“Major Sam McColloch.  You have met him.  He’s the man who jumped his horse from yonder bluff.”

“Jonathan and he have the same look, the same swing,” observed Joe, as he ran his eye over the major.  His faded buckskin costume, beaded, fringed, and laced, was similar to that of the colonel’s brother.  Powder-flask and bullet-pouch were made from cow-horns and slung around his neck on deerhide strings.  The hunting coat was unlaced, exposing, under the long, fringed borders, a tunic of the same well-tanned, but finer and softer, material.  As he walked, the flaps of his coat fell back, showing a belt containing two knives, sheathed in heavy buckskin, and a bright tomahawk.  He carried a long rifle in the hollow of his arm.

“These hunters have the same kind of buckskin suits,” continued Joe; “still, it doesn’t seem to me the clothes make the resemblance to each other.  The way these men stand, walk and act is what strikes me particularly, as in the case of Wetzel.”

“I know what you mean.  The flashing eye, the erect poise of expectation, and the springy step—­those, my lad, come from a life spent in the woods.  Well, it’s a grand way to live.”

“Colonel, my horse is laid up,” said Major McColloch, coming to the steps.  He bowed pleasantly to Joe.

“So you are going to Short Creek?  You can have one of my horses; but first come inside and we’ll talk over you expedition.”

The afternoon passed uneventfully for Joe.  His brother and Mr. Wells were absorbed in plans for their future work, and Nell and Kate were resting; therefore he was forced to find such amusement or occupation as was possible in or near the stockade.

Chapter IX.

Joe went to bed that night with a promise to himself to rise early next morning, for he had been invited to take part in a “raising,” which term meant that a new cabin was to be erected, and such task was ever an event in the lives of the settlers.

The following morning Joe rose early, dressing himself in a complete buckskin suit, for which he had exchanged his good garments of cloth.  Never before had he felt so comfortable.  He wanted to hop, skip and jump.  The soft, undressed buckskin was as warm and smooth as silk-plush; the weight so light, the moccasins so well-fitting and springy, that he had to put himself under considerable restraint to keep from capering about like a frolicsome colt.

The possession of this buckskin outfit, and the rifle and accouterments which went with the bargain, marked the last stage in Joe’s surrender to the border fever.  The silent, shaded glens, the mystery of the woods, the breath of this wild, free life claimed him from this moment entirely and forever.