THAT night the train encamped a short distance from one of the stations of the Overland Stage Company. The trapper, as usual, after taking care of his mules, superintended the preparations for supper, while the boys, wearied with their day’s ride, threw themselves on the grass near the wagon, and watched his movements with a hungry eye. Uncle James, as he had done almost every night since leaving St. Joseph, walked about the camp playing with the children, who began to regard him as an old acquaintance. Presently the attention of the boys was attracted by the approach of a stranger, whose long beard and thin hair—both as white as snow—bore evidence to the fact that he carried the burden of many years on his shoulders.

He was dressed in a complete suit of buckskin, which, although well worn, was nevertheless very neat, and, in spite of his years, his step was firm, and he walked as erect as an Indian. He carried a long heavy rifle on his shoulder, and from his belt peeped the head of a small hatchet of peculiar shape, and the buck-horn handle of a hunting-knife. He walked slowly through the camp, and when he came opposite the boys, Dick suddenly sprang from the ground where he had been seated, watching some steaks that were broiling on the coals, and, striding up to the stranger, laid his hand on his shoulder. The latter turned, and, after regarding him sharply for a moment, thrust out his hand, which the trapper seized and wrung in silence. For an instant they stood looking at each other without speaking, and then Dick took the old man by the arm and led him up to the fire, exclaiming:

“Bob Kelly, the oldest an’ best trapper on the prairy!”

The boys arose as he approached, and regarded him with curiosity. They had heard their guide speak in the highest terms of “ole Bob Kelly,” and had often wished to see the trapper whom Dick was willing to acknowledge as his superior. There he was—a mild, good-natured-looking old man, the exact opposite of what they had imagined him to be.

“Them are city chaps, Bob”—continued the trapper, as the old man, after gazing at the boys for a moment, seated himself on the ground beside the fire—”an’ I’m takin’ ’em out to Californy. In course they are green consarnin’ prairy life, but they are made of good stuff, an’ are ’bout the keerlessest youngsters you ever see. What a doin’ here, Bob?”

“Jest lookin’ round,” was the answer. “I’m mighty glad to meet you ag’in, ’cause it looks nat’ral to see you ’bout. Things aint as they used to be. Me an’ you are ’bout the oldest trappers agoin’ now. The boys have gone one arter the other, an’ thar’s only me an’ you left that I knows on.”

“What’s come on Jack Thomas?” asked Dick.

“We’re both without our chums now,” answered the old man, sorrowfully. “Jack an’ ole Bill Lawson are both gone, an’ their scalps are in a Comanche wigwam.”

The trapper made no reply, but went on with his preparations for supper in silence, and the boys could see that he was considerably affected by the news he had just heard. His every movement was closely watched by his companion, who seemed delighted to meet his old acquaintance once more, and acted as though he did not wish to allow him out of his sight. There was evidently a good deal of honest affection between these two men. It did not take the form of words, but would have showed itself had one or the other of them been in danger. They did not speak again until Mr. Winters came up, when Dick again introduced his friend as the “oldest an’ best trapper agoin’.” Uncle James, who understood the customs of the trappers, simply bowed—a greeting which the old man returned with one short, searching glance, as if he meant to read his very thoughts.

“Now, then!” exclaimed Dick, “Grub’s ready. Pitch in, Bob.”

The old trapper was not in the habit of standing upon ceremony, and, drawing his huge knife from his belt, he helped himself to a generous piece of the meat, and, declining the corn-bread and the cup of coffee which the boys passed over to him, made his meal entirely of venison. After supper—there were but few dishes to wash now, for the boys had learned to go on the principle that “fingers were made before forks”—the trapper hung what remained of the venison in the wagon, lighted his pipe, and stretched himself on the ground beside his companion.

The boys, knowing that the trappers would be certain to talk over the events that had transpired since their last meeting, spread their blankets where they could hear all that passed, and waited impatiently for them to begin; while Mr. Winters, who had by this time become acquainted with every man, woman, and child, in the train, started to pay a visit to the occupants of a neighboring wagon.

