“All right; we’ll tie you up all the same. You might take it into your head to go after your Indian friends and bring them back on us.” “I will speak no more,” replied Norris. “Do with me as you will.” Old Pegs drew from the bosom of his hunting-shirt, two or three stout buck-skin thongs which he used in tying the hands of Norris behind his back. Having performed this service to his satisfaction, he linked the feet of the prisoner together at the ankles in such a way that he could take a step of about six inches, but no more. “Thet’s all right, Dave,” he said. “Now, who in thunder is thet chap?” A man in greasy buck-skin was seen running rapidly toward them with the pet bear, Bruin, close at his heels, evidently bent on mischief. Old Pegs ran up to meet him, shouting to the bear, and managed to interfere before Bruin could clutch his prey—a proceeding which the bear resented with low growls of discontent, while the new-comer sat down puffing, with a very red face and looked at his rescuer. “Durn the b’ar!” he growled. “What d’ye keep sech a pheroxious beast fur, stranger?” “Jest fer greens, my boy,” replied Old Pegs. “Seems ter me strangers ar’ gitting rather thick in this hyar clearing. Who the devil be _you_?” “I’m a poor critter that’s jest got away from the pizen Injuns and I come mighty nigh bein’ swallowed by a b’ar by gracious. I don’t hanker a’ter sich, but ef I’d ’a’ hed my weepons I’d ’a’ give him Jesse, you bet.” The speaker would never have been “hung for his good looks,” although he might have suffered for irreclaimable homeliness. He was a tall, thin specimen of the mountainman, with shaggy hair and beard, and a snaky eye which was far from pleasant to look at. “What Injuns did you git away from, stranger?” demanded Old Pegs. “Them cussid Modoc Sioux. Oh, I know ’em—I know ’em from stern to gizzard—I know ’em arternoons. You see, they ketched me up hyur, by the big spring when I was trying to find the trapping brigade, and they tuk traps, rifle and all ez clean ez a whistle. I ain’t got hide nor h’ar left.” The man did indeed look forlorn enough. His clothing hung in tatters; he had no hat, and the blood was flowing from a ragged cut across his forehead, where a bullet had grazed the skin. “Thet was a clust rub, stranger.” “It were, mate, mighty clust. Ye see I made a break when they pitched inter the Blackfeet and one of them fired at me, and gev me this beauty spot.” “Very kind in him, I must say. What are these Sioux doing here at this time?” “I dunno; they ar’ out of ther stamping-ground a smart heap.” “You bet; who is ther leader?” “I dunno his name; but I think they called him Curly-headed Ned. Anyhow, thet’s a name he’s got on the border.” “Did you see him?” “He didn’t show hisself while I was thar. I say, boss, who’s that you’ve got in that outlandish hitch?” “Thet chap, we think, knows too much about these Modoc Sioux and konsekently we jist tuk the liberty of kinder hitching him up.”