Howell gave a rapid glance over his shoulder. His friend, at a furlong’s distance, had halted. It formed a perfect picture. The sun rode high in the heavens above the great mountains of the west. In the shade, with the woods and the mountains for a background, his horse motionless, the young man looked keenly through the deadly sights of his long rifle. In front of him, with the broad light of the afternoon streaming over their wild forms, came the swooping braves. The whip-like crack of the rifle broke the charm. Perhaps it was a chance shot, but one of the Indians fell, the leaden messenger of death passing through his heart. Immediately afterwards a crushing blow, dealt by the butt of Howell’s gun, swept the third and last of the party from his horse. Half stunned, as he was, he was on his feet in a moment. Bounding towards his white antagonist, he seized him before he had time to draw a weapon, and a confused hand-to-hand encounter ensued. Both fell to the ground, and, tightly clasped in each other’s embrace, rolled over and over. The savage accompanied his work with frantic shouts and cries, but the white man held his teeth firm clenched, and in fierce silence essayed to end the contest. Nor was it of long continuance. An arm was suddenly raised, there was a shimmer and a flash of steel, a muffled cry, then the hunter shook himself loose, rose to his feet, took his tired horse by the bridle, and then he walked toward the grove of trees and the cabin before mentioned. The half-mile which was now to be accomplished was soon passed over, and, as the space in front of the cabin was entered, to the traveller’s delight, a fire was seen, with long strings of juicy meat suspended over it, whilst the coffee-pot, that article ever present at the true _voyageur’s_ meal, bubbled and sang a merry strain of welcome. The repast was now prepared, and though Howell ate with gusto, yet, with a touch of that taciturnity which at times is visible in men of the wilds, he refused to utter a word. At length, when the repast was over, he raised himself from the floor, on which he had been reclining, and took a long, earnest, and sweeping glance over the plain. Then, returning, he took his former position, and opened a conversation with his companion. “Wavin’ Plume, I was down the river to-day, and turned aside to get orders from the major.” “Well, what did you see? I’ve been waiting for you to speak. It looks like danger; yet, if there had been danger you would have spoken.” Without moving from his seat, Howell pointed over to where the bodies of the dead Indians lay. “Take it in a bunch, Charley, though it’s mighty rough. The cussed Blackfeet has bin on a fight with the Crows, and comin’ back they just burned the Major’s cabin, and gobbled up him and his darter, nice as you choose.”