It is a fact, therefore, well-known among prairie-hunters, that wherever buffaloes are plenty there is plenty of danger as well, though the converse of this is not always true.

On the neutral or "war grounds" of the Indians, you may meet with a friendly tribe one day, and on the next, or even within the next hour, you may fall in with a band of savages who will scalp you on sight.
Now, the father of our three boy hunters knew all this, as well as I know it.

How then are we to account for his apparently unnatural conduct, in permitting them to risk their lives in such an enterprise?
It would be quite unaccountable indeed were it not that there was a _mystery_ connected with it, which I shall explain to you hereafter.
All I can tell you now is, that when the three were mounted and about to start, the Colonel hobbled up; and, drawing from his pocket a small leathern bag or case ornamented with stained porcupine quills, he handed it to Basil, saying as he did so: "_Take good care of it, Basil_--_you know its use_--_never let it part from you_--_your lives may depend upon it.

God be with you, my brave boys.

Adieu_!" Basil took the case, passed the string over his shoulders, pushed the bag under the breast of his hunting-shirt, pressed his father's hand, and putting the spur to his horse rode briskly off.