“I’ll tell yer. ’Tain’t less’n ten years ago I was trappin’ on the north branch of the Platte with a comrade of mine, a likely chap as you ever see, Jim Johnson was his name, and the best-hearted feller in Oregon. We made a heap of pelts, ye bet, an’ was countin’ on a lively time at the forts the next winter. Jim hed a gal thar, an’ was allus lettin’ on how happy he’d be when he c’u’d see her ag’in. He never did, poor feller. I’d been out to see after my traps, gone nigh on to half a day, mout be, an’ was comin’ home with a load of pelts, fo’ we hed been lucky all through, an’ when I got to the cabin we’d built, thar he lay, with his head split like an egg-shell, an’ sculped. I looked around an’ found Blackfoot signs everywhar, durn the’r hides. I know them, an’ I’ll make them pay fer it some day. I promised him then, as he lay thar, thet I’d avenge him on the Blackfeet. Mout be I’ve done it; mout be I didn’t. Anyhow I’ve got my opinion, an’ I’ll back it thet the Blackfeet are sorry they killed Jim Johnson.” “Do you know who the men are that killed him?” asked Jules. “Yes. Thar’s only two of them on the’r feet to-day, an’ they ar’ bound to go under ef ever they meet Ben Miffin, or else he goes under--and he don’t think he will.” “Who are they?” “One’s a big Blackfoot brave they call Whirling Breeze, an’ the other a white-livered cuss who claims to be a white man. Precious little civilized blood he’s got in his veins, an’ that he’s got is mighty mean. He’s a renegade, an’ I tell ye a renegade is the worst of all God’s creatures.” “What’s his name?” “Will Markman. They call him by some Indian name. The worst of it is, his white blood shows more then the Indian, an’ he is ez handsome a feller ez you ever see. But he’s got a cruel heart in his breast. God pity him if I ever meet him.” “Is he a chief?” “Yes; they like to git a white man on the’r side. He lays round yer som’ers, an’ does the dirty work of the Blackfeet. That’s his way, durn him. Why, ye never did see another sech critter in yer born days--the wust ye ever saw, I tell ye. Makes no more of takin’ a sculp then I do of skinnin’ a buffler. What ar’ ye tryin’ to do now, Jan?” The Teuton was craning his neck, looking anxiously up the hill. “I dinks I sees a Plackfeet,” replied the other. “He pees on the hillside yonder.” “Pshaw, Jan; ’tain’t no sech thing--leastways, I kain’t see no sech critter myself. I guess ye didn’t see nobody.” “Did too, Penn Miffin. Who’s a liar? I sees him over dere py dat bine tree. He vas a pig fellows, bretty near so pig ash a house. I never sees anypody so pig ash he vas. I dinks he pe some shiant.” “Where was he?” said Ben, anxiously. “Over yonder, mit der dree. I sees him. I dinks aff ye dakes yer gun unt coes to him unt kills him, mebbe it vould pe goot plans.” “Hadn’t you better go yourself?” said the Frenchman, maliciously.