The Last of the Plainsmen 



Not a red hand, nor a white one, offered to help 

 the voyager in the difficult landing. The oblong, 

 clumsy, heavily laden boat surged with the current 

 and passed the dock despite the boatman s efforts. 

 He swung his craft in below upon a bar and roped 

 it fast to a tree. The Indians crowded above him on 

 the bank. The boatman raised his powerful form 

 erect, lifted a bronzed face which seemed set in 

 craggy hardness, and cast from narrow eyes a keen, 

 cool glance on those above. The silvery gleam in 

 his fair hair told of years. 



Silence, impressive as it was ominous, broke only 

 to the rattle of camping paraphernalia, which the 

 voyager threw to a level, grassy bench on the bank. 

 Evidently this unwelcome visitor had journeyed from 

 afar, and his boat, sunk deep into the water with its 

 load of barrels, boxes and bags, indicated that the 

 journey had only begun. Significant, too, were a cou 

 ple of long Winchester rifles shining on a tarpaulin. 



The cold-faced crowd stirred and parted to permit 

 the passage of a tall, thin, gray personage of official 

 bearing, in a faded military coat. 



&quot;Are you the musk-ox hunter?&quot; he asked, in 

 tones that contained no welcome. 



The boatman greeted this peremptory interlocutor 

 with a cool laugh a strange laugh, in which the 

 muscles of his face appeared not to play. 



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