“Well, my men, how are you?” he rattled out. “Any game here? By Jove!” he suddenly exclaimed, seizing his rifle, as at that moment a large buzzard, the most unclean of birds, flew into the topmost branch of a cottonwood, and sat, a tempting shot. “By Jove, there’s a chance!” cried the mighty hunter; and, bending low, started off to approach the unwary bird in the most approved fashion of northern deer-stalkers. The buzzard sat quietly, and now and then stretched its neck to gaze upon the advancing sportsman, who on such occasions threw himself flat on the ground, and remained motionless, in dread of alarming the bird. It was worth while to look at the countenance of old Killbuck, as he watched the antics of the “bourgeois” hunter. He thought at first that the dandy rifleman had really discovered game in the bottom, and was nothing loth that there was a chance of his seeing meat; but when he understood the object of such manœuvres, and saw the quarry the hunter was so carefully approaching, his mouth grinned from ear to ear, and, turning to La Bonté, he said, “Wagh! _he’s_ some—_he_ is!” Nothing doubting, however, the stranger approached the tree on which the bird was sitting, and, getting well under it, raised his rifle and fired. Down tumbled the bird; and the successful hunter, with a loud shout, rushed frantically towards it, and bore it in triumph to the camp, earning the most sovereign contempt from the two trappers by the achievement. The other stranger was a quieter character. He, too, smiled as he witnessed the exultation of his younger companion, (whose horse, by the way, was scampering about the plain,) and spoke kindly to the mountaineers, whose appearance was clear evidence of the sufferings they had endured. The snakes by this time were cooked, and the trappers gave their new acquaintances the never-failing invitation to “sit and eat.” When the latter, however, understood what the viands were, their looks expressed the horror and disgust they felt. “Good God!” exclaimed the elder, “you surely cannot eat such disgusting food?” “This niggur doesn’t savy what disgustin’ is,” gruffly answered Killbuck; “but them as carries empty paunch three days an’ more, is glad to get ‘snake-meat,’ I’m thinkin.” “What! you’ve no ammunition, then?” “_Well_, we haven’t.” “Wait till the waggons come up, and throw away that abominable stuff, and you shall have something better, I promise,” said the elder of the strangers. “Yes,” continued the younger, “some hot preserved soup, hotchpotch, and a glass of porter, will do you good.” The trappers looked at the speaker, who was talking Greek (to them.) They thought the bourgeois were making fun, and did not half like it, so answered simply, “Wagh! h—’s full of hosh-posh and porter.”