least, I met him twelve years ago when he was riding mail between
Aravaipa and Mesa. He was a boy then, certainly not over
eighteen, but in a desperate fight he had killed two men who
tried to hold up the mail. Cow-puncher, stage-driver, miner,
trapper, sheriff, rough rider, politician--he's past master at
them all."

"And why the appellation of 'Bear-trap,' may I ask?" The smack of
pulpit oratory was not often missing in the edifying discourse of
the Reverend Peter Melancthon Brooks.

"Well, sir, that's a story. He was trapping in the Tetons about
five years ago thirty miles from the nearest ranch-house. One
day, while he was setting a bear-trap, a slide of snow plunged
down from the tree branches above and freed the spring, catching
his hand between its jaws. With his feet and his other hand he
tried to open that trap for four hours, without the slightest
success. There was not one chance in a million of help from
outside. In point of fact, Collins had not seen a human being for
a month. There was only one thing to do, and he did it."

"And that was?"

"You probably noticed that he wears a glove over his left hand.
The reason, sir, is that he has an artificial hand."

"You mean--" The Reverend Peter paused to lengthen his delicious
thrill of horror.

"Yes, sir. That's just what I mean. He hacked his hand off at the