garb, standing in the
blackness against a partition and watching him. The speaker continued.
"More gentle, this hyar trip; ye should 'a' heard her pow-wowin' th'
last run up. I say she's wicked an' cruel as airy Injun; an' nothin'
stops her."

"I can't hardly keep away from her," replied Tom, easily dropping into
the language of the other; "but I ain't likin' her a hull lot. A hard
trail suits me better."

"Now yer plumb shoutin'," agreed the other. "If 'twarn't fer goin'
ashore every night, up in th' game country, I don't reckon I'd want ter
see another steamboat fer th' rest o' my days. Everythin' about 'em is
too onsartin."

Tom nodded, understanding that his companion was a hunter employed by
the steamboat company to supply the boat's table with fresh meat. After
the game country, which really meant the buffalo range, was reached this
man went ashore almost every night and hunted until dawn or later,
always keeping ahead of the boat's mooring and within sight of the river
after daybreak. Whatever he shot he dragged to some easily seen spot on
the bank for the yawl to pick up, and when the steamboat finally
overtook him he went aboard by the same means. His occupation was
hazardous at all times because of the hostility of the Indians, some few
of which, even when their tribes were quiet and inclined to be friendly
for trade purposes, would not refuse a safe opportunity to add a white
man's scalp to their collection. The tribes along the lower sections of
the river were safer, but once in the country of the Pawnees and Sioux,
where his hunting really began, it was a far different matter. He did
not have much of the dangerous country to hunt in because the _Belle_
did not go far enough up the river; but the hunters on the fur company's
boats went through the worst of it.

"Goin' out this spring?" asked the hunter.

"Yep; Oregon, this time," answered Tom. "My scalp ain't safe in Santa Fe
no more. Been thar?"

"Santa Fe, yep; Oregon, no. Went to N'Mexico in '31, an' we got our fust
buffaler jest tother side o' Cottonwood Creek. It war a tough ol' bull.
Bet ye won't git one thar no more. We forded th' Arkansas at th' lower
crossin' an' follered th' dry route. Hear thar's a track acrost it now,
but thar warn't any then. Don't like that stretch, nohow. Longest way
'round is th' best fer _this_ critter. Ye got Bent's Fort handy ter bust
up th' trip, git supplies an' likker; an' I'd ruther tackle Raton Pass,
mean as i