writing.”

Oscar knew that very well. He recognized the bold, free hand as soon as he put his eyes upon the note. It was his brother’s.

“I wouldn’t be willin’ to give much fur that feller’s ketch,” remarked Big Thompson. “Lish is mighty keerless when it comes to the dividin’.”

“I thought at first it was a trick of some kind,” continued the ranchman, whose tone seemed to grow kindlier the longer he talked to the now discouraged young hunter; “but when I saw the mule I knew it wasn’t. I am sorry I dropped on you so suddenly, for I really believe you bought the mule.”

“Indeed I did, sir,” answered Oscar, trying to choke down a big lump that seemed to be rising in his throat. “As I told you, I paid the money for him in the presence of witnesses.”

“Have you done anything to make an enemy of Lish?”

“I never exchanged a word with him.”

“Nor his partner, either?”

“I have never injured his partner in any way.”

“Well, I can’t understand the matter at all,” said the ranchman. “Lish had some object in sending me that note, but what it was I don’t know. But I do know that the mule is mine, and that I must have him if I have to fight for him.”

These words were uttered in a quiet but decided tone, and Oscar knew that the ranchman meant all he said.

CHAPTER XX.
INSIDE THE DUG-OUT.

Poor Oscar! This was a most unexpected and disastrous ending to the expedition upon which he had set out with such high hopes.

What would his mother do now? What would be the verdict of the committee, who seemed to have so exalted an opinion of his abilities, and whose confidence in him had led them to place in his hands a thousand dollars of the university’s money?

It is true that he still had funds at his command, but he had use for them. If another mule must be purchased, where was he going to obtain the money to pay his guide? It was a bad case, altogether, and almost any boy would have been utterly discouraged. Oscar certainly was, and he was on the very point of abandoning the whole thing in despair, when something prompted him to say to himself:

“If I give up here, I must return that money; and how in the world am I to do that?”

This thought frightened him, and made him almost desperate. He hastily reviewed the situation, and in two minutes more had made up his mind how to act.

“All right, Mr. Barker,” said he, giving back the note which the latter had handed him to read. “If this is your mule it is nothing more than fair that you should have him. Thompson,” he added, turning to his guide, who had stood by, an interested listener to all that had passed between the ranchman and his employer, “what will you take for your pony?”

“Wal,” said the latter, suddenly straightening up and winking hard, as if he had just been aroused from a sound sleep, “he aint fur sale, that there hoss aint.”

“Mr. Barker,” continued Oscar, “have you an extra pony that you would be willing to dispose of? I haven’t money enough with me to pay for him; but I will give you an order on the colonel, which I assure you will be honored.”

“No,” was the disheartening reply. “I have but one, and I can’t spare him. But you don’t need a pony to carry you back to the fort, even if you are a tenderfoot. You can easily walk that distance.”

“Who said anything about going back to the fort?” exclaimed Oscar, almost indignantly. “I have not the slightest intention of going back. I shall not allow this expedition to fall through for the want of a little pluck now, I tell you. I’ll walk, since I can’t buy a horse, but it will be toward the foot-hills. I’ll take what I can on my back; and, Thompson, you will have to carry the rest. We’ll not stop here to-night. We can easily make five miles more before it is time to go into camp, and every mile counts now.”

“The foot-hills!” exclaimed the ranchman, who was plainly very much surprised. “What are you going there for at this time of year?”

“I am going to hunt. I was sent out by the Yarmouth University to procure specimens for its museum,” answered Oscar.

“You were?” exclaimed the ranchman.

“Yes, I was.”

Ike Barker looked toward the guide, who nodded his head in confirmation of Oscar’s statement, whereupon the ranchman backed toward the little mound of earth that had been thrown up when the steps were dug out, and seated himself upon it.

“This beats my time all hollow,” said he.

“It is the truth, whether it beats you or not,” replied Oscar, who showed that he could be independent if he was in trouble. “I have my credentials in my pocket. I should have been successful in my undertaking if I hadn’t been foolish, or, rather, unfortunate enough to buy this stolen mule. I shall have to leave my chest behind, after all. Mr. Barker, can I hire you to take it back to the fort for me?”

