o give
ye; and it's this--go home; go to where you belong to, sell your traps
and rifles and take to the plough, the hatchet, the forehammer--to
anything you like, so long as it keeps you out of this--" Macgregor
paused a moment as if he were about to utter an oath, then dropped his
voice and said, "This wretched Indian country."

"I guess, then, that we won't take yer advice, old man," said Big Waller
with a laugh.

"`Old man?'" echoed Macgregor with a start.

"Wall, if ye bean't old, ye ain't exactly a chicken."

"You're a plain-spoken man," replied the trader, biting his lips.

"I always wos," retorted Waller.

Macgregor frowned for a moment, then he broke into a forced laugh, and
said--

"Well, friends, you'll please yourselves, of course--most people do; and
if you are so determined to stick to the wilderness I would advise some
of you to stop here. There's plenty of fun and fighting, if you're fond
of that. What say you now, lad," turning to March, "to remain with us
here at the Mountain Fort? I've ta'en a sort of fancy to your face. We
want young bloods here. I'll give you a good wage and plenty to do."

"Thanks; you are kind," replied March, smiling, "but I love freedom too
well to part with it yet awhile."

"Mais, monsieur," cried Gibault, pushing forward, pulling off his cap,
and making a low bow; "if you vants yonger blod, an' also ver' goot
blod, here am von!"

The trader laughed, and was about to reply, when a sudden burst of
laughter and the sound of noisy voices in the yard interrupted him.
Presently two of the men belonging to the establishment cantered out of
the square, followed by all the men, women, and children of the place,
amounting probably to between twenty and thirty souls. "A race! a
race!" shouted the foremost.

"Hallo! Dupont, what's to do?" inquired McLeod as the two horsemen came
up.

"Please, monsieur, Lincoln have bet me von gun dat hims horse go more
queek dan mine--so we try."

"Yes, so we shall, I guess," added the man named Lincoln, whose speech
told that he was a Yankee.

"Go it, stranger; I calc'late you'll do him slick," cried Waller
patronisingly, for his heart warmed towards his countryman.

"Ah! non. Go home; put your horse to bed," cried Gibault, glancing at
the Yankee's steed in contempt. "Dis is de von as vill do it more
slicker by far."

"Well, well; clear the course; we shall soon see," cried McLeod. "Now
then--here's the word--one, two--awa