These were small and deep-set, though sharp and piercing, and overhung by eyebrows of the same gigantic pattern as his beard and hair. A strange and forbidding appearance the man presented about the head, and his form kept it company. It was covered with the skins of wild animals, worn with the hair-side out, so that at a glance one would have supposed that it was his own natural covering, so much in keeping was it with that about his head. As he lay there, one could see that his form was crooked and distorted, until it had hardly the shape of a human being. But still it was not so noticeable as it was when he was upon his feet, and as erect as it was possible for him to be. His altitude then was not more than five feet, with a monstrous hump upon his shoulders, which, if any thing, made him look shorter than he really was. A rifle, almost as long as himself, was lying by his side, so close that he could place his hand upon it at a moment’s notice. A huge knife was thrust into his belt, and the hand that rested upon the handle thereof, showed plainly that it had the strength to use it to a purpose when the occasion warranted. Though that portion of his face which was not covered by a beard was turned to a dark brown, an observer would have said that he was a white man, though a long residence in the forest had almost changed his appearance and his nature. The name this uncouth person had once borne was Richard Higgins. But this had been lost or forgotten long ago. His ears had not heard that name for years. When he had first appeared among the settlers along the river, as he had done in the capacity of scout and Indian-hunter, they had known him simply as Dick. But as time wore on, another name became attached to him. The Death-Dealer. The red-skins gave him that, because his hand had slain more of their number than any other scout west of the mountains. So he had come to be called Dick, the Death-Dealer, and his real name had been forgotten by any who by chance had ever known it. Along the whole border there was not a man who could follow a trail as well as he. It seemed almost as though he possessed the instincts of a bloodhound, for when once upon the scent he never lost it. No matter how much in their cunning the savages might double upon themselves, they could not deceive him. He was sure to follow them to their lair, and there obtain the vengeance he sought, if he did not get it before. Could all the red-skins he had slain rise up before him, the number would have startled him. Yet he had slain none for the mere love of taking life. He hated a red-skin for the cruel deeds he done, yet he never shot one down unless he was engaged in something detrimental to the interests of the settlers. The savages stood in mortal dread of him, and many were the plans they laid to take his life. But thus far all of them had failed, and he went on with his work as coolly as though danger was a thing unknown.