“Not by a long shot!” exclaimed the ranchman, suddenly jumping up and seizing Oscar by the arm. “Thompson, you turn your pony loose and unhitch that mule. You come into my den with me, Mr.—Mr.—What’s your name?”

“Preston—Oscar Preston. But I don’t want to go into your den.”

“Well, you’ll go, all the same. What sort of a man do you suppose I am, anyhow—a heathen?”

Before Oscar could reply, the ranchman, having tightened his grasp on his arm, dragged rather than led him down the stairs, ushered him into the dug-out, and seated him on an inverted dry-goods box that stood in the corner near the stove.

“There!” said he. “Sit down and talk to me, while I go on getting supper. I didn’t expect company to-night; and, as I have sent most of my grub and all my sheep off to the hills, I can’t give you as good a meal as I could if you had come a week ago. I should have been on the way to the hills myself by this time, if it hadn’t been for that note I found fastened to my door. How is everything in the States? Got any late papers with you?”

The friendly tone in which these words were spoken surprised Oscar. Could this be the same man who had pointed a loaded gun at his head a few minutes before?

While his host was speaking, Oscar had leisure to look about him. He had never before seen the inside of a dug-out, and he was not a little astonished at the appearance of it.

It was really a comfortable dwelling, and not the dirty hole he had expected to find it. There was plenty of room in it; and the furniture it contained, although of the rudest description, showed that it had been fitted up as a permanent abode.

There were two bunks beside the door; and in one of them a comfortable bed was made up. The other was empty. The walls were covered by blankets and buffalo robes; two small dry-goods boxes did duty as chairs, and a larger one served as the table.

There was a small cupboard on each side of the stove, one of which contained a few tin dishes, while the other, Oscar noticed with some surprise, was filled with books.

A solitary candle burned in a bracket candlestick that was fastened against the wall; but, as there was a reflector behind it, the interior of the dug-out was well lighted.

The ranchman talked incessantly while he was busy with his preparations for supper; but Oscar was too deeply engrossed with his own affairs to pay much attention to him.

The loss of the mule weighed heavily on his mind; but, after all, it did not trouble him so much as did the note which the ranchman said he had found fastened to his “door.”

Oscar knew then, as well as he knew it afterward, that the note had been written by his brother, at the dictation of Lish, the Wolfer, and that it could have been written for no other purpose than to get him into trouble with the ranchman; but why the Wolfer and Tom should want to get him into trouble was something he could not divine. It was something that baffled him completely.

Worse than all, he was obliged to keep his own counsel; there was no one to whom he could go for advice.

He would have been glad to continue the journey that night; for he wanted to get away by himself and think the matter over.

Presently the guide came in, having unhitched the mule and turned his pony loose to graze, as the ranchman had directed.

He had but little to say while disposing of his share of the homely supper that was speedily served up on the large dry-goods box, but left the ranchman and Oscar to do the talking.

The little he did say was addressed to his employer, who learned that he had attained to high rank during the last half-hour.

Although Oscar did not know it, he had made two firm friends by the course he had pursued.

An experienced plainsman has not the slightest respect for a “gentleman sportsman,” which is the title that hunters from the States generally assume for themselves; and that was the reason why Big Thompson had been so morose and taciturn ever since leaving the fort.

It would have been bad enough, the guide thought, to spend the winter in the mountains in company with one of his own kind—a man upon whom he could depend in any emergency, and who could relate stories of adventure around the camp-fire as thrilling as any he could tell himself; but the thought of passing long months in the society of a tenderfoot, and a stripling, besides, was most distasteful to him.

He had consented to act as Oscar’s guide simply because he knew the colonel wished him to do so, and because he had been made aware of the fact that the boy had money to pay him for his services; but he would much rather have remained near the fort, and passed the time in idleness.

Now he seemed to have different opinions. A boy who could look into the muzzle of a double-barrel with as little trepidation as Oscar had exhibited, and who could hold to his purpose in spite of difficulties and disappointments that would have disheartened almost anybody, must have something in him, even if he was a tenderfoot.

Not being accustomed to such things, the guide did not know how to acknowledge his mistake directly, but he could indirectly; and he did it by dubbing Oscar “professor,” by which dignified title he ever afterward addressed him.

