The prairie was fruitful in incidents to test my courage. As the season wore on, and game became more scarce, we were compelled to pursue the "bison" into distant tracks, verging upon the hunting-grounds of an Indian tribe called the Camanches. At first our "rencontres" were confined to meeting with a scout or some small outlying party of the tribe; but later on we ventured farther within their frontier, and upon one occasion we penetrated a long and winding ravine which expanded into a small plain, in the midst of which, to our amazement, we beheld their village. The scene was in every way a striking one. It was a few minutes after sunset, and while yet the "yellow glory" of the hour bathed the earth, that we saw the cane wigwams of the "Camanches" as they stood at either side of a little river that, with many a curve, meandered through the plain. Some squaws were seated on the banks, and a number of children were sporting in the stream, which appeared too shallow for swimming. Here and there, at the door of the wigwams, an old man was sitting smoking. Some mustangs, seemingly fresh caught, were picketed in a circle, and a few boys were amusing themselves, tormenting the animals into bounds and curvets, the laughter the sport excited being audible where we stood. The soft influence of the hour, the placid beauty of the picture, the semblance of tranquil security impressed on everything, the very childish gambols,--were all images so full of home and homelike memories that we halted and gazed on the scene in speechless emotion. Perhaps each of us at that moment had traversed in imagination half a world of space, and was once again a child! As for myself, infancy had been "no fairy dream," and yet my eyes filled up, and yet my lip quivered, as I looked. It was evident that the warriors of the tribe were absent on some expedition. The few figures that moved about were either the very old, the very young, or the squaws, who, in all the enjoyment of that gossiping, as fashionable in the wild regions of the West as in the gilded boudoirs of Paris, sat enjoying the cool luxury of the twilight. Our party consisted of only four and myself; and standing, as we did, in a grove of nut-trees, were perfectly concealed from view: no sense of danger then interfered with our enjoyment of the prospect; we gazed calmly on the scene on which we looked. "Senhor Condé," whispered one of my party, a swarthy Spaniard from the Basque, "what a foray we might make yonder! Their young men are absent; they could make no defence. Caramba! it would be rare sport." "Condé mio!" cried a Mexican, who had once been a horse-dealer, "I see mustangs yonder worth five hundred dollars, if they are worth a cent; let us have a dash forward and carry them off." "There is gold in that village," muttered an old Ranchero, with a white moustache; "I see sifting-sieves drying beside the stream."