It was true that there was a valley something like this a few days’ journey distant, and it was also true that Oscar’s guide knew as much about it as Lish did, and that he quite as fully appreciated the hunting and trapping to be found there. He had led a party of sportsmen to that very place a summer or two ago, and his presence there had caused the wolfer to pack up his skins and leave with the utmost precipitation. Lish wanted to go to that same valley this winter, and if events proved that Big Thompson was going there too, he must be stopped at all hazards. It was too fine a hunting ground to be given up to anybody. These days of waiting were very tedious to Tom, who soon grew tired of lying around in the brush, watching for somebody who never showed himself. All this while Oscar was enjoying the best of sport, in company with a select party, coursing antelope and shooting wolves with the bow and arrow; but Tom and his companion did not see him when he left the fort or when he came back to it, for the reason that on both occasions they were soundly asleep in their camp on the bluff. Monday morning dawned at last, and they had scarcely taken up their usual stations when a horseman rode out of the fort, followed by a covered wagon, drawn by a large mouse-colored mule. Tom saw them, but he would have paid no very particular attention to them had it not been for the actions of the wolfer, who, after uttering an exclamation indicative of the greatest amazement, rubbed his hands together and chuckled to himself. “It’s them,” said he; “the very fellers we’ve been a-waitin’ fur so long. That one on the pony is Big Thompson, an’ I reckon t’other one is yer brother, aint it?” “I can’t tell yet. He’s too far away,” replied Tom. “You seem to be glad that we are about to make a start.” “Yes, I be; but that aint what makes me feel so peart. That thar muel an’ wagon is the very ones I borrered from Ike Barker last summer. I sold ’em down in Denver; an’ if the feller I sold ’em to haint brung ’em up here an’ sold ’em to yer brother, I’m a Dutchman! Now, if they’re goin’ to our grounds, they’ll foller the trail, an’ that’ll take ’em right past Ike Barker’s ranch. If they’ll only go thar we’ll bust ’em up higher’n the moon!” “How will we do it?” asked Tom. “I’ll tell ye when the time comes. Stay here an’ keep your eyes on to ’em, while I go back to camp arter our plunder.” As there was no very hard work about this, Tom readily consented to do as his companion desired. He lay concealed in the edge of the brush, watching the wagon, and as it drew nearer to him he saw that the driver of it was his brother. He recognized him by the clothes he wore. He shook his fist at him as he passed along the base of the hill. When the wolfer came back an hour later, leading his pony, which was loaded with their camp equipage and provisions, Tom met him at the mouth of the ravine.