Both sides had men to whom fighting was a pastime, and it was known that they would shed blood sooner than suffer a rival to encroach upon their trapping-grounds. “The brigade” of which Dave Farrell was captain was composed of men who were the pick and flower of the mountaineers, and who came out with the expectation of fighting. Perhaps they exceeded their instructions, sometimes, for they were not likely to study the boundaries very closely, and good trapping-ground whether north or south of the line was, to use a border expression, “their meat.” It would be bootless to tell all that Old Pegs said and did when Myrtle told him what had happened since his departure. He raved, stamped, and launched all manner of invectives at the unlucky Velveteens. “No buddy but a gal would hev let the cuss go,” he grumbled. “Why didn’t you keep him until Whirlwind came?” “Father! could I do that? Bad as he is I could not give him up to Indian vengeance.” “I don’t know but yer right, Myrtle. You’ve got a tender heart even fur the meanest skunk on the face of the creatid ’arth, and thet’s this same Velveteens. But, don’t you hunt any more till we’ve cleaned out this truck. Keep out ov sight. Don’t show yourself even to the Blackfoot, ’cause he mout turn ag’in’ us. Let’s fodder up; I’m gitting mighty hungry.” Myrtle went into the cabin and prepared a meal and the two sat down to eat. When they had finished they were startled by the rattle of firearms away in the east. “Ther at it,” cried Old Pegs. “I’ve got ter take a hand.” CHAPTER VIII. A BORDER BATTLE. The “brigade” had hailed with pleasure the return of their captain, for they had been in trouble. Men who had wandered away from the camp had been seen no more, until their lifeless bodies were found in some dark ravine, or on the prairie, scalped and gory. Fate seemed to be against them, and nothing they could do to detect the murderers was of any avail. The brow of the Beaver Captain clouded as he heard the names of those who had fallen, four or five of his best men. “This won’t do, boys,” he said. “Where is Boston Dick?” “Dead!” replied one of the men. “Shot down and skulped up in the North gulch.” “Is Reddy here?” demanded the captain, with a sort of groan. “Reddy’s handed in his checks, too,” replied the same man. “Tell you what it is, Cap, the boys’ll spile ef they don’t git a chance at them cusses mighty soon.” “They shall have a chance,” was the stern reply. “I’ll teach the cowardly hounds what it is to murder my men in cold blood. Where is Massy?” “Right side up, Cap,” replied the man called Massy, a light, active borderer in buck-skins and beaver cap. “What can I do?” “I want a trailer—one who will track these dogs to their den. Will you do it?” “I kin try, Cap; but ef I go under, jest send word to my wife that I did my duty, and git my pay fur her. Kin I take out Pat Dada with me?”