It was late one night in their camp on one of the many creeks in the
Blackfoot region, where they had been established for several weeks,
and Baptiste was on duty, guarding their meat and furs from the
incursions of a too inquisitive grizzly that had been prowling around,
and the impertinent investigations of the wolves. His attention was
attracted to something high up in a neighbouring tree, that seemed
restless, changing its position constantly like an animal of prey.
The Frenchman drew a bead upon it, and there came tumbling down at his
feet a dead savage, with his war-paint and other Indian paraphernalia
adorning his body. Baptiste was terribly hurt over the circumstance
of having killed an Indian, and it grieved him for a long time.
One day, a month after the incident, he was riding alone far away
from our party, and out of sound of their rifles as well, when a band
of Blackfeet discovered him and started for his scalp. He had no
possible chance for escape except by the endurance of his horse;
so a race for life began. He experienced no trouble in keeping out
of the way of their arrows--the Indians had no guns then--and hoped
to make camp before they could possibly wear out his horse. Just as
he was congratulating himself on his luck, right in front of him
there suddenly appeared a great gorge, and not daring to stop or to
turn to the right or left, the only thing to do was to make his animal
jump it.
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