“My name is Dick Varley, and my home’s in the Mustang Valley, near the Missouri River.  As to what I am—­I’m nothin’ yet, but I hope to desarve the name o’ a hunter some day.  I can guide you to the east side o’ the mountains, for I’ve comed from there; but more than that I can’t do, for I’m a stranger to the country here, like yourself.  But you’re on the east side o’ the mountains already, if I mistake not; only these mountains are so rugged and jumbled up, that it’s not easy tellin’ where ye are.  And what,” continued Dick, “may be the name o’ the bourgeois who speaks to me?”

“My name is Cameron—­Walter Cameron—­a well-known name among the Scottish hills, although it sounds a little strange here.  And now, young man, will you join my party as guide, and afterwards remain as trapper?  It will pay you better, I think, than roving about alone.”

Dick shook his head and looked grave.  “I’ll guide you,” said he, “as far as my knowledge ’ll help me; but after that I must return to look for two comrades whom I have lost.  They have been driven into the mountains by a band of Injuns.  God grant they may not have bin scalped!”

The trader’s face looked troubled, and he spoke with one of his Indians for a few minutes in earnest, hurried tones.

“What were they like, young man?”

Dick described them.

“The same,” continued the trader.  “They’ve been seen, lad, not more than two days ago, by this Indian here, when he was out hunting alone some miles away from our camp.  He came suddenly on a band of Indians who had two prisoners with them, such as you describe.  They were stout, said you?”

“Yes, both of them,” cried Dick, listening with intense eagerness.

“Ay.  They were tied to their horses, an’ from what I know of these fellows I’m sure they’re doomed.  But I’ll help you, my friend, as well as I can.  They can’t be far from this.  I treated my Indian’s story about them as a mere fabrication, for he’s the most notorious liar in my company; but he seems to have spoken truth for once.”

“Thanks, thanks, good sir,” cried Dick.  “Had we not best turn back and follow them at once?”

“Nay, friend, not quite so fast,” replied Cameron, pointing to his people.  “These must be provided for first, but I shall be ready before the sun goes down.  And now, as I presume you don’t bivouac in the snow, will you kindly conduct us to your encampment, if it be not far hence?”

Although burning with impatience to fly to the rescue of his friends, Dick felt constrained to comply with so reasonable a request, so he led the way to his camping-place, where the band of fur-traders immediately began to pitch their tents, cut down wood, kindle fires, fill their kettles with water, cook their food, and, in fact, make themselves comfortable.  The wild spot which, an hour before, had been so still, and grand, and gloomy, was now, as if by magic, transformed into a bustling village, with bright fires blazing among the rocks and bushes, and merry voices of men, women, and children ringing in the air.  It seemed almost incredible, and no wonder Dick, in his bewilderment, had difficulty in believing it was not all a dream.