That was Big Thompson’s way of showing his friendship; but the ranchman, although he very soon fell into the way of calling Oscar by the same title, showed his appreciation of the boy’s pluck and independence in a much more substantial manner.

CHAPTER XXI.
THE RANCHMAN SAYS SOMETHING.

“Now, professor,” said the ranchman, as he rose from his box and filled his pipe for his after-supper smoke, “you look as though a wink of sleep would do you good. Whenever you get ready to turn in, bring your blankets from the wagon and take possession of that empty bunk. It belongs to my herdsman, who has gone to the hills with the stock.”

Oscar was glad to comply at once with the invitation. He had found that riding in a wagon behind a lazy mule, which had to be urged all the time in order to keep him in motion, was almost as hard work as riding on horseback, and he was tired and sleepy.

Rude as the bed was, after he had got it made up, it looked inviting, and he lost no time in tumbling into it. But he did not fall asleep at once, as he had expected he would, for his mind was too busy with the events of the day.

The ranchman and Big Thompson drew their boxes in front of the stove, smoked their pipes, and, without taking the trouble to ascertain whether or not the boy was asleep, discussed him and his affairs with the utmost freedom.

The guide was talkative enough now, and Oscar wondered if he would use his tongue as freely when they were alone in the hills.

“Who is this young fellow, anyhow?” was the ranchman’s first question.

“Oh, he’s one of them thar crazy loons who aint got nothin’ better to do than tramp about the country, an’ ketch all sorts of critters, an’ stuff ’em full of hay or something,” said Big Thompson.

And the tone in which the reply was made led Oscar to believe that the guide had anything but an exalted opinion of a boy who could pass his time in that way.

“Then he really is a taxidermist, is he?”

“Which?” exclaimed Big Thompson.

“I mean that he is what he pretends to be?”

“I reckon. They called him a college-sharp down to the post; an’ the kurn, he took him in the minute he came thar, an’ treated him like he was a little juke, or one of them thar nobby fellers from across the water. If it hadn’t been fur the kurn, ye wouldn’t ’a’ ketched me here with him.”

Oscar might have heard much more of this sort of talk if he had chosen to listen; but, as he was not in the habit of playing eavesdropper, he turned his face to the wall, drew the blankets over his head, and composed himself to sleep.

Early the next morning he was awakened by the banging of the stove-lids, and started up, to find his host busy with his preparations for breakfast.

He wished the boy a hearty good-morning, but he did not have anything of importance to say to him until the meal was over, and Oscar, arising from his seat, pulled out his pocket-book.

“How much do I owe you, Mr. Barker?” said he.

“Look here, professor,” replied the ranchman, with a smile, “after you have been in this country a little longer, you will know better than to ask a question like that.”

“Very well,” said Oscar, who knew what that meant. “I am greatly obliged to you for your hospitality. Now, I can’t take my outfit with me; and I ask you again if I can hire you to take it back to the fort for me?”

“And I tell you again that you can’t,” was the blunt, almost rude, reply.

“Well, will you take it for nothing—just to accommodate me?”

“No, I won’t.”

“Very well,” said Oscar again. “Then I shall have to abandon the most of it right here. Thompson, come out to the wagon and select such things as you think we ought to take with us.”

“Are you going to walk to the foot-hills?” asked the ranchman, with an amused twinkle in his eye that made Oscar angry. “The valley to which Thompson intended to take you is all of a hundred miles from here.”

“I don’t care if it is a thousand. I am going there, if I live,” was the quick and decided reply. “If my guide will stick to me—and I know he will, for the colonel said so—I’ll make a success of this expedition, in spite of everything.”

“You’re mighty right—I’ll stick to ye!” exclaimed Big Thompson; and, as he spoke, he advanced and extended a hand so large that Oscar’s sturdy palm—which was promptly placed within it—was almost hidden from view. “I never seen sich grit in a tenderfoot afore. Perfessor, ye kin swar by Big Thompson every time, an’ don’t ye never forgit it!”

“Pilgrim,” said the ranchman, “you said something last night about credentials. Perhaps you wouldn’t take offence if I should ask you to produce them. We always like to know a little about strangers who pass through this country, claiming to be something grand.”

