124 LIFE IN THE FAR WEST. 



As they drew near, the two poor trappers, although half- 

 dead with joy, still retained their seats with Indian grav- 

 ity and immobility of feature, turning now and then the 

 crackling snakes which lay on the embers of the fire. The 

 two strangers approached. One, a man of some fifty years 

 of age, of middle height and stoutly built, was clad in a 

 white shooting-jacket, of cut unknown in mountain tailor- 

 ing, and a pair of trousers of the well-known material 

 called " shepherd's plaid ; " a broad-brimmed Panama 

 shaded his face, which was ruddy with health and exercise ; 

 a belt round the waist supported a handsome borne-knife, 

 and a double-barrelled fowling-piece was slung across his 

 shoulder. 



His companion was likewise dressed in a light shooting- 

 jacket, of many pockets and dandy cut, rode on an English 

 saddle and in boots, and was armed with a superb double 

 rifle, glossy from the case, and bearing few marks of use or 

 service. He was a tall fine-looking fellow of thirty, with 

 light hair and complexion ; a scrupulous beard and mus- 

 tache ; a wide-awake hat, with a short pipe stuck in the 

 band, not very black with smoke ; an elaborate powder- 

 horn over his shoulder, with a Cairngorm in the butt as 

 large as a plate ; a blue handkerchief tied round his throat 

 in a sailor's knot, and the collar of his shirt turned care- 

 fully over it. He had, moreover, a tolerable idea of his 

 very correct appearance, and wore Woodstock gloves. 



The trappers looked at them from head to foot, and the 

 more they looked, the less could they make them out. 



" H ! " exclaimed La Bonte, emphatically. 



" This beats grainin' bull-hide slick," broke from Kill- 

 buck as the strangers reined up at the fire, the younger 

 dismounting, and staring with wonder at the weather- 

 beaten trappers. 



" Well, my men, how are you ? " he rattled out. " Any 

 game here ? By Jove ! " he suddenly exclaimed, seizing 

 his rifle, as at that moment a large buzzard, the most un- 

 clean of birds, flew into the topmost branch of a cotton- 

 wood, and sat, a tempting shot. "By Jove, there's a 

 chance ! " cried the mighty hunter ; and, bending low, 



