We now visit a beautiful gold-sanded strand on the right banks of the Missouri, about fifty miles from the new settlement in Moose Deer Valley, and about equidistant from the strong fort already established by the fur company. This strand, which was only reached by a narrow defile between two perpendicular mountains, was exactly opposite an island of which it was impossible to make out the dimensions, which, however, were very considerable. Lights shone like will-o'-the-wisps in a fog; the island, which was thickly wooded, communicated with the mainland by means of a dangerous ford, full of holes and whirlpools. It was too dangerous to be adventured in by any but those who knew it. The island, moreover, was guarded by two eminences overlooking the ford, and which commanded the approach against any enemy if well defended. On the other side the island was inaccessible. This island was the refuge, the fortress of the terrible outlaws of the Missouri, with whom we have made acquaintance. Originally it had been selected by the Government as an outpost, but the partisans had first taken it and made it impregnable. As the outlaws rarely interfered with citizens of the United States, generally very poor in those regions, the Government, well aware of its impotence to dislodge the pirates, pretended to look upon them as irregular troops doing service. But the outlaws knew that if the authorities only had the chance they would be exterminated. But that part of America was little peopled, and few except trappers and wanderers knew anything of its capacities. The outlaws, therefore, to a certain extent, were pretty certain of impunity for all their actions for the time. A hundred horsemen were camped on the strand of which we have spoken; their horses were picketed near their fodder, around the campfires numerous groups were talking or sleeping, while on every hand walked sentinels. In a hut composed of whittled boughs and mud, a man sat on a buffalo's head, consulting papers from a large pocketbook. Another man stood respectfully by him, awaiting his orders. The first man was Captain Tom Mitchell, the other was Camotte. A sentinel kept guard in front of the cabin. It was about four o'clock in the morning. The stars were beginning to pale in the sky, the sky was covered by fleecy white clouds. Day was at hand; a fog rose from the river, and covered the camp as with a funeral pall. It was cold. "I say," cried Tom, "I am frozen. Are you asleep, Camotte?" "No, my lord." "Then shove some wood on the fire, it's nearly out." Camotte threw on some dry wood, which flared up. "Something like," said Mitchell; "and now let us talk, Camotte. By the way, I may as well ask you, are you very tired?" "I am never too tired to serve you, Excellency," said the other. "I knew you would say that," cried Mitchell; "true, I saved your life twice, but we have been quits long ago." "And yet I want to ask a favour."