"Look hyar, Injun! whether we fired symultainyously, or extraneously, or cattawampously, ain't the flappin' o' a beaver's tail to me; but I tuk sight on that bird; I hut that bird; and 'twar my bullet brought the thing down." "I think I must have hit it too," replied the Indian, modestly. "That's like, with that ar' spangled gimcrack!" said Garey, looking disdainfully at the other's gun, and then proudly at his own brown weather-beaten piece, which he had just wiped, and was about to reload. "Gimcrack or no," answered the Indian, "she sends a bullet straighter and farther than any piece I have hitherto met with. I'll warrant she has sent hers through the body of the crane." "Look hyar, mister--for I s'pose we must call a gentleman `mister' who speaks so fine an' looks so fine, tho' he be's an Injun--it's mighty easy to settle who hut the bird. That thing's a fifty or tharabouts; Killbar's a ninety. 'Taint hard to tell which has plugged the varmint. We'll soon see;" and, so saying, the hunter stepped off towards the tree on which hung the gruya, high up. "How are you to get it down?" cried one of the men, who had stepped forward to witness the settlement of this curious dispute. There was no reply, for everyone saw that Garey was poising his rifle for a shot. The crack followed; and the branch, shivered by his bullet, bent downward under the weight of the gruya. But the bird, caught in a double fork, still stuck fast on the broken limb. A murmur of approbation followed the shot. These were men not accustomed to hurrah loudly at a trivial incident. The Indian now approached, having reloaded his piece. Taking aim, he struck the branch at the shattered point, cutting it clean from the tree! The bird fell to the ground, amidst expressions of applause from the spectators, but chiefly from the Mexican and Indian hunters. It was at once picked up and examined. Two bullets had passed through its body. Either would have killed it. A shadow of unpleasant feeling was visible on the face of the young trapper. In the presence of so many hunters of every nation, to be thus equalled, beaten in the in of his favourite weapon, and by an "Injun"; still worse by one of "them ar' gingerbread guns!" The mountain men have no faith in an ornamented stock, or a big bore. Spangled rifles, they say, are like spangled razors, made for selling to greenhorns. It was evident, however, that the strange Indian's rifle had been made to shoot as well. It required all the strength of nerve which the trapper possessed to conceal his chagrin. Without saying a word, he commenced wiping out his gun with that stoical calmness peculiar to men of his calling. I observed that he proceeded to load with more than usual care. It was evident that he would not rest satisfied with the trial already made, but would either beat the "Injun," or be himself "whipped into shucks." So he declared in a muttered speech to his comrades.