slung over his shoulders.

Allie ran to meet him. She and Horn were great friends. To her alone was
he gentle and kind. She saw him pause at the brook, then drop the deer
carcass and bend over the ground, as if to search for something. When
Allie reached his side he was on his knees examining a moccasin print in
the sand.

"An Indian track!" exclaimed Allie.

"Allie, it sure ain't anythin' else," he replied. "Thet is what I've
been lookin' fer.... A day old--mebbe more."

"Uncle Bill, is there any danger?" she asked, fearfully gazing up the
slope.

"Lass, we're in the Wyoming hills, an' I wish to the Lord we was out,"
he answered.

Then he picked up the deer carcass, a heavy burden, and slung it, hoofs
in front, over his shoulders.

"Let me carry your gun," said Allie.

They started toward camp.

"Lass, listen," began Horn, earnestly. "Mebbe there's no need to fear.
But I don't like Injun tracks. Not these days. Now I'm goin' to scare
this lazy outfit. Mebbe thet'll make them rustle. But don't you be
scared."

In camp the advent of fresh venison was hailed with satisfaction.

"Wal, I'll gamble the shot thet killed this meat was heerd by Injuns,"
blurted out Horn, as he deposited his burden on the grass and whipped
out his hunting-knife. Then he glared at the outfit of men he had come
to despise.

"Horn, I reckon you 'pear more set up about Injuns than usual," remarked
Jones.

"Fresh Sioux track right out thar along the brook."

"No!"

"Sioux!" exclaimed another.

"Go an' look fer yourself."

Not a man of them moved a step. Horn snorted his disdain and without
more talk began to dress the deer.

Meanwhile the sun set behind the ridge and the day seemed far spent. The
evening meal of the travelers was interrupted when Horn suddenly leaped
up and reached for his rifle.

"Thet's no Injun, but I don't like the looks of how he's comin'."

All gazed in the direction in which Horn pointed. A horse and rider
were swiftly approaching down the trail from the west. Before any of
the startled campers recovered from their surprise the horse reached the
camp. The rider hauled up short, but did not dismount.

"Hello!" he called. The man was not young. He had piercing gray eyes
and long hair. He wore fringed gray buckskin, and carried a long, heavy,
muzzle-loading rifle.

"I'm Slingerland--trapper in these hyar parts," he went on, with glance
swiftly taking in the group. "Who's boss of this caravan?"

"