belts of more open ground and shrubbery; anon by the margin of a stream or along the shores of a little lake, and often over short stretches of flowering prairie-land—­while the firm, elastic turf sent up a muffled sound from the tramp of their mettlesome chargers.  It was a scene of wild, luxuriant beauty, that might almost (one could fancy) have drawn involuntary homage to its bountiful Creator from the lips even of an infidel.

After a time Joe Blunt reined up, and they proceeded at an easy ambling pace.  Joe and his friend Henri were so used to these beautiful scenes that they had long ceased to be enthusiastically affected by them, though they never ceased to delight in them.

“I hope,” said Joe, “that them sodgers’ll go their ways soon.  I’ve no notion o’ them chaps when they’re left at a place wi’ nothin’ to do but whittle sticks.”

“Why, Joe!” exclaimed Dick Varley in a tone of surprise, “I thought you were admirin’ the beautiful face o’ nature all this time, and ye’re only thinkin’ about the sodgers.  Now, that’s strange!”

“Not so strange after all, lad,” answered Joe.  “When a man’s used to a thing, he gits to admire an’ enjoy it without speakin’ much about it.  But it is true, boy, that mankind gits in coorse o’ time to think little o’ the blissin’s he’s used to.”

“Oui, c’est vrai!” murmured Henri emphatically.

“Well, Joe Blunt, it may be so, but I’m thankful I’m not used to this sort o’ thing yet,” exclaimed Varley.  “Let’s have another gallop—­so ho! come along, Crusoe!” shouted the youth as he shook his reins and flew over a long stretch of prairie on which at that moment they entered.

Joe smiled as he followed his enthusiastic companion, but after a short run he pulled up.

“Hold on, youngster,” he cried; “ye must larn to do as ye’re bid, lad.  It’s trouble enough to be among wild Injuns and wild buffaloes, as I hope soon to be, without havin’ wild comrades to look after.”

Dick laughed, and reined in his panting horse.  “I’ll be as obedient as Crusoe,” he said, “and no one can beat him.”

“Besides,” continued Joe, “the horses won’t travel far if we begin by runnin’ all the wind out o’ them.”

“Wah!” exclaimed Henri, as the led horse became restive; “I think we must give to him de pack-hoss for to lead, eh?”

“Not a bad notion, Henri.  We’ll make that the penalty of runnin’ off again; so look out, Master Dick.”

“I’m down,” replied Dick, with a modest air, “obedient as a baby, and won’t run off again—­till—­the next time.  By the way, Joe, how many days’ provisions did ye bring?”

“Two.  That’s ’nough to carry us to the Great Prairie, which is three weeks distant from this.  Our own good rifles must make up the difference, and keep us when we get there.”

“And s’pose we neither find deer nor buffalo,” suggested Dick.

“I s’pose we’ll have to starve.”