“I don’t claim to be anything grand. I simply say that I have been sent out here to collect specimens of natural history for the Yarmouth University; and, if you don’t believe it, look at that!” exclaimed Oscar indignantly, at the same time handing out a letter signed by the president of the college and the secretary of the committee, under whose instructions he was working. “Probably you will say next that I stole your old mule!”

“Well, I have yet something to say,” answered the ranchman, as he opened the letter; “and, when I say it, it will be to the point. You hear me?”

These words were spoken in a very decided tone, and Oscar could not make up his mind whether the ranchman was angry or not. Sometimes he was sure he was, and then again he was equally sure he wasn’t.

He was certainly acting very strangely, and so was Big Thompson, who, after his outburst of enthusiasm, relapsed into silence again, and now seemed to be utterly indifferent to all that was passing before him.

He stood in front of the stove, with his head inclining a little forward, so that it might not come in contact with the rafters; and Oscar could not tell by the expression on his face whether it would be safe to depend on him for help in case of trouble between himself and the ranchman, or not.

“Look here, professor,” said the latter, after he had read and returned Oscar’s credentials, “that’s my mule and wagon.”

“Well, I don’t dispute it, do I? Take them and welcome.”

“But look here, professor,” repeated the ranchman; “I’m a student myself—I haven’t brains enough to be a scholar—and I couldn’t think of throwing a straw in the way of those young fellows out there in Yarmouth, who want a museum to assist them in studying natural history; so, Thompson, you just go out and hitch up that mule; and, professor, you jump into the wagon and go on, and good-luck attend you.”

Oscar was electrified. He could hardly believe that he was not dreaming. The only thing real about the whole proceeding was the tremendous grip the ranchman gave him as he said this. There was no dream about that.

“Do you mean to tell me that I can have the mule?” exclaimed Oscar, as soon as he could speak.

“Yes,” replied the ranchman, still holding Oscar’s hand in his own. “I see very plainly that you can’t go on without him, and so I will lend him to you. When you come back in the spring, you can give him up. If you don’t find me here—and you may not, for life in these parts is so uncertain that a fellow can’t tell to-day where he will be to-morrow—he is yours, to sell or to keep, just as you please.”

Oscar now began to realize that the ranchman, in spite of a certain flippancy of manner, was in earnest; and the revulsion of feeling was so great that, for a moment, the dug-out seemed to swim around him.

“Mr. Barker,” he stammered, trying to squeeze the huge palm, to the strength of which his own would have offered about as much resistance as a piece of pasteboard, “I don’t know how to thank you for your kindness.”

“Then I wouldn’t try,” the ranchman said lightly. “Besides, it is not kindness; it is only justice. You had no means of knowing that the mule was stolen, and it wouldn’t be right for me to take him away from you. If I should claim him now, and thereby put the success of your expedition in jeopardy, I could never look a white man in the face again.”

Ike Barker spoke seriously now; and, for the first time since his arrival at the dug-out, Oscar began to see what manner of man it was with whom he was dealing. His backwoods bluntness of manner was entirely foreign to him. He had learned to assume it in order to conceal feelings and sentiments, the exhibition of which would have been regarded by those with whom he was daily thrown in contact as unmanly in the extreme.

CHAPTER XXII.
THE CAMP IN THE FOOT-HILLS.

“I say, perfessor, I reckon ye had an idee, mebbe, that I was kinder goin’ back on ye, when we was down thar to Ike Barker’s, didn’t ye?”

The nearest approach to a smile that Big Thompson could command overspread his face, as he removed his pipe from his mouth long enough to address this question to his employer.

It was the first time he had in any way referred to the incidents that had happened at the ranchman’s dug-out.

The guide was seated on his blanket in front of a cheerful fire; and Oscar stood in front of the open door, watching the storm that was raging.

The air was filled with snow-flakes, and the evergreens behind the cabin were bending low before a furious gale.

The short winter’s day was drawing to a close, and as the young hunter gazed at the fading landscape before him, and listened to the howling of the wind, he thrust his hands deeper into his pockets, shivered almost involuntarily, and thanked his lucky stars that he was comfortably sheltered.

Big Thompson’s question aroused him from his revery. He stepped back into the cabin, closed the door behind him, and dropped the heavy bar that secured it in its place.

