ifteen Crows and three Arrapahoes), on hearing the
war-whoop, were so terrified that they had all run away without ever
looking behind them; but the Arrapahoes stood their ground, and having
recovered from their first surprise, they assaulted us bravely with
their lances and arrows.

Roche was severely bruised by his horse falling, and my pistol, by
disabling his opponent, who was advancing with his tomahawk, saved his
life. Gabriel had coolly thrown his lasso round his opponent, and had
already strangled him, while the third had been in the very beginning of
the attack run over by my horse. Gabriel lighted on the ground, entered
the lodges, cut the strings of all the bows he could find, and,
collecting a few more pieces of the meat, we started at a full gallop,
not being inclined to wait till the Crows should have recovered from
their panic. Though our horses were very tired, we rode thirteen miles
more that night, and, about ten o'clock, arrived at a beautiful spot
with plenty of fine grass and cool water, upon which both we and our
horses stretched ourselves most luxuriously even before eating.

Capital jokes were passed round that night while we were discussing the
qualities of the mountain-goat flesh, but yet I felt annoyed at our
feat; the thing, to be sure, had been gallantly done, still it was
nothing better than highway robbery. Hunger, however, is a good
palliative for conscience, and, having well rubbed our horses, who
seemed to enjoy their grazing amazingly, we turned to repose, watching
alternately for every three hours.

The next day at noon we met with unexpected sport and company. As we
were going along, we perceived two men at a distance, sitting close
together upon the ground, and apparently in a vehement conversation. As
they were white men, we dismounted and secured our horses, and then
crept silently along until we were near the strangers. They were two
very queer looking beings; one long and lean, the other short and stout.

"Bless me," the fat one said, "bless me, Pat Swiney, but I think the
Frenchers will never return, and so we must die here like starved dogs."

"Och," answered the thin one, "they have gone to kill game. By St.
Patrick, I wish it would come, raw or cooked, for my bowels are twisting
like worms on a hook."

"Oh, Pat, be a good man; can't you go and pick some berries? my stomach
is like an empty bag."

"Faith, my legs an't better than yours," answered the Irishman,