The train was under the command of an irascible old plainsman who had
served out his apprenticeship in the Kansas border war, and whose name
was Charity Joe, which, considering his avaricious disposition, was
the wrong handle on the wrong man. Charity was the least of all old
Joe's redeeming characteristics; charity was the very thing he did not
recognize, yet some wag had facetiously branded him Charity Joe, and
the appellation had clung to him ever since. He was well advanced in
years, yet withal a good trailer and an expert guide, as the success
of his many late expeditions into the Black Hills had evidenced.

Those who had heard of Joe's skill as a guide, intrusted themselves in
his care, for, while the stages were stopped more or less on each
trip, Charity Joe's train invariably went through all safe and sound.
This was partly owing to his acquaintance with various bands of
Indians, who were the chief cause of annoyance on the trip.

So far we see the train toward the land of gold, without their having
seen sight or sound of hostile red-skins, and Charity is just
chuckling over his usual good luck:

"I tell ye what, fellers, we've hed a fa'r sort uv a shake, so fur,
an' no mistake 'bout it. Barrin' thar ain't no Sittin' Bulls layin' in
wait fer us, behead yander, in ther mounts, I'm of ther candid opinion
we'll get through wi'out scrapin' a ha'r."

"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!"