"We stand well with the chiefs. Look here, old man: I'd wager my scalp against a pipe of Richmond plug--if I wasn't as bald as a billiard ball, that is--that I make myself so necessary to them that they'll be only too glad to let us `mine' as long as we choose to stay here. Just think--the stuff is all there and only waiting to be picked up--just think if we were to go in on the quiet, loaded up with solid nuggets and dust instead of a few wretched pelts. Why, man, we are made for life. The reds could put us in the way of becoming millionaires, merely in exchange for our advice--not necessarily our rifles, mind." And the speaker's eyes flashed excitedly over the idea. CHAPTER TWO. A NOCTURNAL VISITOR. No idea is more repellent to the mind of a genuine Western man than that of siding with Indians against his own colour. Contested almost step by step, the opening up of the vast continent supplies one long record of hideous atrocities committed by the savage, regardless of age, sex, or good faith; and stern, and not invariably discriminate, reprisals on the part of the dwellers on the frontier. It follows, therefore, that the race-hatred existing between the white man and his treacherous and crafty red neighbour will hardly bear exaggeration. Thus it is not surprising that Smokestack Bill should receive his reckless companion's daredevil scheme with concern and dismay. Indeed, had any other man mooted such an idea, the honest scout's concern would have found vent in words of indignant horror. There was silence in the hut for a few minutes. Both men, lounging back on their comfortable furs, were busy with their respective reflections. Now and again a fiercer gust than usual would shake the whole structure, and as the doleful howling of the wolves sounded very near the door, the horses in the other compartment--which was used as a stable--would snort uneasily and paw the ground. "You don't know Indians even yet, Vipan," said Smokestack Bill at length, speaking gravely, "else you'd never undertake to help them, even by advice, in butchering and outraging helpless women, let alone the men, though they can better look after themselves. No, you don't know the red devils, take my word for it." "I had a notion I did," was the hard reply. "As for that `helpless woman' ticket, I won't vote on it, Bill, old man. There's no such thing as a `helpless' woman; at least, I never met with such an article, and I used to be reckoned a tolerably good judge of that breed of cattle, too--" His words were cut short. The dog uttered a savage growl, then sprang towards the door, barking. Each man coolly reached for his rifle, but that was all. "I knew I wasn't out of it," muttered the scout, more to himself than to his hearer. "Smokestack Bill knew the war-whoop when he heard it. He ain't no `tenderfoot,' he ain't."