“Yes, I did think so,” said he, as he turned down his coat-collar and shook the snow-flakes from his cap. “All you did for me was to take that gun out of Ike Barker’s hands. After you had done that, you stood and looked on with the utmost indifference.”

“Wal, no,” answered the guide slowly. “I heard every word he said to ye, an’ if I hadn’t knowed the man I might have jined in the talk ye had with him. But, ye see, I knowed him. I knowed the mu-el was his’n, kase he said so; but that didn’t pester me none, fur I was sartin that when he found out who ye was an’ all about ye, he wouldn’t make no furse about the critter. That’s why I kept my mouth shet. I knowed ye wasn’t in no danger.”

Oscar and his guide were now fairly settled in their camp in the foot-hills; and if Leon Parker could have looked in upon them that stormy night he would have gone into ecstasies.

Their journey from Ike Barker’s ranch had been accomplished without the occurrence of any incident worthy of note.

The weather was all they could have desired, and Oscar and Big Thompson got on very well together.

The guide no longer held himself aloof, as he did at the beginning of the journey. He admired the courage the boy had exhibited, and used his best endeavors to prove himself an agreeable and entertaining companion.

The first thing he did was to take Oscar’s place in the wagon, and give the boy his pony to ride.

They made rapid progress after that, for the mule was not long in finding out that in Big Thompson he had a driver who knew how to manage him.

The guide had an almost inexhaustible fund of stories at his command, and enlivened many a weary mile of the way by relating them to his employer, who was always glad to listen.

This camp was located in a pleasant valley in the very heart of the foot-hills; and they supposed that there was not a human being within a hundred miles of them.

The valley, so the guide informed Oscar, was twenty miles long and half as wide. A deep and rocky ravine gave entrance to it; and it was in a sheltered nook, about halfway between the mouth of this ravine and the opposite end of the valley, that the camp had been made.

This was the place for which Big Thompson had been aiming ever since leaving the fort. He assured Oscar that it was a fine hunting-ground; and they had not been in the valley twenty-four hours, before the boy saw enough with his own eyes to convince him that such was the fact.

The game, which always retreats to the foot-hills on the approach of cold weather, seemed to have flocked here for shelter; and a better winter abode could not have been found.

The high and thickly wooded hills, that arose on every side, effectually shut off the icy blasts that came roaring down from the mountains; the pasturage was rich and abundant; and the clear, dancing trout-brook that wound through the valley afforded a never failing supply of water.

Oscar had discovered an otter-slide on the banks of the stream; and that indicated that fur-bearing animals were to be found in the vicinity.

He had seen a big-horn watching him from the summit of a distant hill; the first blow he struck with his axe, when he went out to cut logs for the cabin, had frightened from his concealment in the bushes the first mule-deer he had ever seen; and a herd of lordly elk, led by a magnificent buck, which Oscar resolved he would one day secure, had fled precipitately at the sight of their first camp-fire.

But such harmless animals as these were not the only inhabitants of the valley. The fierce carnivora that preyed upon them had followed them from the mountains; and the first night that Oscar passed in the valley had been enlivened by a chorus from a pack of gray wolves, followed by a solo from a panther.

A trap, baited with a muskrat, which Oscar had set for a mink, was robbed by a wolverine; and one morning, while they were out hunting for their breakfast, Big Thompson showed him where a bear had crossed the brook. All these things seemed to indicate that their opportunities for sport and excitement would prove to be excellent.

The hunters’ first care, on arriving at their camping-ground, was to provide a house for themselves, which they did by erecting a neat and roomy log cabin in the sheltered nook before spoken of.

It was different from those erected by the early settlers, in that it had no windows and no chimney; all the light, during the daytime, being admitted through the door, and through an opening in the roof, at which the smoke passed out.

Under this opening a hole about two feet square had been dug in the dirt floor, and this served as the fireplace.

Oscar and his guide had been exceedingly busy during the last three days; but now their work was all done, and they were securely housed for the winter.

Although it was cold and bleak outside, the interior of the cabin was warm and cheerful. A fire burned merrily on the hearth; and, by the aid of the light it threw out, one could easily see that the hunters had not neglected to provide for their comfort in various ways.

The cabin was provided with a table, a cupboard for the dishes, and a stool for each of its occupants—all made of slabs split from pine-logs, hewn smooth with an axe; and the various articles comprising their outfit were disposed about the room in orderly array.

