The two Indian women had uncovered their faces and, gone inside the lodge. But old Jim Bridger sat down, back against a cottonwood, and watched the lopping figure of his friend jog slowly out into the desert. He himself was singing now, chanting monotonously an old Indian refrain that lingered in his soul from the days of the last rendezvous. At length he arose and, animated by a sudden thought, sought out his tepee once more. Dang Yore Eyes greeted him with shy smiles of pride. “Heap shoot, Jeem!” said she. “No kill-um. Why?” She was decked now in her finest, ready to use all her blandishments on her lord and master. Her cheeks were painted red, her wrists were heavy with copper. On a thong at her neck hung a piece of yellow stone which she had bored through with an awl, or rather with three or four awls, after much labor, that very day. Bridger picked up the ornament between thumb and finger. He said no word, but his fingers spoke. “Other pieces. Where?” “White man. Gone--out there.” She answered in the same fashion. “How, cola!” she spoke aloud. “Him say, ‘How, cola,’ me.” She smiled with much pride over her conquest, and showed two silver dollars. “Swap!” In silence Bridger went into the tepee and pulled the door flaps. EL DORADO BAYARD TAYLOR From “Eldorado.” Reprinted by permission of the authorized publishers, G. P. Putnam’s Sons, New York. I ACROSS THE ISTHMUS I left the Falcon at day-break in the ship’s boat. We rounded the high bluff on which the castle stands and found beyond it a shallow little bay, on the eastern side of which, on low ground, stand the cane huts of Chagres. Piling up our luggage on the shore, each one set about searching for the canoes which had been engaged the night previous, but, without a single exception, the natives were not to be found, or when found, had broken their bargains. The canoes were beached on the mud, and their owners engaged in rethatching their covers with split leaves of the palm. The doors of the huts were filled with men and women, each in a single cotton garment, composedly smoking their cigars, while numbers of children, in Nature’s own clothing, tumbled about in the sun. Having started without breakfast, I went to the “Crescent City” Hotel, a hut with a floor to it, but could get nothing. Some of my friends had fared better at one of the native huts, and I sat down to the remains of their meal, which was spread on a hencoop beside the door. The pigs of the vicinity and several lean dogs surrounded me to offer their services, but maintained a respectful silence, which is more than could be said of pigs at home. Some pieces of pork fat, with fresh bread and a draught of sweet spring water from a cocoa shell, made me a delicious repast.