Before dismounting and tying his horse to the low branches of a cottonwood, the hunter rode along the line of wagons to see if he knew any of the party. He had lived so long in that region that he was widely known, having a fame of his own which just suited his peculiar ambition, and which he would not have exchanged for that of General or Senator. So, although he was acquainted with none of the faces here, he was recognized by several, who greeted him heartily, and passed his name from lip to lip. The emigrants could not but feel braver and in better spirits when they heard that Nat Wolfe was among them. As he lounged under a tree, against which he had carefully rested his rifle, cutting off bits of dried meat with the knife from his belt, he was surrounded by eager inquiries, asking after the route--with which they knew him to be familiar--about the water, the feed, the Indians, the streams, the storms, etc. While he talked, his eyes were constantly wandering to the little spot of shadow where the young girl was sitting, patiently feeding the little one, but seeming to eat nothing herself. She had thrown aside her bonnet to catch a breath of the light breeze springing up on the plains; her eyes were fixed afar off, on the heads of bison dotting the vast, monotonous desert, or the horizon, which ringed it in--except for the care of the child, she hardly took an interest in the scene more immediately about her. Whether it was the beauty of her face or its sad patience which touched him, Nat did not inquire of himself; he only wondered who she was and what she was doing in such a place. He could trace no resemblance between her and the thin, sun-burned, care-worn-looking woman by her side, the mother of the children, but evidently not of the young girl. They surely could not be sisters, for they were too unlike. Neither the fierce sun, nor the fiercer wind of the prairies had spoiled the rich, dark hue of her skin, a clear olive on brow and temples, melting into a glow on either cheek. The melancholy eyes were large and dark, and floating in liquid fire--a fire that, however slumbering and repressed, seemed made to flash forth laughter and love. Her hair, instead of being neglected, as her present mode of life would have excused, or "done up," frontier-fashion, in a rude knot, was woven in glossy braids, wound tastefully about her head. The faded calico dress, awkwardly fitted as it was, could not conceal the rounded outlines of her form, any more than the coarse shoes and the wearisome journey could deprive her movements of their natural grace. "See if he won't take a drink of this cold coffee, Elizabeth; it'll fresh him up more than whisky," spoke the older woman, pouring out a draught into a tin-cup, and giving it to the girl, who rose and approached Nat with the simple offering which testified their gratitude for the trifling kindness he had done them.