_"Colonel Macleod seemed to enjoy the music immensely, and (I don't see how he happened to think of it) he called Danvers up and asked him if he knew anything from 'Il Trovatore.' Phil saluted and said that he had heard it in London. Thereupon the colonel asked him if he could sing any of the airs. Phil hesitated, but the commanding officer's request is tantamount to a command, and after a moment he began the 'Miserere.' The men were still as death. Probably they had never heard it before. You, of course, remember that superb tenor solo--the haunting misery, the despair! And what do you think? When he got to the duet I took Leonora's part. Phil gave a little start, but kept on singing, and we carried the duet through. My! but the men nearly tore us to shreds. O'Dwyer fairly lifted Phil off his feet, at this triumph of his hero, for he has taken a great liking to our silent Englishman. The colonel thanked us with delightful appreciation and soon after went out--more quiet than ever. I reckon he was homesick. We all were--a bit. Sweethearts and wives seemed very far away that night._ _"You speak of Scar Faced Charlie's avowed intention of abandoning his freighting. He'll probably never come up here again. He recently sent me some cash I'd loaned him, and he intimated as much. Before he left here he returned his squaw, Pine Coulee, to her father; then Burroughs bought her for a bunch of ponies._ _"Me-Casto couldn't compete--poor devil. He, like all Indians, had gambled away his small stock of ponies early in the fall--as Burroughs well knew."_ "Come on, Arthur," called Danvers, cheerily, as he stuck his head into the room. "There's a dance on at Bob's trading-post." "All right." Latimer hurriedly put away his writing and soon they ran along the trail to the rendezvous. "Look, there is Me-Casto!" exclaimed Philip. "Where?" "Skulking in the shadows back of Bob's place." "Bob better look out," said Arthur, as they pushed open the store door. "Me-Casto is not here for any good." The candle-lighted room was well filled with traders, troopers, trappers and squaws. No buck ever participated in a white man's dance, but several stood by the door and looked on. Every one was in high spirits, and when the fiddler, a French 'breed, struck up, stamping his moccasined feet to keep time, each man secured a squaw and took his place. A brazen-lunged 'breed shouted, "Alleman' lef'! Swing yer partners!" and the couples swung giddily around.