Pierre’s tongue had been loosened by several pulls from a flask, and as they jogged briskly along he unburdened himself with talk of the trade, of the American Fur Company and its nefarious ways. “Bribe the Indian with weesky,” he said, “an bad weesky at that.” You never knew what you would get for your furs; lots of trappers frozen out by changed prices. Supplies so high; six dollar for an ax, five dollar for an iron kettle. Sometimes your winter’s catch lost or stolen. The Rocky Mountain Fur Company just as bad. That General Ashley of St. Louis, belonging to the Rocky Mountain Fur Company, had stolen a cache of furs up north, planted by Skeen Ogden of Hudson Bay Company, just because he himself have bad luck. In four years Ashley had grown very rich, and sold out to Smith and Sublette of St. Louis. Pierre was depressed. After ten years’ trapping he was only $550 ahead, and he’d had to come way down from the Colorado River to collect what was due him at St. Louis. The trader who staked him with supplies had tried to cheat on him, and had sent Indians after him on the Trail to kill him before he could get down to St. Louis and get his account straightened out with the company itself. He’d gotten off with his life, but not much else. It was a hard trade. But he wanted to get away from this civilization and be back on the upper Colorado. Having unburdened his soul, the trapper relapsed into a taciturn silence, and it was so that they completed the journey, jogging into the little town of Independence, where before the big general store and hotel they saw at once that a caravan was making ready. Steve drew a breath of relief, and the suspense which he had felt let down. “There is Colonel St. Vrain,” and Pierre pointed out a stocky figure in the fustian suit of the townsman of the period, and a broad Mexican hat. A few minutes later Steven stood before him, a heavy-set man with wide, pleasant face. “Colonel St. Vrain?” The colonel looked up to see a burned young man of twenty-two or three, he judged (so much had three months on the river done for him), who towered head and shoulders over himself, and took an instant liking to “Steven Mercer of New Orleans, at your service monsieur.” Busy as he was--the _arrieros_ were loading the mules with their packs, and everywhere wagons were being charged with their cargo--the colonel stopped to listen to Steven’s request and to read the letter of introduction, upon which he again shook hands with Steven. “But certainly, my lad, if you wish to cross the Trail with us you are welcome. And welcome you surely are, for another few hours and we should have left. We have waited here six weeks for this merchandise while William Bent, my partner, went ahead with the other caravan, escorted by Major Riley from Fort Leavenworth, and three companies of soldiers. We shall sleep on the prairies tonight, so make haste. But,” and the colonel eyed Steven keenly, “I see you bring no equipment, no merchandise?”