“Oh, I shouldn’t expect you to. Of course, we will make it a point not to interfere in the least with your plans and movements.” “Whar is yer other chap? S’pose it war him what come peakin’ through yer a while ago; had a notion of spilin’ his picter fur his imperdence.” “I will go bring him,” I answered, rising and moving off. But as I stepped across the stream, I discerned the top of Nat’s white hat, just above a small box-elder; and moving on, saw his eye fixed with an eager stare upon the trapper. “Don’t he look savage?” he whispered, as I came to him. “Not very. Are you afraid of him?” “No; but I wonder whether he--whether he knows anything about the old mare and my knife.” “Perhaps so; come and see. He just now asked for you.” “Asked for me?” repeated Nat, stepping back. “What does he want of me?” “Nothing in particular. I just mentioned your name, and he asked where you were. Come along; I hope you ain’t afraid?” “Afraid! I should like to see the man I’m afraid of!” exclaimed my companion in an almost inaudible whisper, as he tremblingly followed me across the brook, and to the spot where Biddon, the trapper, was lying. “My friend, Nathan Todd, Biddon.” “How are you? Very happy to make your acquaintance,” and Nat nervously extended his hand. “How’re yer?” grunted Biddon, with a slight jerk of his head, and not noticing the proffered hand. “Been a most exceedingly beautiful day,” ventured Nat, quickly and nervously. I saw the trapper was not particularly impressed with him, and I took up the conversation. I made several unimportant inquiries, and learned in the course of them, that our friend, Bill Biddon, was about forty years of age, and had followed trapping and hunting for over twenty years. He was a native of Missouri, and Westport was the depot for his peltries. For the last two or three years he had made all his excursions alone. He was quite a famous trapper, and the fur company which he patronized gave him a fine outfit and paid him well for his skins. He possessed a magnificently-mounted rifle, and his horse, he informed me, had few superiors among the fleetest mustangs of the south. Both of these were presented him by the company mentioned. “Why ain’t you got horses?” he asked, looking toward me. “They were both stolen from us.” “I don’t s’pose you’ve seen anything of a company with a mare, short-tailed, that limped a little, and an overcoat that had a knife in the pocket?” asked Nat, eagerly. “Not that I knows on,” answered Biddon, with a twinkle of humor. I gave the particulars of our loss, and then asked, without due thought: “Did you not camp upon the banks of the Republican Fork last night?” “Yas; what’d yer want to know fur?” “Oh, nothing, nothing,” quickly answered Nat. I believe the trapper understood my allusion, and I hoped he would give an explanation of his act; but he made no reference to it, and, after further conversation, we all lay down in slumber. CHAPTER III. THE TRAPPER’S STORY.