"The proof is everything that any honest man would ask to back up your claim," Dick continued; "but what were you offering to do when I came up? I heard him say that it was his game, and saw him shake his head as if he refused an offer." "Why, I didn't want to be stingy about it, and offered to share and share alike with him," replied Roger. "That was fair enough, since the whole of the game belongs to me by the law of the woods." "I should say it was," his cousin exclaimed, turning again to the half-breed, who stood there, moodily listening to this talk, and shooting black looks at the pair of white boys. "And then he started to threaten me, saying that if he carried the news of our being here in the land of the fierce Shoshones to their big chief, Running Antelope, he would come with his braves, and make us prisoners, so that our hair would hang in the lodges of the Indians. That's a nice way to answer a fellow, Dick, when he makes an offer like that. It was just like a slap in the face." "Just so, Roger; and for one I think you ought to take it back, after the way he answered you," Dick went on, frowning at the dark-faced man. "He says all or none, does he? Very good, let it be none, then. We can use this young elk nicely, and you earned the prize. I never saw a better stalk in my life." "And," remarked Roger, still meaning to impress the half-breed with the idea that they were only the skirmishers of a large party of whites that was advancing up the Missouri, "some of the rest of our friends would be glad of a chance to put their teeth into such tender juicy meat as this, eh, Dick?" Of course Dick guessed instantly what object his cousin had in making such a queer remark, but he was too wise to say anything to the contrary. In fact he thought so well of the little scheme himself that he smiled, and nodded his head as he remarked: "Well, I should think they would, Roger; anybody'd like a meal of such tender meat. And now, who may you be? I don't suppose your name is Lascelles, is it?" and he turned upon the half-breed as he asked this sudden question. A flash of intelligence, when that name was mentioned, passed over the dark face of the other; but he shook his head in the negative. "Not Lascelles. Know same though. Name Batiste Dupuy. Trapper, trader, voyageur from the North. Friend of Running Antelope, and the Cheyennes. They give right to hunt, trap all through this country. Paleface boys no business shoot elk. My game! Must have all or none. Ugh!" If his name was Batiste Dupuy, as he claimed, the half-breed must have lived a good part of his life among the redmen, for he had copied many of their ways. His knowledge of English seemed rather meagre, for he could hardly find suitable means whereby to express himself; for, while he spoke, he made many violent gestures, that were intended to add vigor to his few words.