The visitor was of massive frame, fully six feet high, broad in proportion, with a grizzly beard that covered his face to the eyes and flowed over his breast. He was dressed like a half-civilized Indian, wearing a fur cap, thick shoes instead of moccasins, and with a heavy, loose coat flung over his deerskin hunting shirt. He had a strong, well-formed nose and bright gray eyes, which peered keenly from under his shaggy brows. His voice was deep, and with a genial musical tone which was pleasing and fitted well his frank manner. He shifted his long rifle to his left hand when he extended the other to the Shawanoe and scanned him with a sharpness evidently acquired by his long experience on the prairies and in the mountains. “Deerfoot is glad to meet his brother. He hopes he will stay for the rest of the night with him and his friends.” “Who mought they be?” asked the man, looking around at the three forms wrapped in blankets near the fire. The boys were sleeping quietly, and even the Blackfoot did not seem to have been disturbed by the rather boisterous greeting of the visitor. “Afore you tell me about ’em, I guess I may as well unship my rudder,” added the latter, who proceeded deliberately to remove the loads from the other two horses and place them on the ground. Then each was freed from his belongings and given a resounding slap in turn: “Off with you and none of your tricks. If I haven’t cured you of tryin’ to sneak off I’ll cure you in the mornin’, and don’t you forget it.” His own horse kicked up his heels, flirted his head and led the way, the others soberly following out into the gloom till they came to the place where the animals of our friends were reposing. There was some neighing, meant for greetings, and then no further attention was given by them to one another. Deerfoot flung some chips on the blaze and sat down, inviting his visitor by a gesture to do the same. He assumed a lolling posture and produced a short black clay pipe. Crumbling some plug tobacco in the palm of his hand, he poked it into the bowl with his forefinger and lit it from the fire. “My name is Jack Halloway,” he said, after several puffs. “I’ve spent the winter in the mountains, trapping beaver and foxes and sich, and am on my way to St. Louis with a good load of peltries. I’ve had better luck than usual and am later in gettin’ back than is gin’rally the case, but it paid to wait, though I did have some trouble with the Snake Injins. Howsumever, you said you was goin’ to tell me ’bout your friends that seem to be sleepin’ powerful heavy like.”