“I hope so,” said Fearless Frank, rolling over on the grass and gazing at the guide, thoughtfully, “but I doubt it.  It seems to me that one hears of more butchering, lately, than there was a month ago—­all on account of the influx of ruffianly characters into the Black Hills!”

“Not all owing to that, chippy,” interposed “General” Nix, as he had immediately been christened by the miners—­“not all owing to that.  Thar’s them gol danged copper-colored guests uv ther government—­they’re kickin’ up three pints uv the’r rumpus, more or less—­consider’bly less of more than more o’ less.  Take a passel uv them barbarities an’ shet ‘em up inter a prison for three or thirteen yeers, an’ ye’d see w’at an impression et’d make, now.  Thar’d be siveral less massycrees a week, an’ ye wouldn’t see a rufyan onc’t a month.  W’y, gentlefellows, thar’d nevyar been a ruffian, ef et hedn’t been fer ther cussed Injun tribe—­not one! Ther infarnal critters ar’ ther instignators uv more deviltry nor a cat wi’ nine tails.”

“Yes, we will admit that the reds are not of saintly origin,” said Fearless Frank, with a quiet smile.  “In fact I know of several who are far from being angels, myself.  There is old Sitting Bull, for instance, and Lone Lion, Rain-in-the-Face, and Horse-with-the-Red-Eye, and so forth, and so forth!”

“Exactly.  Every one o’ ’em’s a danged descendant o’ ther old Satan, hisself.”

[Illustration:  Ha! ha! ha! isn’t that rich, now?  Ha! ha! ha! arrest Deadwood Dick if you can!]

“Layin’ aside ther Injun subjeck,” said Charity Joe, forking into the roasted venison, “I move thet we take up a silent debate on ther pecooliarities uv a deer’s hind legs; so heer goes!”

He cut out a huge slice with his bowie, sprinkled it over with salt, and began to devour it by very large mouthfuls.  All hands proceeded to follow his example, and the noonday meal was dispatched in silence.  After each man had fully satisfied his appetite and the mules and Fearless Frank’s horse had grazed until they were full as ticks, the order was given to hitch up, which was speedily done, and the caravan was soon in motion, toiling along like a diminutive serpent across the plain.

The afternoon was a mild, sunny one in early autumn, with a refreshing breeze perfumed with the delicate scent of after-harvest flowers wafting down from the cool regions of the Northwest, where lay the new El Dorado—­the land of gold.

Fearless Frank bestrode a noble bay steed of fire and nerve, while old General Nix rode an extra mule that he had purchased of Charity Joe.  The remainder of the company rode in the wagons or “hoofed it,” as best suited their mood—­walking sometimes being preferable to the rumbling and jolting of the heavy vehicles.

Steadily along through the afternoon sunlight the train wended its way, the teamsters alternately singing and cursing their mules, as they jogged along.  Fearless Frank and the “General” rode several hundred yards in advance, both apparently engrossed in deepest thought, for neither spoke until, toward the close of the afternoon, Charity Joe called their attention to a series of low, faint cries brought down upon their hearing by the stiff northerly wind.