med, a third--Albert Rushton, who, like the others, was a
veteran trapper. One snowy day in mid-winter, when the weather was
unusually severe, he started on his round of his division of the traps
and never came back. His prolonged absence led to a search, and his dead
body was found beside one of the demolished traps. The bullet hole
through his forehead and the missing scalp that had been torn from his
crown, told plainly the manner of his death.

This was a shocking occurrence, but the fate of Rushton was that to
which every one of his friends was liable, and they did not sit down and
repine over what could not be helped. The saddest thought connected with
the matter was that one of the three must break the news to the invalid
wife, who lived with her two children in one of the frontier settlements
through which they passed on the way to St. Louis.

When Deerfoot told Hawkins the others were returning, the trapper
turned his head and saw that Kellogg had found the missing rifle. The
couple looked sharply at the warrior as they advanced, and evidently
were surprised to see him in camp. Kellogg and Crumpet were men in
middle life, strong limbed, sinewy and vigilant.

Deerfoot rose from the log whereon he was sitting, and extended his hand
to each in turn, as Hawkins pronounced his name. Kit Kellogg scrutinized
him and shook his hand with considerable warmth. Crumpet did the same,
though with less cordiality in his manner. It was plain (and plainer to
none than Deerfoot) that he was one of that numerous class of
frontiersmen who regard the American Indian as an unmitigated nuisance,
which, so far as possible, every white man should do his utmost to
abate. He had been engaged in more than one desperate encounter with
them and his hatred was of the most ferocious nature. It was not to be
expected, however, that his detestation would show itself without regard
to time and place. Kellogg and Hawkins watched him with some curiosity,
as he extended his horny hand and shook that of the handsome Indian
youth.

"You've heard of Deerfoot," added Burt, as he proceeded to divide the
enormous piece of meat into quarters; "he is the youngster that helped
Colonel Preston and his friends from the Wyandots at the time the
block-house was burned."

"How should we hear of it," asked Crumpet with a growl, "when we was on
this side of the Mississippi?"

"Wasn't I over in Kentucky about three years ago? I rather think I was,
and would