"Linchpin lost!—wheel off!—broke down!" In a dark little valley, lying nearly midway between Fort Sully and Deadwood, and not far from the Cheyenne River, a gin trader, or smuggler, had met with an accident. He inaugurated a hunt for a piece of timber, which he hoped to transform into a drag to serve in lieu of the wheel. Armed with an axe, Timon was not long in finding the desired stick, and when with the aid of straps and chains he had secured it to his satisfaction, the last streak of day left the valley, and the pale light of the stars took its place. Then, with a self congratulatory pull at the demijohn, Timon hitched up the mules again, tossed the useless wood into the wagon, and sprung to his accustomed place. The swearing, the cracks of the villainous whip over the heads of the patient beasts, and their desperate efforts to pull the vehicle, made up a scene never witnessed before by the hills that surrounded the little valley. "Git ep! you stubborn Injun-coloured brutes!"...