They crouched among the willows and waited. “Shall I knock him over?” asked one, fingering his rifle trigger suggestively. “Not yet; let’s try to hire him to put us over, or, better still, take us far down the stream.” “Good! and perhaps he can procure food for us.” The Indian was hailed and came ashore for parley. He was a trapper, a probable outcast from some tribe, and was ready for barter. Yes, he would take them down the creek. “Food heap plenty--much fish and prairie dog.” The Indian didn’t want money--he had been swindled--but he wanted rifle “heap bad.” So they struck a bargain. He was to paddle them down as far as the Big Horn and there deliver to them the canoe for one of their rifles. The Indian had plenty of pemmican and was willing to trade for powder and ball. The trade was eagerly made, and the half-starved men fell to. “Even biltong tastes good if a man is hungry enough,” said one, as they rode down the sluggish current. “Yes, it does, Ike, but I’m tired of this dodging and starving existence. I think I’ll give in and take my medicine.” “A blamed fool you are, if you do, Price. We have just got over the bunch. We have something to eat and a canoe. In the canoe we can paddle up the Big Horn nights and hide along the shore days, until we are out of the territory, where we are known. Then, if we can’t put up some sort of a yarn that will give us a start we are not as sharp as our friends have always counted us.” The Indian shot a glance of intelligence at the pair, but said nothing. Where the creek poured into the Big Horn a sharp turn to the right was made after the Indian had been landed, and Price and Ike began the tedious journey up the wildly picturesque river, knowing little of what it promised other than that it found its source hundreds of miles to the southwest, flowed northeasterly, and by following southward they would have a blazed trail toward settlements where their names had never been heard. If this precious pair had known much that they later found out they would as soon have paddled their canoe over Niagara Falls as up the Big Horn River. That night they paddled until well toward morning, when, worn and weary, they sought the bank and found shelter for the day. An hour later red hands parted the willows and a pair of black eyes peered through at the sleeping men. The bushes sprung back into place noiselessly and a satisfied “Ugh!” escaped the red man’s lips as he hurried away. Late in the afternoon two large canoes came up the river and four men pulled them up beside the one which had been carefully hidden there in the morning. The occupants of the last canoes were Buffalo Bill, White-man-runs-him, Hickok, and Skibo. The Indian took the lead and a moment later the fugitives were aroused to find themselves once more prisoners. They were disarmed, securely bound, and loaded, one in each canoe, and the long run down the Big Horn begun.