IN THE OLD WEST 125 



of the whites. Gonneville, at the moment, was 

 standing on a pack, to get an uninterrupted sight 

 for a last shot, when one of the random bullets 

 struck him in the breast. La Bonte caught him 

 in his arms as he was about to fall, and laying the 

 wounded trapper gently on the ground, stripped 

 him of his buckskin hunting-frock, to examine the 

 wound. A glance was sufficient to convince his 

 companions that the blow was mortal. The ball 

 had passed through the lungs ; and in a few mo- 

 ments the throat of the wounded man swelled and 

 turned to a livid blue color, 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 companions 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 