There were no buffalo-robes for beds, but there were fragrant pine-boughs instead, blankets in abundance, and a joint of venison hanging from the rafters overhead.

One end of the cabin was occupied by the wagon, which had been taken to pieces and stored there for protection from the weather.

In the rear of this cabin was another, not quite so carefully built, into which the pony and mule were driven every night. During the day they were allowed to roam at will in the valley (the guide said that when the snow came and covered the grass they would be obliged to cut down cottonwood trees for them to browse upon); and, as soon as it began to grow dark, they were shut up for security.

All the “signs” indicated that beasts of prey were abundant in the valley; and, if a pack of wolves or a hungry grizzly should chance to make a meal of the mule, how would they get Oscar’s specimens and chest of tools back to the fort in the spring?

Taken altogether, it was just such a camp as he had often read of; and Oscar, as he rubbed his hands over the fire and gazed about their comfortable quarters, grew enthusiastic.

“Now, this is what I call comfort,” said he. “With plenty to eat, a good supply of firewood close at hand, a tight roof to shelter us from the storm, and no enemies to trouble us—what more could a couple of hunters ask for? I don’t think spending a winter in the foot-hills is so bad after all.”

The guide smiled and nodded his head significantly, but made no other reply. He knew that this was the poetry of a hunter’s life, and that the prose would come soon enough.

Having arranged his blankets and thrown a few sticks of wood upon the fire, Oscar removed his boots and coat and lay down to rest, leaving Big Thompson to the companionship of his pipe and his own thoughts.

He lay for a long time watching the sparks as they ascended toward the opening in the roof, and listening to the roaring storm, which seemed to increase in violence every moment; and finally, while he was laying elaborate plans for the capture of some of the wolves, whose mournful howls now and then came faintly to his ears, he passed quietly into the land of dreams.

He did not know that there was another camp in the valley, and that other ears besides his own were listening to the howls of those same wolves, but such was the fact.

CHAPTER XXIII.
HUNTING THE BIG-HORN.

Oscar slept soundly that night, in spite of the roaring of the wind and the howling of the wolves, and awoke at daylight to find breakfast waiting for him. A glance out at the door showed him that the storm had ceased. The weather was clear and cold, and the snow covered the ground to the depth of six inches.

“Just deep enough for tracking,” Oscar remarked, as he gave his hands and face a thorough washing in it.

Of course the first thing on the programme was a hunt.

That was what the boy came out there for, and he was anxious to begin operations at once.

He longed to bring down one of the big-horns he had seen watching him at his work, and to knock over one of the lordly elk that had scurried away with such haste when he and Big Thompson kindled their first camp-fire in the valley.

So very impatient was he that the breakfast the guide had so carefully prepared did not delay him more than five minutes.

He did not sit down to the table at all, but swallowed his coffee scalding hot, and walked up and down the cabin, buckling on his accoutrements with one hand, while he had his venison and cracker in the other.

The guide was more deliberate in his movements. He was almost too deliberate, Oscar thought.

After he had fully satisfied his appetite, he put away the dishes, slowly filled and lighted his pipe; and, not until he had set the cabin in order did he take his rifle down from the pegs on which it rested, and sling on his powderhorn and bullet-pouch.

Then a short consultation was held; and, after the guide had repeated some of the instructions he had given Oscar in regard to deer-hunting, and described to him the place at which he intended to camp at noon, they left the cabin, Big Thompson turning his face toward the brook that flowed through the valley, while Oscar directed his course along the base of the cliffs.

“Now, perfessor, yer sartin ye aint afeard of nothing?” said the guide, as they were about to separate.

“Of course not,” answered Oscar promptly. “You must have asked me that question a dozen times since we planned our hunt yesterday afternoon.”

“Wal, I know it. I ax ye kase it aint every tenderfoot who would care to go philanderin’ off by himself in a country like this.”

“You suggested it yourself,” said Oscar. “You said that if we hunted about half a mile apart, we would stand a better chance of scaring up game than we would if we went together.”

“An’ I say so now.”

“Then we’ll carry out our plan. I shall not be afraid until I see something to be afraid of. Good-by! If you reach the camping-ground before I do, don’t forget to give me the signal.”

