“But say, man, you and me has got to get that girl acrost somehow, between us.  You know her and me—­and sometimes that Englishman—­travels along in the amberlanch.  She’s allowed to me quiet that when the time come for her to go acrost, she’d ruther you and me went along.  She’s all ready now, if you air.”

“Very good,” said I, “we’ll go now—­they’ve got a fire there, and are cooking, I suppose.”

Mandy left me, and I went for my own horse.  Presently we three, all mounted, met at the bank.  Taking the girl between us, Mandy and I started, and the three horses plunged down the bank.  As it chanced, we struck a deep channel at the send-off, and the horses were at once separated.  The girl was swept out of her saddle, but before I could render any assistance she called out not to be alarmed.  I saw that she was swimming, down stream from the horse, with one hand on the pommel.  Without much concern, she reached footing on the bar at which the horse scrambled up.

“Now I’m good and wet,” laughed she.  “It won’t make any difference after this.  I see now how the squaws do.”

We plunged on across the stream, keeping our saddles for most of the way, sometimes in shallow water, sometimes on dry, sandy bars, and now and again in swift, swirling channels; but at last we got over and fell upon the steaks of buffalo and the hot coffee which we found at the fire.  The girl presently left us to make such changes in her apparel as she might.  Mandy and I were left alone once more.

“It seems to me like it certainly is too bad,” said she bitterly, over her pipe stem, “that there don’t seem to be no real man around nowhere fittin’ to marry a real woman.  That gal’s good enough for a real man, like my first husband was.”

“What could he do?” I asked her, smiling.

“Snuff a candle at fifty yards, or drive a nail at forty.  He nach’elly scorned to bring home a squirrel shot back of the ears.  He killed four men in fair knife fightin’, an’ each time come free in co’te.  He was six foot in the clean, could hug like a bar, and he wa’n’t skeered of anything that drawed the breath of life.”

“Tell me, Aunt Mandy,” I said, “tell me how he came courting you, anyway.”

“He never did no great at co’tin’,” said she, grinning.  “He just come along, an’ he sot eyes on me.  Then he sot eyes on me again.  I sot eyes on him, too.”

“Yes?”

“One evenin’, says he, ‘Mandy, gal, I’m goin’ to marry you all right soon.’

“Says I, ‘No, you ain’t!’

“Says he, ‘Yes, I air!’ I jest laughed at him then and started to run away, but he jumped and ketched me—­I told you he could hug like a bar.  Mebbe I wasn’t hard to ketch.  Then he holds me right tight, an’ says he,’ Gal, quit this here foolin’.  I’m goin’ to marry you, you hear!—­then maybe he kisses me—­law!  I dunno!  Whut business is it o’ yourn, anyhow?  That’s about all there was to it.  I didn’t seem to keer.  But that,” she concluded, “was a real man.  He shore had my other two men plumb faded.”