he
scrambled in time to see his comrade catch the deer by the horns, as it
floated past, and drag it on shore.

"Hoh! I vill pay you off von time," cried Gibault, laughing, and
shaking his fist at Waller. Then, seizing the last bale of goods that
had not been carried across the portage, he ran away with it nimbly up
the bank of the stream.

Big Waller placed the deer on his shoulders with some difficulty, and
followed in the same direction.

On reaching the other end of the portage, they found the canoe reloaded
and in the water, and their comrades evincing symptoms of impatience.

"Come on, lads, come on," cried March, who seemed to be the most
impatient of them all. "We've seen Caleb! He's up the river, on this
side. Get in! He's sich a banger, oh!"

Before the sentence was well finished, all the men were in their places
except Black Gibault, who remained on the bank to shove off the canoe.

"Now, lad, get in," said Redhand, whose usually quiet eye appeared to
gleam at the near prospect of a combat with the fierce and much-dreaded
monster of the Far West.

"All right, mes garcons," replied Gibault; "hand me mine gun; I vill
valk on the bank, an' see vich vay hims go--so, adieu!"

With a powerful push, he sent the light craft into the stream, and,
turning on his heel, entered the woods.

The others at once commenced paddling up the river with energetic
strokes.

"He's a wild feller that," remarked Bounce, after they had proceeded
some distance and reached a part of the stream where the current was
less powerful. "I'd bet my rifle he's git the first shot at Caleb; I
only hope he'll not fall in with him till we git ashore, else it may go
hard with him."

"So it may," said Waller; "if it goes as hard wi' Gibault as it did wi'
my old comrade, Bob Swan, it'll be no fun, I guess."

"What happened to him?" asked March, who was ever open-eared for
stories.

"Oh, it was nothing very curious, but I guess it was `onconvanient,' as
them coons from Ireland says. Bob Swan went--he did--away right off
alone, all by hisself, to shoot a grisly with a old musket as wasn't fit
to fire powder, not to speak o' ball. He was sich a desprit feller, Bob
Swan was, that he cut after it without takin' time to see wot wos in the
gun. I follered him as fast as I could, hollerin' for him to stop and
see if he wos loaded; but I calc'late he was past stoppin'. Wall, he
comes up wi' the bar suddently, and the bar looks at h