“He’s a cool one, if he is a tenderfoot,” muttered Big Thompson, as he shifted his heavy rifle to the other shoulder, and continued on his way toward the brook. “If I could see him facin’ some kind of a varmint, like a grizzly or panther, I could tell jist how much pluck he’s got. I’ll be kinder keerful how I go too fur away frum him, kase he may see sumthin’ to be afeard of afore he knows it.”

Meanwhile, Oscar was walking slowly along, just outside the bushes and evergreens that lined the base of the bluffs, looking for a ravine that would lead him from the valley into the hills.

“Thompson gave me emphatic instructions to keep within hearing of him,” said the boy to himself; “but I shall do as I please about that. He may find a deer or two drinking at the brook; but my chances for jumping game along here are not worth a copper. I am hunter enough to know that; so I’ll just go up this way and see if I can find one of those sheep.”

As Oscar said this, he turned into a deep gorge that opened into the valley, and began picking his way carefully over the snow-covered bowlders toward the hill which had served as a lookout station for the sentinel big-horn.

All that the young hunter knew of the habits of these animals he had gained from conversation with his guide.

He had learned that, like the antelope, they always put out sentinels when they were feeding; that those sentries invariably stationed themselves on the highest hills in the vicinity of the flock; that their eyes were keen, and their noses so sharp that they had been known to detect the presence of the hunter while he was yet more than half a mile away; that they were to be found on their feeding-grounds only in the morning or late in the afternoon; that when they had satisfied their appetites they retreated to the most inaccessible ledges, to which no enemy could follow them without their knowledge; and that, owing to their timidity and vigilance, it was almost impossible to bring one of them to bay, except under the most favorable circumstances.

Oscar thought of all these things as he toiled slowly up the gorge, stopping every few feet to examine the ground before him, and making use of every bush and bowlder to cover his advance; and the difficulties he saw in his way made him all the more determined to succeed.

“Big Thompson doesn’t think much of my abilities as a hunter,” said he to himself, “and I don’t know how I could surprise him more than by shooting a big-horn, unless I were to shoot a panther or a grizzly, and that is something I don’t expect to do. In fact, I have no desire to attempt it. The wind is in my favor, and that is something upon which I can congratulate myself.”

For nearly an hour Oscar continued to work his way along the ravine; and, when he believed that he had arrived at a point opposite the pinnacle on which he had seen the sentinel big-horn, he turned into the bushes and began clambering slowly up the cliff.

As it was almost perpendicular, his progress was necessarily slow, but he reached the top at last; and, cautiously raising his head, looked over it.

He had no sooner done so than he uttered an exclamation under his breath, and drew his head quickly back again.

He crouched behind the cliff long enough to cock his gun, and then he straightened up, at the same time drawing the weapon to his shoulder.

Before him was a level plateau, containing perhaps ten or fifteen acres. On the right, and in front, it was bounded by the gorge that Oscar had been following; and on the left was the valley in which the camp was located.

On the other side rose a perpendicular wall of rock that extended entirely across the plateau. Near the base of this rock were the objects that had attracted Oscar’s attention—four gray wolves, which were feasting on a mountain sheep they had killed for their breakfast. Oscar knew at once that it was a sheep, for he could see the head and horns.

“What a pity that I didn’t happen along here when they first killed him!” was the boy’s mental reflection. “He must have been a fine fellow, judging by the size of those horns. Well, as I didn’t get the sheep, I’ll knock over a couple of the wolves for our museum; and the horns I’ll give to Sam Hynes to put up in his mother’s dining-room.”

So saying, Oscar rested his rifle over the top of the bluff; and, drawing a bead on the largest of the wolves, waited with all the patience he could command for one of his companions to get behind him, hoping to kill both of them with one bullet.

The wolves gnawed and snapped at one another over their meal; and, although they were constantly changing their positions, and the two that Oscar wished to secure frequently came within range, their motions were so rapid that he dared not fire at them for fear of missing his mark.

At the report of his gun they would doubtless take to their heels, and his chances for shooting one on the run were not one in a thousand.

While the boy was waiting for a shot, he was suddenly startled by hearing a loud snort close at hand; and, turning his head quickly, he was astonished almost beyond measure to see an immense mountain-sheep standing on the edge of the plateau.

