e from London; no less a
person than R., who, among other multitudinous wanderings, had once been
upon the western prairies, and naturally enough was anxious to visit
them again. The captain's imagination was inflamed by the pictures of a
hunter's paradise that his guest held forth; he conceived an ambition
to add to his other trophies the horns of a buffalo, and the claws of
a grizzly bear; so he and R. struck a league to travel in company. Jack
followed his brother, as a matter of course. Two weeks on board the
Atlantic steamer brought them to Boston; in two weeks more of hard
traveling they reached St. Louis, from which a ride of six days
carried them to the frontier; and here we found them, in full tide of
preparation for their journey.

We had been throughout on terms of intimacy with the captain, but
R., the motive power of our companions' branch of the expedition, was
scarcely known to us. His voice, indeed, might be heard incessantly; but
at camp he remained chiefly within the tent, and on the road he either
rode by himself, or else remained in close conversation with his friend
Wright, the muleteer. As the captain left the tent that morning, I
observed R. standing by the fire, and having nothing else to do, I
determined to ascertain, if possible, what manner of man he was. He had
a book under his arm, but just at present he was engrossed in actively
superintending the operations of Sorel, the hunter, who was cooking some
corn-bread over the coals for breakfast. R. was a well-formed and rather
good-looking man, some thirty years old; considerably younger than the
captain. He wore a beard and mustache of the oakum complexion, and
his attire was altogether more elegant than one ordinarily sees on the
prairie. He wore his cap on one side of his head; his checked shirt,
open in front, was in very neat order, considering the circumstances,
and his blue pantaloons, of the John Bull cut, might once have figured
in Bond Street.

"Turn over that cake, man! turn it over, quick! Don't you see it
burning?"

"It ain't half done," growled Sorel, in the amiable tone of a whipped
bull-dog.

"It is. Turn it over, I tell you!"

Sorel, a strong, sullen-looking Canadian, who from having spent his life
among the wildest and most remote of the Indian tribes, had imbibed much
of their dark, vindictive spirit, looked ferociously up, as if he longed
to leap upon his bourgeois and throttle him; but he obeyed the order,
coming from