ñI say, didnÍt you hear a cry?î exclaimed Charley Fielding, starting up from the camp fire at which we were seated discussing our evening meal of venison, the result of our dayÍs hunting. He leaned forward in the attitude of listening. ñIÍm sure I heard it! There it is again, but whether uttered by Redskin or four-footed beast is more than I can say.î We all listened, but our ears were not as sharp as CharleyÍs, for we could hear nothing. ñSit down, Charley, my boy, and finish your supper. It was probably fancy, or maybe the hoot of an owl to its mate,î said our jovial companion, Dick Buntin, who never allowed any matter to disturb him, if he could help it, while engaged in stowing away his food. Dick had been a lieutenant in the navy, and had knocked about the world in all climes, and seen no small amount of service. He had lately joined our party with Charley Fielding, a fatherless lad whom he had taken under his wing. We, that is Jack Story and myself, Tom Rushforth, had come out from England together to the far west, to enjoy a few monthsÍ buffalo hunting, deer stalking, grizzly and panther shooting, and beaver trapping, not to speak of the chances of an occasional brush with the Redskins, parties of whom were said to be on the war-path across the regions it was our intention to traverse, though none of us were inclined to be turned aside by the warnings we had received to that effect from our friends down east. We had been pushing on further and further west, gaining experience, and becoming inured to the fatigues and dangers of a hunterÍs life. Having traversed Missouri and Kansas, though we had hitherto met with no adventures worthy of note, we had that evening pitched our camp in the neighbourhood of Smoky-hill fork, the waters of which, falling into the Arkansas, were destined ultimately to reach the far-off Mississippi.