"Jim Bridger!" ejaculated one of the men.
"An' he's waiting to see who'll be first to enter his butcher-shop," was the grim reply.
"We want to take Phinny across," called out Tilton.
"No hurry in his case. Stick where you are for a few minutes."
With this warning Bridger noiselessly slipped into cover and swiftly retreated to the shore and peered down-stream. The dugout was not in sight. He waited a couple of minutes for good measure, and then announced:
"I'll count twenty, slow-like, then the path is open."
The men waited for him to commence counting. But he had ducked into the bushes and was following the path which skirted the shore, and soon came to where he had left his canoe. Holding their dugout stationary by grasping some overhanging branches Papa Clair and Lander were waiting for him. Pushing off his canoe and leaping in he softly cautioned:
"Git work out of your paddles. They're skunks, but there's a full dozen of 'em; an' a bullet from a coward's gun might kill the bravest man that ever lived."