His gaze was fastened upon the wolves, whose presence did not seem to cause him the least alarm. It rather seemed to encourage him; for now and then he lifted one of his forefeet, and stamped it spitefully on the ground, after the manner of a domestic sheep.

It was the first of these animals of which Oscar had ever obtained so near a view; and he told himself that in color and shape it resembled a deer more than it resembled anything else.

It was covered with hair instead of wool, and its color was tawny, changing to white on the flanks and breast. But it carried the horns of a sheep, and they were really magnificent.

Where the animal came from so suddenly Oscar did not know, nor did he stop to ask himself the question. He was there, and the next thing was to secure him.

Remembering the mountain-sheep’s wary nature, Oscar exercised the utmost caution in turning the muzzle of his rifle from the wolves toward the buck.

Fortunately he succeeded in accomplishing this without alarming the timid animal, which was giving all his attention to the wolves; and, glancing along the clean, brown barrel, the boy was on the very point of pressing the trigger when another interruption occurred.

Three or four heads, adorned with horns like the gnarled branches of an oak, suddenly appeared above the edge of the plateau, and as many more came close behind them; these were followed by others; and, in less than a minute, a dozen full-grown bucks were standing in plain view of the young hunter, and not more than fifty yards away.

CHAPTER XXIV.
A FREE FIGHT.

The sight was one that would have made the nerves of even an experienced hunter thrill with excitement; and we can imagine the effect it must have had upon Oscar, who had never seen anything like it before.

He knew now where the leading buck came from so suddenly. He and the rest of the flock had been down to the valley to slake their thirst at the brook, and were now returning to their feeding-grounds.

Probably the sheep the wolves had killed was a member of the same flock, which had been left behind by his companions. That he had not been attacked while in their company was speedily proved to Oscar’s entire satisfaction.

The hunter did not shoot for two reasons. The newcomers, when they mounted the bluff, stepped up between him and the leading buck, completely concealing him from view; and even if he could have seen him, it was by no means certain that Oscar would have brought him down, for there were others in the flock that were just as large as he was, and whose horns were just as finely developed. It was hard to choose among so many.

While Oscar was running his eye over the flock, trying to make a selection, the big-horns ranged themselves in a half-circle on the edge of the plateau, and snorted and stamped their feet while they watched the wolves at their repast.

The fierce animals evidently did not like the looks of things at all, for they stopped their quarrelling among themselves; and, keeping one eye on the sheep, growled savagely at them, while they made all haste to finish what was left of their breakfast.

Matters stood thus for just about a minute, and then one of the sheep bounded forward with an angry snort; and, lowering his head, struck the nearest of the wolves a blow in the ribs that fairly lifted him off his feet.

As quick as thought the gallant buck turned upon another; but, before he could strike him, the wolves closed upon him and pulled him to the ground.

They did not have time, however, to inflict any serious injury upon him; for he was too promptly backed by every one of his companions.

Rushing forward in a body, they closed upon the wolves from all sides; and Oscar was the amazed spectator of one of the strangest battles that any hunter ever witnessed.

He was deeply interested in it, and so greatly bewildered, besides, that he entirely forgot that he had a loaded gun in his hands.

For a few seconds the combatants were mixed up in the greatest confusion, and it was a wonder to Oscar that the bucks, in their terrific rushes, did not knock one another over; but they seemed to know just where to strike, and every charge they made was followed by a yelp of pain from some unlucky wolf.

The fight had hardly commenced before it became apparent to Oscar that the wolves were getting the worst of it, and would have been glad to escape if they could; but their enemies had hemmed them up against the rocks, and every time one of them attempted to break through the encircling ranks, he was met by a blow that knocked him back again.

Finally, one succeeded in working his way out. Nearer dead than alive, he suddenly made his appearance from beneath the feet of the charging big-horns, and started across the plateau with all the speed he could command; but his pace was not rapid, for the life had been well-nigh knocked out of him by the terrific blows he had received.

He was pursued by a splendid old buck, which came up with him just as he reached the edge of the plateau, and sent him heels over head into the gorge.

In his eagerness to inflict further punishment upon his discomfited enemy, the buck approached within less than twenty-five yards of the concealed hunter before he became aware of his presence.