“He hasn’t his ekal on the prairies,” replied Ben. “Look fer him whar ye may, ye won’t find a hoss to go as far and do as much and do it as quick as Diamond. I’ll say thet fer him. I’ve got him to thank fer a life saved from the Blackfeet before now. But them days is done. I’m gettin’ to be an old man now. I feel it in my bones.” “Old!” replied Jules. “I’d like to find your match now in this section.” “That’s easy enough to do,” said Ben; “not but thet the time hez been when I was as spry a young chap as ye’d find atween the three Buttes and the Massasipp. I tell ye true, I’ve seen the time I could lick any thing on the prairie. I couldn’t do it now. I’m gittin’ too powerful weak, that’s the reason, and good enough reason, too. I c’u’d lift a buffler onc’t; I kain’t do it now. But I’m no chicken to-day.” “Say,” said Jan, “vat you do mit my pear?” “Leave him here now,” said Ben. “To-morrow I reckon we’ll come back and take him into camp.” “Vat you do mit him?” queried Jan. “_Eat_ him, of course. Never hed any bear-steak, I guess. I calculate you’ll say it’s mighty refreshing fodder, once you git any of it.” “Eat a _pear_! Vy, dat ish worser dan to eat vrog,” said Jan. “No, not so bad,” said Ben, “only the frogs taste the best. I judge you can’t beat them very easy.” “All right,” said Jan. “I eats any t’ing now; I eat a pear. I says nottings. Pring him vere Jule cook him, unt py tam, I eat him. Dat’s all.” “We’ll teach ye something about frontier life by the time we git done with ye,” said Ben. “I ruther guess thet ye will see the time when a baked Injun won’t be a bad dish fer ye.” “Paked Injun! Vat; you eat dem?” “I reckon ther’ pooty good fodder too, when you ain’t got nothin’ else to feed on,” replied Ben, coolly. “I dells you vat,” said Jan, getting angry again, “ven I cooms to dis coontry I dinks it must be goot coontry, but now I dinks it is no more petter ash a Feejee Island. I vill not eat paked Injun. ’Tish no good; dat ish vat I dinks.” “Ye don’t know any thing about it,” said Ben. “After ye’v’ been on the prairie a while ye will git over thet and not be half so squeamish. Jest lose yer sculp onc’t, and ye’ll be ready to eat an Injun raw.” “Stop dat. I veel very pad. I dinks dere is no Injun here.” “Mebbe not. Mebbe the prairie down thar ain’t the’r old stamping-ground, and mebbe it is. Anyhow, I’ve got my opinion, and I’ll bet ye my fust beaver ag’in’ yours thet we see Injuns in less then a week.” “I not likes Injuns.” “Nuther do I. I calculate ther’s a good many of jest the same opinion on the prairies. They don’t like the sculpin’ process. I know a man thet hez been sculped and is as lively as a cricket now. More’n thet, he hez put forty notches in his rifle-butt sence the Blackfeet took his sculp.” “Vat’s dat fer?” “He makes a notch fer every red nigger he wipes out. But I hear the dam, boys, and there’s our campin’-ground.” CHAPTER III.