“Botheration,” exclaimed his irascible companion.  “Bother them all—­the Welsh Indians and the Welsh English.”

[Illustration:  “Faith, my legs ain’t better than yours.”]

We saw that hunger had made the poor fellows rather quarrelsome, so we kindly interfered with a tremendous war-whoop.  The fat one closed his eyes, and allowed himself to fall down, while his fellow in misfortune rose up in spite of the state of his legs.

“Come,” roared he, “come, ye rascally red devils, do your worst without marcy, for I am lame and hungry.”

There was something noble in his words and pathetic in the action.  Roche, putting his hand on his shoulder, whispered some Irish words in his ear, and the poor fellow almost cut a caper.  “Faith,” he said, “if you are not a Cork boy you are the devil; but devil or no, for the sake of the old country, give us something to eat—­to me and that poor Welsh dreamer.  I fear your hellish yell has taken the life out of him.”

Such was not the case.  At the words “something to eat,” the fellow opened his eyes with a stare, and exclaimed—­

“The Welsh Indians, by St. David!”

We answered him with a roar of merriment that rather confused him, and his companion answered—­

“Ay!  Welsh Indians or Irish Indians, for what I know.  Get up, will ye, ye lump of flesh, and politely tell the gentlemen that we have tasted nothing for the last three days.”

Of course, we lost no time in lighting a fire and bringing our horses.  The meat was soon cooked, and it was wonderful to see how quickly it disappeared in the jaws of our two new friends.  We had yet about twelve pounds of it, and we were entering a country where game would be found daily, so we did not repine at their most inordinate appetites, but, on the contrary, encouraged them to continue.  When the first pangs of hunger were a little soothed, they both looked at us with moist and grateful eyes.

“Och,” said the Irishman, “but ye are kind gentlemen, whatever you may be, to give us so good a meal when, perhaps, you have no more.”

Roche shook him by the hand.  “Eat on, fellow,” he said, “eat on, and never fear.  We will afterwards see what can be done for the legs.”  As to the Welshman, he never said a word for a full half-hour.  He would look, but could neither speak nor hear, so intensely busy was he with an enormous piece of half-raw flesh, which he was tearing and swallowing like a hungry wolf.  There is, however, an end to everything, and when satiety had succeeded to want, they related to us the circumstance that had led them where they were.

They had come as journeymen with a small caravan going from St. Louis to Astoria.  On the Green River they had been attacked by a war-party of the Black-feet, who had killed all except them, thanks to the Irishman’s presence of mind, who pushed his fat companion into a deep fissure of the earth, and jumped after him.  Thus they saved their bacon, and had soon the consolation of hearing the savages carrying away the goods, leading the mules towards the north.  For three days they had wandered south, in the hope of meeting with some trappers, and this very morning they had fallen in with two French trappers, who told them to remain there and repose till their return, as they were going after game.