Two or three poisoned cayotes and a dead raven were lying near some bleached buffalo skulls, on which, as we presently discovered, daubs of lard mixed with strychnine had been placed, and licked off by the victims; and straightway, as genius of the scene, an unshaven, woolen-shirted little man appeared in view, busily engaged in skinning a wolf. We saluted him, and the response in French-English told us his nationality at once. We found his name to be Louis, and his proper occupation that of watchmaker. But as the pinchbeck time-pieces of the frontier did not furnish enough repairing to take up his entire time, he had many spare hours, and these he devoted to securing pelts. As buffalo were not now in the vicinity, he larded their bones, with the success of which we were eye-witnesses.
Louis was a wiry little Gaul, very positive in his ideas about every thing. An animated conversation sprang up at once between him and the Professor, and it soon became amusingly evident that his geological ideas did not entirely accord with those of the Philosopher. A sudden turn in the colloquy developed a fact of keen interest to even the most unscientific member of our party.
Pointing to the other side of the valley, Louis told us that there lay the bones of an immense snake, all turned to stone. This sudden voice from the past ages sounded in the Professor's ears like the blare of a trumpet to a warrior. He hurried us forward in the direction indicated, and, locking arms with the bloody-shirted little Frenchman, strode on in advance. I wish his class could have seen him thus traversing the desolate bed where that old sunken volcano went to sleep. We were glad that the latter was still asleep, and had never acquired the habit of snorting into wakefulness, and pelting explorers with hot rocks.
What mysteries, I have often thought, might we not discover, on looking down the throat of a healthy volcano, if some wise alchemist could only brew a dose sufficiently powerful to stop the fiery fellow's foaming at the mouth! Or, better still, if it could reach the bowels of the earth, and keep the whole system quiet, while we, puny mortals, like trichina mites, swarmed down the interior, and bored scientifically back to the crust again. Earth's veins run golden blood, and we might be gorged with that, perhaps, ere making exit into the sunshine again.