e familiar with the attributes of the noble red man.
He was with Kit Carson in the Blackfeet country many years before the
Taos massacre, when his convictions were thus modified, and it was
from the famous frontiersman himself I learned the story of Baptiste's
conversion.

It was late one night in their camp on one of the many creeks in the
Blackfoot region, where they had been established for several weeks, and
Baptiste was on duty, guarding their meat and furs from the incursions
of a too inquisitive grizzly that had been prowling around, and the
impertinent investigations of the wolves. His attention was attracted to
something high up in a neighbouring tree, that seemed restless, changing
its position constantly like an animal of prey. The Frenchman drew a
bead upon it, and there came tumbling down at his feet a dead savage,
with his war-paint and other Indian paraphernalia adorning his body.
Baptiste was terribly hurt over the circumstance of having killed an
Indian, and it grieved him for a long time. One day, a month after the
incident, he was riding alone far away from our party, and out of sound
of their rifles as well, when a band of Blackfeet discovered him and
started for his scalp. He had no possible chance for escape except by
the endurance of his horse; so a race for life began. He experienced no
trouble in keeping out of the way of their arrows--the Indians had no
guns then--and hoped to make camp before they could possibly wear out
his horse. Just as he was congratulating himself on his luck, right in
front of him there suddenly appeared a great gorge, and not daring to
stop or to turn to the right or left, the only thing to do was to make
his animal jump it. It was his only chance; it was death if he missed
it, and death by the most horrible torture if the Indians captured him.
So he drove his heels into his horse's sides, and essayed the awful
leap. His willing animal made a desperate effort to carry out the desire
of his daring rider, but the dizzy chasm was too wide, and the pursuing
savages saw both horse and the coveted white man dash to the bottom
of the frightful canyon together. Believing that their hated enemy
had eluded them forever, they rode back on their trail, disgusted and
chagrined, without even taking the trouble of looking over the precipice
to learn the fate of Baptiste.

The horse was instantly killed, and the Frenchman had both of his legs
badly broken. Far from camp, with the Indi