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Now, he stands attent, —he hears something move. He stretches himself to his full height, on tip-toe, and gazes in the black envelope of surrounding night, made doubly obscure in contrast with the refulgence of the camp-fire.

"How dark it has grown!" said Jim. "What can it be? Wonder if it's Indians. Pooh! it's nothing but the wind. Bless me, I can't see the use of a poor devil's standing guard on such a dark night as this! (stepping backward still nearer the fire,) he can't see nothing, if he does. Feugh, —what is it smells so? (turning round.) Good gracious, how hot my back is!"

The mystery of Jim's present predicament is easily explained. The skirts of his jeans coat, having come in contact with the wind-tossed flames, caught fire, and were burned to the shoulders before he was aware of the accident. The garment was rendered entirely useless, and even his pantaloons were burnt to his skin, in several places.

Jim began to think it as bad to stand as to lay guard, and concluded that, of the two, fire was more dangerous than Indians;—for, one thing was certain, the Indians had never yet injured him, but he could not say as much of fire!

In the morning, as may be supposed, our hero's last mishap was the prolific subject of' comment, and the wags were promptly on the alert to amuse themselves still further at his expense:

"Say, would you believe it! —That's the way Jim's hit upon to shine in this crowd, —he burns up his old coat to make a light!"

"Ah, ha! So he means to shine by the light of his old clothes, and come it over us in an underhand manner! Jim, that'll never do I tell you, once for all.”

"Wonder if he wont burn up himself next?"

"He? No. He's too green and sappy to burn himself, and so he takes his old clothes!"

"Poor Jim. Shoot grass, kill horse, break gun, burn shoe, scorch foot, lose hat, stick coat in him fire! Poor fellow. No can do without Jim, no how."

The third day succeeding the last mentioned adventure, we passed a stream, called by the traders Johnson's creek, in memory of a man by that name who was murdered in its vicinity, several years since, by the Indians.

He was a missionary, and on his way to Oregon, with a party headed by one John Gray. As they were about to raise camp, one morning, a band of Yanktau-Sioux came charging over the hills, and preparations were made to resist them. Such a course Mr. Johnson felt scrupulous of acceding to, and stoutly protested against it, —affirming it to be wrong.

As the savages approached, the ill-fated man stepped forward to meet them unarmed, despite the remonstrances of his comrades, —imagining the Indians would not kill him, as he was a missionary and had came to do them good.

They, however, proved regardless of him or his intended good, and he fell the victim of his own foolish credulity. Three Indians fell in the conflict that ensued, and he and they tilled the same grave.