For some moments the two men smoked in silence, old Bob evidently occupied with his own thoughts, and Dick patiently waiting for him to speak. At length the old man asked:

“Goin’ to Californy, Dick?”

The trapper replied in the affirmative.

“What a goin’ to do arterward?”

“I’m a goin’ to take to the mountains, an’ stay thar,” replied Dick. “I’ve seed the inside of a city, Bob; have rid on steam railroads an’ boats as big as one of the Black Hills; an’ now I’m satisfied to stay here. I’d a heap sooner face a grizzly or a Injun than go back thar ag’in, ’cause I didn’t feel to hum.”

“Wal, I’m all alone now, Dick,” said the old man, “an’ so are you. Our chums are gone, an’ we both want to settle with them Comanche varmints; so, let’s stick together.”

Dick seemed delighted with this proposition, for he quickly arose from his blanket and extended his hand to his companion, who shook it heartily; and the boys read in their faces a determination to stand by each other to the last.

“I’ve got a chum now, youngsters,” said Dick, turning to the boys; “an’ one that I aint afraid to trust anywhar. Thar’s nothin’ like havin’ a friend, even on the prairy. I come with the boys,” he added, addressing his companion, who, seeing the interest Dick took in his “youngsters,” slowly surveyed them from head to foot—“I come with ’em jest to show ’em how we do things on the prairy. They can shoot consid’ble sharp, an’ aint afraid. All it wants is the hard knocks—fightin’ Injuns an’ grizzlies, an’ starvin’ on the prairy, an’ freezin’ in the mountains, to make trappers of ’em.” And here Dick settled back on his elbow, and proceeded to give the old man a short account of what had transpired at Uncle Joe’s cabin; described Frank’s fight with the moose and panther in glowing language; told how the capture of the cubs had been effected, until old Bob began to be interested; and when Dick finished his story, he said:

“The youngsters would make good trappers.”

This, as the trapper afterward told the boys, was a compliment old Bob seldom paid to any one, “for,” said he, “I’ve knowed him a long time, an’ have been in many a fight with him, an’ he never told me I was good or bad.”

“Wal,” said Dick, again turning to his companion, “You said as how Jack Thomas was rubbed out. How did it happen?”

Old Bob refilled his pipe, smoked a few moments as if to bring the story fresh to his memory, and then answered:

“When I heered that Bill Lawson war gone, an’ that you war left alone, I done my best to find you, an’ get you to jine a small party we war makin’ up to visit our ole huntin’ grounds on the Saskatchewan; but you had tuk to the mountains, and nobody didn’t know whar to go to find you. Thar war eight of us in the party, an’ here, you see, are all that are left. As nigh as I can ’member, it war ’bout four year ago come spring that we sot out from the fort, whar we had sold our furs. We had three pack mules, plenty of powder, ball, an’ sich like, an’ we started in high sperits, tellin’ the trader that bought our spelter that we’d have a fine lot fur him ag’in next meetin’ time. We knowed thar war plenty of Injuns an’ sich varmints to be fit an’ killed afore we come back, but that didn’t trouble us none, ’cause we all knowed our own bisness, and didn’t think but that we would come through all right, jest as we had done a hundred times afore. We didn’t intend to stop afore we got to the Saskatchewan; so we traveled purty fast, an’ in ’bout three weeks found ourselves in the Blackfoot country, nigh the Missouri River. One night we camped on a leetle stream at the foot of the mountains, an’ the next mornin’, jest as we war gettin’ ready to start out ag’in, Jack Thomas—who, like a youngster turned loose from school, war allers runnin’ round, pokin’ his nose into whatever war goin’ on—came gallopin’ into camp, shouting:

“‘Buffaler! buffaler!’

