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by customs and traditions; saw old, familiar forms of sturdy gentlemen and fair women-heard the cultured intonation of English speech, where now Holiday fireplaces blazed and candles beamed from silver sconces. He saw (perhaps) that one persistent face-girlish, azure-eyed, smiling, pitying, mocking; saw it as clearly as he could see the face of Jim Bridger, or as he could see, in memory, the peaks of the Three Tetons-they also of this America, and in their white and azure as cold and as heartless as she.

Aye! But he was comfortable here. Such a lodge made of the wilderness a home; he asked nothing better. It had been a good enough day. To be sure, he had lost a trap, and a beaver-trap was valued at sixteen dollars. Traps were going up, beaver was going down. Aye? Yet what of that? The winter likewise had bid to be a good one. There was cottonwood bark for the horses, fuel and water in plenty, deer and elk in the bottoms, and dried meat already stored; his lodge was tight, proof against weather, robes abounded, he had the best little squaw in camp, the Crows were not to be declined -worth-while company although thievish devils beyond their lodge-fires; and the trappers his partners for weal, for woe, were no worse than himself.

What a coterie! He the Mad Britisher, old Jim Bridger the unlettered captain, big Cross Eagle the Swede, Mariano the Spanish breed from New Mexico, Markhead from Kentucky, Laforey the French Creole from St. Louis, the well-educated Thompson from Illinois, the quiet Kit Carson from Missouri (youngest of all, but one who had made many an Injun "come "), Kelly the Irishman, Black Harris the reckless wag-all upon equality and all united for fur, fight and frolic.

Signs had augured a cosy winter-before the Blackfeet

showed up. Those damned Blackfeet-the "dam' PiedsNoirs" of Laforey! But there always were the Blackfeet, or the Sioux, or the 'Rapahos, or the Rickarees, or the Gros Vent's, or the Bloods, or the Cheyennes, or the Utes, or the Bannocks, or the Crows themselves when plunder looked tempting.

Well, as Jim Bridger would say, " 'twarn't white natur to leave fat meat without a fight," and to surrender this agreeable sanctum to trespassing red devils went against the grain. So in the morning

His squaw was asleep upon her couch; the lodge was chilling and darkening. He tucked away his cold pipe, peeled off his hunting shirt, and drawing a buffalo robe over him turned in also, his feet to the dying embers.

Thus blandly slept this huge Anglo-Saxon derelict: mountain-man and free trapper, in beaver-trail gossip the "Mad Britisher" by virtue of his puzzling traits, among his hearty fellows "Old Glory" by virtue of his oriflamme of hair, and by the Indians styled "Yellow Buffalo."

To all these names he was as indifferent as he was to the name unvoiced-neglected, maybe, in his "possibles" sack, or else discarded forever when he had discarded tweed and fustian for leather and fur.

CHAPTER II

PLUNDER

He slept with little movement, and wakened as by instinct. The Nez Percé girl was up, kneeling beside the fire rekindled under the pot; the robe upon him was crisp with frost and hoary festoons draping the lodgepoles waved in the ascending draught.

A stir in the village was perceptible, as though other households also had aroused: voice of man, woman and drowsy child wafted in to him; he heard the brief guffaw of Kelly, who with Cross Eagle and Carson occupied the trapper lodge nearest to his. Horses were snorting—the snow crust crumpled beneath shambling hoofs and just. outside his flap an animal pawed restlessly.

That, he knew, was his big gray, already brought in by the girl and standing saddled and jaw-thonged for the service of the approaching day.

Thereupon, after stretching mightily, he threw off his steaming cover, put on his moccasins, and bare to the waist stepped without.

His horse nickered to him. The skies had cleared, the countless stars studded black heavens arched over cold white slopes and black stream-course. Pungent smoke tinged the sharp air; fires gleamed eerily through thin spots in lodge walls, and now and again sparks gushed from the vents. By the slant of the handle of the Great Dipper day was at hand; indeed, the lowest east was faintly pale.

He extended his arms and inhaled with all his lungs. He stooped and energetically rubbed his full chest and

arms with snow, rubbed eyes and beard-eschewing the icy water of the creek only because it would have frozen upon him.

By this and other strange habits had he earned the title Mad Britisher, but cared little for that. When a man washes he still has something of good in him.

Aglow, he returned inside; donned heavy hunting shirt, belted it with sheathed knife and whetstone, and small quilled sack of flint, steel, tinder and tobacco, and accepted a platter of warm stew from the squaw. He devoured, with the girl watching him.

"Eat," he said kindly. But she shook her head. "By and by. Not hungry."

He did not question. The sounds of preparations in the camp had increased, denoted chiefly by the tread of horses. And having cleaned his platter he vouchsafed simply: "It is time," let her wrap his legs from ankles to knees in strips of blanketing, took from her his further accouterments, and his rifle, settled cap upon head and made exit; gathered the trailing neck rope of his horse, seized bridle thong and mane and vaulted into the saddle pad, thrust moccasined toes into stirrup loops. He was mounted.

Other forms had emerged into the dimness and were waiting, centaur-like. From the lodge entrance the Nez Percé girl peered after him as he rode forward.

"Yere's Old Glory!" 'Twas Bridger's subdued hail. "Wall, boys. Hooray for Green River! Thar'll be wolf-meat to-day or I'm a liar."

Iron Bear had marshaled his warriors. Upon grunting animals they all cantered into the stinging cold of daybreak, leaving the comfortable lodges to the women and children and old men.

Carson, sitting jauntily in buckskins and beaver hat,

and Red Moon in robe to his ears, led the outward march. Behind rode the others: the fifteen enveloped warriors. following Iron Bear; and the white men-Jim Bridger, Old Glory the Mad Britisher, Laforey the St. Louis Frenchman, Kelly the Irishman, Cross Eagle the Swede, Markhead of Kentucky, Black Harris the jester, Mariano the Mexican breed, Thompson the gentleman.

The brittle snow crinkled to the swish of hoofs, the breaths of beasts and men floated instantly congealed, dusk thinned yet by only the blazing planets in the high firmament held the valley inert, but the hills of the far east starkly notched a ribbon of pink.

Somewhere ahead couched the Blackfoot camp for a rude awakening.

They rode on in two lines unspeaking: the warriors muffled and immutable, thinking of the enemy and nursing their heritage of hate; the whites nonchalant, rifles across knees, the tails of their horses gnawed ragged by the pack-mules of many a hungry bivouac, and the zest of Bridger's pipe drifting familiarly into Old Glory's nostrils. So they went forth to battle.

That it was: Fang and claw, powder and ball, and knives reddened to the G. R. at the grip-the standard George Rex trade-mark translated by mountain-man fancy into "Green River"; for to him who did not fight the answer was gone hos and beaver" and life also; and to him who did fight the end, soon or late, was apt to be the same.

Very good! Now another little scrimmage with the Ishmaelite Blackfeet (as they happened to be this time); another hurly-burly of shot and cheer, whoop and arrow hiss, scurry and scamper, advance, retreat, stand fast, charge, to the rescue, die hard, "Look out!" "Hooray! Throwed him cold!" "Hyar's ha'r!" "Hyar's ha'r!" "Green River

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