Frontier and pioneer life -- West (U.S.); Hunting -- United States; West (U.S.) -- Description and travel
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 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 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 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 thought would better please the spirit
of the dead man than vain regrets--bloody and lasting revenge.
Tramping down the earth which filled the grave, they raised upon it a
pile of heavy stones; and packing their mules once more, and taking a
last look at their comrade's lonely resting-place, they turned their
backs upon the stream, which has ever since been known as Gonneville's
Creek.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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