“I am a poor footpad,” said the stranger, with a light laugh; “but lead the way, old True Blue, and I’ll follow. That was a close shave, I tell you.” “Clust enuff fur comfert,” replied the hunter. “This a-way.” He began to climb the rugged side of the ravine with the agility of a cat, swinging his huge body from ledge to ledge by the power of his gigantic arms, and then turning to assist his companion, who, although younger, was by no means so agile. Again and again, but for the timely aid of those muscular arms, the younger man would have fallen headlong into the gulf below, but at last they reached the top of the ledge, fifty feet above the canon bottom. “Down—fur yer life—down!” hissed the hunter, as they reached the top of the ledge. Both men fell prostrate, and not a moment too soon, for the Indians were coming back at a flying gallop, leading among them the horse which had so lately been abandoned by the rescued man. They came to a halt directly beneath the ledge, sitting erect and grim upon their panting mustangs, without uttering a word. No body of men on earth can present a more warlike appearance than the Blackfeet—a nation brave even to desperation. Their bronzed bodies, shimmering ornaments and flaunting feathers; their long lances glittering in the sun; the ease and grace with which they sat their horses, as if horse and man were one piece, combined to make the appearance of this body at once imposing and threatening. The chief was a man of gigantic size, armed with lance, hatchet, knife and a sort of mace—which he carried slung at the pommel of the high Mexican saddle, with which he rode. He spoke, and at the sound of his sonorous voice the hunter started, for he knew the voice well. It was that of Whirlwind, a chief who had made himself a terror throughout that region, and the deadly enemy of white men, under all circumstances. “Let the braves scatter and search the canon,” cried Whirlwind. “The white dog has leaped from his saddle and is hidden among the rocks like a rabbit. We must have his scalp, for he has killed Flying Cloud the son of Natal—Nemissa. Can we return to the Blackfoot lodges with empty hands?”