The flame of a camp-fire stands up tall and straight toward the black sky. We feed it constantly with sage brush. A circling wall of darkness closes us in; but turn your back to the fire and walk a little away and you shall see the serrated summit-line of snow-capped mountains, ghastly cold in the moonlight. They are in all directions; everywhere they efface the great gold stars near the horizon, leaving the little green ones of the mid-heaven trembling viciously, as bleak as steel. At irregular intervals we hear the distant howling of a wolf—now on this side and again on that. We check our talk to listen; we cast quick glances toward our weapons, our saddles, our picketed horses: the wolves may be of the variety known as Sioux, and there are but four of us.
"What would you do, Jim," said Hazen, "if we were surrounded by Indians?"
Jim Beckwourth was our guide—a lifelong frontiersman, an old man "heated and chopped with tanned antiquity." He had at one time been a chief of the Crows.
"I'd spit on that fire," said Jim Beckwourth.
The old man has gone, I hope, where there is no fire to be quenched. And Hazen, and