“In course, we all knowed what that meant, an’ as we hadn’t tasted buffaler hump since leavin’ the fort, we saddled up in a hurry an’ put arter the game. We went along kinder easy-like—Jack leadin’ the way—until we come to the top of a swell, an’ thar they war—nothin’ but buffaler as fur as a feller could see. It war a purty sight, an’ more’n one of us made up our minds that we would have a good supper that night. We couldn’t get no nigher to ’em without bein’ diskivered, so we scattered and galloped arter ’em. In course, the minit we showed ourselves they put off like the wind; but we war in easy shootin’ distance, an’ afore we got through with ’em, I had knocked over four big fellers an’ wounded another. He war hurt so bad he couldn’t run; but I didn’t like to go up too clost to him, so I rid off a leetle way, an’ war loadin’ up my rifle to give him a settler, when I heered a noise that made me prick up my ears an’ look sharp. I heered a trampin, an’ I knowed it war made by something ’sides a buffaler. Now, youngsters, a greenhorn wouldn’t a seed any thing strange in that; but when I heered it, I didn’t stop to kill the wounded buffaler, but turned my hoss an’ made tracks. I hadn’t gone more’n twenty rod afore I seed four Blackfoot Injuns comin’ over a swell ’bout half a mile back. I had kept my eyes open—as I allers do—but I hadn’t seen a bit of Injun sign on the prairy, an’ I made up my mind to onct that them Blackfoot varmints had been shyin’ round arter the same buffaler we had jest been chasin’, an’ that they didn’t know we war ’bout till they heered us shoot. Then, in course, they put arter us, ’cause they think a heap more of scalps than they do of buffaler meat.

“Wal, as I war sayin’, I made tracks sudden; but they warn’t long in diskiverin’ me, an’ they sot up a yell. I’ve heered that same yell often, an’ I have kinder got used to it; but I would have give my hoss, an’ this rifle, too, that I have carried for goin’ nigh onto twenty year, if I had been safe in Fort Laramie, ’cause I didn’t think them four Injuns war alone. I war sartin they had friends not a great way off, an’ somehow I a’most knowed how the hul thing was comin’ out. I didn’t hardly know which way to go to find our fellers, ’cause while we were arter the buffaler we had got scattered a good deal; but jest as I come to the top of a swell I seed ’em a comin’. Jack Thomas war ahead, an’ he war swingin’ his rifle an yellin’ wusser nor any Injun. I’ll allow, Dick, that it made me feel a heap easier when I seed them trappers. Jack, who allers knowed what war goin’ on in the country fur five miles round, had first diskivered the Injuns, an’ had got all the party together ’cept me, an’ in course they couldn’t think of savin’ their own venison by runnin’ off and leavin’ me.

“Wal, jest as soon as we got together we sot up a yell and faced ’bout. The Injuns, up to this time, had rid clost together; but when they seed that we warn’t goin’ to run no further jest then, they scattered as if they war goin’ to surround us; an’ then we all knowed that them four Injuns warn’t alone. So, without stoppin’ to fight ’em, we turned an’ run ag’in, makin’ tracks for the woods at the foot of the mountains. An’ we warn’t a minit too soon, fur all of a sudden we heered a yell, an’ lookin’ back we seed ’bout fifty more red-skins comin’ arter us like mad. They had a’most got us surrounded; but the way to the mountains war open, an’ we run fur our lives. The varlets that had followed me war in good pluggin’ distance, an’ when we turned in our saddles an’ drawed a bead on ’em, we had four less to deal with. It warn’t more ’n ten mile to the foot of them mountains, but it seemed a hundred to us, an’ we all drawed a long breath when we found ourselves under kiver of the woods. The minit we reached the timber we jumped off our hosses, hitched them to the trees, an’ made up our minds to fight it out thar an’ then. We knowed, as well as we wanted to know, what the Injuns would do next—they would leave a party on the prairy to watch us, an’ the rest would go sneakin’ round through the woods an’ pick us off one at a time. The only thing we could do—leastwise till it come dark—war to watch the varlets, an’ drop every one of ’em that showed his painted face in pluggin’ distance. We war in a tight place. Our pack mules, an’ a’most all our kit, had been left in the camp, an’ we knowed it wouldn’t be long afore the Injuns would have ’em, an’ even if we got off with our bar, we wouldn’t be much better off—no traps, no grub, an’ skeercely half a dozen bullets in our pouches.

