“And as to your brave days of eighteen twelve,” cried Steven to the toast of the gilt-braided officer, “we are living in brave days. There is plenty of work for a man of mettle today, too----” He caught himself, lest some word escape him. The evening passed at length. Steven lingered in his father’s study. The thing must be talked over. All Steve’s instinct was to pack his luggage and depart; but he was too well brought up, too faithful, seriously to consider such a course. Of course, his mother would say no. His father would have to be relied upon to win her over. But to win his father’s consent. Out with the question! that was the only way. “Would you consider, sir, sending a wagon of your own for the trade upon the Western prairies?” he began, most business-like. Hamilton Mercer considered. “Why, no, Steve, I’ve never leaned toward making any investment there,” he replied, slowly. “The hazards are too great. And although the rewards are said to be fabulous, I know personally no one whom I would intrust with the handling of several thousands of dollars’ worth of investment.” “How about myself?” Steven looked straight at his father, meeting his eyes coolly enough, albeit with a rising color and a pounding heart. Mr. Mercer rose in astonishment; he considered some moments before replying. “Steven, no, my son. I do not think that you are prepared for the hardships, the enmities, the dangers, of such pioneer enterprises. I could not say that I would outfit a caravan for you.” “Very well, sir.” Steven took the rebuff quietly, hiding his acute disappointment. “But a man must know life sometime.” That was all there was to the conversation. Two days later Hamilton Mercer found a note upon his study table. “I have gone, father, to join the caravans leaving from Independence. Tell _maman_ not to have any worries about me.” And so Steven Mercer had run away, not to sea, but to follow in the wake of the prairie schooner. * * * * * Nearly three months later a tall youth, with reddish-blond hair, a straight nose still peeling under the blistering rays of the river sun, deep-set blue eyes, and an enviable burn, stepped off a river boat at Westport Landing. He carried two heavy bags, while a small darky struggled after him with another. Steven had been fortunate in catching the American Fur Company’s steamer which was plying the river between New Orleans and St. Louis.