“He paused a moment, an’, wipin’ the perspiration from his forehead with his coat-sleeve, continued, a’most in a whisper,

“’Dick, I was not allers as you see me now—­all alone in the world.  Once I was the happiest boy west of the mountains.  My father was a trader, livin’ on the Colorado River, I had a kind mother, two as handsome sisters as the sun ever shone on, an’ my brother was one of the best trappers, for a boy, I ever see.  He was a good deal younger nor I was, but he was the sharer of all my boyish joys an’ sorrows.  We had hunted together, an’ slept under the same blanket ever since we were big enough to walk.  Oh!  I was happy then!  This earth seemed to me a paradise.  Now look at me—­alone in the world, not one livin’ bein’ to claim me as a relation; an’ all this was brought upon me in a single day.’

“Here the ole man stopped, an’ buried his face in his hands; but, suddenly arousin’ himself, he continued,

“‘One day, when the ice were a’most out of the river, father an’ me concluded it was about time to start on our usual tradin’ expedition; so we went to work an’ got all our goods—­which consisted of beads, hatchets, lookin’-glasses, blankets, an’ such like—­into the big canoe, an’ were goin’ to start ‘arly in the mornin’ to pay a visit to the Osage Injuns, an’ trade our things for their furs.  That night, while we were eatin’ our supper, a party of horsemen came gallopin’ an’ yellin’ down the bank of the river, an’, ridin’ up to the door of the cabin, dismounted, an’, leavin’ their horses to take care of themselves, came in without ceremony.  We knowed very well who they were.  They were a band of outlaws an’ robbers, that had been in the county ever since I could remember, an’, bein’ too lazy to make an honest livin’ by trappin’, they went around plunderin’ an’ stealin’ from every one they come across.  They had stole three or four horses from us, an’ had often come to our cabin an’ called for whisky; but that was an article father never kept on hand.  Although he was an ole trapper, an’ had lived in the woods all his life, he never used it, an’ didn’t believe in sellin’ it to the red-skins.  The captain of the outlaws was a feller they called “Mountain Tom,” an’ he was meaner than the meanest Injun I ever see.  He didn’t think no more of cuttin’ a man’s throat than you would of shootin’ a buck.  The minute they came into the cabin we could see that they had all been drinkin’.  They acted like a lot of wild buffalo-bulls, an’, young as I was, I could see that they meant mischief, an’ I knowed that our chance for life was small indeed.  As I arterwards learned, they had been up the river, about two miles, to a half-breed’s shanty, an’ had found half a barrel of whisky, an’, arter killin’ the half-breed, an’ drinkin’ his liquor, they felt jest right for a muss, an’ had come down to our cabin on purpose for a fight.

“‘"Now, ole Lawson,” said Mountain Tom, leanin’ his rifle up in the corner, “we have come down here for whisky.  We know you’ve got some; so jest draw your weasel, if you want to save unpleasant feelin’s; an’ be in a hurry about it, too, for we’re mighty thirsty.”