“Wal, the Injuns, when they seed that we had tuk to the timber, stopped, takin’ mighty good keer, as they thought, to keep out of range of our rifles, an’ began to hold a palaver, now an’ then lookin’ t’wards us an’ settin’ up a yell, which told us plain enough that they thought they had us ketched. But we, knowin’ to an inch how fur our shootin’ irons would carry, drawed up an’ blazed away; an’ we knowed, by the way them red-skins got back over that swell, that we hadn’t throwed our lead away. They left one feller thar to watch us, howsomever, but he tuk mighty good keer to keep purty well out of sight, showin’ only ’bout two inches of his head ’bove the top of the hill. While the Injuns war holdin’ their council, we had a talk ’bout what we had better do. The truth war, thar war only one thing we could do, an’ that war to stay thar until dark an’ then take our chances. We had all fit savage Injuns enough to know that they wouldn’t bother us much so long as daylight lasted; but arter that, if we didn’t get away from thar, our lives war not worth a charge of powder. We soon made up our minds what we would do. We divided ourselves into two parties—four of us watchin’ the prairy, an’ the others keepin’ an eye on the woods, to see that the varlets didn’t slip up behind us.

“Wal, we didn’t see nothin’ out of the way all that day. Thar war that feller peepin’ over the hill, an’ that war the only thing in the shape of a red-skin we could see; an’ we didn’t hear nothin’ neither, fur whatever they done, they didn’t make noise enough to skeer a painter. At last it come night, an’ it war ’bout the darkest night I ever see—no moon, no stars—an’ then we began to prick up our ears. We all knowed that the time had come. You can easy tell what we war passin’ through our minds. Thar warn’t no sich thing as a coward among us eight fellers, but men in sich a scrape as that can’t help thinkin’, an’ I knowed that every one thar drawed a long breath when he thought of what he had got to do. I tell you, Dick, it war something none of us liked to do—leave one another in that way—men that you have hunted, an’ trapped, an’ fought Injuns with, an’ mebbe slept under the same blanket with, an’ who have stuck to you through thick an’ thin—sich fellers, I say, you don’t like to desart when they’re in danger. But what else could we do? We war a’most out of powder an’ lead, an’ the Injuns war more’n six to our one. You have been in sich scrapes, an’ in course know that thar warn’t but one way open to us.

“Wal, as I was sayin’, as soon as it come fairly dark, the boys gathered ’round me, an’ waited to hear what I war goin’ to do. In course, I couldn’t advise ’em, ’cause it war every feller look out fur himself, an’ the best men war them as was lucky enough to get away. So I said:

“‘I’m goin’ to start now, boys. It’s high time we war movin’, cause if we stay here half an hour longer, we’ll have them red-skins down on us in a lump. Thar’s somethin’ goin’ on, sartin. They don’t keep so still fur nothin’.’

“Wal, we whispered the matter over, an’ finally settled it. The oldest man war to go fust; the next oldest, second; an’ so on; an’ that them as got away should draw a bee-line fur Fort Laramie, an’ get thar to onct, so that we might know who got off an’ who didn’t. We didn’t think we should all get away. Some war sartin to go under; an’, Dick, we didn’t forget to promise each other that those of us that lived would never let a red Injun cross our trail. When every thing was settled, I, bein’ the oldest man in the comp’ny, began to get ready fur the start. I put fresh primin’ in my rifle; seed that my knife and tomahawk war all right; then, arter shakin’ hands with all the boys, an’ wishin’ ’em good luck, I crawled away on my hands an’ knees. I didn’t go back into the woods, but tuk to the edge of the prairy, an’ found the way cl’ar. Not an Injun did I hear. As fur seein’, you couldn’t a told your mother, if she warn’t two foot from you; an’ in ’bout half an hour I found myself on the banks of a leetle creek. How long I lay thar, an’ how much of that water I drunk, I don’t know; but I thought water never tasted so good afore. Then I walked into the creek, an’ had waded in it fur ’bout half a mile, when all to onct I heered a yellin’ an’ whoopin’, followed by the crack of rifles, an’ then I knowed that I hadn’t been fooled consarnin’ what the red-skins meant to do. They had got what war left of our fellers surrounded, an’ made the rush. Fur a minit I stood thar in the water an’ listened. I heered a few shots made by our poor fellers, ’cause I can tell the crack of a Missouri rifle as fur as I can hear it; an’ then one long, loud yell, told me that it war all over.

