“Do not get entangled with Mexican politics,” warned Colonel Bent. “Do not be embroiled in anything, so you will not prejudice the foreign trade, and find yourself enchained for a bagatela. Above all,” he smiled broadly, “be careful with the beautiful señoritas.” With which cheerful advice he bid them goodnight and Steven followed St. Vrain outside to his tent. In spite of forebodings about the message he carried, he fell asleep almost in an instant, drugged with the rare air of the foothills, the scent of pine knots burning, and all the fresh strangeness of glorious mountains that loomed above them. He knew that morning had come because, after a conscious interval, he felt tinglingly alive. Opening his eyes upon the buffalo hides that tented him, he realized that he was in a different land, that he was at an elevation far above the sea level which he had always known, that he had at last crossed the plains. Steven leaped to his feet and thrust his head between the flaps of the tent, intent on getting himself water for bathing. His eyes were caught by a strange pantomime going on just beyond, in front of Bragdon’s wagon. A Cheyenne chief stood before the Yankee with a horse at either hand. Bragdon was holding out a jug and a sack of something or other. The Indian shook his head and gestured, but as the white man continued merely to stand and look at him the Indian threw at his feet a large bundle of beaver pelts. Bragdon stepped back to his wagon and started to pull forth more of his wares; but just at this moment Hope appeared in the door of the tent. The chief stepped forward, caught her by the hand, and pulled her over to where her father stood, making signs and talking rapidly, while he pointed at the shrinking girl. It was unmistakable. There was an expression of greed on the Yankee’s face as he stooped to examine the pelts before he concerned himself with his daughter, and Steven wondered for a moment if he would actually consider parting with Hope for a good trade. The Indian evidently thought it a settled thing. Two horses for a squaw! And beaver to boot! When a Cheyenne maiden was won for two! Yet as Bragdon seemed to hesitate the brave called to an old woman puttering near at her fire and she waddled over to interpret. “No more unless the maiden is strong and good to work,” translated the squaw in careful measured English. At this juncture Steven stepped into the picture, forgetting his morning ablutions. Hope had torn her hand away from the brave, and now she turned with relief at sight of Steve’s tumbled tawny head. “He wanted to buy _me_!” she cried with more than a trace of fright. “I don’t wonder,” replied Steven; “so would many. Too bad that we don’t do it that way.” He grinned as he looked at Bragdon, but there was dislike beneath the smile, and the older man flushed with annoyance and embarrassment. “The greasy savage,” he muttered. “Do they think they can get a white girl for a few mangy beaver skins?”