"Do'ee hyar now, you darned crittur?" he would whine out, "can't'ee keep quiet your old fleece now? Isn't this old coon putting out to save yee from the darned Injuns now, do'ee hyar?" And then, continuing his work and taking no notice of his comrades, who stood by bantering the eccentric old trapper, he would soliloquize--"Do'ee hyar now? This nigger sees sign ahead--he does! he'll be afoot afore long, if he don't keep his eye skinned--_he_ will. _Injuns_ is all about, they are: Blackfoot at that. Can't come round this child--they can't, wagh!" And at last, his pack-animals securely tied to the tail of his horse, he would mount, and throwing the rifle across the horn of his saddle, and without noticing his companions, would drive the jingling spurs into his horse's gaunt sides, and muttering, "Can't come round this child--they can't!" would ride away; and nothing more would be seen or heard of him perhaps for months, when they would not unfrequently, themselves bereft of animals in the scrape he had foreseen, find him located in some solitary valley, in his lonely camp, with his animals securely picketed around, and his peltries safe. However, if he took it into his head to keep company with a party, all felt perfectly secure under his charge. His iron frame defied fatigue, and at night, his love for himself and his own animals was sufficient guarantee that the camp would be well guarded. As he rode ahead, his spurs jingling and thumping the sides of his old horse at every step, he managed, with admirable dexterity, to take advantage of the best line of country to follow--avoiding the gullies and canons and broken ground, which would otherwise have impeded his advance. This tact appeared instinctive, for he looked neither right nor left, whilst continuing a course as straight as possible at the foot of the mountains. In selecting a camping-site he displayed equal skill: wood, water, and grass began to fill his thoughts towards sundown; and when these three requisites for a camping-ground presented themselves, old Bill sprang from his saddle, unpacked his animals in a twinkling and hobbled them, struck fire and ignited a few chips (leaving the rest to pack in the wood), lit his pipe, and enjoyed himself. On one occasion, when passing through the valley, they had come upon a band of fine buffalo cows, and, shortly after camping, two of the party rode in with a good supply of fat fleece. One of the party was a "greenhorn" on his first hunt, fresh from a fort on Platte, and as yet uninitiated in the mysteries of mountain cooking. Bill, lazily smoking his pipe, called to him, as he happened to be nearest, to butcher off a piece of meat and put it in his pot. Markhead seized the fleece, and commenced innocently carving off a huge ration, when a gasping roar from the old trapper caused him to drop his knife. "Ti-ya," growled Bill, "do'ee hyar, now, you darned greenhorn, do'ee spile fat cow like that whar you was raised?