face. He was, like his uncle, attired in buckskin; but the shirt was
fringed and embroidered, as was the band that carried his powder-horn, a
gift, doubtless, from some Indian maiden at his departure from his
village. No greetings were exchanged; but the chief and Jerry rode at
once side by side towards the northeast, and Tom took his place by the
side of the young Indian.

"How are you?" he said, holding out his hand. The young Indian took it
and responded to the shake, but he shook his head.

"Ah, you don't speak English yet?" Hunting Dog again shook his head.
"That is a pity," Tom went on; "it would have been jolly if we could
have talked together."

The chief said something to Jerry, who turned around in his saddle. "His
uncle says he can talk some. He has taught him a little when he has paid
visits to the village, but he has had no practice in speaking it. He
will get on after a time."

All were well mounted, and they travelled fast. Just before sunset they
crossed the Green River at a ford used by the emigrants, and some fifty
miles northeast of Fort Bridger. They had seen a herd of deer by the
way, and the two Indians had dismounted and stalked them. The others
lost sight of them, but when two rifle-shots were heard Jerry said, "We
will take the horses along to them, you may be sure they have got meat;
the chief is a dead shot, and he says that his nephew has also gifts
that way." As they expected, they found the Indians standing beside two
dead deer. Hunting Dog laid open the stomachs with a slash of his knife,
and removed the entrails, then tying the hind legs together swung the
carcasses on to his horse behind the saddle, and the journey was at once