about the same period. On one occasion
old Pegleg came down to a frontier
brandy port, and there in a few weeks
not only spent all the earnings of the
past season, but had also run so far in
debt that his fine white horse, which had
been his companion for years, was placed
in pawn in the trader's stable. It was in
vain that Smith begged its release.
Pleading proving vain, Pegleg tried to get
possession of the stable key, but that attempt
also proved futile, until at last all pacific
methods failing, he resorted as a last
expedient to force. Waiting until the trader
was asleep, he hopped to the stable-door,
applied his loaded rifle to the keyhole, and
in a crack blew the lock off. In another
crack the trader, aroused by the noise, was
on the ground; but only just in time to
see his debtor careering joyously on the
back of the white horse over the prairie,
waving his cap, and galloping at such a
rate as to put pursuit out of the question.

A remarkable man, but one much less
known, was Albert Pfeiffer. Like Carson,
he was in the irregular Mexican cavalry;
indeed, he was lieutenant- colonel of the
same regiment. He was a man of a very
singular appearance. His red beard grew
in patches, the intervening space appearing
burnt and discoloured. This was owing to
his having been poisoned by some of the
Indians' arrow poisons years before. He
wore blue goggles to shield his weak eyes:
yet, though they were weak, they were
bright, clear and quick. His face was
almost ghastly in its signs of suffering, and
he walked stiff, with a cane, being scarred
with nearly twenty wounds, carrying in
his body some Indian souvenirs of bullets,
and bearing two frightful marks where an
arrow had pierced directly through his
body, just below the heart. A native of
Friesland, he came to the United States
some thirty years ago, and during all that
time served as an Indian pacificator, fighter
and trapper: or as a guide to passes in the
mountains known only to himself and the
Indians. An acquaintance of mine used to
relate an anecdote of Pfeiffer. They had
started on a tour together, and as they
rode along, " the colonel" gave him various
directions how to behave in case they were
attacked by Indians; finishing by saying,
in his slightly broken English: " And now,
don't forget, if me be wounded, you kill me
at once, for I will not fall alive into dere
infernal hands: dey torture one horribly.
And if you be wounded, I kill you, you see.
Don't fail!"

I write of Albert Pfeiffer as he was four
years ago. For all I know to the contrary
he is still living: one of the last and bravest
of the mountain men.

Another specimen of the mountain man,
was an old fellow whom I may call Seth
Baillie. Seth was rather an intelligent
man, and during our rambles I used to be
amused to hear his opinions on men and
things, all of which he pronounced with the
utmost confidence, though his education (as
far as book learning was concerned) was
limited, and his range of observation equally
so. Still, like all Western folk, he looked
upon himself as "particular smart," and a
"right smart chance" of an " argifier."

In the rough settlement of the Willamette,
in Oregon, I had been asked to
stand umpire in the following case. One
day an old settler's boy had come home
from the backwoods district school, and
told his parents that the sun was many
millions of miles away from the earth. The
father was a school guardian, and was
horror struck at what he styled, " sich
infidel talk;" so the poor schoolmaster was
discharged. " Who was ever thar' to
measure it, I'd like to know!" the old
farmer remarked to me when telling of the
atrocious "infidel talk" of the quondam
schoolmaster. Thinking the story would
amuse Baillie, I told it him: without,
however, venturing an opinion on the
merits of the case. Mr. Baillie remarked,
"he rayther thought the old 'coon's
head was level on that air question." He
proceeded to give his reasons for the
faith that was in him: "I once heern talk
like that afore, down to the settlements.
One fall I was down thar' to do tradin',
and when settin' in the store thar' I heern
a kind uv half schoolmaster talkin' like
that. Sez I to him, ' Mister, do you say
the 'arth is round?' 'Wai,' sez he, kind
o' laughin' like, 'men uv science say so.'
' Men uv science,' sez I, ' be darned. I
know a sight better. Did you ever come
across the plains?'* 'No,' sez the school-
master. 'Then,' sez I, 'you don't know
nothin' about it; for I com'd across the
plains and see'd so far furnenst me, you
couldn't see no furder. Neow, ef the
'arth war round, heow would that have
bin? Neow, once afore I heern a darned
fool, like you ' (sez I to the schoolmaster,
and the boys in the store larfed like mad),
' talk like that, and I didn't say much, but
went to hum, and put a tatur on a stump

* Prairies on the Eastern side of the Rocky
Mountains.