Mr. Hauser, who brought down the birds with two well directed shots with his revolver, made from the back of his horse without halting the animal, had expected to have a dainty breakfast, but he is himself too fond of a practical joke to express any disappointment, and no one in the party is more unconcerned at the outcome than he.  He is a philosopher, and, as I know from eight years’ association with him, does not worry over the evils which he can remedy, nor those which he cannot remedy.  There can be found no better man than he for such a trip as we are making.

“Booby” is taking more kindly, day by day, to the buckskin moccasins which “Newt” made and tied on his feet a few days ago.  When he was first shod with them he rebelled and tore them off with his teeth, but I think he has discovered that they lessen his sufferings, which shows that he has some good dog sense left, and that probably his name “Booby” is a misnomer.  I think there is a great deal of good in the animal.  He is ever on the alert for unusual noises or sounds, and the assurance which I have that he will give the alarm in case any thieving Indians shall approach our camp in the night is a great relief to my anxiety lest some straggling band of the Crows may “set us afoot.”  Jake Smith was on guard three nights ago, and he was so indifferent to the question of safety from attack that he enjoyed a comfortable nap while doing guard duty, and I have asked our artist, Private Moore, to make for me a sketch of Smith as I found him sound asleep with his saddle for a pillow.  Jake might well adopt as a motto suitable for his guidance while doing guard duty, “Requieseat in pace.”  Doubtless Jake thought, “Shall I not take mine ease in mine inn?” I say thought for I doubt if Jake can give a correct verbal rendering of the sentence.  A few evenings ago he jocosely thought to establish, by a quotation from Shakespeare, the unreliability of a member of our party who was telling what seemed a “fish story,” and he clinched his argument by adding that he would apply to the case the words of the immortal Shakespeare, “Othello’s reputation’s gone.”

[Illustration:  JAKE SMITH, GUARDING THE CAMP FROM HOSTILE INDIAN ATTACK.  “REQUIESCAT IN PACE.”]

We broke camp this morning with the pack train at 10 o’clock, traveling in a westerly course for about two miles, when we gradually veered around to a nearly easterly direction, through fallen timber almost impassable in the estimation of pilgrims, and indeed pretty severe on our pack horses, for there was no trail, and, while our saddle horses with their riders could manage to force their way through between the trees, the packs on the pack animals would frequently strike the trees, holding the animals fast or compelling them to seek some other passage.  Frequently, we were obliged to re-arrange the packs and narrow them, so as to admit of their passage between the standing trees.  At one point the pack animals