“Wal, I laid round in them mountains fur more’n six weeks, starvin’ fur grub an’ water, an’ listenin’ to the yellin’ varlets that war huntin arter me; but I got back safe at last, arter walkin’ all the way from the Rocky Mountains to the fort, an’ thar I found Jack Thomas. Me an’ him war the only ones that got out. When the Injuns got them six fellers, they rubbed out nearly the last one of our comp’ny. Me an’ Jack war mighty down-hearted ’bout it, an’ it war a long time afore we could b’lieve that we war left alone. We didn’t feel then like ever goin’ back to the mountains ag’in, ’cause we knowed it would be lonesome thar. In course, we could easy have made up another expedition, fur thar war plenty of hunters an’ trappers—good ones, too—hangin’ round the fort; but somehow we didn’t feel like goin’ off with any one outside of our own comp’ny.

“Wal, me an’ Jack laid round as long as we could stand it, an’ then we got a couple of hosses, another new kit, an’ sot off ag’in. We didn’t think it safe fur only two of us to try the Blackfoot country ag’in, so we struck for the huntin’ grounds on the Colorado. At that time thar war plenty of beaver in that river; so it didn’t take us long to find a place that suited us; an’ we settled down, comfortable-like, to spend the winter. Fur three months we had plenty of sport, an’ the sight of our pile of furs, growin’ bigger an’ bigger every day, made us happy an’ contented. One mornin’ we sot out bright an’ ’arly, as usual, to ’tend to our bisness, takin’ different directions—fur my traps war sot on the side of the mountain, an’ Jack had sot his’ne on the banks of the creek that run through the valley. I had been gone frum him but a short time, when I heered the crack of his rifle. Somehow, I knowed it war somethin’ ’sides a varmint he had shot at; an’ I warn’t fooled neither, for a minit arterward I heered another gun, an’ then afore I could think twice a Comanche yell come echoin’ from the valley, tellin’ me plainer nor words that my chum war gone. An Injun had watched one of his traps, an’ shot him as he come to it. I knowed it as sartin as if I had seed the hul thing done.

“Wal, I warn’t in a fix kalkerlated to make a feller feel very pleasant. I war three hundred miles from the nighest fort, in the very heart of the Comanche country, an’ in the dead of winter, with the snow two foot deep on a level. But I didn’t stop to think of them things then. My bisness war to get away from thar to onct. In course, I couldn’t go back arter my hoss or spelter, fur I didn’t know how many Injuns thar war in the valley, nor whar they had hid themselves; so I shouldered my rifle an’ sot off on foot t’wards the prairy. A storm that come up that night—an’ it snowed an’ blowed in a way that warn’t a funny thing to look at—kivered up my trail; an’ if I war ever follered, I don’t know it.

“I finally reached the fort, an’ I’ve been thar ever since. I’m an ole chap now, Dick; but when I hunted an’ trapped with your ole man, when me an’ him warn’t bigger nor them two youngsters, an’ hadn’t hardly strength enough to shoulder a rifle, I never thought that I should live to be the last of our comp’ny. In them days the prairy war different from what it is now. It war afore the hoss-thieves an’ rascals began to come in here to get away from the laws of the States; an’ them that called themselves trappers then war honest men, that never did harm to a lone person on the prairy. But they’ve gone, one arter the other, an’ only me an’ you are left.”

As the old trapper ceased speaking, he arose suddenly to his feet and disappeared in the darkness, leaving Dick gazing thoughtfully into the fire. It was an hour before he returned, mounted on his horse, which he picketed with the others. He then silently rolled himself up in his blanket and went to sleep.