Now was our time.  Giving the Shoshone war-whoop, and making as much noise as we could, we spurred on our horses, and in a few moments each of us had secured a piece of meat from the poles.  The Crows (for the camp contained fifteen 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 ain’t better than yours,” answered the Irishman, patting his knee with a kind of angry gesture.  And for the first time we perceived that the legs of both of them were shockingly swollen.

“If we could only meet with the Welsh Indians or a gold mine,” resumed the short man.