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NE September morning in 1844, the sturdy figure of a young Englishman might have been seen swinging along over the dim trail blazed out by Dr. Marcus Whitman and his devoted band of pathfinders. His bronzed face, untrimmed hair and beard, and travel-worn apparel, showing the ravages of time and weather, proved him a successful follower of far-seeing, loyal Whitman; and his strong, manly face, clear, honest eyes and cheery whistle, all testified to the pluck and enterprise that alone achieved the impossible. A powder horn hung on one side and a bullet pouch made of untanned fawn skin hung on the other. He carried a gun of modern English manufacture over his shoulder and a knife thrust into a rude sheath hung at his belt. As the sun drew near the meridian he stopped, looked from the sun, high in the heavens, back over the trail he had come, as if to calculate the length of nooning he might indulge in. His conclusions seemed to be satisfactory, for he stood his gun against a tree and threw himself on the green sward beside it, deep in the shadow of a cluster of trees. He was hungry, but a tempting dinner hung alluringly from some bushes, bending with their weight of luscious fruit, and the trickling of a little mountain stream told him he might drink like a lord.

It was one of those hazy days, late in summer, when the mountains and the woods seem so far, far away; when the marvelous mirage enchants the vision and the very clouds mischievously enlist in the ranks of the unreal and reality is a myth. The young Englishman, John Minto, who possessed a poetic soul, yielded to the fascinations of the day and lost himself in dreams of his own conjuring.

Prominent in these dreams figured the owner of a pair of soft brown eyes that had looked so saucily into his that very morning as he begged her to be serious just once, and answer truly before he left her. Evidently the look in the bright face belied the "no" the lips had spoken, for the lover's dreams seemed pleasant ones.

Suddenly the sound of approaching horses aroused the young man, and he sprang to his feet and caught up his gun just as the lithe figure of a mounted Indian swept into view followed by a loose pony. Minto admired the fearless grace of the rider and the beauty of his mount, while he prepared to receive friend or foe, whichever came. On came the rider with immobile face and averted eyes, as if utterly unconscious of the white man's presence: but, just as he came opposite Minto, he swung off his horse without checking his pace, and saluted. Minto returned the salutation and motioned to the newcomer to be seated. The Indian gravely declined the courtesy and went down to the bank of the stream. Stationing himself in position to