aver in the
Jefferson River, over toward the mountains.

The beaver were as abundant as ever. To keep out of sight of Indians,
they set their traps after dusk, ran them very early in the morning,
and lay hidden all day. It certainly was not pleasant, to live like
'coons and owls, but so many furs were worth the trouble.

One early morning they were in their canoes, deep between the high
banks, down toward the mouth of the river where it united with the
Madison, when they heard a dull tramping in the valley.

"Harkee!" spoke John. "D'ye hear, Jack? That sounds like Injuns.
We'd better drop our traps an' cache (hide) ourselves."

"Injuns nothin'!" John Potts laughed. "Them's buff'ler. Seems like
every time the wind blows you're thinkin' 'Injuns.' Can't you tell
buff'ler from reds? Or are you gettin' skeered out!"

"Jest as you say, then," the other John replied. "But if anything
happens, don't blame me. I've a notion we ought to climb up an' spy
'round."

"If they're Injuns, our heads would give us away. We'll keep where we
are, snug under the banks, an' they'll pass us by. But those are
buff'ler, I tell you."

They worked along, lifting their beaver traps. The dull tramping
increased, as if the buffalo were about to cross the river. Suddenly,
above them, on the edge of the east bank, there appeared dark figures,
with blankets and feathered crowns and guns and bows.

"Blackfeet!" John Colter gasped. "Watch out. Stop paddling. Drop
your traps." His own he let slide over the side of his canoe farthest
from the Indians.

The Blackfeet instantly covered the two canoes with bended bows and
leveled muskets. The whole bank was bristling with their fierce array,
so that the narrow river seemed shadowed.

A chief called sternly, and gestured, bidding the two canoes to land
where the bank had washed in a little cove.

"We're in for it," remarked John Colter. "Come on, and I'll talk with
'em."

"Not I," the other John growled. "Let's talk from here."

"That's pure folly." And knowing Indians better than his comrade did,
John Colter paddled in with a few strokes.

One of the Blackfoot warriors seized his canoe at once; hands rudely
hauled him out, and upon the bank, wrenched his gun from him and tore
off all his clothes. It was an alarming welcome.

John Potts was still in his own canoe, in mid-stream. The Indians
again called to him, and the chief beckoned.

"Come ashore, or they'll kill