n
breed.

As I looked at this man, I saw that there was a strangeness about him,
independently of the oddness of his attire. There was something
peculiar about his head--something _wanting_.

What was it that was wanting? It was his ears!

There is something awful in a man without his ears. It suggests some
horrid drama--some terrible scene of cruel vengeance: it suggests the
idea of crime committed and punishment inflicted.

I might have had such unpleasant imaginings, but that I chanced to know
why those ears were wanting. I remembered the man who was sitting
before me!

It seemed a dream, or rather the re-enactment of an old scene. Years
before, I had seen that individual, and for the first time, in a
situation very similar. My eyes first rested upon him, seated as he was
now, over a fire, roasting and eating. The attitude was the same; the
_tout ensemble_ in no respect different. There was the same greasy
catskin cap, the same scant leggings, the same brown buckskin covering
over the lanky frame. Perhaps neither shirt nor leggings had been taken
off since I last saw them. They appeared no dirtier, however; that was
not possible. Nor was it possible, having once looked upon the wearer,
ever to forget him. I remembered him at a glance--Reuben Bawling, or
"Old Rube," as he was more commonly called, one of the most celebrated
of trappers.

The younger man was "Bill Garey," another celebrity of the same
profession, and old Rube's partner and constant companion.

My heart gladdened at the sight of these old acquaintances. I knew I
was with friends.

I was about to call out to them, when my eye wandering beyond rested
upon the group of horses, and what I saw startled me from my recumbent
position.

There was Rube's old, blind, bare-ribbed, high-boned, long-eared
mare-mustang. Her lank grizzled body, naked tail, and mulish look, I
remembered well. There, too, was the large powerful horse of Garey, and
there was my own steed Moro picketed beside them! This was a joyful
surprise to me, as he had galloped off after his escape from the bear,
and I had felt anxious about recovering him.

But it was not the sight of Moro that caused me to start with
astonishment; it was at seeing another well-remembered animal--another
horse. Was I mistaken? Was it an illusion? Were my eyes or my fancy
again mocking me?

No! It was a reality. There was the noble form, the graceful and
symmetrical outlines, the