breeng me his ears!' I am tol' to go to Senor Schoolcr-raft at
Eendependence--he ees thee man. I go; an' then you lose heem! Bah! You
do not know theese Manuel Armijo, _le Gobernador de Santa Fe_, my
fren'--I tr-remble!"

"You need a good swig, that's what _you_ need," growled Schoolcraft.
"An' if ye warn't a chuckle-head," he said with a flash of anger, "we
wouldn't 'a' come yere at all; I told ye he's got th' prairie fever an'
shore would come back to Independence, whar I got friends; but no--we
had ter foller him!" He spat emphatically. "Thar warn't no sense to it,
nohow!"

The other waved his arms. "But w'y we stan' here, lak theese? W'y you do
no'teeng?"

"Now you look a-here, Pedro," growled the Missourian, his sullen gaze
passing up and down the slender Mexican. "Ye don't want ter use no spurs
on _this_ critter. I ain't no greaser! If ye'll hold them arms still fer
a minute I'll tell ye somethin'. Thar's three ways o' gittin' a deer:
one is trailin'--which we've found ain't no good; another is layin' low
near a runway--which is _yer_ job; th' third is watchin' th' salt
lick--which is _my_ job. You go down ter th' levee, git cached among
them piles o' freight an' keep a lookout on th' landin' stage o' th'
_Belle_. I'll stick right yere on this corner an' watch th' lick, which
is Hawkens' gun store. He lost his pistol overboard, comin' down th'
river, didn't he? An' th' _Belle_ ain't sailin' till arter ten o'clock,
is she? One o' us is bound ter git sight o' him, fer he'll shore go back
by th' river; an' if thar's any place in this town whar a plainsman'll
go, it's that gun store, down th' street. You do what I say, or you an'
Armijo kin go plumb ter hell! An' don't ye wave yer fists under my nose
no more, Pedro; I might misunderstand ye."

The Mexican's face brightened. "Eet ees good, vera good, Senor
Schoolcraft. Hah! You have thee br-rains, my fren'. Armijo, he say:
'Pedro, get heem to Santa Fe, if you can. If you can't, then keel heem,
an' breeng me hees ears.' _Bueno!_ I go, senor. I go _pronto_. _Buena
dia!_"

"Then git," growled Schoolcraft. "Thar's that long-faced clerk o'
Hawkens' openin' th' shop. Now remember: this side o' th' junction o'
th' Oregon trail I'm only ter watch him. If he goes southwest from th'
junction, yer job begins; if he heads up fer th' Platte, my job starts.
I ain't got no love fer him, but I'm hopin' he heads fer Oregon an' gets
killed quick! I hate ter think o' a white man i