90 LIFE IN THE FAR WEST 



the wounded man swelled and turned to a livid blue 

 colour, as the choking blood ascended. Only a few drops 

 of purple blood trickled from the wound a fatal sign 

 and the eyes of the mountaineer were already glazing with 

 death's icy touch. His hand still grasped the barrel 

 of his rifle, which had done good service in the fray. 

 Anon he essayed to speak, but, choked with blood, only 

 a few inarticulate words reached the ears of his com- 

 panions as they bent over him. 



" Rubbed out at last," they heard him say, the 

 words gurgling in his blood-filled throat ; and opening 

 his eyes once more, and turning them upwards for a 

 last look at the bright sun, the trapper turned gently 

 on his side and breathed his last sigh. 



With no other tools than their scalp-knives, the 

 hunters dug a grave on the banks of the creek ; and 

 whilst some were engaged in this work, others sought 

 the bodies of the Indians they had slain in the attack, 

 and presently returned with three reeking scalps, the^ 

 trophies of the fight. The body of the mountaineer 

 was wrapped in a buffalo robe, the scalps being placed 

 on his breast, and the dead man was then laid in the 

 shallow grave, and quickly covered without a word of 

 prayer, or sigh of grief; for, however much his com- 

 panions may have felt, not a word escaped them. The 

 bitten lip and frowning brow told of anger rather than 

 of sorrow, as they vowed what they thought would 

 better please the spirit of the dead man than vain 

 regrets bloody and lasting revenge. 



Trampling down the earth which filled the grave, 



