LIFE IN THE FAB WEST. 65 



retreat. Retiring to the bluff, they discharged their pieces 

 in a last volley, mounted their horses and galloped off, 

 carrying their wounded with them. This last volley, how- 

 ever, although intended as a mere bravado, unfortunately 

 proved fatal to one of the whites. Gonneville, at the mo- 

 ment, 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 moments the throat 

 of 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 aJ ready 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 sought the bodies of the 

 Indians they had slain in the attack, and presently return- 

 ed 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 cov- 

 ered without a word of prayer or sigh of grief ; for how- 

 ever much his companions 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 

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