A few minutes after ten o’clock that night the Teton, attached to the Oriental Limited train, began its real westward journey toward the mountains. The occupants of the car were tired, but for awhile all sat on the observation platform. Then, as the suburbs of the city were passed and a cool night breeze began to be felt, there was a general movement toward retiring.

“I have a little news for you,” said Mr. Mackworth as the yawning boys arose to turn in. “Our scout, Sam Skinner, has been in Winnipeg all winter and he’ll meet us at six o’clock to-morrow evening at Moorhead, North Dakota. Then you can begin to stock up on big game stories.”

“I thought scouts were a thing of the past!” exclaimed Frank.

“So they are,” said Mr. Mackworth, “the kind that used to guard the emigrant trains and early railway surveyors. But Sam is a ‘game[129] scout’ now. We’ll have Sam to smell out the sheep and goats.”

The next morning the travelers were in St. Paul and after a ride through Minnesota the train reached Moorhead almost on time. The stop here was only a few minutes but, although all the Teton’s passengers were out and on the lookout, Sam Skinner was nowhere in sight.

“Don’t be alarmed,” said Mr. Mackworth, as the train started again. “He’s on board. I’ll search the train.”

In ten minutes Mr. Mackworth re?ntered the car, where dinner had just been announced, with the much discussed Sam close behind. The new arrival carried in one hand a rope tied fibre suit case, crushed and worn. In the other was a short rifle and a cartridge belt. His teeth were set on a short, nicked, black pipe. Frank and Phil were shocked. Aside from the rifle and belt, nothing suggested the old time hunter. And the man, although probably seventy years old, was in no sense “grizzled.” He did not even wear the greasy old sombrero with which all western veterans of fiction are crowned.

[130]

“Gentlemen, let me introduce Sam Skinner,” exclaimed Mr. Mackworth.

“Pleased to meet you,” said Sam, who in the books should have grunted or said “howdy.” Then, turning to Mr. Mackworth, Sam continued: “Colonel, you’re goin’ to find a lot of snow up there in the Elk River Valley Mountains. Did you bring your snowshoes?”

“Snow ain’t goin’ to bother us this time,” said Mr. Mackworth, significantly. “We thought we’d come early and maybe scare up a few grizzlies.”

“You’ll do that, I reckon,” exclaimed Sam, “but the best time to tackle the timber line is September. There’s a power o’ snow in the gullies just now.”

By this time Jake Green had relieved the westerner of his rifle and box, and Sam had removed his hat and pipe.

“Here’s the same old hat, Colonel, you gave me four years ago and good as new.”

He held out a limp, cloth traveling hat that had probably cost a pound in London. Mr. Mackworth apparently did not recall the incident and Sam continued: “Don’t you remember[131] the day I lost my hat over on Avalanche Creek, near Herchmer Mountain; the day we thought we had Old Indian Chief at last?”

Mr. Mackworth’s eyes lit up.

“Sure,” he said, “and you nearly broke your neck at the same time. I wonder if the ‘Chief’ has fallen a victim to anyone yet?”

“I ain’t been in the valley for four years,” responded Sam. “But I reckon’ he ain’t and never will. I kind o’ believe he ain’t nothin’ but a ghost anyway.”

Every one had pricked up his ears. Captain Ludington especially seemed to be no less curious about Old Indian Chief than Frank and Phil.

“What’s that?” broke in Phil.

“Sam’ll tell you, sometime,” explained Mr. Mackworth, “but let’s have dinner now. It’s sort of a myth of the mountains. Every one tells it and each one a different way.”

“About goats?” persisted Phil.

“About a great Bighorn sheep,” added Mr. Mackworth.

“But where does the Indian part come in?” insisted Phil.

[132]

“Now I’m not going to try to piece together an old camp-fire tale,” exclaimed Mr. Mackworth, “especially when I’m hungry. But here’s the chapter heading of it, as you might say. For twenty-five years the Indians and old-time hunters of the Selkirk Mountain and Kootenai River region have circulated a picturesque tale of a hermit Indian, a kind of a spirit savage who, with a monster Bighorn ram always at his heels, is seen now and then by some hunter but never overtaken.”

“And who escapes up almost unscalable cliffs by hanging on to the ram’s horns,” broke in Captain Ludington.

“Then you’ve read the legend,” exclaimed Mr. Mackworth with awakening interest.

“I heard it a few years ago at Glacier,” explained the captain. “Young gentlemen,” he added wheeling toward Frank and Phil, “that’s the story I meant to tell you sometime—‘The Monarch of the Mountains.’ Now I give way to Mr. Skinner. Let’s hear the real story,” he suggested, looking toward the new arrival.

“By no means,” ordered Mr. Mackworth instantly. “Not, at least, until we reach our[133] coffee. You have before you a saddle of roast mutton that I personally selected yesterday in Chicago. It demands your exclusive attention. I got it that you may be able to distinguish between the flavor of it and the haunch of young mountain sheep that Mr. Skinner is sure to provide for us in a few days.”

Frank was already smacking his lips in anticipation of that game dinner in camp. Already he could see Jake Green at work over the camp fire basting a roast of mountain sheep. By this time all were seated, Sam Skinner included.

“Sam,” exclaimed Mr. Mackworth, “as a special and honored guest this evening, let me serve you a cut of this mutton. It’s English Southdown.”

“English or French,” replied Sam slowly and hesitatingly, “it don’t make no difference. You’ll have to excuse me, Colonel. Young mountain sheep is certainly eatable after a fellow’s been livin’ on salt pork—and little of that—for two or three weeks. But, to speak right out, I ain’t much for sheep if there’s anything else on hand and I see there’s a plenty.”

“Then you don’t care for sheep roasted over[134] a camp fire way up among the pines where you’ve chased your game all day?” suggested Lord Pelton, while all laughed.

“Sure,” was Sam’s quick response. “That’s regular and proper. But I’m speakin’ o’ times when you can have your choice. Them goat steaks and bear ribs is all O. K. when you’re in camp. But give me my choice and I’ll say they ain’t nothin’ finer nor sweeter than a big, thick, round steak fried on a cook stove with plenty o’ milk gravy to come.”

“Jake,” ordered Mr. Mackworth at once and without a trace of a smile, “fry a porterhouse steak for Mr. Skinner and smother it with gravy.”

Being a Canadian Sam had another peculiarity. He cared nothing for coffee. Therefore, with his fried steak, came a pot of black tea. Dinner under way at last the story of Old Indian Chief, or the Monarch of the Mountains, again became the center of conversation. Sam was urged to give his version of the tale and he, in turn, was as eager to hear Captain Ludington’s story. With many interruptions and cross suggestions, each man told the l............