“That’s right, lad, that’s right.  Nothin’ like keepin’ yer time,” said Joe, as he led out a pack-horse from the gate of the block-house, while his own charger was held ready saddled by a man named Daniel Brand, who had been appointed to the charge of the block-house in his absence.

“Where’s Henri?—­oh, here he comes!” exclaimed Dick, as the hunter referred to came thundering up the slope at a charge, on a horse that resembled its rider in size and not a little in clumsiness of appearance.

“Ah! mes boy.  Him is a goot one to go,” cried

Henri, remarking Dick’s smile as he pulled up.  “No hoss on de plain can beat dis one, surement.”

“Now then, Henri, lend a hand to fix this pack; we’ve no time to palaver.”

By this time they were joined by several of the soldiers and a few hunters who had come to see them start.

“Remember, Joe,” said one, “if you don’t come back in three months we’ll all come out in a band to seek you.”

“If we don’t come back in less than that time, what’s left o’ us won’t be worth seekin’ for,” said Joe, tightening the girth of his saddle.

“Put a bit in yer own mouth, Henri,” cried another, as the Canadian arranged his steed’s bridle; “yell need it more than yer horse when ye git ’mong the red reptiles.”

“Vraiment, if mon mout’ needs one bit, yours will need one padlock.”

“Now, lads, mount!” cried Joe Blunt as he vaulted into the saddle.

Dick Varley sprang lightly on his horse, and Henri made a rush at his steed and hurled his huge frame across its back with a violence that ought to have brought it to the ground; but the tall, raw-boned, broad-chested roan was accustomed to the eccentricities of its master, and stood the shock bravely.  Being appointed to lead the pack-horse, Henri seized its halter.  Then the three cavaliers shook their reins, and, waving their hands to their comrades, they sprang into the woods at full gallop, and laid their course for the “far west.”

For some time they galloped side by side in silence, each occupied with his own thoughts, Crusoe keeping close beside his master’s horse.  The two elder hunters evidently ruminated on the object of their mission and the prospects of success, for their countenances were grave and their eyes cast on the ground.  Dick Varley, too, thought upon the Red-men, but his musings were deeply tinged with the bright hues of a first adventure.  The mountains, the plains, the Indians, the bears, the buffaloes, and a thousand other objects, danced wildly before his mind’s eye, and his blood careered through his veins and flushed his forehead as he thought of what he should see and do, and felt the elastic vigour of youth respond in sympathy to the light spring of his active little steed.  He was a lover of nature, too, and his flashing eyes glanced observantly from side to side as they swept along—­sometimes through glades of forest trees, sometimes through