before him, "did ye drive the nail three times?"

"No, only once, and that not parfetly. Brought 'em all down at one
shot--rifle, Fan, an' pup!"

"Well, well, now that was cliver; but--." Here the old woman paused
and looked grave.

"But what, mother?"

"You'll be wantin' to go off to the mountains now, I fear me, boy."

"Wantin' _now_!" exclaimed the youth earnestly; "I'm _always_ wantin'.
I've bin wantin' ever since I could walk; but I won't go till you let
me, mother, that I won't!" And he struck the table with his fist so
forcibly that the platters rung again.

"You're a good boy, Dick; but you're too young yit to ventur' among
the Redskins."

"An' yit, if I don't ventur' young, I'd better not ventur' at all. You
know, mother dear, I don't want to leave you; but I was born to be a
hunter, and everybody in them parts is a hunter, and I can't hunt in
the kitchen you know, mother!"

At this point the conversation was interrupted by a sound that caused
young Varley to spring up and seize his rifle, and Fan to show her
teeth and growl.

"Hist, mother! that's like horses' hoofs," he whispered, opening the
door and gazing intently in the direction whence the sound came.

Louder and louder it came, until an opening in the forest showed the
advancing cavalcade to be a party of white men. In another moment
they were in full view--a band of about thirty horsemen, clad in the
leathern costume and armed with the long rifle of the far west.
Some wore portions of the gaudy Indian dress, which gave to them a
brilliant, dashing look. They came on straight for the block-house,
and saluted the Varleys with a jovial cheer as they swept past at full
speed. Dick returned the cheer with compound interest, and calling
out, "They're trappers, mother; I'll be back in an hour," bounded off
like a deer through the woods, taking a short cut in order to reach
the block-house before them. He succeeded, for, just as he arrived at
the house, the cavalcade wheeled round the bend in the river, dashed
up the slope, and came to a sudden halt on the green. Vaulting from
their foaming steeds they tied them to the stockades of the little
fortress, which they entered in a body.

Hot haste was in every motion of these men. They were trappers, they
said, on their way to the Rocky Mountains to hunt and trade furs. But
one of their number had been treacherously murdered and scalped by a
Pawnee chief, and they resolved to revenge his death by an